Who Will Take This Man?

Two

Pacing the confines of the small private office off an alcove near the vestry at St. Paul’s, Philip Whitmore, Viscount Greybourne, prayed for all he was worth that his bride would not show up.

His stomach cramping with tension, he pulled his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time. Mere minutes remained before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Would Lady Sarah come? God help me if she does.

Damn it all, what an utterly impossible situation this was. Had he made Lady Sarah understand? He’d only had that one opportunity to speak privately with her, when he’d dined at her father’s townhouse the evening before last. Due to her suffering a fall earlier in the day and subsequently finding herself the victim of a vicious headache, she had not joined the party for dinner. He squeezed his eyes shut. First the fall and then the headache. Bloody hell, he’d feared it would come to this.

After dinner, however, Lady Sarah had made an appearance. Following several minutes of small talk, he’d suggested she show him the gallery, and she’d obliged. And he’d taken the opportunity to tell her… warn her. She’d listened to his tale with what appeared to be merely polite interest, and at the end of his recitation had murmured, “How… interesting. I shall think upon it,” then had excused herself, claiming the headache. When he’d called upon her yesterday he’d been informed by the butler that she still suffered the headache and was not receiving visitors. He’d tried to speak to her father, but the duke was not at home. Philip had left a note for his grace, but had not received a reply, indicating he’d obviously arrived home too late to respond. And Philip had spent the remainder of his time at the warehouse, searching through the numerous crates for the one item that could bring salvation. He’d been unsuccessful, which meant that one way or another, this day was about to take a very unpleasant turn.

Surely someone would send word to him soon, or Lady Sarah would herself arrive. Or not arrive. He raked his hands through his hair and tugged on his confining cravat. Either way, he was damned. Honor demanded that he marry Lady Sarah. But honor also demanded that he not. Her image rose in his mind’s eye. Such a lovely young woman. The thought of taking her for his wife should have pleased him enormously. Instead the very idea cramped his insides with dread.

A knock sounded, and he quickly strode to the door and opened it. His father entered the room, and Philip closed the door behind him with a soft click. Turning, he met his father’s gaze and waited for him to speak. The signs of Father’s illness were starkly visible in the ribbon of sunlight streaming through the window. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and his complexion was sallow and pale. He was considerably thinner than when Philip had left England, his face bordering on gaunt, the shadow of circles staining dark gray beneath his eyes.

But those eyes remained unchanged. Piercing blue and rapier-sharp, they could cut with a single frigid glance- as Philip knew all too well. Gray strands marked his temples, but his ebony hair remained thick. He looked like an older, tired, paler version of the hearty man from a decade earlier. A man with whom Philip had shared little other than cold silence and tension after Philip’s mother’s death-a situation made all the more painful as he and Father had enjoyed a warmer relationship prior to Mother’s death. A man who had made a deal with Philip, one that had afforded him the opportunity to pursue his dreams, albeit only until “someday,” asking only one thing in return.

Father had not reacted well when he learned it was the one thing Philip could not give him.

His father walked slowly toward him, his eyes taking in every aspect of Philip’s appearance. He halted when only two feet separated them. A wealth of memories hit Philip like a blow, rushing images through his mind, ending, as thoughts of Father always did, with the reverberation of his quiet, condemning words: A man is only as good as his word, Philip. If you’d kept yours, your mother wouldn’t have-

“The ceremony is about to begin,” Father said, his expression unreadable.

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, your bride has not yet arrived.”

Thank God. “I see.”

“You told her.” The words were a statement, not a question.

“I did.”

“We’d agreed that you would not.”

“No. You requested that I not tell her. I never agreed that I wouldn’t.” Philip’s hands clenched at his sides. “I had to tell her. She had the right to know.”

“Did you tell Lord Hedington as well?”

Philip shook his head. “Lady Sarah requested that I not, at least not until she’d thought upon the matter.”

“Well, with each passing minute without her here, it becomes clearer what her thoughts on the matter were.”

Philip could only hope his father was correct.

Meredith stood in the shadows cast by the columns in the marble-tiled vestibule of St. Paul’s, trying her very best to look dignified and contain her excitement, praying she did not resemble a child with her face pressed against the window at the confectioner’s shop. A procession of elegant carriages wended their way toward the magnificent west entrance of the cathedral, dispensing Society’s finest for the wedding of Lady Sarah Markham and Viscount Greybourne. A hum of excited whispers echoed from the throng of guests entering the church, their voices swallowed by the swell of organ music as they passed Meredith. She caught snatches of their words as they glided by.

“… heard Greybourne was nearly killed during an altercation with some tribe of…”

“… supposedly wants to start his own museum with some American colleague…”

“His importing business venture is rumored to be wildly successful…”

“Amazing that he managed to snare Lady Sarah, what with his odd interests and that scandalous debacle three years ago…”

On and on they came, all of Society’s finest, walking through the magnificent columned entrance to proceed down the nave, passing under the architectural splendor of the dome, until over five hundred guests filled St. Paul’s pews. All except the one guest Meredith most particularly wanted to see.

Where was the bride?

Dear God, she hoped Lady Sarah was not still suffering from that tumble at the dressmaker’s. No, surely not. If so, her father would have sent word. Meredith had been most anxious to speak to Lady Sarah yesterday, to find out how her meeting with Lord Greybourne had gone the evening before. But when she’d called upon her in the early afternoon, Lord Hedington had informed her that Lady Sarah was unable to receive visitors due to the lingering headache. Meredith’s alarm clearly showed, for Lord Hedington had quickly assured her that Lady Sarah had taken a restorative tisane and, after some much-needed sleep, would be perfectly fit for the wedding. He reported that Lady Sarah and Lord Greybourne had spent over an hour together touring the gallery the evening before, and had gotten along “smashingly well,” news that calmed a tiny fraction of Meredith’s jitters. In addition, he said that in spite of his disheveled clothing and abominable cravat-which would surely be solved after employing a proper valet-Lord Greybourne seemed a decent sort of fellow.

