She breathed out a sigh of relief. Good. He now stood way over there. She could forget all about him and concentrate on her work.
Except she could still hear the low-pitched timbre of his deep voice as he spoke to Mr. Binsmore. Could still feel the warm imprint of his hand where it had held hers. Still feel the lingering tingle where his thumb had caressed her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for this morning and afternoon to end. A humorless sound lodged in her throat. Morning and afternoon to end? Why, yes. So then she could look forward to spending the entire evening in his company as well.
By God, she’d been right. This was going to be a very long day.
Late that afternoon, Philip called a halt to the work. Everyone was dusty, and tired, and sadly their efforts had not yielded any sign of the missing piece of the Stone of Tears. Forcing aside his discouragement, he wiped his hands on a rag, then approached Goddard.
“A moment of your time?” he said, inclining his head toward the office.
Surprise flashed in Goddard’s eyes, but he nodded. Once the two men entered the office, Philip closed the door. He watched Goddard limp to the center of the room, then turn to face him with a questioning expression. “Well?” the young man asked.
“I’ve learned something I think you might find interesting.”
Goddard’s eyes turned wary, and Philip wondered what secrets he was hiding. “Why do ye think I’d find it interestin‘?”
“Because it concerns a chimney sweep named Taggert.”
What appeared to be relief flashed in Goddard’s eyes. Interesting. But the emotion was almost instantly replaced with bitterness, followed by a flicker of fear.
“Taggert?” Goddard’s voice resembled a growl. “Only thing of interest I’d want to know about him is that the bastard is dead.”
“He is. Died last year, in debtor’s prison, where he’d spent the final two years of his life.”
All the color seemed to drain from Goddard’s face. “How do ye know this?”
“I asked some questions of the right people.”
“The right people? Only way you and Taggert would have any people in common would have been if he’d stolen from yer fancy friends.”
“It wasn’t my fancy friends I questioned. I found several acquaintances of Taggert’s at a pub near the docks.”
Goddard’s eyes narrowed. “Why were ye askin‘ about Taggert?”
“Because I thought you’d want to know. Because if I were you, I’d have wanted, needed to know. I wouldn’t want him always in the back of my mind, wondering if he might someday find me. Or if I might see him on the street. And be tempted to wrap my hands around his neck and kill him on the spot. I didn’t want him to have that power over you. He’s dead, Goddard. He can’t hurt you or any other child ever again.”
Confusion flickered across his face. “How did you know-?”
“Because it’s exactly how I would have felt.”
Goddard’s hands clenched at his sides, and his throat worked. A sheen of moisture glittered in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. “I wanted to know,” he whispered. “But I was terrified to try to find out. Terrified that it might somehow get back to him that someone were askin‘ about him, and he’d put it together. Might do somethin’ to hurt Miss Merrie. Or Charlotte or Hope. He were an evil, heartless bastard, and I couldn’t risk that he might touch our lives in any way. But it ate at me, always there in the back of my mind. Was he waitin‘ ’round the next corner? Would he recognize me? I wondered… God help me, I wondered.”
“You don’t have to wonder any longer. You’re free, Goddard.”
The young man opened his eyes. He made no move to wipe the tears dampening his face, and Philip pretended not to see them. “I’m not certain wot to say to ye… except that ye have my thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” With a nod, Philip turned to leave, but Goddard’s voice stopped him.
“Why would ye do this? Risk yer safety goin‘ to such dangerous places for me-someone ye barely know?”
Philip studied him for several seconds, debating how truthful to be, then sighed. Nothing less than the full truth would do. “Because the story you told me about how Taggert treated you affected me deeply. Not only due to the horrors you suffered, but it made the slights and humiliations I endured as a lad, which until that moment had seemed important, pale into insignificance.”
Goddard raised his brows. “Who’d slight a rich bloke like you?”
“Other rich blokes. But there’s one other reason, Goddard.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re important to her. And she’s important to me.”
By the time Meredith handed over her bonnet and cashmere shawl to Bakari that evening, she had her emotions well in control. She would make certain to maintain her distance from her host, keep the conversation rolling, and concentrate on the other female guests. Then escape as soon as possible.
She followed Bakari down the corridor, surprised when they walked past the doors leading to both the dining and drawing rooms. He halted at the very last door. “What room is this?” she asked, mystified.
“Private study.” His black-eyed gaze searched hers for several seconds with an inscrutable expression. “Hope you like.”
Before she could question him further, Bakari knocked on the oak-paneled door. A muffled voice answered from within, and Bakari opened the door.
“Miss Chilton-Grizedale,” he said solemnly, indicating she should enter.
With her best impersonal smile firmly in place, Meredith crossed the threshold. And froze.
Private study? This room in no way resembled a study. Indeed, she felt as if she stood inside an opulent tent. Yards of jewel-toned silks and satins covered the walls, draping from a central point in the ceiling, pooling in luxurious puddles upon the floor. She reached out and touched a hand to the fall of burgundy silk covering the wall nearest the door. Except for Madame Renée’s Emporium, Meredith had never seen such an abundance of beautiful material.
Her gaze slowly panned the room. A gorgeous rug, woven with an intricate design she did not recognize, covered the floor. A cozy fire burned in the grate, casting the room with intriguing shadows. A half dozen low-slung tables were scattered about the room, the flickering glow of dozens of candles of varying heights reflecting off their dark, polished surfaces. A low, rectangular table nestled before the fire. Covered silver platters rested upon the table, as did an array of both stoneware and sparkling crystal goblets. Massive tasseled pillows in deep sapphire, emerald, topaz, and ruby flanked the table, and were strewn invitingly all about the room, urging one to recline upon their soft, plump, decadent depths.
Only two other pieces of furniture decorated the room: an ornate changing screen in the far corner, and a beautiful chaise lounge in the opposite corner. Her heart tripped over itself when she spied Philip standing in the shadows next to the chaise lounge.
“Good evening, Meredith.” His deep voice sent a tingle down her spine, and although she meant to return his greeting, she could not seem to dredge up her voice. And just when she might have done so, he thwarted her attempt by moving toward her with his graceful, sleek gait that instantly reminded her of a predatory jungle cat.
Her eyes widened at his attire. Instead of a proper linen shirt and cravat, a loose-fitting shirt that appeared made from silk covered his broad upper body, leaving his tanned throat bare. His shirt was tucked into… She swallowed.
Instead of proper breeches, he wore loose-fitting, midnight-blue trousers that appeared to be held onto his body with nothing more than a drawstring at the waist. Soft brown leather boots encased his feet. With his perennially mussed hair, he looked dark and dangerous in a way that raced blood through her veins. Only his spectacles reminded her that this wildly attractive man was a scholarly antiquarian-or they would have, if the lenses hadn’t magnified the compelling heat emanating from his gaze.