WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “I’d prefer not to say just as yet. Suffice it to say I’ve made my choice. Now I just need to convince the lady— which is exactly what I plan to do.” Indeed, in order to keep his agreement with his father, he’d been fully prepared to marry a woman he didn’t even know. Well, he knew he desired Meredith. And he believed they’d be well suited. Surely he could convince her of that. The bigger problem would be finding a way to protect her and convincing her to take him on if he was not able—because of the curse—to many her.

  The footman set the coffee at Father’s elbow, and the earl absently stirred the richly fragrant brew with his spoon. “You haven’t much time to court her, Philip. I met with Doctor Gibbens yesterday. He says I’ve two, perhaps three months left. I want to see you settled, maybe even know there’s an heir on the way.”

  A wave of sadness, regret, and loss washed over Philip. For all the things he and his father hadn’t shared. Would never share. He made a mental vow that he’d never allow the walls that separated him and Father to be erected between him and his children. “I am doing, and will continue to do, everything in my power to honor our agreement, Father. But you also need to accept the possibility that I may be unable to honor it.”

  “I’m not a man who likes to contemplate failure, Philip.”

  “Neither am I. Most especially now that I’ve found the woman I want.”

  “Toward that end, I suggest you quit dawdling over breakfast and get yourself to the warehouse to continue your search.”

  “I plan to do just that, but first I need to tell you something.” He quickly related the events that took place at the warehouse last night, concluding with a request that his father be extra careful and alert. “It’s clear to me that something more than simply the curse is going on, but I don’t know what, or who is behind it. But rest assured I’ll find out.” Swallowing his last sip of coffee, Philip rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Father, I wish to ready myself to depart for the warehouse.”

  Father’s jaw tightened with grim determination as he, too, rose. “I’ll come with you. The more of us searching, the quicker we can get through the crates.”

  “It is dirty, exhausting work—”

  “I shall not overtire myself. I’m having a ‘good’ day today, and I’ll not spend it lying about in bed. I want to help you.”

  “All right.” It was useless to argue once Father made up his mind. He’d simply make certain his father did nothing more strenuous than marking the ledger books.

  “You sound surprised that I would offer my assistance, Philip. I’m concerned for your welfare and do not like the ominous sound of the note Edward found. And as for this curse, well... although I remain unconvinced of its authenticity, in spite of what you might believe, I would want you to have nothing less than the woman you want... son.”

  Philip’s throat tightened at his father’s gruff-voiced statement. His father hadn’t called him son since Mother’s death. Not once, either in conversation or during their correspondence. The fact that he had now clearly indicated Father was extending an olive branch, a peacemaking gesture Philip grasped, as it gave him hope that perhaps they could, upon Philip’s marriage, put the past behind them.

  “Thank you. I welcome the company.” As they exited the dining room, Philip said, “Since Andrew has not yet arisen, I can only assume he is still not feeling well. I hope he will feel better later on and join us as well.”

  “Stanton is ill, you say? Too bad. Must have come upon him quite suddenly. He looked quite fit when I saw him last evening.”

  “Last evening? What time?”

  “Must have been close to eleven, as I was in my carriage, coming home from my club. He was walking along Oxford.”

  “And what were you doing out at eleven last evening, Father? Surely the doctor does not recommend such late-night excursions.”

  Red suffused his father’s pale cheeks. “I felt quite fit last evening and stopped by my club. The doctor encourages such outings if I’m up to it. Raises my spirits and all that.”

  “I see. But as for Andrew, you must be mistaken. He took to his bed shortly before seven.”

  “I was certain it was he.... Obviously I was mistaken. But your friend Stanton has a double here in London.”

  “ ‘Tis said that everyone has one somewhere,” Philip said. He chuckled. “Although heaven help us if there are actually two Andrew Stantons running about.”