Thank goodness. Not that she’d had the opportunity to meet the groom herself and put her own fears to rest. Oh, she’d tried, without success, to meet with Lord Greybourne to assess what, if any, last-minute emergency etiquette lessons he might require, but the man had remained as elusive as fog. He’d responded to her trio of calls upon him with a trio of terse notes stating that he was “busy.”

Busy? What on earth could be keeping him so busy he couldn’t take a quarter hour out of his schedule to see her? Busy seeing to his own pleasures, no doubt. Rudeness, that’s all it was.

The cathedral’s clock struck the hour. The ceremony was now scheduled to begin.

And still no sign of the bride.

A cold chill of unease slithered down her spine, a sensation not the least relieved by Lord Hedington striding into the vestibule, his brows bunched into a severe frown. Meredith emerged from the shadows.

“Your grace, are you certain Lady Sarah was feeling well?”

“She claimed she felt fine, but I’m worried, I admit. The chit is never late. Prides herself on her promptness, unlike most females.” He shook his head. “I should never have agreed to come to the church without her, but she was so insistent-” His words broke off, and he heaved a sigh of clear relief. “Here comes the Hedington carriage now. Thank goodness.”

Meredith looked out the door and relief rushed through her at the sight of the elegant black coach, drawn by four matching grays. The coachman halted the carriage in the cathedral’s curved drive, and a liveried footman hopped down and trotted up the steps.

“Your grace,” the young man said, “I have a message for Lord Greybourne.” He held out a wax-sealed envelope. “Lady Sarah instructed me to deliver it just before the ceremony was to begin.”

“Lady Sarah instructed you?” The duke looked over the footman’s shoulder toward the coach. “Where is Lady Sarah?”

The footman’s eyes rounded. “Is she not here? She departed for St. Paul’s only moments after you left, your grace.”

“But if you have the carriage, what did she travel in?” the duke asked, his voice tight.

“Baron Weycroft called, your grace,” the footman reported, “Lady Sarah, along with her abigail, departed with him in his coach.”

The duke’s expression turned to one of confusion. “Weycroft, you say? I’ve not seen him, either. Well, at least she is not alone, although it’s deuced odd that they’ve not arrived. Ye gods, I hope they haven’t broken a wheel or some such.”

“We did not pass them on the road here, your grace,” the footman said, his countenance as confused and concerned as the duke’s.

“The note,” Meredith said, nodding toward the vellum, and pushing down her rising sense of dread. “Let us deliver it to Lord Greybourne at once. Surely it will offer the answers we seek.”

A knock sounded at the door and Philip and his father exchanged a glance. Unease slithered through Philip. Had Lady Sarah arrived? “Come in,” he said.

The door opened and Lord Hedington stalked into the room, every line of his body bristling with obvious tension and concern. With his bushy brows, jowly cheeks, oversized ears, and the folds of skin drooping under his protruding eyes, Lord Hedington bore a striking, and remarkably unfortunate, resemblance to a hound. An unfamiliar woman, fashionably garbed in a dark blue gown, remained standing in the open doorway. Her gaze panned the room, as if looking for someone else, then their gazes met. Philip fancied that confusion, and then surprise, flared in her eyes.

“May I assist you, Miss…?”

Color washed over her cheeks, and she performed a quick curtsy. “I am Miss Meredith Chilton-Grizedale, my lord. I am-”

“She’s the matchmaker who arranged for you to marry my daughter,” Lord Hedington said in a tight voice from behind Philip.

Philip stared at her, certain he failed to hide his surprise. Upon hearing his father talk about the formidable Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he’d formed a mental picture of a stern, gray-haired, grandmotherly sort that in no way resembled this young woman standing before him. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose, he noted that she appeared as surprised as he. He was staring, but couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from her. And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Obviously due to his surprise, for she certainly was not a woman one would ever call beautiful. Her features were too irregular. Too unconventional.

Recalling himself, he offered her a formal bow. “A pleasure to meet you, miss.” After she entered the room, Philip closed the door behind her, then turned toward Lord Hedington. “Has Lady Sarah arrived?”

The duke raised his quizzing glass, thus now resembling a hound with one magnified eye, and peered at Philip. “No,” said Lord Hedington, “and she certainly should have, as she departed for St. Paul’s over an hour ago.” He thrust out his hand. “But she sent this note to you. It just arrived. I demand you open it at once and tell me what the devil is going on.”

Philip took the envelope and stared at it for several long seconds. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, prayed his relief did not show, then forced his gaze upward from the vellum. Three pairs of eyes stared at him with varying degrees of distress. His father appeared more than a bit suspicious. Lady Sarah’s father appeared worried. And Miss Meredith Chilton-Grizedale appeared deeply troubled.

Philip broke the seal. The slight crackling of the vellum as he unfolded it echoed in the silent room. Drawing a deep breath, he lowered his gaze to the paper.

Lord Greybourne,

As you requested, I have thought upon the matter we discussed during our meeting. Indeed, I have thought about nothing else. Given the evidence you presented regarding your friend’s wife, along with your expertise and strong belief in the power of the curse, and the fact that I have suffered from a fall and the headache, I cannot deny my fear that if we were to marry, the third event would come to pass. Therefore, this letter is to inform you that I will not marry you, and for my own safety, I have taken steps to ensure I shall not be forced to do so. I apologize for the inconvenience my not coming to the church will cause you, but as you pointed out during our meeting, this is the best way. Please advise my father that I am well and safe, and that a letter from me explaining everything awaits him at home.

