Jacquie D'Alessandro by Who Will Take This Man Page A

her. “Now, that’s a bald-faced lie if ever I heard one, and I’ve heard plenty,” he said with his characteristic brutal bluntness. “’Tis like a ghostie yer lookin’, all pale and scared-like.” His frown furrowed deeper and he jerked his head toward the newspaper. “I read it. I’d like to get that reporter bloke alone for five minutes. Probably he were eavesdroppin’.”
    “Perhaps, but how he learned of the curse doesn’t really matter at this point.” Her gaze rested on the salver. “I guess we both know what those are. No sense pretending they’re invitations to tea.”
    “Yer most likely correct. I can’t get anything done wot for answerin’ the door.” At that moment the brass knocker sounded.
    “Leave those with me,” Meredith said.
    Albert set the salver on the table, then limped across the floor toward the corridor, his left boot scraping against the wood. The fact that his limp was so pronounced this morning indicated that he’d either not slept well last night or that the weather was damp. Perhaps a combination of both.
    At the threshold he turned and gazed at Meredith with an intense expression. “Don’t you worry none, Miss Merrie. Albert won’t let no one ever hurt you.” He quit the room, and Meredith heard the fading, soft scrape of his boot along the runner in the corridor.
    Her gaze fell to the note-laden salver. Although she knew without reading them what they contained, one by one she broke the wax seals and read the contents. Each note was very much like the last. Just a few hastily scribbled lines, worded in such a way that she could almost feel the heat of censure rising from vellum to scorch herskin. I shall no longer require your services. I wish to terminate our association.
    The exact wording didn’t matter. Each letter represented the same thing: another shovelful of dirt upon the grave in which her reputation and respectability now lay.
    Something had do be done. And quickly.
    But what?
     
    Philip stared at the newspaper in disgust. “How the bloody hell did this reporter find out about the curse?”
    Andrew Stanton, his American friend and antiquarian colleague, looked up from his breakfast in surprise. “You told me everyone had agreed at St. Paul’s not to talk about it.”
    “We did. But somehow this damned reporter found out. Like bloody rabid dogs after a bone.” He tossed The Times aside, and blew out a frustrated breath. “I warned you London would be like this.”
    “Actually, you told me that England was stodgy and dull and boring, and I’m afraid I must disagree. Only hours after our arrival we engaged in a very satisfactory street brawl, resulting in you getting yourself a pet.”
    Philip shot him a dark look. “Yes, a puppy is exactly what I wanted.”
    “You don’t fool me. I’ve seen you doting on the beast. I’ll wager that the moment he’s feeling in top form you’ll be frolicking in the park with him.” Before Philip could icily point out that he did not frolick, Andrew blithely continued, “And then there was the heated argument with your father, topped off by the debacle at St. Paul’s yesterday. No, I most certainly have not been bored. Indeed, I cannot wait to see what happens next.”
    “Have you always been such a bloody pest?” Philip asked with a scowl.
    “Not until I met you.” He grinned. “You taught me well.”
    “Well, the next time you’re about to be chopped to pieces by machete-wielding hooligans, remind me not to intervene.”
    Andrew shuddered at the memory. “Yes, you and your walking stick quite saved the day. How was I to know that woman was the machete-wielding hooligan’s sister?”
    After accepting more coffee from a footman, Philip said, “I received a note from Edward this morning.”
    Andrew’s amusement instantly faded. “How is he?”
    “He claims he is well, but I’m certain he is not. He visited Mary’s grave….” A powerful wave of guilt engulfed Philip. Poor Mary Binsmore. And