Jacquie D'Alessandro (5 page)

He nodded slowly, stroking his chin. “I agree with your theory. However, you are forgetting about the curse.”

She debated whether to baldly state her opinion regarding the curse.

Clearly her skepticism showed, because he said, “Just because we cannot see or touch something does not make it any less real, does not mean it does not exist.” He stepped closer to her, and she had to force herself to stand her ground and not retreat. His expression was so earnest, his eyes behind his lenses glowing with intensity. “Religions the world over worship a variety of gods that cannot be seen. I cannot see nor touch the air in this room, yet the fact that I can breathe tells me it is here.”

At his words she drew in an involuntary breath, instantly noting that the air she could not see or touch smelled like Lord Greybourne. Fresh, clean, and masculine. And rife with potentially ruinous scandal.

“Surely you will be able to find a cure, or remedy, or whatever one finds to rid oneself of such things. You seem a bright sort of fellow.”

His lips twitched. “Why, thank you. I—”

“Although your manners and appearance are in desperate need of refurbishment. We shall work to correct the damage years away from proper Society have wrought upon you before your wedding to Lady Sarah is rescheduled.”

He cocked a brow. “And what, precisely, is wrong with my appearance?”

She mimicked his haughty expression and ticked items off on her fingers. “Hair too long and unkempt. Cravat disastrous. Waistcoat partially unbuttoned. Shirtfront wrinkled, cuffs too long. Jacket buttons unpolished, breeches too snug, boots scuffed. Do you not have a valet?”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like
bloody domineering piece
. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to employ a valet as yet. I’ve been rather preoccupied with trying to find the missing piece of stone—which I am determined to do.”

“Yes, you certainly must find it. We shall need to reschedule the wedding as soon as possible. Tell me, what did you think of Lady Sarah?”

He shrugged. “She was acceptable.”

“
Acceptable?
” She barely managed to choke out the word. Good lord, on top of everything else, the man was daft. “She is a diamond of the first water. She will make the perfect viscountess and hostess. Not only that, in financial terms, and in terms of your estates, the match is highly advantageous.”

“You say that as if I care a jot about such things, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

She stared at him. “Do you not?”

He looked as if he were debating how to answer, then he said, “Actually, no. I do not. Society and all its trappings hold no appeal for me. They never have. Parties, soirees, the Season, none of it interests me. My holdings are already substantial enough. I do not require more land.”

She barely suppressed a snort of disbelief. A man not interested in increasing his holdings? Not lured by the appeal of Society’s trappings? Either he thought her a gullible fool or the years he’d spent gathering artifacts under the desert sun had greatly depleted his mental acuity.

He adjusted his glasses, and Meredith noticed his hands. Large, well-formed, long-fingered hands, browned by the sun. Hands that had massaged hers only moments ago. They looked strong and capable and manly in a way that stirred her in an odd, unfamiliar manner.

“Honor dictates I marry—and I need to do so before Father succumbs,” he said, his voice dragging her gaze back to his. “So you see, as far as I’m concerned, whomever you chose, diamond or not, would not much matter. I’m not necessarily particular about the bride, so long as she is not overly off-putting—in which case, Lady Sarah is acceptable.”

Being a practical person herself, Meredith couldn’t find fault with his logic. Still, it irked that he appeared less than bowled over by her coup of snaring the much-sought-after Lady Sarah for him.

“What if you are unable to undo this curse of yours, Lord Greybourne?”

“Failure is simply not an option I will consider, Miss Chilton-Grizdale.”

Since she wished to postpone thinking about the dreadful ramifications should he fail, she asked, “How long do
you estimate it will take you to search through your crates?”

He frowned and considered. “With help, perhaps a fortnight.”

The wheels in her head whirred. “That should give us ample time to come up with a contingency plan.”

“And what sort of plan do you suggest, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? Believe me, I am open to suggestions. But I fail to see any, as the facts are quite irrefutable: If I do not break the curse, I cannot marry. And I
must
marry. However, with this curse hanging about my neck, I would risk the life of any woman I married—something I am not willing to do. And I cannot imagine any woman being willing to do so.”