Lady Sarah Markham

Philip had barely finished scanning the few lines when Lord Hedington tapped his quizzing glass upon the vellum and demanded, “For God’s sake, what does she write? Is she all right?”

Philip raised his gaze and met the duke’s eyes. “Yes, your grace.”

“Then why the devil is she not here? Where is she?”

Calm descended over Philip, and he drew his first easy breath in what seemed like months. She’d jilted him. Thank God. “I do not know exactly where she is, but she does not wish for you to worry about her safety. Still, I believe the main point is that she is not here. Nor is she coming.”

“Not coming?” the duke thundered. “Balderdash. Of course she’s coming. She’s getting married. Here. To you. Today.” He yanked his watch fob from his waistcoat pocket and snapped it opened. “Five minutes ago.”

“I’m afraid not.” Philip handed the single sheet of vellum to the duke, who snatched the paper from his fingers. Seconds after scanning the words, the duke’s fierce scowl darkened further.

“What the devil is this ‘curse’ she refers to?” he asked, passing the paper to Philip’s father. Philip noted that a wide-eyed Miss Chilton-Grizedale, whose complexion had taken on a faintly greenish hue, had sidled closer to his father to peer at the letter.

Before Philip could reply, his father looked up from the note and their eyes met. The icy anger and disappointment in his father’s gaze hit Philip hard. Harder than it should have. Certainly harder than he wanted to admit. Damn it, he was no longer a green lad who sought his father’s approval.

Father, instead of directing his ire where he clearly wanted to, turned the full force of his frigidly calm fury upon Lord Hedington. “This is an outrage. What sort of addlepated, beef-witted chit is your daughter, Hedington? How dare she write that she will not marry my son. And you.” He swung his attention toward Miss Chilton-Grizedale, pointing at her in an accusatory fashion. “I engaged you to find my son a suitable wife, not some daft flibbertigibbet who babbles about curses and would cry off on her wedding day.”

Anger flashed in Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s eyes, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Lord Hedington’s outraged voice cut off whatever she was about to say.

“Addlepated? Beef-witted?” the duke fumed. “Daft? How dare you refer to my daughter in such terms, especially when it is clear from this note”-he snatched it from Philip’s father’s hand and waved it about like flag- “that something your nincompoop son said to her set her on this disastrous course.” He swung his attention to Miss Chilton-Grizedale. “And how dare you have arranged a union for my daughter with such an unsuitable man. You assured me that the scandal three years ago was merely a misunderstanding, that Greybourne was respectable in every way. Yet he’s clearly frightened my Sarah with this idiotic chatter, and his cravat is an utter disgrace. One should never trust a man sporting untidy neckware.”

Crimson rushed into Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s pale, greenish cheeks, and she lifted her chin. “Before you gentlemen say anything else you might regret, or toss about any further accusations or aspersions upon my character, I believe we should hear what Lord Greybourne has to say about the matter.”

Hmmm. Quite the imperious piece, although he couldn’t help but applaud the woman’s level-headed nerve. He’d be hard-pressed to name many men who would show such spirit and common sense in the face of two such angry fathers.

Clearing his throat, then adjusting his spectacles, Philip drew a deep breath in preparation of telling the very undone Lord Hedington and the greenish-skinned Miss Chilton-Grizedale the same story he’d related to his father two days ago upon his return to England.

“Something happened while I was in Egypt, something which prevents me from marrying Lady Sarah. Or anyone else.”

After several seconds of deafening silence, understanding, edged with steel, dawned in Lord Hedington’s eyes. “I see. You fancy yourself in love with some woman you met abroad. That is unfortunate, because your duty demands-”

“This has nothing to do with another woman, your grace. The problem is that I am… cursed.”

No one spoke for several long seconds. Finally Lord Hedington cleared his throat and, after casting a surreptitious glance at Miss Chilton-Grizedale, said in a low voice, “It is, I believe, quite common for men to occasionally suffer from such an… affliction. My daughter’s abundant beauty will surely rekindle your… urges.”

A choking sound erupted from Miss Chilton-Grizedale, and Philip’s father paled. Philip actually felt a blush creeping up his neck. Bloody hell, he could not possibly be having this conversation. He dragged his hands down his face. “Your grace, I am not impotent.”

There was no mistaking the duke’s, or Philip’s father’s, relief. Before anyone could speak, Philip continued, “I am speaking of a curse, one written on a broken stone tablet I discovered just before sailing from Alexandria.”

Philip’s mind drifted back to Alexandria, to the day, months earlier, when he’d found the stone. Squinting against the bright sun, breathing in the hot, dry air that felt and smelled like no other… air redolent with the scent of history and ancient civilizations. Air that he would miss with an ache he couldn’t describe when he departed the following day for the country of his birth. To honor an agreement he’d made a decade earlier. An agreement he could postpone no longer, now that his father was dying.

He’d been nearly ready to quit for the day-his last day-but his reluctance to put away his tools-for the last time-to wipe the dust and dirt and sand from his hands-for the last time-propelled him to continue. And minutes later…

“The day before I was to depart Alexandria for my voyage back to England, I made a discovery-an alabaster box. Inside the box was an intriguing stone with writing upon it in an ancient language. As ancient languages are of special interest to me, I was especially excited about the find. I took the box and retired to my cabin on board the Dream Keeper in preparation for our departure at dawn. When I deciphered the stone, I realized it was a curse.”

