Page 29 of The Redemption of the Shrew

She left, leaving the door ajar, and Gloriana raised inquiring brows at Mr. Alexander.

“Madame Brun teaches French to the daughters of some merchants with social aspirations. She has acquired a new pupil, which may necessitate adjusting our schedule.”

“Ah,” Gloriana said, uninterested. She moved to the doorway and glanced down the stairs. Sophie was letting herself out of the house. She closed the door and took the chair across from him. “I have something to ask you, but it must be kept completely confidential.”

He seated himself. “Very well.”

“I need to hire a burglar,” she said. “I thought you might be acquainted with one.”

His mouth twisted into a resigned sort of smile. “You never fail to surprise me, Miss Glow.”

“In fact, I’m sure you know a burglar. You mentioned him once.”

“Perhaps I did, but I really don’t think—”

“It’s important. Let me explain. It’s frightfully embarrassing, but you probably won’t believe me if I don’t tell you what happened last summer.” She did so as briefly as possible, stressing Lord Hythwick’s interest in the Book of Hours and his opportunity to steal it. She omitted the horrid fact that she’d accused the Marquis de Bellechasse first, saying only that when she’d consulted him, they had agreed that Lord Hythwick was the most likely suspect.

“The marquis has promised to recover the book for me, but I don’t see how he can do it without breaking into Lord Hythwick’s house, and what if he’s caught? How dreadful it would be for poor Sophie Brun to lose her brother and her children to lose their beloved uncle! So I have decided that I should hire a professional burglar, for whom getting caught is one of the accepted hazards of his occupation.”

Mr. Alexander’s eyes widened. “Madame Brun’s brother is a marquis?”

“Yes, a French marquis. He escaped during the Revolution. Didn’t you know?”

“No, how should I? We’ve never been introduced, and she has spoken of him only as her brother.” He frowned, evidently perturbed, although she couldn’t see why.

“Does it matter? Marquis or not, I mustn’t put him in harm’s way. Will you please introduce me to your burglar friend?”

~ ~ ~

Late that night, Sophie and her lover lay entwined once again. He seemed strangely preoccupied, which worried her, although she hated to admit that even to herself.

He rolled away from her, onto his back, and fear seized her. Had he tired of her? No, judging by her past experience, that was unlikely. He put his hands behind his head, took a deep breath, and smiled. His eyes, warm and appreciative, rested on her. Surely that did not betoken the end of a love affair.

More likely it meant he would pester her again for marriage. She could not marry him—not now and maybe never. It was wrong of her to keep him, risking his reputation and that of the school. She should let him go.

“Your brother is a marquis,” he said.

Merde, she said to herself. She would never say such a rude word aloud. Although, to be truthful, she had done so many times, along with other vulgarities, during the escape from France, for she had been playing the part of a woman of the people.

“An aristocrat,” he added, as if she hadn’t understood the first time.

“So?” She hunched a shoulder. “He is a man like any other.” Please, please don’t hold it against me. He was a man of the people, her Eric—not one who coveted a title, but rather the sort who disdained it.

“And that makes you an aristocrat as well.” He grinned. “But you are not a woman like any other.” Under the coverlet, he walked his fingers up her torso, cupped her cheek, and kissed her.

“Thank you.” I think. That kiss did not bring as much comfort as it should. “Why do you bring up a subject of so little interest?”

“It is of interest to me,” he said, “because you didn’t tell me.”

She folded her arms, hugging herself away from him, chilly now despite the blankets. “Does it matter?”

“Maybe,” he said, and then as her heart sank, he pulled her close. “Not to me, sweetheart. You are the woman I love and that is that. But it will matter to your brother.”

“It will not.” She put a certain amount of bravado in that statement, although it was not what truly worried her. “My brother is a revolutionary. He despised the aristocracy in France.”

“Maybe, but he won’t want you dallying with a working-class bloke.”

“You are not a laborer!”