Free A Man Of Many Talents by Deborah Simmons

table and give the scholar a good taste of his specialty, but he told himself the boy wasn’t worth his while. Besides, he was supposed to be on his best behavior as gentleman and rescuer of Miss Abigail Parkinson, which meant not giving in to his more uncivilized impulses. Or even his boxing expertise. He gave a casual shrug.
    “Indeed, my lord, I am hard-pressed to see what qualifies you to be here, beyond a chance encounter at Belles Corners,” Emery persisted.
    Obviously, the boy thought Christian to be just an idle nobleman out on a lark. Well, he was, really. Or rather, he was a nobleman (not necessarily idle) coerced by his elder into forsaking the comfort of clean, luxurious surroundings for this definitely non-larklike experience. Christian opened his mouth to point that out, but the Governess rushed to his defense.
    “Emery, please!” she said, and Christian bit back a smile of pleasure, absurdly heartened by her concern—until he heard her next words. “I believe I told you that none of the men of science I contacted would consider our case. Lord Moreland is our …” She paused, as though unwilling to continue.
    Christian sought to supply the missing word, in his own mind, at least. Savior? Champion? He grinned, but found his hostess unable to meet his eye. Was that a blush on her cheeks? Christian decided that she needed color and exposure to wind and sunshine instead of this gloomy tomb of a place. For one giddy moment, he felt like leaping over the table and sweeping her off her feet, as his ancestors might have done. Except he didn’t have a ship. Hell, right now he didn’t even have a house of his own.
    Miss Parkinson cleared her throat and began again. “What I meant to say is that Lord Moreland has been kind enough to answer our summons. If you feel you have some expertise that he lacks, then you should aid him as best you can, Emery.”
    Emery sniffed, dismissing Christian’s skills as too limited for consideration. Annoyed, Christian opened his mouth to note that he had attended Oxford, after all. If he hadn’t quite finished, there was no need to mention that, was there? But Emery’s smirk stopped him once again. Why not let them believe what they would? His chances of discovering any nefarious goings-on could only be improved if the villain, whether ghostly or corporeal, underestimated him.
    So Christian just smiled, content in his own self-knowledge, yet aware that he probably looked like an idiot.
    * * * * *
    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