Lord Hedington’s countenance resembled a thundercloud. “What sort of person places any credence in such nonsense-”

“It is not nonsense, your grace. Such things were very common in ancient times, and indeed still exist today in many cultures.” Philip drew a deep breath, then continued. “Based on the translation and my estimation of the age of the stone, which is called the Stone of Tears, I judged that the curse was most likely cast during the first or second century B. C. I’ve deduced that it was composed by a man who, just prior to his marriage, discovered that his betrothed had betrayed him with another. The curse was cast upon the man’s betrothed, and it called for three events to occur-two during the days just prior to the wedding, and the third two days after the wedding. Before the wedding, the curse decreed, the bride-to-be would suffer a non-life-threatening fall, then a severe headache. I believe these were meant to symbolize her ‘fall’ from grace and the ‘pain’ the man’s bride-to-be inflicted upon him. Then, two days after the wedding, the bride would… die.”

Silence followed his words. Then the duke lifted his quizzing glass and peered at Philip. “So you believe, based on some scribblings on an old piece of rock, that if you were to marry my daughter, she would die two days after the wedding. Does that sum it up?”

“Yes, actually, that sums it up perfectly. The curse specified that the bride of anyone who read the stone would suffer the curse-or his wife, if he were already married. And I have read the stone. At first I held out some hope that perhaps the curse had been broken over the centuries, but unfortunately recent events dash that hope. You will recall that two days ago, Lady Sarah suffered a non-life-threatening fall, and then a severe headache. Just as the curse portends.”

“Coincidence-”

“It is not, your grace. It is proof which cannot be ignored, especially when coupled with the missive I received several hours after my return to England.”

“Meaning precisely what?”

“During the first week of our voyage home, I pored over the stone, looking for any small clue I might have missed. When not in my cabin, I kept the stone hidden so as not to risk anyone else finding and translating it. However, several days into our journey, while studying the stone, I heard a loud booming noise. Concerned, I ran from my cabin.” He dragged his hands down his face. “I thought I’d hidden the stone, but apparently in my haste I failed to do so. When I returned, I discovered one of my colleagues, Edward Binsmore, in my cabin. He’d come to check on me due to the noise. When he entered my cabin, he saw the stone on my desk and, being as knowledgeable with the ancient languages as I am, he translated it. We both instantly realized the ramifications of him doing so, as Edward had a wife awaiting his arrival in England.”

Philip looked at his audience and struggled to keep his voice steady. “We prayed the entire journey, and the moment we docked in London, Edward departed for his home just outside the city. Several hours later, a message arrived from him.” His throat tight, he withdrew Edward’s note from his waistcoat and handed it to the duke. “Mary was dead. She’d passed away without warning. The date of her death was exactly two days after Edward had translated the Stone of Tears.”

While the duke scanned the missive, Philip went on, “As you see from the note, Edward reports that during the two days prior to her death, Mary had suffered a fall in the garden, followed by the onset of a severe headache. The letter convinced me, and him as well, that the curse remains unbroken.” He plunged his fingers through his hair. “I quite understand that it is difficult to believe in such things. That which cannot be seen or touched, things that indeed stretch the bounds of credulity, are hard to accept. Or are dismissed as coincidence. However, based on my years of study and research, I no longer believe in coincidence. And my belief in the power of this curse is supported-most tragically-by Edward, who is considered an expert on such matters. And will also be supported by my American colleague, Andrew Stanton, who sits amongst the wedding guests.”

The duke’s face turned crimson. “I don’t believe in this tomfoolery you are spouting.”

“That is certainly your choice, but that does not make these curses any less real. My friend Edward Binsmore’s wife is dead as a result of this one.”

The duke waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, but a flicker of uncertainty flashed in his eyes. “Sarah informed me about her fall at the dressmaker’s shop. Clearly the chit must have struck her head during the incident if she even listened to this cock-and-bull tale. I cannot believe you passed along such a nonsensical tale.”

Philip looked steadily at Lord Hedington, hoping the man would see the depth of his sincerity. “I could not be responsible for your daughter’s death. And I very much believe that if we had married she would have died. You may not believe in the curse,” he said quietly, “but given the facts I presented, can you honestly tell me that you would be willing to risk your daughter’s life on the possibility that I am wrong?”

Lord Hedington pressed his lips tightly together, then finally shook his head.

“Given the circumstances,” Philip continued, “I told Lady Sarah I quite understood if she chose to cry off. Indeed, I strongly encouraged her to do so.”

Lord Hedington’s face paled a bit. “And if she hadn’t?”

Philip’s gaze did not waver. “I would not have married her. Not today. I cannot consider doing so until I determine if there is a way to break the curse.”

“Then why the bloody hell did you come here today?” the duke demanded.

“I did not know of Lady Sarah’s decision. I tried to see her yesterday, but she remained indisposed. If she’d chosen to come to the church today, I wanted to talk to her, explain again why we could not marry, at least at this time. Encourage her to consider a postponement. I couldn’t just abandon my bride at the altar.”

“As you did three years ago,” Philip’s father said in a frigid voice. Philip turned toward his father and they exchanged a long look. He and Father had already engaged in this argument the day Philip arrived back in London, but the icy expression in the earl’s eyes clearly indicated they were about to have it again, regardless of the fact that they had an audience.

“I am gravely disappointed in you, Philip,” his father said quietly. “When I agreed to finance your antiquarian studies and expeditions abroad, clearly it was a very grave error on my part not to have stipulated a date by which you were to return and marry, but it foolishly had not occurred to me that you would still be trotting about the globe on the eve of your thirtieth birthday. I honored my part of the bargain. It is to your great dishonor that you refuse to do the same.”

