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

poor Edward. His friend had been devoted to his wife of two decades. He made a mental note to consult with his solicitor about setting up a trust for Edward. Of course a financial gesture was woefully inadequate, but he had to do something. If it weren’t for me, Mary Binsmore would still be alive—
    Cutting off the disturbing thought, he continued, “He wishes to aid in the search through the crates for the missing piece of stone. I wrote back that I’d welcome his help. God knows we need the assistance, and keeping busy will help him to focus on something other than his loss. I suggested he join you at the British Museum in going through the crates delivered there, while I continue my search at the warehouse.”
    “An excellent plan.” Andrew drained his china cup, then rose, his height and muscular build dwarfing the hovering footman. “I’m off to the museum. I’ll report to you immediately should we find something.”
    “I’ll do the same.”
    No sooner had his friend departed than Bakari entered the breakfast room, his dark brown face set in its usual inscrutable mask, his hands precisely folded against his midsection. Dressed in his customary loose silk shirt, drawstring trousers, soft leather ankle boots, and turban,Bakari had caused quite a stir among the rest of the formal, liveried staff. Philip eyed his manservant warily. It was always impossible to tell if Bakari was about to impart good news or bad news.
    “Your father.”
    Ah. Bad news. Suppressing a resigned sigh, Philip said, “Show him in.”
    Seconds later the earl entered, his gait surprisingly brisk given his complexion bore an unhealthy pale hue. The guilt and regret that lurked within Philip rose sharply from the recesses of his heart, where it dwelled like a hulking beast. Although he was not anxious to engage in another argument with Father, he was glad to see him up and about. Mother had experienced much the same her last months—one good day interspersed with an ever-increasing number of bad days—until there were no more days at all.
    Settling himself in the chair across from Philip, Father’s chilly gaze raked over Philip’s lack of cravat, loose-fitting shirt, and rolled-back sleeves before flicking over the discarded newspaper. After accepting coffee from a footman, Father said, “Damned thorough story. Almost as if the man were in the room with us. I find his intimate knowledge of something we’d agreed should be kept quiet quite…curious.”
    “Are you implying that I provided The Times with this information?”
    “Did you?”
    As he had so many times before, Philip deflected the hurt his father’s doubt arrowed at him. “No, I did not. No doubt someone overheard us. We were not exactly whispering.” Philip dragged his hands down his face. “Besides, I cannot see that it really makes much difference how the story was found out. Indeed, perhaps it is better that it is known. It might cut down on the speculation.”
    A humorless laugh escaped his father. “You’ve been away from Society far too long. No, this is just the sort of story that whets the appetite and causes speculation and innuendo to run rampant. I’m just grateful that Catherine isn’t in London, being subjected to this mess.”
    Philip’s heart squeezed at the mention of his sister. She was the one thing he’d missed during his years abroad, and he couldn’t wait to see her. Her son had contracted a sudden stomach ailment, regrettably postponing her travel plans. “Well, she’s soon to be subjected, I’m afraid,” Philip said. “I received a note from her this morning. Spencer has recovered and Catherine expects to arrive in London this afternoon.”
    “I see. Well, we shall have to prepare her,” his father said. “The gossipmongers will pounce upon this situation like a pack of hounds on a trapped fox. Indeed, the gossip is already spreading, even amongst the servants.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Evans keeps me informed. I’m convinced