Unfortunately, Meredith was hard-pressed to immediately name anyone who would want to marry even the heir to an earldom, only to risk expiring two days later. “But surely—”

“Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, would
you
be willing to take such a risk?” He stepped closer to her, and suddenly the room seemed to shrink significantly. “Would
you
want to risk losing your life by becoming my bride?”

Meredith fought the urge to back up, to fan herself to relieve the heat creeping up her neck. Instead she lifted her chin and faced him squarely. “Naturally I would not wish to die two days after my wedding, if I were to believe in such things as curses. Which, in spite of your compelling arguments, I am still inclined to regard as a series of unfortunate coincidences. However, the point is moot, my lord, as I have no desire to ever marry.”

Surprise flickered behind his spectacles. “That places you in a category of females that I believe you might be in all by yourself.”

“I have never objected to solitude.” She tilted her head and studied him for several seconds, then asked, “Do you normally place people into ‘categories’?”

“I’m afraid so. Almost instantaneously. People, objects, most everything. Always have. A trait quite common among scientists.”

“Actually, I tend to do the same thing, yet I am not a scientist.”

“Interesting. Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, what category have you placed
me
in?”

Without even thinking, she blurted out, “The ‘not what I expected’ category.”

The instant the words passed her lips, mortification suffused her. Heavens, she hoped he wouldn’t ask what she meant, for she couldn’t very well tell him that she’d been expecting an older version of the pudgy, toady youth in the painting, and he was so very much…
not
that.

He regarded her with an intensity that filled her with the urge to fidget. “That is very interesting, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, for that is the precise category I placed
you
in.”

Feeling uncharacteristically unnerved by his regard, Meredith stepped away from him and adopted her most brisk tone. “Now that we are all categorized, let us get back to our present dilemma.” Her brain raced, trying to cast the situation in the best light. “Today is the first of the month. I believe the best plan is to reschedule the wedding for, let us say, the twenty-second. That should give you more than enough time to search your crates.”
And give me ample time to polish you into more marriageable material so no one will doubt what a brilliant match I’ve made.
“We’ll plan something small and private this time, in your father’s drawing room, perhaps.” In her mind’s eye she envisioned the placement of the flowers, and the complimentary, effusive announcement in
The Times
the following day, praising her skills, reestablishing her reputation. “We’ve only to convince Lady Sarah that this is the best course. Do you think you can uncurse yourself by then?”

“That is certainly my intention.”

A tiny flicker of hope coughed to life in Meredith’s breast. Yes, perhaps this
could
possibly be salvaged. Of course, the situation was a debacle. However, it was not a
complete and total
debacle. She clung to that thought like a lifeline, lest she crumble into a heap. Damn it all, this was so unfair! She’d worked so hard. Had sacrificed so much to finally earn the respect she’d so desperately wanted. She couldn’t lose it…not again. Yet the thought of having to go through it all again…the lying and cheating and stealing. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. No. It couldn’t come to that. He’d cure his curse and all would be well. It
had
to be.

A knock sounded at the door, and Lord Greybourne called, “Come in.”

Lord Hedington marched into the room, looking as if he were a volcano on the verge of erupting.

“You advised the guests?” Lord Greybourne asked.

“Yes. I told them Sarah had fallen ill, but gossip about one or the other of you crying off is already rampant. No doubt this damnable story will make the front page of
The Times
.”

Meredith cleared her throat. “Lord Greybourne and I were just discussing how best to salvage this situation, your grace. He is hopeful of finding the missing piece of the stone, and thereby being able to reverse the curse. Based on that, I shall reschedule the wedding to take place on the twenty-second. I’ll send the announcement to
The Times
immediately to squelch any gossip.”

Lord Hedington’s gaze bounced between them, then his head jerked in a nod. “Very well. But I expect to be assured that no harm will come to my daughter. If I am not confident of her safety, there will be no wedding, scandal be damned. And now I plan to return home and retrieve this note Sarah claims to have left me.” Turning on his heel, he quit the room.

