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.”

Philip’s stomach fell. “Did you recognize him?”

“No.” Edward’s pacing increased in speed. “He wore a black mask. Covered his entire head, except for his eyes and mouth. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. He said, ‘I want what’s in the crate.’ ” Edward halted and stared at Philip with a bleak expression. “I fought him… I tried. I managed to get the knife away from him. Kicked it under a crate. But he was too strong. Must have knocked me out. When I came around, I was alone. He’d clearly searched through the artifacts in the crate I’d been working on, as the area was ransacked.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “It looked as if several pieces were broken, and some may be missing. I could not tell. I tried to leave, but the doors were secured from the outside-the bastard must have locked me in. The only way for me to escape was to break a window. I tripped and fell in the glass in my haste to get out. I looked around for Billy, but didn’t see him. He must have gotten away. Then I ran until I managed to find a hack and get here. I’m sorry, Philip…”

Philip laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Don’t apologize, please. I’m just thankful you’re all right. You are all right, aren’t you?”

“According to Bakari, yes. Nothing broken. A cracked rib. Some bruises. Head hurts like the devil.” He gently rubbed his bruised jaw. “Bastard had fists like bloody bricks.” He appeared about to say something, then stopped.

“What?”

Edward shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just… his voice. There was something vaguely familiar about it.”

“So this could be someone you know? Perhaps someone who sailed with us aboard the Dream Keeper who knows the value of the contents of the crates?”

“It’s possible, yes. There is something else.” Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a small, wrinkled piece of foolscap, then handed it to Philip. “I found this shoved into my pocket.”

Philip looked at the offering, and he stilled at the brief message: The suffering begins now.

“I don’t like this, Philip,” Edward said. “The bastard made me suffer, no doubt about that, but I can’t help but feel there’s something more… sinister going on here. And why would he want me to suffer? I’ve no enemies that I know of.”

“I think,” Philip said slowly, “that this note may not have been meant for you.”

“As comforting as it would be to believe that, the note was in my pocket, and I’m the one who was pummeled to dust. Who else would it have been meant for?”

“Me.” Philip quickly told him about finding his journals out of place, and the note on his desk. “I asked every member of the household staff if they’d touched my journals. They all denied it, and I’ve no cause to doubt them. This note you found and the attack on you makes it clear that this person is serious. The bastard most likely believed it was me in the warehouse tonight, examining my crates.”

Edward nodded slowly. “Yes, you’re probably correct.”

A sharp edge of guilt sliced through Philip. Damn it, Edward had been hurt because of him. Had the guard, an innocent bystander, been hurt-or worse-because of him as well? Mary Binsmore’s death already lay heavy upon his heart. Would someone else be hurt? If so, who? Father? Catherine? Andrew? Bakari? Meredith? Bloody hell. If someone wanted him to suffer, what more effective way to accomplish that than to harm the people he cared about? The suffering begins now.

Moving to his desk, he withdrew the note he’d received and compared the handwriting. “These were written by the same person.”

“I had the distinct impression that he was looking for something specific.”

“What makes you say that?”

Edward closed his eyes. “It’s difficult to say. It all sort of happened in a blur. But he was muttering things as we fought. Things like ‘It’s mine’ and ‘Once it’s mine, you’re finished.’ ” He opened his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t recall anything else. Based on the size of the lump on my head, I was hit pretty hard.”

“I’m sorry, Edward. And grateful your injuries weren’t more serious.”

“Yes, it could have been much worse. As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Philip, we need to ask ourselves two questions: What if the thing he spoke of is the missing piece of the Stone of Tears? And what if he found it?”


With Edward’s disturbing questions still buzzing through his mind, Philip instructed Bakari to arrange for transportation for Edward.

“I’ll report the evening’s events to the magistrate before returning home,” Edward promised.

“I still think I should go with you-” Philip began.

“No. There is nothing to be gained by you leaving your guests. I’ll take care of it and report back to you in the morning.”

Philip reluctantly agreed. “All right. I’ll plan to arrive at the warehouse directly after breakfast.” He rested his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “We’ll find out who did this.”

Edward nodded, then departed. The instant the door closed behind him, Philip turned to Bakari. “How serious are his injuries?”

“Most troubling is lump on head and glass embedded deep in back of hand. He’ll hurt, but heal.”

Philip’s relief did nothing to assuage his concern. “There may be… trouble. I want you to take extra precautions.”

Bakari merely nodded. Philip’s request was one he’d heard numerous times during their adventures together. Bakari was well acquainted with trouble, and Philip had every confidence in the man’s ability to circumvent it.

Casting a meaningful glance toward the drawing room, Bakari harrumphed, and Philip nodded. Time to return to his guests. After taking a deep breath to compose himself, he returned to the drawing room. He’d barely set foot in the room when Meredith appeared beside him.