WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “What?”

  Edward shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just... his voice. There was something vaguely familiar about it.”

  “So this could be someone you know? Perhaps someone who sailed with us aboard the Dream Keeper who knows the value of the contents of the crates?”

  “It’s possible, yes. There is something else.” Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a small, wrinkled piece of foolscap, then handed it to Philip. “I found this shoved into my pocket.”

  Philip looked at the offering, and he stilled at the brief message: The suffering begins now.

  “I don’t like this, Philip,” Edward said. “The bastard made me suffer, no doubt about that, but I can’t help but feel there’s something more... sinister going on here. And why would he want me to suffer? I’ve no enemies that I know of.”

  “I think,” Philip said slowly, “that this note may not have been meant for you.”

  “As comforting as it would be to believe that, the note was in my pocket, and I’m the one who was pummeled to dust. Who else would it have been meant for?”

  “Me.” Philip quickly told him about finding his journals out of place, and the note on his desk. “I asked every member of the household staff if they’d touched my journals. They all denied it, and I’ve no cause to doubt them. This note you found and the attack on you makes it clear that this person is serious. The bastard most likely believed it was me in the warehouse tonight, examining my crates.”

  Edward nodded slowly. “Yes, you’re probably correct.”

  A sharp edge of guilt sliced through Philip. Damn it, Edward had been hurt because of him. Had the guard, an innocent bystander, been hurt—or worse—because of him as well? Mary Binsmore’s death already lay heavy upon his heart. Would someone else be hurt? If so, who? Father? Catherine? Andrew? Bakari? Meredith? Bloody hell. If someone wanted him to suffer, what more effective way to accomplish that than to harm the people he cared about? The suffering begins now.

  Moving to his desk, he withdrew the note he’d received and compared the handwriting. “These were written by the same person.”

  “I had the distinct impression that he was looking for something specific.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Edward closed his eyes. “It’s difficult to say. It all sort of happened in a blur. But he was muttering things as we fought. Things like ‘It’s mine’ and ‘Once it’s mine, you’re finished.’ ” He opened his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t recall anything else. Based on the size of the lump on my head, I was hit pretty hard.”

  “I’m sorry, Edward. And grateful your injuries weren’t more serious.”

  “Yes, it could have been much worse. As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Philip, we need to ask ourselves two questions: What if the thing he spoke of is the missing piece of the Stone of Tears? And what if he found it?”

  With Edward’s disturbing questions still buzzing through his mind, Philip instructed Bakari to arrange for transportation for Edward.

  “I’ll report the evening’s events to the magistrate before returning home,” Edward promised.

  “I still think I should go with you—” Philip began.

  “No. There is nothing to be gained by you leaving your guests. I’ll take care of it and report back to you in the morning.”

  Philip reluctantly agreed. “All right. I’ll plan to arrive at the warehouse directly after breakfast.” He rested his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “We’ll find out who did this.”

  Edward nodded, then departed. The instant the door closed behind him, Philip turned to Bakari. “How serious are his injuries?”

  “Most troubling is lump on head and glass embedded deep in back of hand. He’ll hurt, but heal.”

  Philip’s relief did nothing to assuage his concern. “There may be... trouble. I want you to take extra precautions.”

  Bakari merely nodded. Philip’s request was one he’d heard numerous times during their adventures together. Bakari was well acquainted with trouble, and Philip had every confidence in the man’s ability to circumvent it.

  Casting a meaningful glance toward the drawing room, Bakari harrumphed, and Philip nodded. Time to return to his guests. After taking a deep breath to compose himself, he returned to the drawing room. He’d barely set foot in the room when Meredith appeared beside him.

  “There you are! Wherever have you been? The waltz is about to begin, and...” She frowned. “Is something amiss?”

  His gaze settled on her concerned blue eyes, and his insides squeezed tight. No harm would come to her. Or to anyone else. He would see to it. “Just a small matter that required my immediate attention.”

  She studied his face, and he forced his concerns aside—for now—and willed his expression to go blank. Still, some of his turmoil must have shown, for she asked, “Not Mr. Stanton, I hope? Lady Bickley reported he’s feeling under the weather—”

  “No, Andrew is safely ensconced in his bedchamber with one of Bakari’s restorative toddies, which will render him cured by morning, I’m certain.” He glanced around the room, noting the speculative gazes resting upon him. “Was I missed?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s been asking for you.”

  He turned and looked directly at her. “I meant by you.”

  Color rushed into her cheeks, charming him, making his fingers itch to reach out and brush over that beguiling blush. “Well, of course. I didn’t know where you’d hidden yourself. Lady Bickley and I were about to form a search party. There’s a roomful of women waiting to receive your invitation to waltz.”

  “Excellent. May I have the honor of this dance?”

  “Certainly not. I am not here to dance. I am here to—”

  “Make certain all these young women believe I’m some sort of fascinating explorer, and to drop hints in gossipmongers’ ears that reports of my inability to... perform are grossly false.”

  She cocked a brow. “You make it sound as if that is a bad thing.”

