“Aunt Merrie!” Hope hugged her chubby little four-year-old arms around Meredith’s legs, and Meredith leaned down to press a kiss to the child’s shiny golden curls. “I missted you, Aunt Merrie,” Hope proclaimed, looking up, her gray eyes exact replicas of Charlotte’s, shining with pleasure.
“And I missed you as well, poppet.” The area surrounding Meredith’s heart went hollow. More than her future had been compromised today. With her current situation, what would become of Hope and Charlotte? Of Albert?
Arranging her features into what she hoped would pass for unconcern, she looked toward the doorway. The instant her gaze met Albert’s she knew she’d failed in her attempt for nonchalance. His smile froze, then slowly faded, his entire expression turning to one of narrow-eyed wariness.
Damnation, he knew her too well, and after eleven years, she supposed that was to be expected. Still, his eyes were far too knowing for a mere twenty-year-old. But of course, Albert had seen and survived more than most twenty-year-olds. Her gaze shifted to Charlotte, her cook’s apron still tied around her trim waist, her eyes reflecting the same cautious wariness as Albert’s. Charlotte knew her as well as Albert, although Charlotte had only joined Meredith’s “family” five years ago, shortly before giving birth to Hope. As there was no hiding the truth from either of them, she decided not to prolong the misery.
With Hope’s small hand nestled in hers, Meredith walked up the cobbled pathway. When she stepped into the small parquet-floored foyer, she untied her bonnet and handed it to Albert.
“We need to talk,” she said without preamble to Albert and Charlotte.
Still holding Hope’s hand, Meredith led the way down the corridor to the drawing room. Hope immediately dashed to her child-sized chair and table in the corner and began drawing in her sketch pad. Meredith clasped her hands in front of her and faced her two dearest friends.
“I’m afraid I have some rather disturbing news.” She described the morning’s events at the church, concluding with, “As much as I’d like to be optimistic, I’m afraid I must be practical. This debacle, though no fault of my own, is going to have disastrous repercussions on my reputation as a matchmaker. Indeed, it is only a matter of time, perhaps hours, before requests to cancel my services start arriving. While I remain hopeful that Lord Greybourne will find the missing piece of the stone and end the curse, I’d be foolish not to make plans in the event that he is unsuccessful. Even if this proves to be merely a postponement, rather than a permanent canceling of the nuptials, with all the gossip already flying about, it could take months to repair the damage. If he fails...” She pressed her fingers to her temples in an attempt to keep the few remaining remnants of her rapidly disappearing sanity from escaping. “Good Lord, in that case, I am well and truly ruined. My livelihood is destroyed....” And she well knew how limited the choices were for women to earn a living. I won’t go back.... I’ll never go back.
Albert narrowed his eyes. “If ye ask me, this curse is mighty suspicious-like. Maybe this Greybourne bloke is makin‘ it all up so he don’t have to get married.”
Meredith slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Yer just too trustin‘, that’s all,” Albert said.
“I’m not saying I believe in this curse. In truth, I’m not quite sure exactly how I feel about it. As incredible as it seems, I somehow find I cannot discount it. And there is no doubt in my mind that Lord Greybourne believes in it absolutely.”
“Well, that just proves that the bloke’s half daft.” Albert pointed his index finger at her. “I think ye should stay away from him, Miss Merrie. I don’t trust him one bit. And in the meanwhile, don’t ye worry none about funds. I’ll take on some nighttime labor, maybe down at the docks. Or we can resettle somewhere else, somewhere where the gossip ain’t been heard. Maybe somewhere near the sea like we always talked about. We’ll get by, just like always.”
“Of course we will,” said Charlotte. “I can take on some sewing—”
“I don’t want for us to just get by.” Meredith’s chest tightened, and she clenched her hands to tamp down the panic threatening to overwhelm her. “We’ve worked too hard, too long. I cannot, will not, allow this situation to destroy my good name, respectability, and reputation. The chance for a secure future for all of us. For Hope. And the only way to ensure that it does not ruin anything is to make certain that Lord Greybourne marries Lady Sarah.”