“It is not dishonorable to save a woman’s life, Father.”

He made a dismissive sound. “Your reasons are based on superstition, coincidence, and nonsense, and quite frankly sound like nothing more than a pitiful excuse to renege on your duty. Sadly, I cannot say that I am unduly surprised by this turn of events. You brought embarrassment and scandal to the family when you did not return to honor the marriage I arranged for you three years ago.”

“An arrangement you made without my prior knowledge or consent.” He yanked on the damn cravat that strangled him like a noose. “The reason I returned to England now was to honor our agreement and marry.”

“Because I’m dying.”

“Because I always intended to do so. Someday. Your health made me realize that someday is now.”

“Yet the first thing you tell me is that you will not honor our agreement. Because of some silly stone.”

Frustration clenched Philip’s hands. From the corner of his eye he noted that Lord Hedington and Miss Chilton-Grizedale were listening to this exchange with wide-eyed, rapt attention. Well, the hell with them. They certainly weren’t the first people to disapprove of him. “My honor and integrity mean everything to me. If I were not honorable, I would have remained silent. Married Lady Sarah, and after her untimely demise two days later, I would have simply gone on with my life in the way I wished, returning to Egypt or Greece or Rome, having honored my agreement to marry.”

His words hung in the air between them, the ticking of the mantel clock the only sound breaking the prolonged silence.

Finally Miss Chilton-Grizedale cleared her throat. “You mentioned trying to determine if there is a way to break the curse, my lord. Do you think there is a way to do so?”

He turned toward her. The greenish hue had left her skin. She studied him through serious, aqua-blue eyes, and he mentally approved her calm outward demeanor. Imperious though she was, she was obviously not the frail sort of female who flew into the boughs at the slightest provocation, and her thought processes were clear and concise. He could see why his father considered her a good strategist.

“I do not know if there is a way to break the curse,” Phillip admitted. “There often is. Unfortunately the Stone of Tears itself is broken, so if there is a remedy to the curse, it is missing. I am, however, hopeful that the other portion might be amongst the artifacts and items that either sailed on my ship or on the second ship which departed several days before mine. I’ve learned that that ship, the Sea Raven, has not yet docked-most likely due to weather or repair delays-but I am expecting it any day now. And even before it arrives, there are dozens of packed crates to unseal and examine.”

“Wouldn’t you remember finding such a piece of rock?” she asked.

Philip shook his head in frustration. “I do not recall seeing any such stone. However, that does not mean that it is not amongst the artifacts. I did not see every item that was packed away. It is quite possible that it was sent back to England on a previous shipment and is already awaiting me in the British Museum. Rest assured I will devote myself to the search. But in the meantime, we must deal with the situation at hand.”

“Which is the bride’s absence at your wedding,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale murmured.

“And your refusal to marry,” Philip’s father added in a tight voice.

He turned to his father and met glacial blue eyes. “Yes. At least I refuse until such time as I discover a way to break the curse, assuming there is a way. If I am able to find a way to break the curse, I shall not hesitate to marry Lady Sarah.”

“And if there isn’t a remedy? Or you cannot discover it?”

“Then I cannot marry. Anyone. Ever.”

Father’s lips narrowed into a tight line. “You gave me your word.”

“But that was before-”

“Before nothing. Promises were made. Agreements struck. I shudder to think of the social and financial consequences should you not marry Lady Sarah.”

“The financial consequences will be substantial, I assure you,” Lord Hedington broke in, his tone ominous.

“Good God, if this ridiculous curse story gets out,” his father fumed, “the scandal will ruin us all. People will believe you are insane.”

“Is that what you think? That I’ve gone mad?” Father’s reaction was exactly what he’d expected, yet it was impossible to suppress the hurt and frustration from his voice.

Color suffused his father’s pale cheeks. “I would almost prefer that to believing you’ve made up this asinine excuse to sidestep your duty and promise. Again.”

“You once told me that a man is only as good as his word.” A long look passed between them, fraught with memories of a dark day standing over Mother’s casket. “It is advice I took to heart. I give you my word that avoiding my duty is not what I am doing.”

His father squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, then met Philip’s gaze. “If I were to pretend to believe all this rubbish, I’d say that clearly you believe very strongly in this curse. However, that belief is misguided, and, for all our sakes, you must put aside these… notions and attempt to correct this debacle you’ve created. You’ve spent too many years away from civilization, immersed in ancient customs that simply do not apply in today’s modern world.”

“There is no mistaking the words scripted on the stone.”

“They are words, Philip. Nothing more. From what you’ve told me, they are the ramblings of a jilted, jealous man. They have no power-unless you insist upon giving power to them. Do not do so.”

“I’m afraid I cannot oblige you, Father, other than to assure you that I shall devote myself to the search for the missing piece of stone.”

Lord Hedington harrumphed. “As I’m not certain at this moment what to believe or make of this curse story, I have to agree with Ravensly that no word of it is to leave this room.” His scowl encompassed the entire group. “Agreed?”

Everyone nodded and murmured their assent.

“And I want to find my daughter.”

“Both excellent plans, your grace,” Philip agreed. “However, I believe the more pressing matter at the moment is the hundreds of guests waiting in the church.” He dragged his hands down his face, his gaze alternating between Father, Lord Hedington, and Miss Chilton-Grizedale. “Since we’ve agreed for now not to mention the curse, we shall have to agree upon another excuse, for I’m afraid we can no longer delay a formal announcement that today’s wedding will not be taking place.”

