Jacquie D'Alessandro (21 page)

She’d told him she didn’t wallow in regrets, but she knew that tonight, once she was tucked under the covers, she would allow herself one night to wallow, to grieve for her past that would forever keep her from having a man like Philip.

Not trusting himself to be alone with her, Philip arranged for Bakari to accompany Meredith home. Before she left, he explained what had occurred at the warehouse, and cautioned her to be careful. After watching his carriage disappear down the darkened street, he sat on the settee, next to the still-sleeping Prince. Propping his elbows on his knees, Philip lowered his head into his hands.

Bloody hell, what a night.

Pushing aside his conflicted thoughts regarding Meredith for the moment, he turned his attention to the matter he’d forced aside for the bulk of the evening—Edward’s disturbing revelations. Who had attacked him? Had he
stolen anything? If so, what? And why? A knot formed in his stomach. Surely it couldn’t be the one item Philip sought.
The suffering begins now….
Bloody hell, what did that mean? He didn’t know, but he was determined to find out who was behind this. He’d arrive early at the warehouse and assess the damage. He hoped Andrew would feel well enough to accompany him.

Pulling off his spectacles, he rubbed the heels of his palms against his forehead as thoughts of the other part of the evening bombarded him. The party. Granted, most of the young women had been pleasant, and all were undeniably beautiful. Unfortunately, not one had kindled the least spark of interest in him.

Except Meredith.

What had she meant about fighting too hard and long for her reputation? Had it been compromised at some point? Something in her voice when she’d spoken of mistakes led him to wonder exactly how serious some of her past mistakes might have been.

But did any past mistakes really matter? No. Meredith Chilton-Grizedale was without a doubt the woman he wanted. There were some things you could fight, and others you simply could wage no defense against. There was no doubt which category Meredith fell into.

Now he just needed to decide what the bloody hell he was going to do about it.

Philip was just
finishing his predawn breakfast when Bakari appeared in the dining room doorway. “Your father,” he said.

The earl entered the room. His cheeks were pale, and dark circles shadowed his eyes, but he otherwise appeared surprisingly fit, walking with a spry step. He was, as always, perfectly turned out in a Devonshire brown coat, fawn breeches, blinding white shirt, and intricately tied cravat. Philip idly wondered if Father’s valet ever slept.

“Good morning, Philip.” He nodded at the footman. “Coffee, if you please.”

“Father. How are you feeling today?”

“Quite well, thank you. Better, in fact, than I’ve felt in weeks.”

“Glad to hear it.” Philip glanced pointedly at the mantel clock. “Although perhaps you should be resting? It’s rather early for a visit.”

“I wanted to catch you before you took yourself off for the day. I knew you’d be awake—you’ve always been an early riser, and obviously I haven’t dragged you from your bed.” His sharp gaze raked over Philip’s appearance. “Or have I? You’re looking a bit disheveled, although that is hardly surprising.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” He nearly laughed at the understatement. He hadn’t slept at all. The question of what he
should do about Meredith had kept him tossing and turning, weighing his options, examining the facts, until he’d finally drawn his conclusion—the only possible solution.

“Mind filled with images of all those lovely beauties, eh, Philip?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“That’s why I’m here—to discuss last night’s festivities.” Father cocked a single brow. “Well, did the party have the desired result? Did you meet a woman willing to take you on?”

No doubt Philip should have been offended by the brusquely worded question, but instead his lips twitched with amusement. “I’m not quite sure.”

“Meaning what, precisely?”

“Meaning I met a woman
I’d
like to take on—”

“Excellent.”

“—but the lady has expressed some reservations.”

“Bah. What woman wouldn’t want to marry the heir to an earldom?

“For starters, one who isn’t eager to risk expiring two days after the nuptials.”

His father waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Who is the chit?”

“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 marry 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 peace-making 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 latenight 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.