WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “Because it concerns a chimney sweep named Taggert.”

  What appeared to be relief flashed in Goddard’s eyes. Interesting. But the emotion was almost instantly replaced with bitterness, followed by a flicker of fear.

  “Taggert?” Goddard’s voice resembled a growl. “Only thing of interest I’d want to know about him is that the bastard is dead.”

  “He is. Died last year, in debtor’s prison, where he’d spent the final two years of his life.”

  All the color seemed to drain from Goddard’s face. “How do ye know this?”

  “I asked some questions of the right people.”

  “The right people? Only way you and Taggert would have any people in common would have been if he’d stolen from yer fancy friends.”

  “It wasn’t my fancy friends I questioned. I found several acquaintances of Taggert’s at a pub near the docks.”

  Goddard’s eyes narrowed. “Why were ye askin‘ about Taggert?”

  “Because I thought you’d want to know. Because if I were you, I’d have wanted, needed to know. I wouldn’t want him always in the back of my mind, wondering if he might someday find me. Or if I might see him on the street. And be tempted to wrap my hands around his neck and kill him on the spot. I didn’t want him to have that power over you. He’s dead, Goddard. He can’t hurt you or any other child ever again.”

  Confusion flickered across his face. “How did you know—?”

  “Because it’s exactly how I would have felt.”

  Goddard’s hands clenched at his sides, and his throat worked. A sheen of moisture glittered in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. “I wanted to know,” he whispered. “But I was terrified to try to find out. Terrified that it might somehow get back to him that someone were askin‘ about him, and he’d put it together. Might do somethin’ to hurt Miss Merrie. Or Charlotte or Hope. He were an evil, heartless bastard, and I couldn’t risk that he might touch our lives in any way. But it ate at me, always there in the back of my mind. Was he waitin‘ ’round the next corner? Would he recognize me? I wondered... God help me, I wondered.”

  “You don’t have to wonder any longer. You’re free, Goddard.”

  The young man opened his eyes. He made no move to wipe the tears dampening his face, and Philip pretended not to see them. “I’m not certain wot to say to ye... except that ye have my thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” With a nod, Philip turned to leave, but Goddard’s voice stopped him.

  “Why would ye do this? Risk yer safety goin‘ to such dangerous places for me—someone ye barely know?”

  Philip studied him for several seconds, debating how truthful to be, then sighed. Nothing less than the full truth would do. “Because the story you told me about how Taggert treated you affected me deeply. Not only due to the horrors you suffered, but it made the slights and humiliations I endured as a lad, which until that moment had seemed important, pale into insignificance.”

  Goddard raised his brows. “Who’d slight a rich bloke like you?”

  “Other rich blokes. But there’s one other reason, Goddard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re important to her. And she’s important to me.”

  By the time Meredith handed over her bonnet and cashmere shawl to Bakari that evening, she had her emotions well in control. She would make certain to maintain her distance from her host, keep the conversation rolling, and concentrate on the other female guests. Then escape as soon as possible.

  She followed Bakari down the corridor, surprised when they walked past the doors leading to both the dining and drawing rooms. He halted at the very last door. “What room is this?” she asked, mystified.

  “Private study.” His black-eyed gaze searched hers for several seconds with an inscrutable expression. “Hope you like.”

  Before she could question him further, Bakari knocked on the oak-paneled door. A muffled voice answered from within, and Bakari opened the door.

  “Miss Chilton-Grizedale,” he said solemnly, indicating she should enter.

  With her best impersonal smile firmly in place, Meredith crossed the threshold. And froze.

  Private study? This room in no way resembled a study. Indeed, she felt as if she stood inside an opulent tent. Yards of jewel-toned silks and satins covered the walls, draping from a central point in the ceiling, pooling in luxurious puddles upon the floor. She reached out and touched a hand to the fall of burgundy silk covering the wall nearest the door. Except for Madame Renée’s Emporium, Meredith had never seen such an abundance of beautiful material.

