Who Will Take This Man?

“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 disintegrated. 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.

Is this curse real, or just a ploy concocted to dissolve a betrothal that Greybourne or Lady Sarah-or perhaps both of them-realized they did not want after they’d met? Was Lady Sarah merely ill, as her father stated-or did she cry off rather than risk dying two days after her marriage? Many women would give a great deal to marry the heir to an earldom- but would they be willing to die for it? I rather think not. The wedding has been rescheduled for the twenty-second, but will it actually take place? One cannot help but suspect this rescheduling is naught but a ploy for Greybourne and Miss Chilton-Grizedale to save face. And all this begs the questions-If the curse is real, how will Lord Greybourne honor his vow to marry? Indeed, should the curse prove real, one must wonder, who will take this man? Should Lord Greybourne discover a way to break this curse, will he and Lady Sarah still marry? If not, perhaps he can again engage Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s matchmaking services to aid him in his quest for a bride. Certainly no one else will be hiring her after this debacle.

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 vellum-laden 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