  “Heavens, no. What man wouldn’t want a bevy of beauties to think him fascinating?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And no man wants to be drought of as unable to... perform.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Between those two recommendations and the fact that I’ve all my hair and teem, not to mention my lack of a paunch, I’m certain I’ve already made great strides with the good ladies in my drawing room.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Therefore, I insist you dance with me.” Before she could refuse, he leaned a bit closer and confided, “You would be doing me a great service. I’m afraid I’m not a proficient waltzer. If I were able to work out my deficiencies with you, rather than trodding upon the toes of any potential future brides and thus alienating them...” He raised his brows in a meaningful fashion.

  She pursed her lips. “Perhaps you are right—”

  “Of course I am. Come. The music is starting.” Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, he led her to the dance floor.

  “It’s a very simple dance,” she whispered. “All you need to do is count. One-two-three. One-two-three. And alternate your feet.”

  The quartet struck up a tune. Philip held her one hand raised at the exact proper height, settled his other hand in the precisely proper position on her back, then swept her around the floor. She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes vividly blue, a delicate rose staining her pale skin. Her sweet, delicious scent wafted up to him, and he drew a deep breath to capture the elusive fragrance.

  Pie. This evening she smelled like blackberry pie. His favorite dessert. Her turquoise gown accentuated her extraordinary eyes, and while the garment was undeniably modest, it still offered a teasing glimpse of cleavage. His gaze settled on her full, moist lips, and he swallowed a groan.

  Bloody hell, so much for keeping things in their proper perspective and his suddenly nonexistent ironclad control. Dancing with her definitely fell into the category of “very poor idea.” Yes, he’d
wanted to hold her in his arms, but he had not considered what sweet torture it would be. It required all his concentration to hold her at the proper distance and not yank her against him and bury his face against her tempting skin. To taste her lips. Her lips... God. He gritted his teeth, and counted furiously to himself, one-two-three. One-two-three.

  After their third trip around the floor, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I believe you told me a Banbury tale, my lord. You’re a very fine waltzer.”

  He lost count, faltered, then trod upon her toes. She gasped.

  “Dreadfully sorry, my dear. You were saying?”

  She glared at him. “Lord Greybourne. That little display was very much like the sort of tricks young boys play, a topic I am well versed in. If you think to fool me with such carryings-on, you are destined for disappointment.”

  “I would never step on your toes on purpose, Meredith.” Her eyes widened slightly at his use of her Christian name. “However, I must confess I did recently learn the basics of the waltz. ”

  “How recently?”

  “This afternoon. I commandeered Catherine and forced her to teach me so I wouldn’t disgrace myself this evening.”

  “She made no mention of this to me.”

  “I asked her not to. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “I... see. Well, she did an admirable job. You’ve quite got the hang of it. So well, in fact, that you need not waste any more time dancing with me. Lady Penelope is standing by the punch bowl. I suggest you partner her first.” She steered him toward the punch bowl with a purposeful gleam in her eye, and he, just as purposefully, swung her in the opposite direction.

  “I believe you are leading, Meredith. That is the gentleman’s prerogative, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I’m trying to get us to the punch bowl,” she said in a hissing whisper.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Tongues will wag if you don’t stop dancing with me.”

  “Tongues are already wagging about me, so I cannot see that it matters. Indeed, further speculation would no doubt only add to my ever-growing mystique.”

  “You are impossible! A quick turn around the floor is one thing, and I appreciate it, as it lends to my credibility that you clearly still have confidence in me and my matchmaking abilities. However, the reality of the situation is that you are a viscount, and I am the hired help, and this dance is quickly approaching the time past what is proper.”

  Annoyance skittered through him. “You are my guest. ”

  “If you insist upon looking at it like that, fine. Then you will recall that you also have more than two dozen other guests to whom you must now pay attention.” She lowered her gaze for several seconds, then looked back up at him with an expression that nearly stilled his heart. “Please.”

  That single, softly spoken plea, combined with the knowing, imploring look in her eyes, told him that more lay behind her request than simply duty to his other guests. Did she find being this close to him as distracting and unnerving as he found her nearness? Was she suffering the same discomfort and longings as he?

  Bloody hell, he certainly hoped so. He hated to suffer alone.

  But neither could he ignore her request. There were duties he needed to perform for the duration of this party. But this party would eventually end...

  With a resigned nod, he steered them toward the punch bowl.

  “You must tell us, Lord Greybourne, what you think about”—Lady Emily’s voice dropped to a whisper—“you know what.”

  Philip stared at her, certain he’d misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, yes, do tell us,” urged Lady Henrietta, with a flirtatious giggle. “Everyone is afraid to talk about you know what, but we understand that you harbor no such fear.”

  Philip looked at their expectant faces and inwardly shook his head in stunned disbelief that two such innocent-looking creatures were asking him to discuss sex. “I’m afraid it’s not proper for me to do so.” He swallowed a laugh at how prim he sounded. Wouldn’t Meredith be proud of him?

  “We promise we won’t tell,” vowed Lady Emily.

  “Not a word. Ever,” seconded Lady Henrietta.

  Understanding suddenly dawned. “You want my opinion as an antiquarian?”