Grim-faced, Lord Hedington and Father headed toward the door. Just as Philip fell into step behind them, a low moan, followed by a thud, sounded behind him. He looked over his shoulder and froze.

Miss Chilton-Grizedale lay sprawled in a heap on the floor.

Meredith came awake slowly. Someone was massaging her hand in the most delightful manner. She forced her heavy eyelids open and suddenly found herself staring up into Lord Greybourne’s bespectacled brown eyes. The instant their gazes met, his expression filled with relief. She blinked. He did not look at all like a frog. He looked scholarly, but in a disheveled sort of way. Eminently masculine and strong. And he smelled delightful. Like sandalwood and freshly laundered linen. Yes, he looked most decidedly un-frog-like. And suddenly puzzled.

“No, of course there are no frogs here, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

Heavens, had she spoken out loud? Surely not. A buzzing commenced in her ears, and she stared into his face. He seemed like a decent man… announce that today’s wedding will not be taking place… not taking place.

And he’d just ruined her life. Dear God.

“Glad you’ve finally come around,” he said. “Had thought you were made of sterner stuff, but clearly I was mistaken.”

A frown pulled down her brows. “Come around? What do you mean?”

“You swooned.”

“I did no such thing. I am not prone to the vapors.”

Good heavens, what was wrong with her tongue? It felt thick and foreign in her mouth.

He smiled. A crooked half smile that creased a dimple in his cheek. “Well, for one not prone to the vapors, you sunk like a papyrus brick tossed in the Nile. Do you feel well enough to sit up?”

Sit up? She cast her gaze about and realized with no small amount of chagrin that she was lying on her back on a sofa. And that Lord Greybourne sat perched upon the edge of the sofa, his hip pressed against hers, her one hand clasped between his wide palms, which continued to gently caress her skin. Heat radiated up her arm, spreading warmth through her entire body-warmth that had nothing to do with the consternation suffusing her. He was entirely too close, and she was entirely too… prone.

Good heavens, she had swooned! The reason for her vapors came rushing back in a wave. Lady Sarah… no bride… no wedding… cursed groom-who was indeed rough around the edges, in ways she’d never imagined.

Snatching her hand from his, she lifted her head, but the movement served no purpose other than to accentuate the odd floating sensation behind her eyes. A low moan passed her lips.

“Take some deep breaths,” Lord Greybourne said, and demonstrated by drawing in a mighty breath that puffed out his chest, then slowly exhaling. His warm breath tickled the curls surrounding her face.

“Do you think I don’t know how to breathe?” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so testy, but this disastrous debacle coupled with his closeness to her person had clearly tossed her off kilter.

“I’m not certain. I do know that you won’t require a demonstration on how to swoon. You already know how to do that.”

Good heavens, he was nothing short of insufferable. Here they were, faced with utter travesty and social ruin, and he was making jokes! Closing her eyes, she took a half dozen deep breaths. Feeling considerably better, she again attempted to sit up, but discovered she couldn’t move. “You’re sitting on my gown, Lord Greybourne.”

He shifted, then, grasping her shoulders, lifted her in a no-nonsense fashion into a sitting position, all but plopping her onto her bottom. Embarrassment, combined with a healthy dose of irritation-directed at herself or him, she wasn’t certain-pricked her. “This may come as a shock, my lord, but I am not a sack of potatoes to be hauled about.” The jarring movement knocked a long curl loose from her carefully arranged coiffure, and the lock flopped over her eye.

Pushing aside her hair with impatient fingers, she realized she no longer wore her bonnet.

“I removed it,” he said, before she could question him. “I thought perhaps the ribbon tied beneath your chin might restrict your breathing.” A half smile touched his lips and he tugged at his cravat. “God knows this thing constricts my airflow. You might also want to fix your gown.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of her neck.

Dipping her chin, she realized with chagrin that her fichu was loose and pulled askew, exposing an expanse of skin that, while not indecent, was certainly far more of her bosom than normally saw the light of day.

She sizzled him with an outraged glare, but his lips curved upward in a patently unrepentant grin. “Didn’t want a choking female on my hands.”

Any gratitude she may have harbored for his assistance evaporated. “I merely felt light-headed, my lord-”

“Happy to hear you admit it.”

“-and as such, it was hardly necessary for you to make so free with my attire.”

“Ah. Then I suppose I shouldn’t have straightened your garters.”

Her eyes goggled, and the ill-mannered lout had the audacity to wink at her.

“I am teasing you, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. I merely wanted to bring some color back into your pale cheeks. I would not dream of touching your garters without your express permission. Probably.”

Heat raced up her neck. This man was beyond insufferable-he was incorrigible. Uncouth. “I can assure you, you shall never receive such permission. And a gentleman would never say such a scandalous thing.”

Again that dimple in his cheek flashed. “I’m certain you are correct.”

Before she could fashion a reply, he rose. Crossing to a ceramic pitcher resting on the desk, he poured water into a crystal tumbler. He moved with lithe grace, and the knowledge that he’d untied and removed her bonnet, loosened her fichu, that his fingers had surely brushed over her throat, touched her hair, rushed heat through her-a fiery warmth that felt like something decidedly more than mere embarrassment.

Returning to her, he handed her the glass. “Drink this.”

She somehow resisted the urge to toss the contents into his face. The tepid liquid eased her dry throat, and she assimilated the fact that she’d swooned-for the first time in her life. He clearly thought her some weak-willed twit. In her eight and twenty years she’d suffered worse things, recovered from worse, without succumbing to such missish nonsense. But dear God, this situation was a disaster.

