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 to marry a mere baron when she could have married the heir to an earldom? Perhaps there is something to the popular belief that his years abroad affected more than Greybourne’s mental capabilities. One certainly must wonder what on earth Miss Chilton-Grizedale was thinking when she attempted to make this disastrous match.
Meredith closed her eyes and rested her face in her hands. She’d known the gossip would be relentless once word of Lady Sarah’s-or rather Baroness Weycroft’s- marriage got out, but this was even worse than she’d anticipated. Yet it wasn’t so much the story regarding Lady Sarah’s marriage or her own matchmaking failure that distressed her so-after all, those things were inarguably true. No, it was the sly innuendos regarding the reason behind Lady Sarah’s defection that riled her. Good heavens, any fool could see there was nothing mentally or physically wrong with Lord Greybourne. Such cruel rumors were no doubt very embarrassing for him. Sympathy for him, along with a healthy dose of outrage on his behalf, flooded her.
“Guess ye’ve seen The Times,” came Albert’s voice from the doorway.
Meredith raised her head and stared at him through gritty eyes. “I’m afraid so.”
“I hate to see ye so upset, Miss Merrie. Yer eyes look like bruises.”
Bruises? Not the most flattering assessment, but Albert was correct. In spite of her intention to enjoy a good night’s sleep, she’d spent a restless, fitful night. But not because of the gossip. No, her thoughts had been filled with Lord Greybourne and the increasingly disturbing way he made her feel-warm and heated, trembly and excited all at the same time. Being in his company was an aspect her mind dreaded and her heart anticipated. And as always, with her practical nature, her mind won. However, the battle had proven particularly bloody this time. She’d always managed to beat back her feminine longings and urges whenever they raised their heads, but since meeting Lord Greybourne, her longings and urges were not so easily dismissed.