Meredith looked at Lord Greybourne. “I offer you my assistance, my lord, in searching for the stone.”

“Thank you. I don’t suppose by any chance you are a farmer, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”

Good Lord, the man
was
daft. “A farmer? Certainly not. Why do you ask?”

“Because I fear this will very much be like looking for a needle amongst the haystacks.”

Narrowed eyes assessed the collection of Egyptian artifacts resting on red velvet behind the glass display case in the British Museum. How fitting that the artifacts should lie upon such a color—the shade of blood. Blood that had already been shed. And blood that would soon be shed.

Your blood, Greybourne. You shall suffer for the pain you’ve caused. Soon.

Very soon.

Meredith walked slowly
up the walkway leading to her modest house on Hadlow Street. While the area was far from the most fashionable in London, it was still respectable, and she loved her house with the fierce pride of someone who had worked hard for something she wanted. And more than anything Meredith had wanted a home. A
real
home. A
respectable
home.

Oh, she well knew she’d never be a member of Society, but her association with the
ton,
even though it was on the fringes, afforded her a measure of the respectability she’d craved her entire life.

Yet now her footsteps slowed to a snail’s pace. She dreaded opening the front door and having to tell the three people she loved most in the world that she’d failed. That the life, the facade she’d so carefully constructed stood in danger of collapsing like a house of cards. Was it possible that Albert, Charlotte, and Hope already knew? Gossip traveled so quickly—

The oak door swung open to reveal Albert Goddard’s expectant smile. Charlotte Carlyle stood behind him, her normally solemn gray eyes wide with anticipation. Charlotte’s daughter Hope peeked around her mother’s dark green skirt, and the instant she saw Meredith, the child raced toward her.

“Aunt Merrie!” Hope hugged her chubby little four-
year-old arms around Meredith’s legs, and Meredith leaned down to press a kiss to the child’s shiny golden curls. “I
missted
you, Aunt Merrie,” Hope proclaimed, looking up, her gray eyes exact replicas of Charlotte’s, shining with pleasure.

“And I missed you as well, poppet.” The area surrounding Meredith’s heart went hollow. More than her future had been compromised today. With her current situation, what would become of Hope and Charlotte? Of Albert?

Arranging her features into what she hoped would pass for unconcern, she looked toward the doorway. The instant her gaze met Albert’s she knew she’d failed in her attempt for nonchalance. His smile froze, then slowly faded, his entire expression turning to one of narrow-eyed wariness.

Damnation, he knew her too well, and after eleven years, she supposed that was to be expected. Still, his eyes were far too knowing for a mere twenty-year-old. But of course, Albert had seen and survived more than most twenty-year-olds. Her gaze shifted to Charlotte, her cook’s apron still tied around her trim waist, her eyes reflecting the same cautious wariness as Albert’s. Charlotte knew her as well as Albert, although Charlotte had only joined Meredith’s “family” five years ago, shortly before giving birth to Hope. As there was no hiding the truth from either of them, she decided not to prolong the misery.

With Hope’s small hand nestled in hers, Meredith walked up the cobbled pathway. When she stepped into the small parquet-floored foyer, she untied her bonnet and handed it to Albert.

“We need to talk,” she said without preamble to Albert and Charlotte.

Still holding Hope’s hand, Meredith led the way down the corridor to the drawing room. Hope immediately dashed to her child-sized chair and table in the corner and began drawing in her sketch pad. Meredith clasped her hands in front of her and faced her two dearest friends.

“I’m afraid I have some rather disturbing news.” She described the morning’s events at the church, concluding with, “As much as I’d like to be optimistic, I’m afraid I must be practical. This debacle, though no fault of my own, is going to have disastrous repercussions on my reputation as a matchmaker. Indeed, it is only a matter of time, perhaps hours, before requests to cancel my services start arriving. While I remain hopeful that Lord Greybourne will find the missing piece of the stone and end the curse, I’d be foolish not to make plans in the event that he is unsuccessful. Even if this proves to be merely a postponement, rather than a permanent canceling of the nuptials, with all the gossip already flying about, it could take months to repair the damage. If he fails…” She pressed her fingers to her temples in an attempt to keep the few remaining remnants of her rapidly disappearing sanity from escaping. “Good Lord, in that case, I am well and truly ruined. My livelihood is destroyed….” And she well knew how limited the choices were for women to earn a living.
I won’t go back…. I’ll
never
go back.