  Philip turned in a slow circle, his boots scraping against the rough wooden warehouse floor, as he surveyed the area surrounding two of his crates. Signs of a struggle were obvious in the scuff marks in the wood and the scattered pieces of broken artifacts. Crouching down, Philip picked up a jagged piece of glossy red pottery. Samian, second century a. d. He’d purchased the vase from an artifact dealer in Rome known for acquiring exquisite pieces, sometimes through dubious means. The loss of something so beautiful, which had survived for hundreds of years, offering a priceless glimpse into the past that could never be replaced, cramped his stomach with sick anger. And even more sickening was the realization that Edward could easily have ended up as broken as the pottery. With painstaking care, he could endeavor to reconstruct the vase. The same could not be said if that bastard had killed Edward.

  “Has much been lost?” Father asked.

  “Difficult to tell. I’d guess several pieces. I will know more after I compare the remaining contents to the ledger.” He dragged his hands down his face. “It could have been much worse.”

  Father’s hand swept in an arc, encompassing the debris. “Can they be salvaged?”

  “I’ll try, although they will, of course, never be the same.” He retrieved the leather pouch he’d set down near one of the crates. Opening the drawstring, he pulled out a piece of cotton sheeting. “I need to gather the pieces on this sheet, leaving space between them, then roll up the cloth to protect the fragments. The chair in the office is quite comfortable.”

  “I did not come here to sit.”

  “I know, but I’m afraid this task requires crawling about on the hands and knees.”

  One of Father’s brows shot upward. “I’m not the creaking relic you clearly think me. My hands and knees are in perfectly good condition.”

  In spite of the serious circumstances, a smile pulled at Philip. “As an expert on creaking relics, I can confirm that you are not one. I was thinking of your fashionable attire. If you kneel on this floor, an act of Parliament won’t get those breeches clean.”

  “Pshaw.” He slowly lowered himself into a kneeling position, moving so gingerly, his face twisted into such a grimace, Philip had to clench his teeth to keep from laughing.

  “There,” Father said, his voice tinged with pride when he’d accomplished the task.

  “Excellent. Just move carefully so as not to crush any fragments.”

  While they worked, gently setting broken pieces of various colors on the sheet, Philip answered his father’s myriad questions regarding the rugs, furniture, silks, and other goods he’d brought from abroad for their joint importing business venture. More than an hour of surprisingly companionable conversation had passed when Father said, “Look what I found under this crate. It looks much too new to be one of your artifacts. Indeed, it looks very much like the one I carry.”

  Philip turned. A knife dangled between Father’s fingers, its shiny, lethal blade reflecting the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Philip reached out, and his father carefully passed him the handle.

  “This is most likely the assailant’s knife. Edward said the bastard lost it during their scuffle.” Philip examined the piece but could not discern any distinguishing marks. It was simply a common boot knife. Most men he knew, himself included, carried one just like it—Andrew, Edward, Bakari, and, as he’d just learned, his father.

  Slipping the knife into his own boot, Philip said, “I’ll hand this over to the magistrate.” He resumed the painstaking task of gathering the pottery fragments. They were nearly finished when the
creak of the warehouse door announced someone’s arrival. “Lord Greybourne, are you here?”

  His body instantly tightened at the sound of Meredith’s smoky, feminine voice, and he swallowed the humorless sound that rose in his throat. What defense could he ever wage, what prayer of restraint could he hope to achieve, against a woman who affected him so with merely her voice?

  “I’m here,” he said, wincing at the strained, husky note in his own voice. Turning to his father, he said, “Miss Chilton-Grizedale.” The sound of a heavier, scraping tread reached his ears. “Accompanied by her butler, Albert Goddard.” Who loves her.

  Both Philip and his father rose, and he pressed his lips together to keep from grinning at the dirt staining the knees of Father’s formerly pristine breeches. He’d never seen his father looking so untidy. Yet in spite of his ruined attire, satisfaction for a job accomplished gleamed in Father’s eyes. Seconds later Meredith and Goddard appeared around the corner. His gaze locked with Meredith’s, and for the barest instant a knowing, intimate look flared in her eyes. Then, as if a curtain shrouded her expression, her eyes filled with a cool indifference that set his teeth on edge.