Lady Sarah had abandoned Lord Greybourne at the altar-certainly a circumstance rife with scandal. But one made all the worse, from Meredith’s point of view, because the wedding in question-the most talked-about, anticipated wedding in years-was one Meredith had arranged. And as much as she might wish it otherwise, every member of Society would remember that snippet of information. Remember it, and revile her because of it. Blame her for arranging such an unacceptable match, just as Lord Ravensly and Lord Hedington had done.

All her grand plans for her future evaporated like a trail of steam escaping a teakettle. Her reputation, her respectability for which she’d fought so hard, worked so tirelessly to establish, teetered on the edge of extinction. And all because of him.

Her gaze wandered around the room, and for the first time she realized that she and Lord Greybourne were alone. Just another facet of this debacle that could result in disaster. “Where are your father and Lord Hedington?”

“They went to announce to the congregation that Lady Sarah had taken ill and therefore the wedding could not take place today.” He exhaled a long breath. “Isn’t it odd how two statements that are both true can still somehow be a he?”

“Not a he,” Meredith said, hastily adjusting her fichu and straightening her dark blue skirts. “I prefer to call it an omission of certain pertinent facts.”

He cocked his head and studied her. “A definition that sounds very much like that for ‘he. ’”

“Not at all,” Meredith said briskly. “A lie is making false statements. ‘Tis not a lie to simply not tell everything you know.”

“Actually, I believe that is called a ‘lie of omission. ’”

“It appears you possess an overactive conscience, Lord Greybourne.” At least she could be grateful that he had a conscience-dusty relic though it most likely was.

“More a case of liking my facts and definitions to be neatly aligned.”

“Must be your scientific nature.”

“Yes.” The low hum of muffled voices drifted into the room. Lord Greybourne rose and walked to the window. His lips flattened. “People are leaving the church. Clearly the announcement has been made.” For several seconds he appeared lost in a brown study, then suddenly his eyes focused directly on her. “It has just occurred to me that this episode no doubt bodes poorly for you and your matchmaking enterprise.”

Meredith stared at him, grimly noting that his position by the window bathed him with a golden halo of light- quite a feat for a man she regarded as the devil himself.

“Bodes poorly?” She nearly laughed at his understatement. “Ruination of gargantuan proportions more aptly describes the future of my matchmaking enterprise.” She did not bother to voice the obvious-that this entire mess was his fault-him and his wretched curse. Surely there must be a way to fix this? She chewed on her bottom lip for several seconds, and a possible solution sprang to mind.

“I’m certain we can agree that the cancellation of today’s ceremony is problematic, not just for me, but for everyone involved,” she said. “If, however, you and Lady Sarah were to marry at a future date, preferably soon, that would dispel any scandal, and everyone would see that I did indeed make a wonderful match.”

He nodded slowly, stroking his chin. “I agree with your theory. However, you are forgetting about the curse.”

She debated whether to baldly state her opinion regarding the curse.

Clearly her skepticism showed, because he said, “Just because we cannot see or touch something does not make it any less real, does not mean it does not exist.” He stepped closer to her, and she had to force herself to stand her ground and not retreat. His expression was so earnest, his eyes behind his lenses glowing with intensity. “Religions the world over worship a variety of gods that cannot be seen. I cannot see nor touch the air in this room, yet the fact that I can breathe tells me it is here.”

At his words she drew in an involuntary breath, instantly noting that the air she could not see or touch smelled like Lord Greybourne. Fresh, clean, and masculine. And rife with potentially ruinous scandal.

“Surely you will be able to find a cure, or remedy, or whatever one finds to rid oneself of such things. You seem a bright sort of fellow.”

His lips twitched. “Why, thank you. I-”

“Although your manners and appearance are in desperate need of refurbishment. We shall work to correct the damage years away from proper Society have wrought upon you before your wedding to Lady Sarah is rescheduled.”

He cocked a brow. “And what, precisely, is wrong with my appearance?”

She mimicked his haughty expression and ticked items off on her fingers. “Hair too long and unkempt. Cravat disastrous. Waistcoat partially unbuttoned. Shirtfront wrinkled, cuffs too long. Jacket buttons unpolished, breeches too snug, boots scuffed. Do you not have a valet?”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bloody domineering piece. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to employ a valet as yet. I’ve been rather preoccupied with trying to find the missing piece of stone-which I am determined to do.”

“Yes, you certainly must find it. We shall need to reschedule the wedding as soon as possible. Tell me, what did you think of Lady Sarah?”

He shrugged. “She was acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” She barely managed to choke out the word. Good lord, on top of everything else, the man was daft. “She is a diamond of the first water. She will make the perfect viscountess and hostess. Not only that, in financial terms, and in terms of your estates, the match is highly advantageous.”

“You say that as if I care a jot about such things, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

She stared at him. “Do you not?”

He looked as if he were debating how to answer, then he said, “Actually, no. I do not. Society and all its trappings hold no appeal for me. They never have. Parties, soirees, the Season, none of it interests me. My holdings are already substantial enough. I do not require more land.”

She barely suppressed a snort of disbelief. A man not interested in increasing his holdings? Not lured by the appeal of Society’s trappings? Either he thought her a gullible fool or the years he’d spent gathering artifacts under the desert sun had greatly depleted his mental acuity.

He adjusted his glasses, and Meredith noticed his hands. Large, well-formed, long-fingered hands, browned by the sun. Hands that had massaged hers only moments ago. They looked strong and capable and manly in a way that stirred her in an odd, unfamiliar manner.

“Honor dictates I marry-and I need to do so before Father succumbs,” he said, his voice dragging her gaze back to his. “So you see, as far as I’m concerned, whomever you chose, diamond or not, would not much matter. I’m not necessarily particular about the bride, so long as she is not overly off-putting-in which case, Lady Sarah is acceptable.”

