A Man Of Many Talents by Deborah Simmons Page B

mouth as if to launch into one of her lectures, but shut it again as she looked around the room at the avid faces of her relatives. Perhaps she feared that he would pick her lock? Christian felt his body’s immediate interest in that idea and firmly quelled it.
    Obviously the Governess did not approve of his skill, no matter how helpful it might turn out to be, but what choice did she have? The only other way to get through the locked doors was to take an ax to them, and Christian didn’t feel like expending that much energy. He waited, expectantly, until she finally lifted her hands to her hair and removed one pin of the far too many that he was certain were lodged there.
    She dropped it, still warm from her touch, into his hand, and Christian drew in a sharp breath. Just to catch a whiff of lilacs, of course. He stared down at it for a moment, unaccountably affected, and realized there was something about the Governess that seemed to destroy his usual composure. Loosing the breath, he walked toward the fretwork. “Colonel, could you bring one of the lanterns?”
    “Aha! Most certainly,” the old fellow said, following close behind. They all did, filling up the narrow passage, but Christian was rather glad of it. He liked having every one of them where he could keep an eye on them, just in case. Halting before the farthest door, he knelt, carefully bent the metal of the hairpin, and inserted it in the old lock. He made a few delicate maneuvers and with gratifying swiftness he heard a click.
    Someone gasped, and the colonel slapped him a bit too heartily on the back. “Well done, my lord, well done!” he exclaimed. Christian slanted a glance at his hostess. Her expression remained what he would call dubious. He grinned, then pulled the handle.
    The heavy wooden door swung inward easily, and Christian was not surprised to find the opening clear. No cobwebs hung in his face, no crumbled stones impeded his path, and no centuries of dust lay thick upon the floor. Someone had found a way in here, and recently, for the stone flags looked to be swept, just like the tiles in the hall itself.
    Christian lifted his lantern with anticipation, only to find himself facing a stone wall. For a moment he wondered whether the whole area had been bricked up, but when he peered further inside, he saw that the passage continued to the left. A relatively even surface stretched in that direction, but he could see no sign of steps. Perhaps this way led to the old kitchens instead of to the cellars.
    “Well? What’s there? What do you see?” Various voices assailed Christian as he was crowded forward, and now he wished that all the residents of Sibel Hall were not present and bearing down upon him. He would prefer just Miss Parkinson, he thought, his lips curving slightly. Turning, he glanced her way. Unlike the others, she was not straining to see, but standing calmly nearby, waiting. The image struck him forcefully. How long had she been waiting? And for what?
    Christian shook his head at such whimsy. His hostess was just keeping her distance, as was her wont, but he had no doubt that she would charge ahead into the darkness at the first opportunity. Christian let his gaze rove over her figure, taking in the drab gown of some indeterminate shade. Any other woman would have insisted upon changing her gown or donning an apron before entering the passage. Of course, few other women would even have wanted to go. Against his will, Christian felt a sharp surge of admiration, as well as an odd dose of kinship.
    “Well?” she asked him sharply, thereby breaking whatever spell was upon him.
    Christian sighed. “I suppose you are determined to come along.”
    “Of course,” she answered.
    “Well, then, watch your skirts,” he said. He glanced around at the others. “Colonel, would you please stay here, in case we get into any trouble?”
    “Certainly, my lord!” The man actually looked relieved not to have to venture into the blackness,