Goddard stepped around him and surveyed the situation. “Miss Merrie told me ‘bout last night’s break-in. This window’s probably how the bloke what hurt yer friend got in.”

A frown pulled down Philip’s brows. “Perhaps… but from what Edward described, I thought the robber had subdued the guard, then simply walked in.” Hell, had someone else broken in? After Edward’s altercation? The sound of the heavy wooden door opening interrupted his thoughts. Brisk footfalls, obviously a man’s, thudded on the floor. Seconds later, Mr. Danpry, the warehouse manager, rounded the corner. Philip had met the large-boned man the day the Dream Keeper had docked and his crates had been delivered.

Danpry stopped short at the sight of Goddard and Philip. “Lord Greybourne. I just heard about what happened here last night.” His gaze skimmed over the broken glass, and his jaw hardened. “I’m confident they’ll catch the fiend, my lord. The magistrate wants him, and the warehouse owner has personally hired a Runner.”

“Excellent. I’ve looked around. It appears that nothing other than two of my crates were disturbed.”

“You might have been the only one robbed, my lord, but this ain’t just a simple burglary.”

“Of course not. My friend and quite possibly your guard, were injured.”

“The guard, Billy Timson, was more than injured, Lord Greybourne. He was found an hour ago. Floatin‘ in the Thames. This is now a murder.”


They paired off, Meredith and Albert taking one crate, Philip and his father the other, a fact which relieved Meredith greatly. It was difficult enough being in the same room with Philip; standing shoulder to shoulder with him, their hands brushing as they removed the delicate artifacts, would prove pure torture.

For more than two hours, conversation consisted solely of naming items as they were removed from their respective crates and settled on the blankets covering the floor, during which time the air had grown unbearably warm.

Slipping her handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at the moisture beading on her neck. Although she’d had no intention of looking at him, her errant gaze wandered toward Philip. He was lifting a small statue from the crate, his back toward her. Dusty streaks marred his white linen shirt, which also bore a T-shaped darkened stain that ran across his wide shoulders and bisected the center of his back where the material rested against his damp skin.

Her gaze traveled downward, over his hips and buttocks, continuing down the backs of his long, muscular legs, all of which his snug breeches accentuated in a way that did absolutely nothing to cool her.

At that moment he turned around, and her gaze snapped upward, mortified to be caught staring. But his attention was riveted on the palm-sized statue he held. Just as her attention was riveted by the sight of him.

His hair was damp, the burnished streaks darkened by the result of his toils. His glasses had slid down his nose, and she had to plant her feet to keep from giving in to the temptation to walk over and adjust the spectacles for him. But even as the thought entered her mind, he pushed them up himself.

Her gaze again wandered downward. Along with his jacket, he’d discarded his cravat and loosened his shirt around his neck, allowing her a pulse-quickening glimpse of his tanned throat and a bit of his chest. She caught a flash of shiny metal. The chain that held his gold coin. A coin she knew lay nestled against his vibrantly warm skin.

Thanks to his labors, the front of his shirt also bore a T-shaped stain, the material clinging to his chest and abdomen in a way that fired her imagination and curiosity. His sinewy forearms drew her avid gaze next, and she vividly recalled me feel of those strong arms holding her, urging her closer. To his hands… strong, sun-browned hands that now gently cradled a piece of ancient history. Magic hands, with callus-tipped fingers that belied his status as a titled gentleman, that had sifted through her hair. Touched her lips. Caressed her breasts.

Down, down trailed her gaze, over his flat stomach, then lower, to linger over the material stretched snugly over the part of him that fascinated her in a way she desperately did not want to be fascinated.

Tearing her gaze away from that, she continued tracking lower, over his muscled thighs, down to his dusty, scuffed black leather boots. He was dirty, disheveled, sweaty. She shouldn’t find him the least bit appealing. And in truth she didn’t. In truth, she found him devastatingly appealing. Dangerously appealing. Instead of being put off by his disordered appearance, she wanted nothing more than to strip him of his dirty clothing, then offer to bathe him.

Heat that had nothing to do with the oppressive warehouse air whooshed through her at the disturbing, unwanted erotic image of her running slick, soapy hands over a naked, aroused Philip. Giving herself a mental shake, she raised her gaze. And met his intense stare.

