Page 25 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“What risk? After we both went downstairs, he had at least fifteen minutes in which to return to your bedchamber, take the book, and conceal it in a valise. Miles, Melinda, and the others arrived just as the earl climbed into his coach. No one was thinking about the book then.”

This was true.

“Servants were the logical suspects,” Philippe said. “They always are, no matter how long they have served and how steadfastly they have proven their loyalty. No wonder the lower classes long to rebel.”

“I told you I trusted mine, and I didn’t want to suspect Miles’s servants either,” she protested. “Nor did he.”

“Excuses,” he said, dismissing her care for her servants with a contemptuous flick of the wrist. “I was the next obvious suspect. A foreigner, not particularly well off, and a thief as well.” She began to object, but he put up a hand. “All I am saying is that Lord Hythwick felt perfectly safe and still does.”

She slumped in her chair. If Philippe was right—and admittedly, he usually was—how was she to get the book back?

She closed her eyes, trying to think, but her mind was a blank and so very tired. Dimly, she heard a tap on the door, followed by the murmur of low-voiced French.

“She is English. She needs tea.” That was Sophie.

“Merci, chérie.” The door closed again, and Philippe returned with a tray, which he set on a table before the fire. “It seems my sister still stands your friend.”

“She is very kind,” Gloriana said dully, staring at her hands.

“Are you ever happy?” he asked suddenly. “Do you ever enjoy yourself?”

What a strange question, but an acute one. She hadn’t been happy for years, which must have shown, but the last several months had been filled with good moments. “I was quite—quite happy over Christmas. I love my family, and I get on well with my friends. I love the boys at my school too. I do my best to provide for them.”

He let out a long, slow breath, which seemed like an acknowledgement. “Yes, I believe you do.” He said it as if he meant it. As if she was at least doing something of which he approved. A tiny flower of longing uncurled itself in her heart. Hurriedly, she crushed it.

He poured her a cup of tea and set it on the table next to her. “Sugar?” He nipped off a lump and stirred it into her tea.

She thanked him and took a sip. She didn’t understand him. One minute, he seemed to loathe her, and the next he was not only polite, but kind as well. He sipped his tea silently, gazing into the fire. He had a beautiful profile. She had sketched it many times from memory.

But she must not let herself dwell on Philippe’s profile or anything else about him, particularly a long-buried yearning for his approval. She had to get the book back.

She set the cup on the saucer with a rattle. Her hands were trembling. What was she going to do?

She imagined confronting Lord Hythwick and knew she could not. He would laugh in her face. He might not even deny having stolen the book. He might taunt her with it, knowing she could do absolutely nothing to retrieve it.

She couldn’t let him keep it. She had to get it back.

She took another sip of the hot, bracing tea. She was good at planning and plotting, and since she couldn’t deal with Hythwick directly, she would find another way. With each sip of tea, she became more determined to win this battle.

Life or death, she would get the Book of Hours back again.

~ ~ ~

“No,” Philippe said, and Gloriana raised startled eyes. He’d watched her absorption with increasing misgiving.

He shouldn’t have revealed his suspicions. He’d been so caught up in proving his own innocence that he’d given no thought to Gloriana’s safety.

“No,” he said again. “You will not confront Lord Hythwick.”

She put up her chin. “Did I say I would?”

“You are planning something. It does not take any great brilliance to see that. You confronted me, but that will not succeed with Lord Hythwick.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. “I will find another way to approach him.”

His blood ran cold, then hot. “If you are thinking of offering yourself to him in exchange for the Book of Hours,” he gritted out, “that will not work either.”

She bristled. “How dare you?”