skin.
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?”
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
“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
“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.
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
“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.
“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