“Well then, we’ll just make certain that that’s wot happens,” Albert decreed, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Why, we’ll just offer to help Lord Greybourne find his missin‘ rock, and before ye can say ‘Brummel’s a dandy’ we’ll have this problem fixed and the bloke married off.”
A tired smile tugged at Meredith’s lips. Dear Albert. Somehow, when she hadn’t been looking, he’d grown into a tower of strength. Certainly a far cry from the sick, broken child she’d found discarded in the gutter, left for dead. Here she was supposed to be taking care of him, but now it appeared he was taking care of her, bearing her troubles upon his broad shoulders.
He rose and limped across the carpet to her, then wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. “We’ve faced worse than this, Miss Merrie, and come through all right. Why, if it’s necessary, I’ll dress meself up like a bride and marry the bloke meself.” He squeezed her shoulders and shot her a wink, and because she knew he was trying to cheer her up, Meredith forced a smile.
Slanting a sideways glance toward Charlotte, Meredith asked, “I believe Albert would make quite a lovely bride, don’t you, Charlotte?” She reached out and playfully pinched Albert’s cheeks. “After all, he’s so very handsome.”
Meredith felt Albert tense at her teasing question, and Charlotte’s face blazed crimson. But then her dear friend merely shrugged and said, “Lovely or not, I suspect that at some point Lord Greybourne would notice there was something amiss with his bride. How long do you think it would escape his notice when his wife’s beard began to grow?”
Albert stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “Hmmm. Yes, that could present a problem.” His expression sobered and he clasped Meredith’s hands. “I’ll not have ye worryin‘ ’bout something ye cannot change, Miss Merrie. We’ll try to find this stone, and if we do, well then, the bloke and Lady Sarah will marry and all will be fine. And if we don’t find the stone—”
“I’ll be ruined.”
Albert’s expression turned fierce. “Never. Nothin‘ could ever dim ye in my eyes.”
“Nor mine,” Charlotte added softly. “Nor Hope’s.” She rose and hugged Meredith. “Albert is right. This will all work out fine. And if it doesn’t, we’ll leave London. Go somewhere new. Start again.”
Meredith forced a smile and hugged her friends, but her heart felt heavy. Dear God, how many times could she go somewhere new and start again? She was so tired of doing that.
Unfortunately, she suspected it was exactly what she was going to have to do. But maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right.
Sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, Meredith opened The Times. The bold newsprint headline stared back at her: Is Cursed Viscount the Most Unmarriageable Man in England?
Any hope that her announcement of the wedding being rescheduled for the twenty-second would avert gossip disintegrated. Her heart plummeted to her feet, dragging her cramped stomach along for the tumultuous journey as she quickly scanned the words, her dread increasing with each paragraph. Three entire pages, not to mention the entire left column of the front page, were devoted to the story.
Her gaze scanned over the words, each one burning into her mind, incinerating any foolish hopes she might have harbored that perhaps her reputation could somehow remain partially intact. Every detail, from the curse, to Lord Greybourne’s bargain with his father, to speculation regarding Lady Sarah’s mysterious “illness,” was printed for all to read.
Heavens, with the accuracy of his story, one had to wonder if the reporter had been secreted behind the curtain
s while Lord Greybourne had told his tale of the curse. The entire incident was detailed, from his finding the stone, to the death of his friend’s wife, to his vow to somehow break the curse. Meredith read the final lines of the article with dread.
Is this curse real, or just a ploy concocted to dissolve a betrothal that Greybourne or Lady Sarah—or perhaps both of them—realized they did not want after they’d met? Was Lady Sarah merely ill, as her father stated—or did she cry off rather than risk dying two days after her marriage? Many women would give a great deal to marry the heir to an earldom— but would they be willing to die for it? I rather think not. The wedding has been rescheduled for the twenty-second, but will it actually take place? One cannot help but suspect this rescheduling is naught but a ploy for Greybourne and Miss Chilton-Grizedale to save face. And all this begs the questions—If the curse is real, how will Lord Greybourne honor his vow to marry? Indeed, should the curse prove real, one must wonder, who will take this man? Should Lord Greybourne discover a way to break this curse, will he and Lady Sarah still marry? If not, perhaps he can again engage Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s matchmaking services to aid him in his quest for a bride. Certainly no one else will be hiring her after this debacle.
