Page 30 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“No, but my old man was,” he said. “The gentry don’t like it when we poach on their preserves. As a child, I remember one fellow boasting at the tavern that he’d done it with a certain lady.” He shrugged. “Stupid thing to do—he was found drowned not long afterward.”

“What happened to the lady?”

“The usual,” he said. “Hushed it up, married her off.” This might have happened in France before the Revolution, but not during those terrible years that followed.

“My brother is not permitted to shoot you. He believes in equality. I shall require him to prove it.”

He chuckled. “I look forward to meeting him. If he is really as you say, maybe he will persuade you to marry me.”

She said nothing. The two men must meet sooner or later, but she feared the consequences. She didn’t want to tell Eric why she couldn’t marry him . . . why she might never be free to do so. But Philippe might take it upon himself to explain the problem, and Eric might agree with his solution. Then she would have to withstand both of them.

If she remained stubborn, Eric might leave her. If she gave in and agreed to a sham marriage, it was as good as giving Philippe a license to commit murder if Jean-Esprit proved to be alive.

“It hasn’t been easy since he moved in here,” Eric said. “He is sure to stumble upon me one night.”

She feigned an indifferent shrug. “He is a Frenchman who understands l’amour, not a stuffy Englishman who will scowl and make a grand fuss.” At least, she hoped he wouldn’t. “He won’t stay here forever. Let us not talk about this.”

“Very well—but I have one more question. If you are an aristocrat, how did you end up with a plebian name such as Brun?”

She burst into tears. He cradled her in his arms, uttering broken phrases of apology and comfort. “Forgive my idle curiosity. I don’t care about your name, my darling, my lovely, my beautiful Sophie.” He kissed her, wiped away her tears, and smiled. “But if your name isn’t really Sophie, tell me now. Or not. That doesn’t matter either. I will love you always, whatever your name.”

“I am Sophie,” she said, and he made love to her gently and tenderly. She gloried in the knowledge that his heart was hers forever.

But what good was that when soon she would have to relinquish her claim on him? After he left, she lay awake for hours. She must tell him everything and get it over with.

But not yet.

Chapter 7

The following evening, Gloriana strolled along on Mr. Alexander’s arm, pretending they were a courting couple reluctant to part. Mr. Alexander had no objection to playing this role, but it made Gloriana uneasy. She didn’t think Mr. Alexander would take any liberties—he’d always kept his distance, as was proper—but he was male and very likeable, and . . .

What bothered her, she decided, was that she wished to have someone with whom to take those very liberties. She had been angry for years, too angry to let her carnal desires rise to the fore, but now they had begun to make themselves known—ever since those brief moments in Philippe’s arms.

What use was physical desire when the only man she’d ever seriously wanted didn’t want her? She sighed.

“Bored, Miss Glow?”

“No, just worried.” This was true. She didn’t know how anyone could choose burglary as a profession. It was far too nerve-wracking. They wandered past Lord Hythwick’s house, around a corner, down a street, then past his house again, touting—not a word in her customary vocabulary, but in this instance it meant playing lookout in case an alarm was raised, or officers of the law appeared.

It was a dark, damp, chilly evening, with a breeze nipping at her ankles. Was she shivering from cold, or nerves, or both? Every now and then they would stop and pretend to embrace. Mr. Alexander would pull her into his arms. She would clutch her sketchbook against her chest, which helped to maintain decency until he decided to move again. These brief respites from the chilly wind warmed her up considerably, but they also made her sad. These were the wrong arms around her and the wrong masculine chest against which to lay her head . . .

It was even worse because she knew what the right chest looked like. The night before, as she lay awake and worrying, she’d lit a branch of candles and drawn, from memory, Philippe without his shirt.

She had to stop thinking about Philippe. She thrust his image from her mind and conjured instead the burglar, Mr. Cartway, a tall, lantern-jawed Cockney with a gap-toothed grin. He’d come by the school that very morning, looked Gloriana up and down appreciatively, and said, “This your latest lady friend, Rev?”

“She is not,” Mr. Alexander retorted. “Miss Glow is my business partner at the school.”

Mr. Cartway chuckled and nudged Gloriana. “Where I come from, he’s known as the Rovin’ Rev, ’cause he fancies the ladies.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Cartway. It is one of his greatest assets.”

Mr. Alexander blinked at her. “It is?”

“Yes, indeed. You understand bad behavior and therefore know how to handle naughty boys. Now, shall we get down to business?”

“Right-o,” Mr. Cartway said. “I made me inquiries. His High-and-Mighty Lordship is out of town. Be back Friday week. There’s naught but a skeleton staff, so now’s our chance. What do you want me to prig?”

“A book Lord Hythwick stole from my brother’s house several months ago.” Gloriana proffered him a quarter sheet of foolscap with a sketch of the Book of Hours, more or less actual size, front and back. “I suggest you try his bedchamber and whichever room he uses as a library or study. Most likely he has kept it hidden, perhaps even locked away. He would not risk showing it to guests for fear of a chance word coming to my ears or my brother’s. He cannot have known it would be several months before we realized it was missing.”