Jacquie D'Alessandro (7 page)

She raised her brows. “Peremptory order? I prefer to call it a strong suggestion.”

“Yes, I’m certain you do. And there is nothing wrong with what I am wearing.”

“Perhaps if you were tromping about in the desert, or along the Nile. You just admitted that you lack knowledge of modern human behavior. I, however, am something of an expert on the subject. Pray believe me when I tell you that your present attire is unacceptable for going out-of-doors.” She pursed her lips into a prim line. “It is also unacceptable for receiving guests. All in all, it is simply unacceptable.”

Philip turned to Bakari. “Do I look unacceptable?”

Bakari merely harrumphed and strode from the foyer in an altogether unhelpful manner. Philip swiveled his attention back to Miss Chilton-Grizedale. “If you think I’m going to truss myself up like a goose in form-fitting, fussy, dandified clothes just to look ‘acceptable’ to strangers I care nothing about, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“The members of Society, whether you are personally acquainted with them or not, are your peers, Lord Greybourne, not strangers. Such august company lends one respectability. How can you take that so lightly?”

“And how can you take it so seriously?”

Her chin lifted a notch. “Perhaps because, as a woman who must depend upon herself for her livelihood, my re
spectability is of the utmost importance to me—and is something I take very seriously. Lady Sarah is not a stranger. Nor is your sister, whom I’ve heard so much about. Are you saying that you care nothing for them?”

“
Catherine
would not be so shallow as to condemn me because I’m not clad in the latest fashion.”

Bright red stained her cheeks at his arch observation. “But like it or not, your behavior will reflect upon both your fiancée and your sister, not to mention your father. If you won’t think of your own reputation, think of theirs.” Her brows lifted. “Or is a world adventurer such as yourself too selfish to do so?”

Annoyance flooded him at her words. Damn irritating woman. Even more so because he couldn’t deny she had a valid point. Now that he was back in the confining restraints of “civilization” his actions
would
reflect on others. For ten years he hadn’t had to think about anyone except himself. His departure from England had marked the first time in his life he’d been able to say and do anything he damn well felt like saying or doing, without the censure of Society’s—or Father’s—glare beating down upon him. It was a freedom he’d reveled in, and one he did not relish curtailing in any way. But he’d rather suffer a cobra bite than do anything to hurt Catherine.

“I’ll change my clothing,” he said, unable to keep the snarl from his voice.

She shot him a satisfied—no, a
smug
—smile that all but screamed,
Of course you will,
upping his irritation several notches. Muttering under his breath about autocratic females, he retired to his bedchamber, returning several minutes later, his concessions consisting of changing into a “proper” pair of breeches and yanking on a jacket over his loose-fitting shirt, purposely leaving his jacket unbuttoned.

When she raised her brows and appeared about to comment, he said, “I am going to a
warehouse
. To
work
. Not to
have my portrait painted. This is the best you’ll get from me. It’s this or I wear nothing at all.”

She appeared startled, then narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He moved closer to her, surprising him when she stood her ground, but he was cheered by her sharp intake of breath. “Did you know that temperatures in Egypt, in Syria, can reach levels where you actually can see the heat radiating off the ground? I am quite accustomed to wearing a minimum of clothing. Or none at all. So daring me would not be wise, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

A blush suffused her cheeks, and her lips compressed into a flat line of disapproval. “If you think to shock me with such words, Lord Greybourne, you are doomed to failure. If you wish to shame yourself, your fiancée, and your family, I cannot stop you. I can only hope you will act in a decorous manner.”

He heaved out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose that means I shall not get to disrobe in the foyer. Pity.” Extending his elbow, he said, “Shall we?”

He looked into her eyes, noting their extraordinary clear Aegean-blue color. They sparkled with determination and stubbornness, along with something else, not so easily defined. Unless he was mistaken, which he rarely was in such assessments, a hint of secrets simmered in Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s eyes as well, piquing his curiosity and interest.

That, along with her penchant for loading her reticule with stones, was casting her in the light of an intriguing puzzle.

And he harbored an incredible weakness for puzzles.

Meredith sat upon
the luxurious gray velvet squabs of Lord Greybourne’s coach, and studied her traveling companion. At first she’d done so covertly, from the corner of her eye as she’d feigned looking out the window at the shops and people lining Oxford Street. However, his attention was so wrapped up in studying the contents of the worn leather journal setting upon his lap, she soon abandoned the ruse and simply looked at him with frank curiosity.

The man sitting across from her was the complete antithesis of the boy in the painting hanging in the drawing room at his father’s London townhouse. His skin was not pale, but a warm, golden brown that bespoke of time spent in the sun. Golden streaks highlighted his thick, wavy dark brown hair that was once again haphazardly coiffed, as if his fingers had tunneled through the strands. Indeed, even as the thought crossed her mind, he lifted one hand and raked it through his hair.

