A Man Of Many Talents (6 page)

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P
erhaps he was
an idiot. Christian could find no other explanation for his current behavior. After another evening spent kicking his heels alone in the great hall, he had retired to his room, hoping that the specter would decide he was off guard, at least for the night. And after waiting an appropriate interval, to make sure everyone else was asleep, he had sneaked out again to roam the dark rooms like some kind of housebreaker.

He wasn’t quite sure what he expected to find. Sir Boundefort floating through the moonlit passages? The three cousins engaged in some sort of skulduggery? Or Miss Parkin
son…
Well, better not to think about his hostess lying abed. Still, he couldn’t help wondering where her room was. But then he shook his head. Really, she wasn’t his type at all. He leaned more toward sophisticated blond widows who knew how to please a man than to stem, darkhaired women who looked like menials, no matter how luscious their form. Setting his teeth, Christian tried to focus instead on a less corporeal figure.

Slipping through the house with a stealth bred in the bones, he was disappointed to discover that all was still and silent within. Outside, the rain had whipped itself into a full-fledged storm, including thunder and lightning, but it appeared that even the perfect setting couldn’t lure Sir Boundefort out. Christian even checked in the shade’s favorite spot in the hall, but
he could find no sign of the me
dieval spirit or any earthly accomplices either.

Having kept the small, shuttered lantern he had been given earlier, Christian peered behind the fretwork, but all seemed unchanged. Of course the doors were still locked. A lengthy search of several of the main rooms after dinner hadn’t turned up anything except a lot of dust, and although Christian had asked Hobbins to poke around the servants’ quarters, his valet had given him a look that stated most equivocally that such duties were below his station. Now, as Christian studied the heavy oak, he wondered if perhaps
Emery was right. The stout portal looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.

And that was when he heard it.

Catching his breath, Christian paused to listen. There it was again. Far and above the lash of the wind and rain outside, this was a more rhythmic sound, as if someone were tapping. Or knocking. Silently, Christian walked the length of the passage behind the partition, then the hall itself, where the noise was definitely fainter. Still, he was fairly certain of the direction it was coming from: below.

He was just wondering if there was some other entrance to the old cellars that presumably lay beneath the hall when he caught sight of a light. No flash of lightning illuminating the windows, this was a steady bob of brightness that came from within the house. Unless Sir Boundefort glowed as he floated along, someone else was approaching. Swiftly extinguishing his own lantern, Christian ducked to the side of the doorway, where he waited silently to see who felt the need to visit the great hall in the middle of the night.

Whoever it was moved quietly but not with the noiselessness of an expert, and the light was a beacon that announced the advance. With a smug smile, Christian was inclined to guess the
visitor was Emery, the not-so-
intelligent scholar, and he nearly stuck out a booted foot in order to trip him. Accidentally, of course. But another sound stopped his movement, a
gentle swish that he well recog
nized from his rather dissolute youth: the sway of a lady’s skirts.

And so Christian stood still, watching, as a circle of light came into view, accompanied by a firm but soft tread and a glimpse of dark, utilitarian fabric. The Governess! Christian jerked in surprise as his employer walked into the cavernous room, her lantern’s glow practically swallowed by the vast shadows around her. With a frown, Christian leaned against th
e cold stone, crossed his arms o
ver his chest, and spoke just loud enough for her to hear him.

“Looking for someone?” he drawled into the darkness.

To her credit, she did not flinch, but turned toward him, her lamp held high. Brave woman, Christian thought.

“Yes, actually, my lord. I heard footsteps earlier, and I thought
I
would investigate,” she replied in a matter-of-fact fashion hardly in keeping with their surroundings.

Brave or incredibly foolish, Christian amended. He pushed away from the wall. “Have you gone mad?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“I hardly see how my mental state can be any concern of yours, but, no, I consider myself quite sane,” she answered.

Christian found himself growing more than a little annoyed at her wit, as well as her self-possession. “Pardon me, but when you entreated me for help,” he said, enjoying her slight wince at his words, “you made yourself and everything here my concern, and I hardly think that wandering about here alone in the dark is a clever decision.”

For some reason he was becoming angry, so he drew in a deep breath in an effort to shrug it off. He was normally the most easygoing of men, and he did not intend to let the Governess and her bizarre behavior alter his temperament.

“You would have me confined to my room, unable to walk through my own house?” she asked in her sharpest tone. Her expression was accusatory, even though she was the one acting like a lunatic.

Christian blew out a breath in exasperation. “During the night hours, yes! Didn’t you hear the claims at dinner that the great hall isn’t safe? What if you are struck by falling stone? What if this ghost of yours attacks you?” With every question he uttered, Christian stepped forward, while she held her ground, her head high.

“I have noticed no debris in the hall,” she answered. “Nor do I think any phantom capable of seizing a person.”

“And what if your specter is man-made? How will you fend off a human attack, with only your lantern and
…”
Christian trailed off. He was standing in front of her now, quite close, in fact, and realized that she was wearing a robe.

“…
in your nightclothes?” he croaked, his voice suddenly tight, his breeches more so.

Christian swallowed, trying to gather his wits. It wasn’t as though she were lounging about in some diaphanous shift. Indeed, her robe appeared to be plain and serviceable and not the slightest bit enticing. So why, then, was he enticed? He let out his breath, trying not to focus on the folds of the material, where a bit of pristine white showed at her throat.

“So you believe that one of my cousins might murder me?” she asked. Her tone was her usual firm one, and yet Christian noted a certain breathy quality in it that he had never heard before.