Being a practical person herself, Meredith couldn’t find fault with his logic. Still, it irked that he appeared less than bowled over by her coup of snaring the much-sought-after Lady Sarah for him.

“What if you are unable to undo this curse of yours, Lord Greybourne?”

“Failure is simply not an option I will consider, Miss Chilton-Grizdale.”

Since she wished to postpone thinking about the dreadful ramifications should he fail, she asked, “How long do you estimate it will take you to search through your crates?”

He frowned and considered. “With help, perhaps a fortnight.”

The wheels in her head whirred. “That should give us ample time to come up with a contingency plan.”

“And what sort of plan do you suggest, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? Believe me, I am open to suggestions. But I fail to see any, as the facts are quite irrefutable: If I do not break the curse, I cannot marry. And I must marry. However, with this curse hanging about my neck, I would risk the life of any woman I married-something I am not willing to do. And I cannot imagine any woman being willing to do so.”

Unfortunately, Meredith was hard-pressed to immediately name anyone who would want to marry even the heir to an earldom, only to risk expiring two days later. “But surely-”

“Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, would you be willing to take such a risk?” He stepped closer to her, and suddenly the room seemed to shrink significantly. “Would you want to risk losing your life by becoming my bride?”

Meredith fought the urge to back up, to fan herself to relieve the heat creeping up her neck. Instead she lifted her chin and faced him squarely. “Naturally I would not wish to die two days after my wedding, if I were to believe in such things as curses. Which, in spite of your compelling arguments, I am still inclined to regard as a series of unfortunate coincidences. However, the point is moot, my lord, as I have no desire to ever marry.”

Surprise flickered behind his spectacles. “That places you in a category of females that I believe you might be in all by yourself.”

“I have never objected to solitude.” She tilted her head and studied him for several seconds, then asked, “Do you normally place people into ‘categories’?”

“I’m afraid so. Almost instantaneously. People, objects, most everything. Always have. A trait quite common among scientists.”

“Actually, I tend to do the same thing, yet I am not a scientist.”

“Interesting. Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, what category have you placed me in?”

Without even thinking, she blurted out, “The ‘not what I expected’ category.”

The instant the words passed her lips, mortification suffused her. Heavens, she hoped he wouldn’t ask what she meant, for she couldn’t very well tell him that she’d been expecting an older version of the pudgy, toady youth in the painting, and he was so very much… not that.

He regarded her with an intensity that filled her with the urge to fidget. “That is very interesting, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, for that is the precise category I placed you in.”

Feeling uncharacteristically unnerved by his regard, Meredith stepped away from him and adopted her most brisk tone. “Now that we are all categorized, let us get back to our present dilemma.” Her brain raced, trying to cast the situation in the best light. “Today is the first of the month. I believe the best plan is to reschedule the wedding for, let us say, the twenty-second. That should give you more than enough time to search your crates.” And give me ample time to polish you into more marriageable material so no one will doubt what a brilliant match I’ve made. “We’ll plan something small and private this time, in your father’s drawing room, perhaps.” In her mind’s eye she envisioned the placement of the flowers, and the complimentary, effusive announcement in The Times the following day, praising her skills, reestablishing her reputation. “We’ve only to convince Lady Sarah that this is the best course. Do you think you can uncurse yourself by then?”

“That is certainly my intention.”

A tiny flicker of hope coughed to life in Meredith’s breast. Yes, perhaps this could possibly be salvaged. Of course, the situation was a debacle. However, it was not a complete and total debacle. She clung to that thought like a lifeline, lest she crumble into a heap. Damn it all, this was so unfair! She’d worked so hard. Had sacrificed so much to finally earn the respect she’d so desperately wanted. She couldn’t lose it… not again. Yet the thought of having to go through it all again… the lying and cheating and stealing. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. No. It couldn’t come to that. He’d cure his curse and all would be well. It had to be.

A knock sounded at the door, and Lord Greybourne called, “Come in.”

Lord Hedington marched into the room, looking as if he were a volcano on the verge of erupting.

“You advised the guests?” Lord Greybourne asked.

“Yes. I told them Sarah had fallen ill, but gossip about one or the other of you crying off is already rampant. No doubt this damnable story will make the front page of The Times. ”

Meredith cleared her throat. “Lord Greybourne and I were just discussing how best to salvage this situation, your grace. He is hopeful of finding the missing piece of the stone, and thereby being able to reverse the curse. Based on that, I shall reschedule the wedding to take place on the twenty-second. I’ll send the announcement to The Times immediately to squelch any gossip.”

Lord Hedington’s gaze bounced between them, then his head jerked in a nod. “Very well. But I expect to be assured that no harm will come to my daughter. If I am not confident of her safety, there will be no wedding, scandal be damned. And now I plan to return home and retrieve this note Sarah claims to have left me.” Turning on his heel, he quit the room.

Meredith looked at Lord Greybourne. “I offer you my assistance, my lord, in searching for the stone.”

“Thank you. I don’t suppose by any chance you are a farmer, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”

Good Lord, the man was daft. “A farmer? Certainly not. Why do you ask?”

“Because I fear this will very much be like looking for a needle amongst the haystacks.”

Narrowed eyes assessed the collection of Egyptian artifacts resting on red velvet behind the glass display case in the British Museum. How fitting that the artifacts should lie upon such a color-the shade of blood. Blood that had already been shed. And blood that would soon be shed.

Your blood, Greybourne. You shall suffer for the pain you’ve caused. Soon.

Very soon.