  Philip’s gaze flicked to Goddard, who stood next to Meredith like a knight errant guarding his lady, glaring at Philip. If Philip weren’t grateful to the young man for protecting Meredith, he’d most likely be highly annoyed at the visual daggers being thrown in his direction. He quickly introduced Father and Goddard. His father then made Meredith a formal bow.

  “You are to be congratulated, Miss Chilton-Grizedale,” Father said. “Last evening’s party produced the desired results.”

  “I’m not certain I know what you mean, my lord.”

  “The goal was to find a suitable bride for my son. He told me this morning that one particular young lady made quite an impression on him. I’ve every confidence the wedding will take place on the twenty-second as we’d hoped.”

  Twin crimson flags rose on Meredith’s cheeks. Her gaze flew to Philip’s. Myriad expressions flashed in her eyes, so rapidly he couldn’t read them. Confusion? Concern? Dismay?

  “I’m happy to hear it, my lord,” she said, her voice tight. She averted her gaze, panning over the fragments spread out on the sheets. “Oh, dear.” Once again she looked at Philip, this time her eyes filled with distress. “These were broken last night?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’m so sorry. It hurts me to see this—I cannot even fathom how heartbreaking it is for you. You must be sick over the loss.”

  Her sympathetic commiseration washed over him like a warm, soothing rain, overwhelming him with the desire to draw her into his arms. Not, of course, that he would have forgotten himself in such a way, but even if he had, he was certain the scowling Goddard would have happily reminded him—with his fists.

  “How can we help?” she asked.

  He explained the procedure, adding, “I think we’ve collected most of the broken pieces. Once we’re finished, we can start on the opened crates to see if anything is missing.” Guessing that Goddard might find it painful to crawl about on his bad leg, but suspecting the young man would rather die than admit as much, Philip said to him, “I haven’t as yet had the opportunity to look around the rest of the warehouse to see if anything else might have been disturbed. Care to join me?”

  A muscle jerked in Goddard’s jaw, and Philip could almost read his thoughts. He was damning his physical limitations that had prompted Philip’s offer, knowing exactly why Philip had made the suggestion, and resenting the hell out of it. Finally Goddard nodded.

  Philip slowly led the way through the labyrinth of crates, deliberately moving away from the area where Meredith and his father worked. When he was assured they were far enough away not to be overheard, he turned to face Goddard.

  “You have something to say to me.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  A dull flush crept over the young man’s face. Reaching out one hand to balance himself, he drew himself up to his full height and glared at Philip. “I don’t like the way ye look at her.”

  Philip didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Damn it, he knew how he looked at her. And in all fairness, he couldn’t blame Goddard. Philip would feel precisely the same way about any other man who looked at Meredith with the desire he knew he himself was unable to hide. And he also couldn’t stop the sympathy coursing through him. He had no wish to stomp upon Goddard’s emotions. While he hadn’t suffered from a physical affliction as serious as Goddard’s, he’d been physically awkward, clumsy, and pudgy until he reached his majority. He recalled the pain all too well.

  Yet he knew that while Meredith’s feelings for Goddard ran deep, she was not in love with him. She wasn’t the sort of woman who would kiss him as she had if her heart belonged to another man. What exactly was the nature of their relationship?

  Keeping his gaze steady on Goddard, Philip said quietly, “And I can tell by the way you look at her that you love her.”

  “Damned right I do, and that gives me certain rights. Like warnin‘ off fancy blokes what look at her like she’s some tasty morsel to sample, then spit aside when the flavor’s gone.”

  “That is not my intention.”

  “Is that so?” Goddard stuck out his jaw at a belligerent angle. “What exactly are yer intentions, then?”

  “That is personal, between Meredith and me. But, knowing how you feel about her, I want to assure you that I... care for her. And would do nothing to hurt her.”

