His teeth clenched. Damn it, the thought of another man touching her, kissing her, courting her, surged jealousy through him. Unfortunately he had not planned on his heart and thoughts being engaged by the woman in charge of helping him find his bride. No, he had not planned on Meredith.
Andrew cleared his throat, pulling Philip from his brown study. “If you wish to court her-”
“No. I don’t. I cannot. Nothing could come of it.”
“Why not?”
Philip raked his hand through his hair. “I’m in no position to court her. I’m supposed to be concentrating on finding a bride. A woman from my own social class.” The words sounded hollow and supercilious even to his own ears. “Honor dictates that I do so, to keep my promise to my father.”
Andrew raised his brows. “And did you specifically promise your father to marry a woman from the upper echelons of your lofty Society?”
“No… but it is expected.”
“And since when do you always do what is expected of you?”
Philip couldn’t help but emit a short laugh. It was time to put this evening’s events into their proper perspective. Meredith aroused his curiosity and interest. He’d wanted to kiss her, and he’d satisfied that urge. As she’d pointed out, it was not something they would allow to happen again. He simply needed to keep his hands and his lips to himself. He was a man of ironclad control. He could do anything he set his mind to.
Before Philip could doubt that thought, Andrew said, “Of course the entire subject of marriage will be moot if we cannot break the curse. How many more crates remain in the warehouse to search through?”
“Twelve. How many at the museum?”
“Only four.”
Sixteen crates. Would one of them contain the missing piece of the Stone of Tears? If so, he would soon be married to some woman from his own class. If not, he would be forced to face a future alone. Both prospects equally filled him with dread.
Nine
Meredith stood in the shadows of Lord Greybourne’s drawing room and observed the festivities. If judged solely on the attendance, the party was a raging success. Out of the two dozen invitations issued, they’d received not even one refusal. The room was filled with a bevy of lovely unmarried ladies, all properly chaperoned, of course, all of them either interested in, or at the very least, curious about, Lord Greybourne.
Her gaze panned around the room until it located the guest of honor, Lord Greybourne himself. When she saw him, her heart lurched in that annoyingly familiar way it had every time she looked at him, only this evening her heart lurched and skipped several beats. Resplendent in formal evening attire, with even his cravat properly tied, he took her breath away. His thick chestnut hair gleamed under the light cast by the crystal chandelier, lit with dozens of beeswax candles. He’d clearly tried to tame his hair into submission, but an errant lock fell over his forehead. He stood near the fireplace, engrossed in conversation with Countess Hickam and her daughter Lady Penelope. Lady Penelope was a diamond of the first water, and very sought-after since her coming out last Season. With her shining blond beauty, angelic singing voice, and family fortune behind her, Lady Penelope was a stellar choice for a bride for Lord Greybourne. Indeed, the only reason Meredith had chosen Lady Sarah over her was because of the advantageous landholdings that marriage would have resulted in.
Now Lord Greybourne appeared engrossed in whatever Lady Penelope was saying to him. And Lady Penelope appeared equally engrossed, her perfect complexion highlighted to optimum advantage by the candlelight, her gown displaying an enviable curve of bosom, her perfect blond hair coiffed in flattering curls about her perfect face, her wide, cornflower-blue eyes gazing up at Lord Greybourne with innocent adoration.
Damnation, Meredith wanted to march across the room and just slap all that perfect blue-eyed blondness. She hated the feelings edging through her, and although she longed to he to herself about what they were, she’d learned long ago that while she could tell falsehoods to other people, there was no point in telling them to herself. And the unvarnished truth was that she was jealous. Spectacularly jealous. Jealous to the point that she could cheerfully imagine packing off every single one of these vapid marriage-minded twits on the next ship to some very faraway locale. Indeed, any one of them would make a perfectly respectable wife for Lord Greybourne. And that made her detest each and every one of them even more. Watching them flutter their eyelashes and fans at him, giggling and flirting, made her want to break things. Namely assorted blondes’ arms, legs, and noses.
Drawing a deep breath, she gave herself a severe mental shake. Very well, there was no denying she felt like a cat who’d been dunked in the lake and was now being petted the wrong way. But she could hide her jealousy and frustration, as she hid so many other things. Lord Greybourne was a client. And the sooner she saw to his marriage, the sooner her life could resume some semblance of normalcy.
The quadrille had just ended when Philip caught sight of Bakari standing in the doorway, his gaze panning the room. When their gazes met, Bakari nodded once. Excusing himself from Lady Penelope, Philip made his way around the perimeter of the room. When he reached Bakari, he asked, “What is it?”
“Your study.”
Philip studied him for several seconds, but as always, Bakari’s expression remained inscrutable. “Where were you earlier?” Philip asked. “I looked into the foyer several times, but you weren’t here.”
“Stepped away.”
Philip raised his brows, but Bakari offered nothing further, instead turning on his heel and heading back toward the foyer. Mystified, Philip walked down the corridor and entered his private study, closing the door behind him.
Edward stood near the French windows, tossing back a brandy. Philip started toward him. “Edward, how are…?” His voice trailed off and his footsteps faltered as Edward turned to face him. His one eye was swollen shut, his cheek badly bruised, his bottom lip sporting a mean cut. A white bandage encircled the knuckles and palm of his right hand. “Good God, man, what happened to you? Let me fetch Bakari-”
“He’s already seen to me. Cleaned me up and bandaged my hand and ribs.” Edward winced. “Hurts like a bastard.”
“What the devil happened? Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know who.” He started pacing, with short, jerky steps. “As for how it happened… I couldn’t sleep. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep.” He paused to look at Philip through haunted eyes. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her.”
Pity and guilt stabbed Philip in the gut. “I’m sorry, Edward. I-”
Edward held up his hand. “I know.” He took a long swallow of brandy, then continued. “I decided that rather than spend the night in useless pacing, I’d put my time to use by going through a crate of artifacts. I went to the warehouse and set to work.”
“The warehouse? How did you get in?”
“The watchman. I trust that is not a problem.”
“No, of course not. I’m just surprised.” He spread his hands. “I didn’t realize watchmen were such trusting creatures.”
“Normally it would have surprised me as well, but I was acquainted with the bloke-name of Billy Timson. Seen him at the pub a number of times. He showed me to your crates, and I set to work. I’d been at it for an hour or so when I heard someone come up behind me. I turned around to find a stranger. Holding a knife.”