A harrumph sounded behind him, startling him. Turning swiftly, he found himself facing Bakari. Damn, the man moved like a cat—silent and stealthy. It was a talent that had stood them in good stead during numerous adventures over the years—such as the time Bakari had furtively rescued Philip from that band of artifact thieves—but one that was quite disconcerting in the foyer.
Philip noted the man seemed a bit out of breath. “Is all well?”
Bakari grunted. “Dog.”
“Ah. I see.” Philip hid a smile. Apparently, under Bakari’s tutelage, the puppy, whom he’d yet to name, was recovering. Excellent.
The sound of footfalls upon the stairs drew Philip’s attention. Andrew, who still wore the same garments he’d worn to dinner, and whose face bore a slight sheen of perspiration as if he’d been exerting himself, joined them in the foyer.
Philip raised his brows. “I thought you’d retired—or are breeches, boots, and cutaway jackets a sleeping-wear fashion trend I’ve missed?”
“Not at all,” Andrew said. “I decided to wait until you arrived home, to see how your carriage ride with Miss Chilton-Grizedale went.” Tilting his head left, then right, he made a great show of studying Philip’s face. Then he shook his head. “Just as I suspected.”
“What?”
“Your time alone with her did not go as you wanted.”
“Meaning?”
“You did not kiss her.”
Bakari harrumphed.
Annoyance slithered down Philip’s spine. “First of all, how could you possibly know that, and secondly, why would you think I would do such a thing? Allow me to remind you that we are now in England—staid, proper, and all that. One simply does not go about kissing ladies. There are rules. Propriety.”
Andrew’s face was the picture of skepticism. “Since when are you such a stickler for rules and propriety? Need I remind you what happened the last time you strictly adhered to the rules?”
Bakari drew in a sharp breath and, waving his hands about, muttered some incantation. Then he shook his head. “Bad. Very bad.”
Philip raked his hands through his hair. “No, you need not remind me, and yes, it was bad.”
“Very bad,” Bakari insisted.
“I damn near drowned because you insisted we cross the river as the ancients had—in a damn tippy canoe,” Andrew said with a dark scowl, clearly ignoring the ‘you need not remind me’ part.
“Bloody hell, you should have told me you could not swim! Before we left the shore. Did I not pull you safely to land—in spite of your flailing arms and legs, which if I may remind you, inflicted numerous bruising blows to my body, several of them to very tender areas?”
“Got in a few good ones,” Andrew agreed. “But it was no less than you deserved. The entire incident shaved a decade from my life.”
“And would have been avoided if you’d told me the truth.”
“Saying he can’t swim is not the sort of thing a man goes around bragging about,” Andrew insisted. “And it wouldn’t have come up if you hadn’t insisted on following the ‘cross the river in the canoe’ rules.” His eyes narrowed. “And don’t be thinking you’ve changed the subject. I know you didn’t kiss her because, as I said earlier, I can read you very well, my friend, and that frustration I see simmering below the surface is not that which you would bear had you kissed her. And second, I thought you would do such a thing because it is so clearly obvious you want to.”
Bakari harrumphed and cleared his throat.
Philip clenched his jaw. Damn, but it was irritating when Andrew was right. Bloody hell, he’d wanted to kiss her. Desperately. Why hadn’t he? It was just a simple kiss, after all. But the instant that thought entered his mind, he realized the answer—he hadn’t kissed her because some instinct told him that there wouldn’t have been anything even remotely resembling simple in kissing her. “And I suppose you would have kissed her.”
If Andrew heard the tightness in his tone, he ignored it. “Yes. If I were that attracted to a woman and was presented with the opportunity, I would kiss her.”
“And the fact that I am to—I hope—soon be married to someone else?”
Andrew shrugged. “You’re not married yet, old man. And that’s not why you didn’t kiss her, and we both know it.”
Philip narrowed his eyes. “I’m certain there’s a ship departing for America within the hour,” he said—a comment about which Andrew looked completely unconcerned.
