Page 32 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“Cove what runs that school of hers. Got a rovin’ eye, he has.”

He’d better not be roving it over Gloriana. Philippe bit his tongue to keep from saying so.

“She won’t come to no harm with him,” Cartway said kindly.

“Fine,” Philippe said again. “Let’s get to work.”

~ ~ ~

At last, at last, the shrill sound of a crowing cock split the night.

“He’s done,” Mr. Alexander said. “Let’s be off.” They were to meet at a tavern about a mile away on the outskirts of St. Giles.

“Wasn’t he supposed to cluck like a hen if he’d found it?” Gloriana said. Which meant mostly likely he hadn’t. “Shouldn’t we wait and listen?” Her teeth began to chatter.

“No,” Mr. Alexander said. “Best be on our way.” They’d had to avoid the Watch a couple of times already.

Fifteen minutes’ brisk walk brought them to the Spotted Dragon. Not much of the dragon was visible on the weathered sign, which creaked back and forth in the wind. Almost no light showed through the grimy windows, but when Mr. Alexander pushed open the door, a blast of heat hit them.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Gloriana breathed. “I thought I would never be warm again.”

“Hush,” Mr. Alexander growled. “You’re conspicuous enough as is, without coming the aristocrat in this sort of place.”

“I’m not coming the aristocrat,” she said. “I am one.”

“Aye, you can’t help that.” He led her through the crowd of ancient wooden tables. “Best you say as little as possible.”

Annoyed, she followed him. She wasn’t the sort of person to sit back quietly.

“Well, well, if ain’t the Rovin’ Rev,” called a cheerful voice.

“Wiv a loverly new lady, I see,” said another. “Wot ’appened to the curvy blonde?”

“That was years ago.” Mr. Alexander paused to shake hands with one man, pat another on the back, and exchange an odd hand signal with a third—all the while fielding rude comments about her until finally they reached his table of choice.

Good God. Everyone in this dim, filthy place thought she was his doxy!

Well. If he could begin as a laborer’s son and become a gentleman, surely she could act as if she were of a lower class. She eyed the grimy chair but stopped herself in time from brushing it off. She plumped herself down as ungracefully as she could manage. Her cousin Daisy had served ale in a tavern. She’d befriended laborers and smugglers. Surely it wasn’t all that hard to do . . .

“They all think I’m your latest conquest,” she muttered to Mr. Alexander. “Why didn’t you correct their assumption?”

“Would you rather they made lewd suggestions to you on their own behalf?”

“God help me, no.” Gloriana shuddered. “I suppose I should try to act the part, but I haven’t the least notion how.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. What will you drink? The wine isn’t up to your standards, but the ale is decent.”

“Ale is fine,” she said. “Or porter? My maid drinks porter, and she let me try hers once. I liked it very much.”

He grinned. A thin, irritable wench came over. “What’ll you have?”

“Belch for me, and a shovel of malt for the lady.”

Gloriana suppressed a giggle, wondering if, when Elspeth went out with the other servants, she ordered a shovel of malt. “Belch?”

“Beer,” he said. “Their home brew is good.”

The grouchy barmaid plunked down their drinks. Gloriana had taken one potent sip of porter when the door opened and Mr. Cartway strolled in.