“Perhaps. How well do you know them?” he asked, his gaze moving up her pale neck to her hair. Let it be loose, he thought. Let it be loose. “Or the footsteps you heard might belong to anyone—a housebreaker, a turned-off servant bent upon reveng
e, an old enemy of the family…”

Again Christian’s voice trailed off as he saw that her hair fell neatly down her back in a plait, but was not pulled as tightly from her face as during the day. In that moment of delicious discovery, he decided that he had never seen anything quite as alluring as that long, heavy braid. He shifted his gaze to her face to find her usual severe expression gone. Her eyes, he realized, were a gentle blue that reminded him of something. Lilacs. Christian loosed a low sigh of pleasure at the discovery, while she stared up at
him with wonder…
or was it alarm?

Suddenly thunder boomed outside, a ferocious roar that made her hand dip and the lantern sway. But, to Christian’s great disappointment, she didn’t jump into his arms as a typical female might have. Instead, she seemed to recover her equanimity with distressing swiftness. Drawing a deep breath, she appeared ready to launch into one of
he
r lectures, but Christian held up a hand.

“Shhh! Did you hear that?” he whispered. The rhythmic
sound was back, or perhaps it had never stopped, Christian having been t
oo distracted by his hostess to
notice.

“Of course I heard it! One would be deaf not to,” she snapped, though she pitched her voice low.

“Not the thunder, the tapping,” Christian replied.

Frowning at him suspiciously, Miss Parkinson cocked her head, and he could tell the moment at which she discerned the sound. Instead of evincing the slightest bit of unease, she turned unerringly toward the fretwork
. “Perhaps it is Sir Boundefort,
” she whispered.

Christian lifted his brows ever so slightly. “What’s he doing? Walking with a cane?”

“How would I know? You’re the ghost expert.”

Christian opened his mouth to argue, then promptly shut it again.

“It sounds like knocking,” Miss Parkinson whispered.

Oh, good. That
was
his area of expertise. Unfortunately, the knocking didn’t seem to be in answer to anything, nor was it emanating from a bed of any kind.

“And it’s coming from underneath us,” his hostess said in a hushed voice, rife with excitement. Christian stared at her, momentarily nonplussed by the lack of gove
rn
ess-like expression upon her face. In fact, in the soft light, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, she looked positively
… beaut
iful. Christian sucked in a breath as she swung the lamp lower and bent over to examine the old tiles. “Perhaps there is some sort of trapdoor,” she said.

At her words Christian jerked his attention from the intriguing curve of her backside back to the business at hand. “If so, you won’t find it tonight,” he replied. And if, by some miracle she did, he wasn’t about to use it. He didn’t care if ten men and a boy were down there banging.

“Why not?” she asked, glancing up at him sharply. Christian began to realize that the lovely Miss Parkinson did not like to hear any negatives. This was one determined woman. Too bad he couldn’t redirect that steely res
olve in a different direction…

Christian tried to look just as resolute. “Because it’s too dark and far too dangerous. Do you have any idea what’s below?”

“No,” she admitted.

Christian shook his head at her recklessness. Brave and foolish. “There could be any sort of old cellars, dungeons, passages, and steps, all of them crumbling, and I for one don’t care to be entombed down there when either we fall or our knocking friend, who already knows his way around, locks us up!”

At last he seemed to have gotten through to her, for she stopped her searching and straightened, visibly disappointed. And for some reason, seeing that slight droop to her mouth made Christian feel an urge to remedy it. “Aren’t there any plans to the house, made perhaps when the additions were built?”

“How would I know?”

“Well, you
are
the owner of the place.” When she looked nonplussed, he felt a pang. The Governess obviously wanted to act immediately, and without a firm and immediate plan, she appeared a bit lost.
“
Tomorrow we’ll start searching the library,” Christian promised.

Miss Parkinson nodded, tight-lipped. “I just hate to give up now when we’ve finally made contact. Do you suppose he is trying to direct us to a specific spot?”

“I don’t think so. The rapping doesn’t seem to be affected by our movements.” In truth, he didn’t believe the sound had anything to do with Sir Boundefort, beyond a judicious use of rumors about the old fellow’s appearances. Someone was trying to scare them away,
or, worse, was involved in some
thing nefarious. In either case, Christian thought it prudent for the brave and foolish Miss Parkinson to be safely away.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” Christian announced.

“There is really no need,” she replied, wariness in her gaze and a certain chill back in her voice.

“I insist,” Christian said, inclining his head. Although his hostess looked as though she would like to refuse, there was
really no polite way for her to do so. Thankfully, the Governess usually observed the social niceties, so with a stiff nod she stepped forward. Christian grinned as he walked beside her, amused by her reluctance. Was she still concerned about his warning that he would not be caught in a compromising position? Christian wasn’t. Indeed, he was beginning to find the notion appealing.

And although he had never been the fanciful sort, moving through the shadowed rooms of the house, alone in their circle of lamplight, was rather novel and inviting. Of course, the fact that she was dressed in her nightclothes, however utilitarian they might be, didn’t hurt. And then there were the lilacs. Every few steps a stray draft would send the scent wafting over him until it was all he could do not to seize her—just to see if she was really as delicious as she smelled.

His pulse pounding, his senses roused, Christian discovered their little nighttime stroll was an exercise in restraint, an unaccustomed experience for him, to be sure. The very act of disciplining himself only seemed to heighten his interest in a sort of vicious cycle. By the time they reached the main stairway, all he could think about was rolling around in a big bed draped with lilac blossoms—and Miss Parkinson.

When she halted at the bottom of the stairs and turned, her hand upon the railing, the lamplight gilded her lovely features and Christian was hard-pressed not to touch her. His palms were as damp as a lad’s and his breeches tighter than they had been in years. But the object of his attentions held her lamp before her like a weapon, and Christian wouldn’t put it past her to clout him with it.