  “Ye already have, you and yer bloody curse. Her reputation is everything to her. Ye’ve already damaged her business. And the way ye look at her makes it obvious ye think to ruin her as well.” Goddard’s lips curled back in a sneer. “Ye high-and-mighty lords think that any piece that catches yer fancy is fair game for yer attentions. But Miss Merrie’s too smart to fall victim to that. She’s run her whole life from it.”

  “What does that mean? Run her whole life from what?”

  Something flashed in Goddard’s eyes, something that clearly indicated he’d said too much, and he pressed his lips together. When it became clear Goddard wasn’t going to elaborate, Philip asked, “And how do you know that your feelings won’t get the better of you, won’t lead you to do something that could compromise her?”

  A muscle jerked in Goddard’s jaw. His gaze raked over Philip, as if trying to decide how to answer. Finally he said, “I love her, but not in the way ye’re implyin‘. She ain’t old enough to be my mum, but that’s what she’s been to me, and that’s how I love her. She took care of me all those years, and now that I’m old enough, it’s my turn to look after her. I’d do anythin’ for her.” Goddard’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Anythin‘. ”

  There was no mistaking the young man’s meaning. Clearly if Meredith said, Chop off Lord Greybourne’s head, Goddard would sharpen his axe. One could only hope she wouldn’t make such a request. There was no denying his relief that Goddard wasn’t in love with Meredith. Yet his words only led to more questions.

  “What do you mean, she’s been a mum to you?”

  Again he hesitated, as if debating whether to answer or not. Finally he said, “Had no mum or dad, least not as I can remember. Only person I had was Taggert, the chimney sweep. I was one of his climbin‘ boys.” Goddard’s eyes and voice went flat. “He had others besides me. Kept us all together in a small, filthy room. One day, while cleanin’ out a chimney, I fell.” His gaze flicked down to his leg. “I remember fallin‘, but I must have hit my head hard, ’cause I don’t remember nothin‘ else till I woke up and found meself starin’ into an angel’s blue eyes. Thought I’d died and somehow made it to heaven. Soon found out that the angel was Miss Merrie, a stranger to me. She’d picked me up out of the gutter where Taggert had dumped me. I weren’t no use to him anymore.”

  “Good God,” Philip muttered, a sensation akin to nausea rolling through him at such unspeakable cruelty. “How old were you?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure. ‘Bout eight. At leas
t that’s wot Miss Merrie figured. Didn’t know when my birthday was, so Miss Merrie named that day my birthday. She’s given me a fine party every year since, with cake and biscuits and presents.”

  “What ever happened to this Taggert?”

  A combination of hatred and fear burned in his eyes. “I don’t know. I can only hope the bastard’s dead.”

  “So Meredith brought you home to live with her family?”

  “She took me in to live with her. She were like a mum to me. Fed me, clothed me, taught me to read and cipher numbers. It were just Miss Merrie and me till five years ago when Charlotte and Hope came along.”

  “She lived alone when she found you? She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, sixteen. How—?”

  “Forget that. Don’t matter none.” Goddard’s voice resembled a low growl, and his hands fisted at his sides. “Wot’s important is you knowin‘ wot kind of lady she is. Kind. Respectable. I owe her my life, and by God, I won’t let you or anyone else do her harm in any way.”

  A fissure of shame snaked down Philip’s spine. The bumps he’d viewed as hardships in his privileged life faded to insignificance when compared to the horrors this young man had suffered.

  His gaze steady on Goddard’s, Philip said, “I would never harm her. And even before you told me your story, I knew she was kind and respectable.”

  “And what of this lust ye feel for her?”

  “I won’t deny I feel it, but it is only one portion of the emotions she inspires. You’re assuming that this is only one-sided. What if she has feelings for me as well?”

  Uncertainty flickered in Goddard’s eyes. “I hadn’t considered that,” he conceded with obvious reluctance. “If she decided you made her happy... well, I want her happy.”

  Philip nodded. He felt a strong need to say something, but damned if he knew exactly what. His gaze involuntarily slipped down to Goddard’s damaged leg. He instantly sensed the young man’s tension.

  “I don’t be wantin‘ yer damn pity.”