Meredith’s gaze riveted on that last line, each word reverberating like a death knell. She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her middle in a fruitless effort to contain the pain seizing her. Damn it all, this could not be happening to her.
Hot tears pressed behind her eyes, and she gritted her teeth to stem the moisture. Tears were futile signs of weakness, and she was not weak. Not any longer. Mama’s voice tickled her memory. Stop running, Meredith. You cannot escape your past.
Yes, I can, Mama. I did escape. I did not give up as you did. I fought hard for what I have—
Had. What she’d had. Because now it was gone.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she pressed her fingertips against her temples in a vain attempt to temper the rhythmic pounding in her head. No. It wasn’t gone. Not yet. And by damn, she wouldn’t give it up without a fight.
“Are you all right, Miss Merrie?”
At the deep-voiced question, Meredith’s eyes popped open. Albert stood in the threshold, a look of concern pinching his dark brows. She instantly noted the vellum-laden salver he held.
Forcing a wan smile, she said, “I’m fine, Albert. Just a bit tired.”
Albert didn’t smile in response. Indeed, his dark eyes flashed, and he planted his free hand on his hip and glared at her. “Now, that’s a bald-faced lie if ever I heard one, and I’ve heard plenty,” he said with his characteristic brutal bluntness. “‘Tis like a ghostie yer lookin’, all pale and scared-like.” His frown furrowed deeper and he jerked his head toward the newspaper. “I read it. I’d like to get that reporter bloke alone for five minutes. Probably he were eavesdroppin‘.”
“Perhaps, but how he learned of the curse doesn’t really matter at this point.” Her gaze rested on the salver. “I guess we both know what those are. No sense pretending they’re invitations to tea.”
“Yer most likely correct. I can’t get anything done wot for answerin‘ the door.” At that moment the brass knocker sounded.
“Leave those with me,” Meredith said.
Albert set the salver on the table, then limped across the floor toward the corridor, his left boot scraping against the wood. The fact that his limp was so pronounced this morning indicated that he’d either not slept well last night or that the weather was damp. Perhaps a combination of both.
At the threshold he turned and gazed at Meredith with an intense expression. “Don’t you worry none, Miss Merrie. Albert won’t let no one ever hurt you.” He quit the room, and Meredith heard the fading, soft scrape of his boot along the runner in the corridor.
Her gaze fell to the note-laden salver. Although she knew without reading them what they contained, one by one she broke the wax seals and read the contents. Each note was very much like the last. Just a few hastily scribbled lines, worded in such a way that she could almost feel the heat of censure rising from vellum to scorch her skin. I shall no longer require your services. I wish to terminate our association.
The exact wording didn’t matter. Each letter represented the same thing: another shovelful of dirt upon the grave in which her reputation and respectability now lay.
Something had do be done. And quickly.
But what?
Philip stared at the newspaper in disgust. “How the bloody hell did this reporter find out about the curse?”
Andrew Stanton, his American friend and antiquarian colleague, looked up from his breakfast in surprise. “You told me everyone had agreed at St. Paul’s not to talk about it.”
“We did. But somehow this damned reporter found out. Like bloody rabid dogs after a bone.” He tossed The Times aside, and blew out a frustrated breath. “I warned you London would be like this.”
“Actually, you told me that England was stodgy and dull and boring, and I’m afraid I must disagree. Only hours after our arrival we engaged in a very satisfactory street brawl, resulting in you getting yourself a pet.”
Philip shot him a dark look. “Yes, a puppy is exactly what I wanted.”