  Her gaze slowly panned the room. A gorgeous rug, woven with an intricate design she did not recognize, covered the floor. A cozy fire burned in the grate, casting the room with intriguing shadows. A half dozen low-slung tables were scattered about the room, the flickering glow of dozens of candles of varying heights reflecting off their dark, polished surfaces. A low, rectangular table nestled before the fire. Covered silver platters rested upon the table, as did an array of both stoneware and sparkling crystal goblets. Massive tasseled pillows in deep sapphire, emerald, topaz, and ruby flanked the table, and were strewn invitingly all about the room, urging one to recline upon their soft, plump, decadent depths.

  Only two other pieces of furniture decorated the room: an ornate changing screen in the far corner, and a beautiful chaise lounge in the opposite corner. Her heart tripped over itself when she spied Philip standing in the shadows next to the chaise lounge.

  “Good evening, Meredith.” His deep voice sent a tingle down her spine, and although she meant to return his greeting, she could not seem to dredge up her voice. And just when she might have done so, he thwarted her attempt by moving toward her with his graceful, sleek gait that instantly reminded her of a predatory jungle cat.

  Her eyes widened at his attire. Instead of a proper linen shirt and cravat, a loose-fitting shirt that appeared made from silk covered his broad upper body, leaving his tanned throat bare. His shirt was tucked into... She swallowed.

  Instead of proper breeches, he wore loose-fitting, midnight-blue trousers that appeared to be held onto his body with nothing more than a drawstring at the waist. Soft brown leather boots encased his feet. With his perennially mussed hair, he looked dark and dangerous in a way that raced blood through her veins. Only his spectacles reminded her that this wildly attractive man was a scholarly antiquarian—or they would have, if the lenses hadn’t magnified the compelling heat emanating from his gaze.

  He stopped when less than three feet separated them. His gaze never wavering from hers, he offered her a formal bow, then took her hand and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to her fingers. The touch of his mouth against her skin sizzled heat and awareness through her like a lightning bolt, which, although unsettling, at least served to rouse her from the stupor into which she’d fallen.

  Cheeks burning, she snatched her hand away, then backed up. Unfortunately, she’d retreated only two steps when her shoulders hit the closed door. Even worse, he erased her two backward steps with a single long-legged stride that brought him close enough to touch. Close enough to breathe in his clean, masculine scent. A feeling akin to panic—peppered with a dose of indignation— skittered through her.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she said in a hissing whisper, wiping her hand on her gown in a vain attempt to erase the lingering tingle of his kiss. “And why is your study decorated in such a... a decadent fashion? And what on earth are you wearing? Good heavens, what will your guests think?” She cast a quick glance around the room. “And where exactly are your guests?”

  “So many questions. As for what am I doing—do you mean when I kissed your hand or right now?” Before she could answer, he continued, “I kissed your hand in greeting, and right now, I am simply admiring how lovely you look. The room has been transformed to resemble a tent, similar to one belonging to a wealthy Egyptian trader I met during my travels. As for my attire, it is what I grew accustomed to wearing while abroad, and I
can attest it is infinitely more comfortable than English clothing. As for what my guests will think, I anxiously await your opinion.”

  “It is scandalous. All of it. An absolute disaster looms upon the horizon.” She swept her hand in an arc, her fingers inadvertently brushing his arm as she encompassed the entire room. She pulled her hand away as if she’d touched fire. “Have any guests other than me seen this?”

  “No.”

  “Thank goodness. Now you must go and immediately don some proper clothing before the other guests arrive.”

  “All the guests have arrived.”

  Her relief vanished like a snuffed-out candle. “Dear God. If any of those proper young women get wind of these seductive dinner arrangements...” She briefly squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bring that scenario to fruition. “Where are they? I’ll keep them entertained while you dress and—”

  He cut off her rush of words by resting a single fingertip against her lips. “Meredith. All the guests, the only guests, are here, in this room.”