“Should kiss girl you want,” Bakari said softly. “Girl might want you, too.” Then, after a low bow, Bakari left the foyer heading toward his chambers, his soft leather slippers silent on the marble floor.
Girl might want you, too. Bloody hell. Bakari normally only spoke on average a dozen words a month. Which meant he’d already surpassed his usual quota with that speech. Excellent. Philip was not anxious to hear anything else.
He looked toward Andrew, whose face bore a suspiciously innocent expression. “Don’t say a word,” Philip warned.
“I wasn’t going to. Bakari said it all. In amazingly few words. A rather scary talent, don’t you agree?”
“One that you might wish to emulate—uttering fewer words, that is.”
“As you wish. I’m off to bed.” He started toward the stairs. At the landing, he turned around and issued Philip a mock salute. “Sweet dreams, my friend.”
Sweet dreams, indeed. With his muscles tense and his thoughts racing, sleep was nowhere in his immediate future. Deciding a brandy might relax him, Philip walked down the corridor toward his study. Entering the room, he headed immediately for the decanters and poured himself a fingerful of the potent liquor. As he raised the snifter to his lips, his gaze fell upon his desk. His hand froze halfway to his mouth, and he stared.
One of his journals lay open on his desk, with several more volumes stacked in a haphazard pile near the inkwell. He didn’t recall leaving the books in such a manner; indeed, he wouldn’t, as he was very careful with them. Setting his drink down next to the decanters, he strode toward the mahogany desk.
The journal was opened to a page upon which he’d sketched a detailed picture of the hieroglyphics and drawings on a tomb in Alexandria. His gaze skipped over the page, noting it appeared undamaged, then settled on the stack of journals.
A frown tugged his brows downward. Had one of the servants been looking through his belongings? It must be so, as neither Andrew nor Bakari would do so without asking his permission, nor would either not carefully replace the journals upon the shelf.
But why would one of the servants do such a thing? No doubt curiosity about him and his travels. Understandable, but he needed to discover the offender first thing tomorrow morning and address the issue. Not only did he not like the thought of someone looking through his things, but these journals were irreplaceable. He certainly didn’t want some curiosity-seeker inadvertently damaging or misplacing them.
Heaving out a long, irritated breath, he closed the open journal, then picked it up. He was about to turn to slide it back into its proper spot on the shelf when he spied a piece of foolscap on the desk, underneath where the journal had rested. Cramped, unfamiliar writing was scribbled across the surface. Puzzled, he picked up the note and squinted in the dim light to scan the few words.
You will suffer.
Philip frowned and ran his finger over the print. The ink smeared slightly.
This had been written recently. Very recently. But by whom? Someone in his house? Or had an outsider gained entry? Striding quickly to the French windows, he tested them, noting they were all securely locked. Had an intruder gained entry some other way? It seemed very odd that clearly neither Andrew, Bakari, nor any of the other servants heard or saw someone entering the townhouse. He recalled that Bakari had not been in the foyer when he arrived home—he’d been tending to the dog. And the front door had not been locked. Philip dragged his hands down his face. How long had Bakari left the foyer unattended? Bloody hell, someone could have walked right in t
he front door! Unless that someone had already been in the house....
He looked at the note again. You will suffer.
Who the devil had written it—and why?
A shaky hand lifted the generous pour of brandy to trembling lips. A narrow escape. Far too narrow for comfort. I must take more care in the future. A quick gulp of the potent liquor provided a much-needed warmth. After several more swallows, the glass was set down, and a noticeably steadier hand lifted a dagger. The polished, keenly sharpened blade reflected the candlelight.
Your untimely arrival home interrupted me, Greybourne, forcing me to abandon my search. But I’ll find what I’m looking for. And when I do, your life is over.