Her gaze wandered slowly downward. Nothing about the adult Lord Greybourne could be described as soft or pudgy. He looked lean and hard and thoroughly masculine. His midnight-blue cutaway jacket, in spite of its numerous wrinkles, hugged his broad shoulders, and the fawn breeches he’d changed into emphasized his muscu
lar legs in a way that, if she were the sort of woman to do so, might induce her to heave a purely feminine sigh.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to heave feminine sighs.

In further contrast to his youthful self, although his clothing was finely made of quality cloth, Lord Greybourne projected an undone appearance, no doubt the result of his askew cravat and those thick strands of hair falling over his forehead, in a fashion which, if she were the sort of woman to be tempted, might tempt her to reach out and brush those silky strands back into place.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to be tempted.

He looked up and their eyes met, his surrounded by round, wire-framed spectacles. In the painting, Lord Greybourne’s eyes had appeared to be a dull, flat brown. The artist had utterly failed to capture the intelligence and compelling intensity in those eyes. And there could be no denying that Lord Greybourne’s countenance was no longer that of a youth. All the softness had been replaced by lean angles, a firm, square jaw, and high cheekbones. His nose was the same—bold and blade-straight. And his mouth…

Her gaze riveted on his lips. His mouth was lovely in a way that she had not noticed in the painting. It was full. And firm—yet somehow appeared fascinatingly soft at the same time. Just the sort of mouth that, if she were a different sort of woman, might entice her to want to taste.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to be enticed.

“Are you all right, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? You look a bit flushed.”

Damnation! She snapped her gaze up to his and arranged her features into her most prim expression. “I’m fine, thank you. It is merely warm in the carriage.” She resisted the urge to lift her hand to fan herself. Just as well,
as, with her luck, she’d lift her hand and swing her stone-laden reticule around and cosh herself on the head with it. Instead she nodded toward the journal resting on his lap.

“What are you reading?” she asked, refraining from pointing out his lack of manners in ignoring her. Clearly she would need to pick her battles with this man, and her inner voice cautioned that having him ignore her might be in her best interests.

“I’m searching through a volume of my notes from my travels. I’m hopeful that I may have made a notation or sketch at some point that might provide a clue.”

“Have you had any success?”

“No. My notes fill over one hundred volumes, and although I examined them during my return voyage to England to no avail, I was hoping that perhaps I might find something I’d missed.” He closed the book, then tied a length of worn leather around it.

“What do your notes contain?”

“Sketches of artifacts and hieroglyphs, descriptions, folklore and stories told to me, personal observations. Things of that nature.”

“You learned enough to fill more than one hundred volumes?” An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Heavens, I find it a chore to compose a single-page letter.”

“In truth, I experienced more than I could ever have time to record in writing.” An expression that seemed to combine longing and passion entered his eyes. “Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Morocco…they are impossible to adequately describe, yet they’re so vivid in my memory, if I close my eyes, I feel as if I am still there.”

“You loved those places.”

“Yes.”

“You did not want to leave.”

He studied her before replying. “You are correct. England is the place of my birth, yet it no longer feels like…home.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand what I mean. Indeed, I barely do myself.”

“’Tis true that I do not know what places such as Egypt and Greece look like, but I know about the importance, the
necessity,
of being in a place that feels like home. And how out of sorts one can feel when they are not there.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Yes, that is exactly how I feel. Out of sorts.”

Something in his tone, in the way he was looking at her, with all that focused attention, stalled her breath. And rendered
her
most definitely out of sorts. In a way that irritated and confused her. What on earth was it about this man that robbed her of her usual aplomb?

In an effort to break the spell between them, she averted her gaze and said, “A friend of mine offered to help us sort through the artifacts, should we require his services.” Actually, both Albert and Charlotte had wanted to accompany her today, but Meredith had convinced them to wait a day. She wanted to first ascertain what sort of conditions they would be working under, and she was glad she’d insisted. The fact that they would be near the docks…Charlotte
hated
the docks.

“
His
services? Is your friend an antiquarian?”

“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
large
crates.

“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 beech-wood 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 breathing hitched.

Due to the hot, stuffy air in the warehouse, she’d dis
carded 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 itself to the feminine curve of her buttocks. The very
lovely
feminine curve of her buttocks.

Ever since she’d settled herself across from him in his carriage—a conveyance which had seemed quite roomy until that moment—he’d been disturbingly
aware
of her. No doubt because of her scent…that delicious fragrance of freshly baked cake that whetted the appetite. Bloody hell, women weren’t supposed to smell like that. Like something sinfully edible that made a man want to take a bite.