Behind his lenses his eyes burned with compelling awareness, the flames smoldering in those dark brown depths, leaving no doubt that he knew she’d looked at him in a way that no one would ever call proper. While he could not divine her exact thoughts, he clearly recognized the gist of them.

“Feeling overheated, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?” he asked in a silky voice.

Yes, damn you, and it’s entirely your fault. “I think we are all suffering from the furnacelike temperature in here.”

His gaze skimmed over her, and she inwardly grimaced. Surely she must resemble a bedraggled, limp dust rag. When their eyes met again, his expression was no less compelling, but now tempered with concern.

“Please forgive me. I was so wrapped up in my work, I failed to realize how uncomfortable you must be. As much as I appreciate your help, these are no conditions for a lady. I would be happy to escort you home.”

“Nonsense. While I appreciate your concern, I am not a hothouse flower in need of pampering. I insist upon helping with the search. Time is of the essence, and I’ve a vested interest in you locating the missing piece of stone.”

“Vested interest meaning that without the missing stone, you will not be able to marry me off, preferably to one of those hothouse flowers whom I met last evening.”

“I prefer to call them properly bred young ladies-”

“I’m certain you do.”

“-and yes, marrying you off is the plan. We both stand to lose a great deal if you cannot break the curse.”

Something she could not decipher flashed in his eyes. “No argument here on that point.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Beggin‘ yer pardon, Miss Merrie, Lord Greybourne,” Albert broke in, making Meredith want to kiss him with gratitude for the interruption, “but I’ve just checked off the last item in the crate. Nothin’s missing.”

There was no mistaking Philip’s relief, a sentiment Meredith wholeheartedly shared. “Excellent news,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” came the earl’s grim voice. “I’ve just finished with our crate, Philip, and there’s an item unaccounted for.” He tapped his finger on the ledger. “According to your records, a ‘gypsum vessel’ should have been packed in this crate.”

Philip gently set down the marble statue he still held, then looked at the spot where his father pointed. An odd expression passed over his face, then his complexion visibly paled. He dragged his hands down his face. “Damn. I should have noticed… should have made the connection.”

“Noticed what?” Meredith asked, unable to keep the alarm from her voice.

“I recall seeing this entry when I examined the ledgers, but when I noted ‘vessel’ it didn’t seem of any special significance, as I read it to be ‘vessel’ as in ‘boat.’ Not surprising, as you’ll note that there are a predominance of nautical items in that particular crate. I assumed a boat carved from gypsum. But I should have considered that vessel might just as easily have meant ‘box’ of some sort. And I certainly should have made the gypsum connection.”

“What do you mean?” the earl asked. “What is gypsum?”

“It’s a common mineral, been used for centuries to carve into vases, boxes, and such. It’s also called alabaster… which is what the box I found containing the Stone of Tears was carved from.” He exhaled a long breath. “It would seem that there was an alabaster box in this crate. And now it’s gone.”

Eleven

Only nine crates remained.

By six o’clock that evening, they’d completed searching through three more crates-without success. Discouraged, Philip called the work to a halt. His muscles ached, his damp shirt clung to him like an uncomfortable second skin he longed to shed, and hunger he couldn’t ignore much longer grumbled in his stomach. Indeed, the work effort would have ended hours earlier if Meredith hadn’t had the foresight to bring a basket filled with biscuits, scones, cheese, jam, and jars of cider.

He had no intention of quitting for the day, but some food and a change of clothing were in order. Besides, he couldn’t expect anything more from his father, Meredith, or Goddard today. They’d all worked the entire day without a single word of complaint. He’d made his father take several breaks, but the earl appeared to thrive with the work, and was reluctant to quit each time Philip insisted he rest.

In addition to eating and changing his clothes, Philip also wanted to catch up with Andrew, who either was still not feeling well, or had gone to the museum. There was much they needed to discuss.

His father, followed by Goddard, headed down the long walkway toward the exit. Before Meredith fell in behind them, Philip asked, “May I have a word with you, Meredith?”

Goddard halted, looking over his shoulder at Meredith with a questioning gaze.