“You don’t fool me. I’ve seen you doting on the beast. I’ll wager that the moment he’s feeling in top form you’ll be frolicking in the park with him.” Before Philip could icily point out that he did not frolick, Andrew blithely continued, “And then there was the heated argument with your father, topped off by the debacle at St. Paul’s yesterday. No, I most certainly have not been bored. Indeed, I cannot wait to see what happens next.”
“Have you always been such a bloody pest?” Philip asked with a scowl.
“Not until I met you.” He grinned. “You taught me well.”
“Well, the next time you’re about to be chopped to pieces by machete-wielding hooligans, remind me not to intervene.”
Andrew shuddered at the memory. “Yes, you and your walking stick quite saved the day. How was I to know that woman was the machete-wielding hooligan’s sister?”
After accepting more coffee from a footman, Philip said, “I received a note from Edward this morning.”
Andrew’s amusement instantly faded. “How is he?”
“He claims he is well, but I’m certain he is not. He visited Mary’s grave....” A powerful wave of guilt engulfed Philip. Poor Mary Binsmore. And poor Edward. His friend had been devoted to his wife of two decades. He made a mental note to consult with his solicitor about setting up a trust for Edward. Of course a financial gesture was woefully inadequate, but he had to do something. If it weren’t for me, Mary Binsmore would still be alive—
Cutting off the disturbing thought, he continued, “He wishes to aid in the search through the crates for the missing piece of stone. I wrote back that I’d welcome his help. God knows we need the assistance, and keeping busy will help him to focus on something other than his loss. I suggested he join you at the British Museum in going through the crates delivered there, while I continue my search at the warehouse.”
“An excellent plan.” Andrew drained his china cup, then rose, his height and muscular build dwarfing the hovering footman. “I’m off to the museum. I’ll report to you immediately should we find something.”
“I’ll do the same.”
No sooner had his friend departed than Bakari entered the breakfast room, his dark brown face set in its usual inscrutable mask, his hands precisely folded against his midsection. Dressed in his customary loose silk shirt, drawstring trousers, soft leather ankle boots, and turban, Bakari had caused quite a stir among the rest of the formal, liveried staff. Philip eyed his manservant warily. It was always impossible to tell if Bakari was about to impart good news or bad news.
“Your father.”
Ah. Bad news. Suppressing a resigned sigh, Philip said, “Show him in.”
Seconds later the earl entered, his gait surprisingly brisk given his complexion bore
an unhealthy pale hue. The guilt and regret that lurked within Philip rose sharply from the recesses of his heart, where it dwelled like a hulking beast. Although he was not anxious to engage in another argument with Father, he was glad to see him up and about. Mother had experienced much the same her last months—one good day interspersed with an ever-increasing number of bad days—until there were no more days at all.
Settling himself in the chair across from Philip, Father’s chilly gaze raked over Philip’s lack of cravat, loose-fitting shirt, and rolled-back sleeves before flicking over the discarded newspaper. After accepting coffee from a footman, Father said, “Damned thorough story. Almost as if the man were in the room with us. I find his intimate knowledge of something we’d agreed should be kept quiet quite... curious.”
“Are you implying that I provided The Times with this information?”
“Did you?”
As he had so many times before, Philip deflected the hurt his father’s doubt arrowed at him. “No, I did not. No doubt someone overheard us. We were not exactly whispering.” Philip dragged his hands down his face. “Besides, I cannot see that it really makes much difference how the story was found out. Indeed, perhaps it is better that it is known. It might cut down on the speculation.”
A humorless laugh escaped his father. “You’ve been away from Society far too long. No, this is just the sort of story that whets the appetite and causes speculation and innuendo to run rampant. I’m just grateful that Catherine isn’t in London, being subjected to this mess.”
Philip’s heart squeezed at the mention of his sister. She was the one thing he’d missed during his years abroad, and he couldn’t wait to see her. Her son had contracted a sudden stomach ailment, regrettably postponing her travel plans. “Well, she’s soon to be subjected, I’m afraid,” Philip said. “I received a note from her this morning. Spencer has recovered and Catherine expects to arrive in London this afternoon.”
WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN? Page 5