“No. Actually, Albert is my butler, and one of my dearest friends.”
If he was surprised by her referring to her butler as a dear friend, he did not show it. Instead, he nodded. “Excellent. My American colleague and friend, Andrew Stanton, is at the British Museum today, looking over artifacts there. Another friend and antiquarian, Edward Binsmore, has also offered his help.”
The name sounded familiar, and after a second’s thought, recognition hit her. “The gentleman whose wife passed away?”
“Yes. I think he is looking for a way to keep busy.”
“It’s probably best for him,” Meredith said softly.
“Grief is sometimes harder to bear when nothing but hour upon hour of loneliness yawns in front of you.”
“You sound as if you speak from experience.”
Meredith’s gaze flew to his. He was watching her, his eyes soft with understanding, as if he, too, had known such sadness. She swallowed to ease the sudden lump clogging her throat. “I think most adults have experienced grief in one of its many forms.” He looked as if he were about to question her, and as she had no desire to answer any questions, she forestalled him by asking, “Can you show me the stone the curse is written upon and tell me exactly what it says? It seems that would better enable me to know what I am looking for.”
He frowned. “I have hidden the Stone of Tears so as not to risk anyone else finding it and translating it. However, I have written down the English translation in my journal.” Opening the worn leather book, he passed it to her. “I cannot see any harm in letting you read it, as you will never take a bride.”
Meredith set the journal on her lap, then looked down at the neat, precise handwriting on the yellowed page and read.
An involuntary shiver snaked down Meredith’s spine, and she fought the urge to snap the book closed and not gaze upon the eerie words any longer.
Lord Greybourne leaned forward and ran his finger over the last lines. “That is where the stone is broken, leaving only these fragments of words and sentences.”
The sight of his large, tanned hand hovering just above her lap snaked another shiver-of an entirely different nature-through Meredith. Swallowing to moisten her suddenly dry throat, she asked, “How large is the stone?”
He turned over his hand, resting it palm up on the journal. “About the size of my hand, and approximately two inches thick. I judge the missing piece is about this size, or a bit smaller.” He curled his hand into a fist.
Her gaze riveted on his fisted hand, the weight of which pressed upon her thighs through the book. She swore she could feel the warmth of that masculine hand right through the journal, an unsettling, disturbing sensation that seemed to heat her from the inside out. An overwhelming urge to shift in her seat hit her, and she had to force herself to remain still. He seemed oblivious to how improper his casual familiarity was. And she most assuredly would have told him-if she’d been able to find her voice.
Thankfully, the coach slowed, and Lord Greybourne leaned back, his hand slipping from the journal. He looked out the window, allowing Meredith to expel a breath she hadn’t even realized she held.
“The warehouse is just ahead,” he reported.
Excellent. She couldn’t wait to exit the confines of this carriage, which seemed to grow more restraining with each passing moment.
A few minutes later, feeling much recovered from the short walk from the carriage, Meredith stepped into the vast, dimly lit warehouse. Row upon row of wooden crates stood stacked. Dozens of crates. Hundreds of crates. Very
“Good heavens. How many of these belong to you?”
“Everything in approximately the back third of the building.”
She turned and stared at him. “Surely you jest.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Did you leave anything at all behind in the countries you visited?”
He laughed, the deep, unrestrained sound echoing in the vast chamber. “Not all of my crates are filled with artifacts. Many of them contain fabrics, rugs, spices, and furniture I purchased for a business venture my father and I are involved with.”
“I see.” She stared at the seemingly endless rows of crates. “Where do we begin?”
“Follow me.” He headed down one narrow aisle, his boot heels thudding against the rough wooden floor. She followed him as he turned again and again, until she felt like a rat in a maze. Finally they arrived at an office.
Extracting a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the door and indicated she should enter. She crossed the threshold and found herself in a cramped room, the limited space dominated by an oversized beechwood desk. Crossing to the desk, Lord Greybourne opened the top drawer and withdrew two thick ledgers.
“The plan is to open a crate, remove its contents, check them against these ledgers, then repack the crate. The ledgers contain itemized lists of the contents of each crate, all of which are numbered.”
“If that is the case, then why must we unpack each crate? Why can we not simply look at the itemized list to see if something such as ‘half a curse stone’ is noted?”
“Several reasons. First, I’ve already examined these ledgers, and nothing faintly resembling ‘half a curse stone’ is listed. Second, it is highly possible that it is listed, but inaccurately described. Therefore a visual examination of the contents is necessary. Third, as I was not the only person cataloging the items and packing the crates, I cannot swear that unintentional errors were not made. And last, it is possible that I did not find a ‘half a curse stone’ listed because it may very well be part of another item listed. For instance, when I found my piece of the stone, it was in an alabaster box, therefore-”
“The listing may only read ‘alabaster box’ without listing the actual contents of the box.”
“Exactly.” He crossed to the corner of the office where blankets were piled, and hefted up an armful. “I’ll set these on the floor to protect the artifacts and open a crate. I suggest we do one crate together to familiarize you with the procedure, then we can each work on a separate crate. Does that meet with your approval?”
The sooner they started, the quicker they’d find the stone. Then the wedding could take place, her life could be restored to normal, and she would forget all about Lord Greybourne. “Let us begin.”
Two hours later, Philip looked up from cataloging a particularly fine clay vase he recalled finding in Turkey. His gaze settled upon Miss Chilton-Grizedale, and his breaming hitched.
Due to the hot, stuffy air in the warehouse, she’d discarded her cream lace fichu, just as he’d discarded his jacket. She was bent over the crate, reaching inside to withdraw another artifact. The material of her gown molded
