A Man Of Many Talents by Deborah Simmons Read Free Book Online Page A

Parkinson said, giving him a questioning look.
    There. Better mind the Governess, Christian thought, glad to see someone else being reproved. He nearly grinned.
    Emery’s ears pinkened as he sputtered, “It’s silly. I thought it was amusing, that’s all, but I can find no basis in record. As a scholar, I am interested in facts, not fancies. There is no reason to believe that old rhyme has anything to do with anything!”
    Emery’s sudden and fierce dismissal of the so-called legend piqued Christian’s attention. “I would think a scholar would find such things of interest, whether they be myth or actual history, especially when applied to one’s own antecedents,” he said.
    Emery colored further and mumbled something intelligible, but Christian’s instincts had been roused, and he studied the young man more closely.
    “How’s it go, now, Mercia?” the colonel called out loudly, and Christian nearly jumped again. He was going to have to muzzle that man.
    Mercia smiled eagerly, and began to recite.
    My grief is such I cannot bear,
    So must my worldly goods despair.
    All my treasure sacred keep
    In stone abode and darkness deep.
    There shall they rest in blessed care .
    ’Neath the angels singing fair,
    Untouched by all but she who wear
    Mine own love token in her care.
    Thy ring when set against its mate,
    Sweet kiss! Shall unlock the gate
    For only her, all others spurn ing
    Until my lady's love returning.
    Christian listened with half an ear while watching Emery, who kept his attention firmly focused on his plate. To hide what? Interest or indifference?
    “What do you make of it, my lord?” Mercia asked when she had finished, and Christian turned to find her studying him with bright eyes.
    “Sounds like some kind of love verse,” he said, with a shrug. He had never been much for poetry. Byron gave him hives.
    “I fear whatever meaning the phrases might once have had has been lost over the years,” Miss Parkinson said.
    “Perhaps if we all put our minds to it, we might come up with an answer, and a clue to our ghost’s behavior as well,” Mercia suggested.
    Christian stifled a groan. If there was anything he hated worse than poetry readings, it was playacting and guessing games. He had hoped that the adjournment to luncheon meant he would have some decent conversation, preferably with Miss Parkinson. She was more intelligent than the average female, Christian knew with utter certainty, though how he wasn’t sure. Whether it was her likeness to a tutor or just the fact that she held herself slightly apart from the rest of the rabble here at Sibel Hall that convinced him, he didn’t know.
    She was intriguing, and Christian couldn’t remember the last time any woman had roused his curiosity. She had an innate dignity that wasn’t compromised by the most outlandish tales of the company, and he guessed she would be steady and sensible in all situations. Perhaps that was what he found appealing about her—besides the lilacs, of course. Obviously, it wasn’t her warmth or her looks.
    “Well, who has an idea?” Mercia prompted.
    An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by the colonel’s hearty laugh. “I’m afraid I’m not very handy with rhymes.”
    Emery remained silent, though he appeared to sit up straighter in his seat, alert despite his preoccupation with his food, and Miss Parkinson simply shook her head. Nevertheless, Mercia persisted, and finally everyone except Emery threw out a few feeble suggestions. But after a good quarter of an hour even Mercia settled into silence, while Christian stirred himself from his stupor, having nearly nodded off during that boring exercise. Now, thankfully, the issue appeared to have died away and he could turn his attention to the only real point of interest here: his hostess.
    Christian found himself wondering how she had come to head up this household of eccentrics, for it was obvious that she was in charge. Had she been bo rn to lead them or had she