Who Will Take This Man?

Bakari drew in a sharp breath and, waving his hands about, muttered some incantation. Then he shook his head. “Bad. Very bad.”

Philip raked his hands through his hair. “No, you need not remind me, and yes, it was bad.”

“Very bad,” Bakari insisted.

“I damn near drowned because you insisted we cross the river as the ancients had-in a damn tippy canoe,” Andrew said with a dark scowl, clearly ignoring the ‘you need not remind me’ part.

“Bloody hell, you should have told me you could not swim! Before we left the shore. Did I not pull you safely to land-in spite of your flailing arms and legs, which if I may remind you, inflicted numerous bruising blows to my body, several of them to very tender areas?”

“Got in a few good ones,” Andrew agreed. “But it was no less than you deserved. The entire incident shaved a decade from my life.”

“And would have been avoided if you’d told me the truth.”

“Saying he can’t swim is not the sort of thing a man goes around bragging about,” Andrew insisted. “And it wouldn’t have come up if you hadn’t insisted on following the ‘cross the river in the canoe’ rules.” His eyes narrowed. “And don’t be thinking you’ve changed the subject. I know you didn’t kiss her because, as I said earlier, I can read you very well, my friend, and that frustration I see simmering below the surface is not that which you would bear had you kissed her. And second, I thought you would do such a thing because it is so clearly obvious you want to.”

Bakari harrumphed and cleared his throat.

Philip clenched his jaw. Damn, but it was irritating when Andrew was right. Bloody hell, he’d wanted to kiss her. Desperately. Why hadn’t he? It was just a simple kiss, after all. But the instant that thought entered his mind, he realized the answer-he hadn’t kissed her because some instinct told him that there wouldn’t have been anything even remotely resembling simple in kissing her. “And I suppose you would have kissed her.”

If Andrew heard the tightness in his tone, he ignored it. “Yes. If I were that attracted to a woman and was presented with the opportunity, I would kiss her.”

“And the fact that I am to-I hope-soon be married to someone else?”

Andrew shrugged. “You’re not married yet, old man. And that’s not why you didn’t kiss her, and we both know it.”

Philip narrowed his eyes. “I’m certain there’s a ship departing for America within the hour,” he said-a comment about which Andrew looked completely unconcerned.

“Should kiss girl you want,” Bakari said softly. “Girl might want you, too.” Then, after a low bow, Bakari left the foyer heading toward his chambers, his soft leather slippers silent on the marble floor.

Girl might want you, too. Bloody hell. Bakari normally only spoke on average a dozen words a month. Which meant he’d already surpassed his usual quota with that speech. Excellent. Philip was not anxious to hear anything else.

He looked toward Andrew, whose face bore a suspiciously innocent expression. “Don’t say a word,” Philip warned.

“I wasn’t going to. Bakari said it all. In amazingly few words. A rather scary talent, don’t you agree?”

“One that you might wish to emulate-uttering fewer words, that is.”

“As you wish. I’m off to bed.” He started toward the stairs. At the landing, he turned around and issued Philip a mock salute. “Sweet dreams, my friend.”

Sweet dreams, indeed. With his muscles tense and his thoughts racing, sleep was nowhere in his immediate future. Deciding a brandy might relax him, Philip walked down the corridor toward his study. Entering the room, he headed immediately for the decanters and poured himself a fingerful of the potent liquor. As he raised the snifter to his lips, his gaze fell upon his desk. His hand froze halfway to his mouth, and he stared.

One of his journals lay open on his desk, with several more volumes stacked in a haphazard pile near the inkwell. He didn’t recall leaving the books in such a manner; indeed, he wouldn’t, as he was very careful with them. Setting his drink down next to the decanters, he strode toward the mahogany desk.

The journal was opened to a page upon which he’d sketched a detailed picture of the hieroglyphics and drawings on a tomb in Alexandria. His gaze skipped over the page, noting it appeared undamaged, then settled on the stack of journals.

A frown tugged his brows downward. Had one of the servants been looking through his belongings? It must be so, as neither Andrew nor Bakari would do so without asking his permission, nor would either not carefully replace the journals upon the shelf.

But why would one of the servants do such a thing? No doubt curiosity about him and his travels. Understandable, but he needed to discover the offender first thing tomorrow morning and address the issue. Not only did he not like the thought of someone looking through his things, but these journals were irreplaceable. He certainly didn’t want some curiosity-seeker inadvertently damaging or misplacing them.

Heaving out a long, irritated breath, he closed the open journal, then picked it up. He was about to turn to slide it back into its proper spot on the shelf when he spied a piece of foolscap on the desk, underneath where the journal had rested. Cramped, unfamiliar writing was scribbled across the surface. Puzzled, he picked up the note and squinted in the dim light to scan the few words.

You will suffer.

Philip frowned and ran his finger over the print. The ink smeared slightly.

This had been written recently. Very recently. But by whom? Someone in his house? Or had an outsider gained entry? Striding quickly to the French windows, he tested them, noting they were all securely locked. Had an intruder gained entry some other way? It seemed very odd that clearly neither Andrew, Bakari, nor any of the other servants heard or saw someone entering the townhouse. He recalled that Bakari had not been in the foyer when he arrived home-he’d been tending to the dog. And the front door had not been locked. Philip dragged his hands down his face. How long had Bakari left the foyer unattended? Bloody hell, someone could have walked right in the front door! Unless that someone had already been in the house…

He looked at the note again. You will suffer.

Who the devil had written it-and why?

A shaky hand lifted the generous pour of brandy to trembling lips. A narrow escape. Far too narrow for comfort. I must take more care in the future. A quick gulp of the potent liquor provided a much- needed warmth. After several more swallows, the glass was set down, and a noticeably steadier hand lifted a dagger. The polished, keenly sharpened blade reflected the candlelight.

Your untimely arrival home interrupted me, Greybourne, forcing me to abandon my search. But I’ll find what I’m looking for. And when I do, your life is over.

Seven

THE LONDON TIMES

The marriage between Lady Sarah Markham and Lord Greybourne will not take place on the twenty-second of this month as previously announced, in light of Lady Sarah’s abrupt marriage to Baron Weycroft yesterday. Why would she do such an unexpected thing? Yes, there is this supposed curse to consider, but it is difficult to put much credence in such a story. Is this curse something that Lord Greybourne fabricated to avoid the altar? He wouldn’t be the first man to do his utmost to remain a bachelor, yet why he would conspire to not wed this Season’s Most Sought-After young lady certainly leads to some interesting questions. And what about Lady Sarah herself? Surely this curse could not be her only reason to reject Greybourne. After all, why would she choose