Seven
THE LONDON TIMES
The marriage between Lady Sarah Markham and Lord Greybourne will not take place on the twenty-second of this month as previously announced, in light of Lady Sarah’s abrupt marriage to Baron Weycroft yesterday. Why would she do such an unexpected thing? Yes, there is this supposed curse to consider, but it is difficult to put much credence in such a story. Is this curse something that Lord Greybourne fabricated to avoid the altar? He wouldn’t be the first man to do his utmost to remain a bachelor, yet why he would conspire to not wed this Season’s Most Sought-After young lady certainly leads to some interesting questions. And what about Lady Sarah herself? Surely this curse could not be her only reason to reject Greybourne. After all, why would she choose to marry a mere baron when she could have married the heir to an earldom? Perhaps there is something to the popular belief that his years abroad affected more than Greybourne’s mental capabilities. One certainly must wonder what on earth Miss Chilton-Grizedale was thinking when she attempted to make this disastrous match.
Meredith closed her eyes and rested her face in her hands. She’d known the gossip would be relentless once word of Lady Sarah’s—or rather Baroness Weycroft’s— marriage got out, but this was even worse than she’d anticipated. Yet it wasn’t so much the story regarding Lady Sarah’s marriage or her own matchmaking failure that distressed her so—after all, those things were inarguably true. No, it was the sly innuendos regarding the reason behind Lady Sarah’s defection that riled her. Good heavens, any fool could see there was nothing mentally or physically wrong with Lord Greybourne. Such cruel rumors were no doubt very embarrassing for him. Sympathy for him, along with a healthy dose of outrage on his behalf, flooded her.
“Guess ye’ve seen The Times,” came Albert’s voice from the doorway.
Meredith raised her head and stared at him through gritty eyes. “I’m afraid so.”
“I hate to see ye so upset, Miss Merrie. Yer eyes look like bruises.”
Bruises? Not the most flattering assessment, but Albert was correct. In spite of her intention to enjoy a good night’s sleep, she’d spent a restless, fitful night. But not because of the gossip. No, her thoughts had been filled with Lord Greybourne and the increasingly disturbing way he made her feel—warm and heated, trembly and excited all at the same time. Being in his company was an aspect her mind dreaded and her heart anticipated. And as always, with her practical nature, her mind won. However, the battle had proven particularly bloody this time. She’d always managed to beat back her feminine longings and urges whenever they raised their heads, but since meeting Lord Greybourne, her longings and urges were not so easily dismissed.
Rising, she straightened her shoulders. “While this all looks bad on the surface, I’m confident that we can turn all the gossip to our advantage. Human nature being what it is, there won’t be a woman in London who won’t be at least curious to know if the rumors regarding Lord Greybourne are true. These same women will attend the soiree Lady Bickley is hosting at Lord Greybourne’s home, and poof.” She snapped her fingers. “We’ll have a bride for Lord Greybourne in no time.” Surely those words should have filled her with satisfaction rather than a sensation that felt unpleasantly like a cramp.
“I hope ye’re right, Miss Merrie.”
“Of course I’m right. And now I have a favor to ask of you, Albert. I know you’d normally take Charlotte and Hope to the park this morning, but would you postpone your visit until this afternoon and accompany me to the warehouse instead?”
“To help look for the missin‘ piece of stone?”
“Yes.”
Albert looked at her in that penetrating way he had—as if he could read her mind. She tried her best to keep her features impassive, but knew it was a futile effort with Albert.
“Of course. But ye don’t just want me there to look for that bit of rock....” His eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. “Did that Greybourne bloke say somethin‘ untoward to ye? Has he shown himself to be the ill-mannered lout ye believe he is? I told ye not to trust him.”
How to tell Albert that it wasn’t Lord Greybourne but herself she did not trust? “Lord Greybourne’s behavior has been exemplary.” Occasionally. “However, it is not proper for me to be alone with him in the warehouse. There is enough gossip circulating already. I’ve no desire to add to it.”
Albert’s angry expression relaxed. “So I’d be like a chaperone of sorts.”
“Exactly. And helping to locate the missing stone at the same time. We can spend the morning there, then return here. I’ll ask Charlotte to prepare a basket of cheese and biscuits, and the four of us can all go to the park together this afternoon.”
Albert nodded. “I’ll tell Charlotte about the change in plans, then see to the gig.” With that, he quit the room, the scrape of his boot sounding against the parquet floor.
