Jacquie D'Alessandro (6 page)

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.”

“I see. Well, we shall have to prepare her,” his father said. “The gossipmongers will pounce upon this situation like a pack of hounds on a trapped fox. Indeed, the gossip is already spreading, even amongst the servants.”

“How do you know?”

“Evans keeps me informed. I’m convinced there isn’t a butler in all of England who knows more than he. Would you care to hear the latest?”

Philip suspected he didn’t want to know, but somehow he heard himself answering, “Of course.”

“According to Evans, who, I might add, relayed the following with an enormous amount of hemming and hawing and throat-clearing, is that Lady Sarah cried off for two reasons: One, she did not want to die from your curse, and two, even without the curse she still would have jilted you, as she had no wish to become the bride of a man who is unable to…perform his husbandly duties.”

Philip winced. “Ah. I see. Since it is impossible to conceive that any woman wouldn’t wish to marry the heir to an earldom unless for very compelling reasons, tongues are wagging with the notion that the compelling reason is I will not be able to consummate my marriage.”

“I’m afraid so. Not the sort of conjecture a man likes to have to defend himself against.” He stirred a bit of sugar into his coffee. “Have you any news of Lady Sarah?”

“Not yet, but I’ve sent ’round a note advising her of my intention to call upon her later today.” He patted his mouth with his napkin, then set the square of linen on the polished cherrywood table next to his plate. “And toward that end, I shall depart for the warehouse to continue with the unpacking of the crates.” Rising, Philip strode toward the door.

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” came his father’s outraged voice.

Philip halted and looked down at his loose-fitting, drawstring-waisted trousers. “Comfortable clothing. I’m going to be working in a warehouse, Father, not attending a ball.” With that, he exited the breakfast room. As he approached the foyer, the brass knocker sounded, and Bakari opened the door. Philip caught the sound of a familiar, throaty female voice.
Her
voice. The dictatorial matchmaker. He noted with some annoyance that his footsteps quickened.

“Will see if Lord Greybourne is available,” Bakari said, holding a calling card between his fingers.

“I’m available, Bakari.” He stepped around the butler and met Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s startled expression. His gaze swept over her, the details of her ensemble clicking in his mind. Peacock-blue muslin gown with matching spencer. Bonnet that framed her piquant face in a way that reminded him of a stamen surrounded by soft petals. A frown pulled down his brows. No, that didn’t sound quite right. But damn it all, she did somehow remind him of flowers. Perhaps it was her fragrance? He inhaled and instantly discarded the notion. No, she did not smell like flowers. She smelled like—he leaned a bit closer to her
and inhaled again—like freshly baked cake.

No, it was her coloring, he suddenly realized, that brought flowers to mind. Her skin looked as soft as roses, her cheekbones blushed with peach, and her lips were colored with a delicate pinkish red, all colors he recalled from his mother’s formal country gardens at Ravensly Manor.

Bakari harrumphed. “Might want to invite lady in,” came his dry whisper behind him, “not gawk at her in the doorway.”

Annoyed at himself, Philip instantly stepped back. Damn. Clearly some brushing up on his manners
was
called for. “Please come in, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

She inclined her head in a regal fashion and entered the foyer. “Thank you, Lord Greybourne. I apologize for calling so early, but I believe it is essential that we get a timely start. I am ready to depart whenever you are.” Her gaze flicked over his attire, and her eyes widened.

“Depart? But you’ve just arrived.” Looking pert and fresh and smelling good enough to nibble upon.

Bloody hell, where had
that
thought come from? Clearly it entered his head because he harbored a weakness for freshly baked cake. Yes, that’s all it was.

“I’ve come to accompany you. To help you look through the crates to locate the other half of the stone.” Her clear, aqua gaze met his questioningly. “Where exactly are we going?”

“The crates are stored in a warehouse near the docks. I cannot ask you to accompany me to such an area, or to help me with such a task, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. It is tedious, dirty, exhausting work.”

She lifted her chin and somehow managed to appear to look down the slope of her pert nose at him—amazing, considering he stood a good six inches taller than she. “First, there is no need to
ask
me, my lord, as I have
offered
my assistance. Second, I am quite accustomed to
work and do not tire easily. And as for the docks, you need not worry about protecting me, as I am armed. Third—”

“
Armed
?”

“Of course.” She held her reticule aloft. “Filled with stones. One cosh to the head will fell any brigand. A very practical device I learned long ago to carry with me at all times.”

He stared at the innocent-looking beaded bag dangling from her wrist by a velvet drawstring. She’d learned this trick long ago? What sort of upbringing had the very proper Miss Chilton-Grizedale had that would warrant arming herself? “Are you normally in the habit of, er, delivering coshes to the head?”

“Hardly ever.” He raised his gaze and met eyes flickering with mischief. “Unless, of course, a gentleman makes the error of trying to dissuade me from doing something I wish to do.”

“I see. And in that case you—”

“Cosh first, then ask questions later, I’m afraid.” She twirled the little bag around in a circle, then continued in a brisk tone, “And third, the time spent together will provide the dual purpose for me to reacquaint you with some of the rules of Society you have clearly forgotten. As for this expedition proving distressing to my clothing, I harbor no fear of my garments becoming dirty, as—brace yourself—they can be laundered. And last, I shall not find any task tedious that might result in the ending of this curse. Have you seen
The Times
?”

“I’m afraid so, although how they gained the information about the curse, I do not know.”

“Creepers, no doubt.” At his questioning look, she clarified, “Newspaper informers. They earn their living ferreting out information—most often information that the persons involved would prefer not to have offered up for public consumption.”

“And how do they gather this information?”

“They steal or intercept correspondence, eavesdrop, bribe servants, any number of devious ways. No doubt one of them overheard us talking in St. Paul’s yesterday.”

Philip shook his head. “Incredible. The lengths that people will go…just incredible.”

“Not at all. It’s quite common. Actually, I find you thinking such a practice to be incredible quite amazing. Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but you seem to hold a rather naive view of the world, for one who is so well traveled.”

“Naive?” An incredulous laugh escaped him. “I have no illusions about people and their motives, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, and I did not have to leave England to form those opinions. If anything, my travels abroad renewed my faith in my fellow man. In one way, however, I suppose you are correct, although I would call myself ‘unpracticed’ as opposed to naive. While I have been exposed to dishonesty in many forms, my time and thoughts have, for many years, been focused on objects and people from the past. I fear I cannot claim any expertise in the area of modern human behavior. In fact, what I know of it leaves me largely unimpressed.”

She regarded him through serious eyes. “Yet I believe that human behavior is most likely very much the same today as it was hundreds, even thousands, of years ago.”

Her statement surprised him. And piqued his curiosity and interest. But before he could respond, Bakari interjected, “Invite lady to stay for breakfast? Or tea?”

Another wave of annoyance washed over Philip. What on earth was the matter with him? He might have developed a few rough edges during his time away from polite Society, but he did hold a
few
social graces. Unfortunately, something about Miss Chilton-Grizedale clearly did not bode well for him recalling
any
of his manners.

“Forgive me,” he said. “May I interest you in something to eat? Or tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.” Her gaze swept over his attire. “How long before you are ready to depart?”

Depart? Oh, yes. The crates. The stone. The curse. His life with Lady Sarah. “I need a few moments to collect my journals.”

“And to change into some proper attire.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I must say, I am growing weary of these repeated comments on my clothing. Nor do I particularly care to be on the receiving end of such a peremptory order.”