  Twelve

  It took several seconds for his meaning to penetrate through Meredith’s racing thoughts and budding panic. Then the full import of his words dawned. Damnation, what sort of game was he playing?

  Raising her chin, she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot against the thick carpet. “No one else is coming?”

  “No.”

  “No one accepted your invitation?”

  “No.”

  Her toe-tapping ceased, her annoyance tempered by confusion and sympathy. “Good gracious, what is wrong with these young women? From all accounts the guests enjoyed themselves at your soiree. Perhaps the you know what problem was not solved as successfully as we’d thought?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Sudden suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Did you indicate your, er, dinner theme to them?”

  “I did not.”

  Perplexed, she pursed her lips. “Then I cannot imagine why they all refused. Perhaps one, or even two of them, but all six?”

  “Actually, there’s a very logical explanation.”

  “Indeed? And what is that?”

  “They never received invitations.”

  She simply stared. “You said you would write the invitations yourself.”

  “And so I did.”

  “Then how do you know they did not receive them?”

  “I never sent them.”

  “Never sent them! I—”

  He stepped closer to her, effectively silencing her outraged reply with his disturbing nearness. She surreptitiously pressed her back more firmly against the door, but to little good. He settled one hand against the jamb, near her head, then leaned closer. So close she could see the subtle amber flecks in his eyes. So close she could feel the heat of his body surrounding her. She drew in what she’d meant as a slow, calming breath, but it did nothing but fill her head with his delightful scent.

  “Do you want to know why I never sent the invitations, Meredith?” His warm breath brushed over her face, tingling all her nerve endings into instant awareness. The urge to touch him was so overpowering, she was forced to grip the sides of her gown to keep her hands to herself. When she didn’t reply, he whispered, “I didn’t send the invitations because I didn’t want anyone else to come. I only wanted you here. I did this for you. Only you.”

  She swallowed, hard, and looked heavenward for strength. Dear God, where had her anger disappeared to? Why was she not appalled? Where was the outrage at his temerity for tricking her? She cast about in her mind, desperately trying to find some inkling of umbrage, a whiff of annoyance, a thimbleful of irritation, and failed. Utterly. Instead, the myriad emotions battering her were a disturbing combination she did not want to feel: Flattered and excited by the obvious thought and effort he’d gone to on her behalf. Curious and filled with anticipation to experience an evening with him in such lush, exotic surroundings.

  And worst of all, relieved that his affections were not otherwise engaged. I did this for you. Only you.

  A tremor shook her, a shudder she recognized as cold, stark fear. Fear, because she wanted, so very badly, to stay. Because she doubted her ability to resist him. And because she wanted, so very badly, not to resist him.

  “Philip, I cannot stay.”

  “Please don’t say that. I know this was presumptuous of me, but I wanted to share with you the flavors of the cultures I have known. I thought you would enjoy the food and atmosphere of a distant land.”

  “I would, but—”

  “Then stay. If not for me, then as a courtesy to Bakari, who went to a great deal of trouble to prepare the room and the meal. You have to eat.” He leaned closer, until his lips almost touched her ear. “Please.”

  That single whispered word brushed against her ear, crumbling her already unsteady resolve. Her mind shouted a dozen warnings, reminding her that any relationship other than that of matchmaker and client was impossible with this man, that she needed to strongly discourage his obvious interest in her, admonishing her that this evening could result in consequences disastrous to both their reputations, but her heart refused to listen. To leave after such effort had been expended would be inexcusably rude, her heart rationalized. He’d shown kindness not only to her, but to Albert as well. She could not repay that kindness with ungraciousness. Besides, Bakari and no doubt numerous other servants remained in the house, so it wasn’t as if they were truly alone.

  And really, while she found Philip undeniably attractive, it was ridiculous to imagine that she would not be able to control herself—should the need to even arise. Her inner voice made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an incredulous, Ha! She managed, with a great deal of effort, to ignore it.