Meredith drew in a relieved breath. Now she did not have to face the prospect of hours alone in Lord Greybourne’s company. Her heart tried to voice a protest, but her mind firmly quashed it. It was better this way. And this was the way it had to be. Anything else was impossible.
Philip folded The Times and tossed it down on the breakfast table with an exclamation of disgust.
“How dreadful is it?” came Andrew’s voice from the doorway.
Philip shrugged. “Not that bad, I suppose, as long as I do not object to the inferences that I am”—he ticked off points on his fingers—“a liar, daft, and unable to... perform.”
Andrew winced. “Particularly nasty, that last one.”
“Yes.”
Andrew’s ebony eyes took on a wicked gleam. “Perhaps this inability to perform is the real reason you have not kissed the object of your affections.”
“Do you know who’s a bigger bloody pain in the arse than you?” Philip asked pleasantly.
“Who?”
“Nobody.”
Chuckling, Andrew walked to the sideboard and helped himself to a hefty portion of eggs and thinly sliced ham, then seated himself across from Philip.
Keeping his tone light, Philip said, “Thought you might like to accompany me to the warehouse today.”
Andrew looked up from his eggs in surprise. “Instead of me going to the museum and continuing my search through the crates there? Why?”
“Well, you said Edward was planning to go the museum today, and I could use your assistance at the warehouse.”
“Won’t Miss Chilton-Grizedale be there?”
“I’m not certain. We did not discuss her plans for today.”
“But you think she may go to the warehouse?”
“Possibly. However, she cannot help me open those heavy crates, and she lacks your expertise in antiquities.”
Andrew nodded thoughtfully, slowly chewing a mouthful of egg. He swallowed, then touched his napkin to the corner of his lips. “I see. You don’t want to risk being alone with her.”
Bloody hell. When the devil had he become so transparent? He felt like a damn piece of glass. Knowing there was no point in prevaricating, he jerked his head in a nod. “That’s about the size of it, yes.”
Andrew looked back down at his breakfast plate, but not before Philip caught his slight grin, along with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a jackass’s bray. “Happy to come with you,�
� Andrew said. “I have a feeling this is going to prove a most interesting morning.”
Philip, with Andrew’s help, had just removed the wooden tops from two crates when the squeak of hinges announced that someone had arrived. To his annoyance, Philip’s heart galloped off like a horse out of the gate when Miss Chilton-Grizedale called out, “Lord Greybourne, are you here?”
“Yes, I’m here.” Bloody hell, was that rusty, croaky sound his voice? He cleared his throat, then tried again. “In the same place as yesterday.”
To his surprise he heard the low murmur of voices, as if she were conversing with someone. The tap of ladylike footfalls sounded upon the wooden floor, accompanied by another set of heavier footsteps. A man’s, he decided. A man with a limp.
Seconds later Miss Chilton-Grizedale, followed by Albert Goddard, appeared from around a stack of boxes. Goddard, Philip noted, stood behind Miss Chilton-Grizedale like a scowling sentinel guarding the crown jewels.
Today she wore a plain brown gown, clearly in deference to the dusty task at hand. Her bright blue gaze met his, and for one insane second it felt as if he’d been punched in the heart. She, however, clearly experienced no such battering, as she merely inclined her head in his direction. “Lord Greybourne.” Her gaze shifted to where Andrew stood, several yards away, and to Philip’s annoyance, her face lit up like a bloody gas lamp.
“Mr. Stanton, how nice to see you again.”
“Likewise, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”
She shifted to the side to make room for Goddard, who stepped forward with a decided limp. “May I present my friend Mr. Albert Goddard, who, as I mentioned yesterday, offered to help us search for the stone. Albert, this is Lord Greybourne’s colleague, Mr. Stanton. You met Lord Greybourne yesterday.”
“Good to see you again, Goddard,” Philip said, offering the young man a smile. He extended his hand, and to his surprise Goddard looked at him with a narrow-eyed glare. Just when Philip thought Goddard meant to ignore him, he reached out and gave Philip’s hand a perfunctory shake. “Lord Greybourne,” he said, or rather snarled.
WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN? Page 12