Albert narrowed his eyes. “If ye ask me, this curse is mighty suspicious-like. Maybe this Greybourne bloke is makin’ it all up so he don’t have to get married.”

Meredith slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Yer just too trustin’, that’s all,” Albert said.

“I’m not saying
I
believe in this curse. In truth, I’m not quite sure exactly
how
I feel about it. As incredible as it seems, I somehow find I cannot discount it. And there is no doubt in my mind that Lord Greybourne believes in it absolutely.”

“Well, that just proves that the bloke’s half daft.” Albert pointed his index finger at her. “I think ye should stay away from him, Miss Merrie. I don’t trust him one bit. And in the meanwhile, don’t ye worry none about funds. I’ll take on some nighttime labor, maybe down at the docks. Or we can resettle somewhere else, somewhere
where the gossip ain’t been heard. Maybe somewhere near the sea like we always talked about. We’ll get by, just like always.”

“Of course we will,” said Charlotte. “I can take on some sewing—”

“I don’t want for us to just
get by
.” Meredith’s chest tightened, and she clenched her hands to tamp down the panic threatening to overwhelm her. “We’ve worked too hard, too long. I cannot, will not, allow this situation to destroy my good name, respectability, and reputation. The chance for a secure future for all of us. For Hope. And the only way to ensure that it does not ruin anything is to make certain that Lord Greybourne marries Lady Sarah.”

“Well then, we’ll just make certain that that’s wot happens,” Albert decreed, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Why, we’ll just offer to help Lord Greybourne find his missin’ rock, and before ye can say ‘Brummel’s a dandy’ we’ll have this problem fixed and the bloke married off.”

A tired smile tugged at Meredith’s lips. Dear Albert. Somehow, when she hadn’t been looking, he’d grown into a tower of strength. Certainly a far cry from the sick, broken child she’d found discarded in the gutter, left for dead. Here she was supposed to be taking care of him, but now it appeared he was taking care of her, bearing her troubles upon his broad shoulders.

He rose and limped across the carpet to her, then wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. “We’ve faced worse than this, Miss Merrie, and come through all right. Why, if it’s necessary, I’ll dress meself up like a bride and marry the bloke meself.” He squeezed her shoulders and shot her a wink, and because she knew he was trying to cheer her up, Meredith forced a smile.

Slanting a sideways glance toward Charlotte, Meredith asked, “I believe Albert would make quite a lovely bride, don’t you, Charlotte?” She reached out and playfully
pinched Albert’s cheeks. “After all, he’s so very handsome.”

Meredith felt Albert tense at her teasing question, and Charlotte’s face blazed crimson. But then her dear friend merely shrugged and said, “Lovely or not, I suspect that at
some
point Lord Greybourne would notice there was something amiss with his bride. How long do you think it would escape his notice when his wife’s
beard
began to grow?”

Albert stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “Hmmm. Yes, that could present a problem.” His expression sobered and he clasped Meredith’s hands. “I’ll not have ye worryin’ ’bout something ye cannot change, Miss Merrie. We’ll try to find this stone, and if we do, well then, the bloke and Lady Sarah will marry and all will be fine. And if we don’t find the stone—”

“I’ll be ruined.”

Albert’s expression turned fierce. “Never. Nothin’ could ever dim ye in my eyes.”

“Nor mine,” Charlotte added softly. “Nor Hope’s.” She rose and hugged Meredith. “Albert is right. This will all work out fine. And if it doesn’t, we’ll leave London. Go somewhere new. Start again.”

Meredith forced a smile and hugged her friends, but her heart felt heavy. Dear God, how many times could she go somewhere new and start again? She was so
tired
of doing that.