  He leaned back and looked at her. His dark brown gaze met hers—serious, and compelling. Yet it was the unmistakable flash of worry that pulled at her heart. Clearly he was afraid she would turn down his invitation. The fact that this strong, masculine, brave man would fear such a thing tugged at something deep and feminine inside her.

  Offering him a smile that felt more wobbly than the confident, coolly impersonal effect she strove for, she said, “In view of the considerable effort made on my behalf, it would be churlish of me not to taste the food.”

  Unmistakable relief relaxed his features, and he smiled. Clasping her hand, he led her toward the table. Warmth from where his palm pressed against hers seeped into her, and she involuntarily squeezed his fingers. He squeezed back, his smile growing broader. Indeed, his eyes practically glowed with such excitement, she could not help but chuckle.

  “What is funny?”

  “You. Your expression reminds me of the time when Albert, at age eleven, surprised me with a poem he’d composed in my honor. Even though I was the recipient of the gift, he was more excited than me—”

  Her words cut off in dismay as she realized what she’d just inadvertently revealed—that she’d known Albert when he was a child. Except for Charlotte, she’d never told anyone how Albert had come to live with her. It was no one’s concern, and she had no desire to entertain questions on the subject, especially as they might lead to other topics she refused to discuss. Perhaps Philip had not noticed her slip of the tongue. Did her disconcertment show?

  Clearly it did, for he gave her a searching look, then said, “It’s all right, Meredith. I know about Albert’s childhood as a chimney boy. And how you rescued him. How he’s lived with you ever since.”

  A chill snaked down her spine. Dear God, how had he learned that? And if he knew about Albert, could he also know about her past as well? Her mind instantly conjured an image of Philip, with his inquisitive nature, unearthing information about her as he might dig up artifacts on an antiquarian expedition. Part of her deemed such a concern a stretch, but fear of someone finding out about her past was a worry that constantly lurked in the back of her mind, like a demon waiting to spring from the recesses of hell and pounce.

  Forcing a calm into her voice she was far fro
m feeling, she asked, “How did you happen upon that information?”

  He appeared surprised by her question. “Albert told me.”

  “He did?” She shook her head, relieved that he obviously hadn’t been making inquiries and didn’t know about her past, yet utterly stunned. Albert never spoke of the horrors of his childhood. “When? And why would he tell you something so... personal?”

  “We spoke the other day at the warehouse. As for his reasons, he was motivated by his deep caring for you. He wanted me to understand exactly what sort of woman you are: Kind. Generous. Giving. Not the sort of woman to be trifled with.”

  “I... I see.” Dear Albert. He’d shared something deeply painful to himself with a man who was all but a stranger to him, shared something that could easily make him the object of ridicule or pity. All in the name of protecting her. “I hope you won’t judge him harshly. He cannot help his unfortunate childhood.” None of us can.

  “Is that what you think of me, Meredith? That I’m the sort of person who would look with disfavor on a young man because he was brutalized as child?”

  The unmistakable hurt in his eyes and voice shamed her. If nothing else, Philip had proven himself to be a decent and kind man. A man of integrity. “No, I don’t think you would. But I’m sure you will agree that many people would not be so generous. And I am very protective of Albert.”

  He squeezed her hand. “He is a fine young man, Meredith. I admire his loyalty and bravery. His inner strength. And while I appreciated him pointing out your finer qualities to me, there was no need. I already knew.”

  His soft words, the compelling look in his eyes threw her emotions into chaos. Before she could recover, he smiled. “So what is this gift that eleven-year-old Albert gave you that somehow reminded you of me?”

  She swallowed to find her voice. “When I first met Albert, he did not know how to read or write. After I taught him, his first effort was a poem he’d composed in my honor. He wore the same sort of unbridled, joyous expression as you when I told you I’d remain for dinner. And as I was then, I’m flattered.”