  The young ladies exchanged a baffled look, then said in unison, “Yes.”

  Well, it probably wasn’t strictly proper, but at least these two showed some interest in his study of ancient cultures. Clearing his throat, he began, “The male phallus was frequently depicted in hieroglyphs as a symbol for male virility.”

  Lady Emily’s eyes widened to saucers. Lady Henrietta’s mouth dropped open.

  Warming to his subject, he continued, “The erect penis, especially, was often used in ancient drawings. While in Egypt I discovered some particularly fine examples—”

  “Is everything all right?” asked Meredith, joining the group.

  Before he could reply, Lady Emily said in a strained voice, “I need to sit down for a moment.”

  “I do, as well,” whispered Lady Henrietta. “Please excuse us.” Arm in arm, the two young women beat a hasty retreat.

  “Good heavens, what did you say to them?” Meredith whispered.

  “Damned if I know. They asked for my opinion regarding ancient sexual customs—”

  “What?”

  “I was as surprised as you, believe me, but they insisted. Wanted my opinion as an antiquarian.”

  “They actually asked for your opinion about... ”—she cast a furtive glance around, then lowered her voice— “about that? What exactly did they say?”

  “They asked what I thought about you know what. I’d barely begun my explanation, which was purely scientific in nature, I assure you, when you arrived.”

  Her eyes widened and all the color leached from her face. “Dear God. They must have been referring to Lord Pickerill’s upcoming surprise birthday party.”

  He said the only word that came to mind. “Huh?”

  “Lord Pickerill’s party. Lady Pickerill has been planning it for months and it’s the latest on dit—besides you. In the hopes of keeping the plans secret from Lord Pickerill, the soiree is being referred to by everyone as you know what. ”

  Annoyance skittered through him. “Well, that is not what you know what means. You know what refers to sexual matters. At least it did when I left England ten years ago. Who in God’s name is making these bloody rules?”

  Her eyes all but spewed smoke. “The more pertinent question is, what would possess you to discuss such a topic with proper young ladies?”

  “You told me to mingle. So I mingled. And you’re still not happy. Has anyone ever told you that you’re very difficult to please?”

  “I prefer to call it simply expecting decorous behavior—”

  “I’m certain you do.”

  “—which unfortunately seems beyond you a good portion of the time.”

  “Well, since I seem to have committed such an undecorous faux pas, we can only be grateful that you happened along when you did. Otherwise I no doubt would have shown them the sketches I’d drawn of the hieroglyphs I was discussing.”

  “Yes, we can only be grateful.” She drew a breath. “All right, remain calm—”

  “I am perfectly calm. You, however, may require a dose of laudanum.”

  She shot him a glare clearly intended to incinerate him where he stood. “There must be some way to cast a positive light upon this. If not, dear God, I can see the headline in The Times: Cursed, Impotent Viscount Caught Showing Indecent Sketches to Ladies of the Ton. ”

  He glared right back at her. “The sketches depict ancient glyphs and are not indecent, nor did I even show them to the young ladies. And for the last damn time, I am not impotent.”

  Although she clearly recognized his anger, she didn’t step back. Rather, she lifted her chin another notch. “Fine. But what we need to concentrate on now is fixing this situation before Lady Emily’s and Lady Henrietta’s mouths ru
n amok and ruin everything. Our best recourse is for you to squelch any rumors before they start, and the best way to do that is with flattery. Lots of flattery. Talk your way around the room, commenting on how both young ladies are so very intelligent and their conversation so stimulating. Applaud their curious natures.” She raised her brows. “Do you think you can do that?”

  “I suppose, although I fear it will prove a strain to think of lots of flattering things to say about those two nincom—”

  “Lord Greybourne. You will recall that the purpose of this evening is to find you a suitable bride—not to scare off every eligible young woman in the room. Now go undo the damage that you’ve done. And please behave yourself.”

  Before he could reply, she glided away, regal as royalty, leaving him gnashing his teeth. He watched her leave the room, her gown swaying against her feminine curves. Damn annoying, dictatorial, autocratic, infuriating woman. A slow smile tugged at his lips. He couldn’t wait until this damn party was over so he could tell her exactly what he thought of her.

  With the last of the guests finally gone and his home restored to rights thanks to the army of servants Catherine had engaged and brought from her own home, Philip breathed a sigh of relief. He escorted Catherine down the cobbled walkway to the waiting carriage, followed by Bakari.

  “The party was a success,” Catherine said. “Speculation and curiosity about you is rampant.”

  “And I gather that is preferable to rumor and innuendo?”

  She laughed. “Most assuredly. Um, Miss Chilton-Grizedale apprised me of the”—she coughed delicately into her hand—“you know what situation with Lady Emily and Lady Henrietta.”

  “Ah. Well, fear not. Through gobs of insincere flattery I was able to divert a disaster.”

  Amusement glittered in her eyes. “According to the rumors I heard, several of the young ladies are ‘cautiously smitten’ with you.”

  “How excruciatingly complimentary.”

  His desert-dry tone elicited a smile from her. “Considering how dire the circumstances were only days ago, we’ve made good progress. Did any of the young ladies capture your interest?”