Unfortunately, she suspected it was exactly what she was going to have to do. But maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right.

Sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, Meredith opened
The Times.
The bold newsprint headline stared back at her:
Is Cursed Viscount the Most Unmarriageable Man in England?

Any hope that her announcement of the wedding being rescheduled for the twenty-second would avert gossip dis-integrated. Her heart plummeted to her feet, dragging her cramped stomach along for the tumultuous journey as she quickly scanned the words, her dread increasing with each paragraph. Three entire pages, not to mention the entire left column of the front page, were devoted to the story.

Her gaze scanned over the words, each one burning into her mind, incinerating any foolish hopes she might have harbored that perhaps her reputation could somehow remain partially intact. Every detail, from the curse, to Lord Greybourne’s bargain with his father, to speculation regarding Lady Sarah’s mysterious “illness,” was printed for all to read.

Heavens, with the accuracy of his story, one had to wonder if the reporter had been secreted behind the curtains while Lord Greybourne had told his tale of the curse. The entire incident was detailed, from his finding the stone, to the death of his friend’s wife, to his vow to somehow break the curse. Meredith read the final lines of the article with dread.

Meredith’s gaze riveted on that last line, each word reverberating like a death knell. She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her middle in a fruitless effort to contain the pain seizing her. Damn it all, this could not be happening to her.

Hot tears pressed behind her eyes, and she gritted her teeth to stem the moisture. Tears were futile signs of weakness, and she was not weak. Not any longer. Mama’s voice tickled her memory.
Stop running, Meredith. You cannot escape your past.

Yes, I can, Mama. I
did
escape. I did not give up as you did. I fought hard for what I have
—

Had. What she’d
had
. Because now it was gone.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she pressed her fingertips against her temples in a vain attempt to temper the rhythmic pounding in her head. No. It wasn’t gone. Not yet. And by damn, she wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

“Are you all right, Miss Merrie?”

At the deep-voiced question, Meredith’s eyes popped open. Albert stood in the threshold, a look of concern pinching his dark brows. She instantly noted the vellumladen salver he held.

Forcing a wan smile, she said, “I’m fine, Albert. Just a bit tired.”

Albert didn’t smile in response. Indeed, his dark eyes flashed, and he planted his free hand on his hip and glared at her. “Now, that’s a bald-faced lie if ever I heard one, and I’ve heard plenty,” he said with his characteristic brutal bluntness. “’Tis like a ghostie yer lookin’, all pale and scared-like.” His frown furrowed deeper and he jerked his head toward the newspaper. “I read it. I’d like to get that reporter bloke alone for five minutes. Probably he were eavesdroppin’.”

“Perhaps, but how he learned of the curse doesn’t really matter at this point.” Her gaze rested on the salver. “I guess we both know what those are. No sense pretending they’re invitations to tea.”

“Yer most likely correct. I can’t get anything done wot for answerin’ the door.” At that moment the brass knocker sounded.

“Leave those with me,” Meredith said.

Albert set the salver on the table, then limped across the floor toward the corridor, his left boot scraping against the wood. The fact that his limp was so pronounced this morning indicated that he’d either not slept well last night or that the weather was damp. Perhaps a combination of both.

At the threshold he turned and gazed at Meredith with an intense expression. “Don’t you worry none, Miss Merrie. Albert won’t let no one ever hurt you.” He quit the room, and Meredith heard the fading, soft scrape of his boot along the runner in the corridor.

Her gaze fell to the note-laden salver. Although she knew without reading them what they contained, one by one she broke the wax seals and read the contents. Each note was very much like the last. Just a few hastily scribbled lines, worded in such a way that she could almost feel the heat of censure rising from vellum to scorch her
skin.
I shall no longer require your services. I wish to terminate our association.

The exact wording didn’t matter. Each letter represented the same thing: another shovelful of dirt upon the grave in which her reputation and respectability now lay.

Something had do be done. And quickly.

But what?

Philip stared at the newspaper in disgust. “How the bloody hell did this reporter find out about the curse?”