Page 33 of The Redemption of the Shrew

Followed by Philippe de Bellechasse, a scowl on his handsome face.

“What in the name of heaven is he doing here?” Gloriana scowled right back. To Mr. Alexander, she explained, “That is Sophie Brun’s brother.”

“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Bonaventure,” the wench said. “Ain’t seen him for an age.” She nodded and smiled coyly at Philippe on the way to the tap. He blew a kiss in return. How terribly vulgar, but that was Gloriana’s upbringing speaking. Her heart suffered a storm of jealousy, so she took refuge in the porter.

Mr. Alexander raised a hand to beckon Cartway over, but it took a while, what with the rash of greetings—grins, hand-shaking, and backslapping all around. Several of the tavern’s low-bred customers were acquainted with Philippe. Gloriana fought the mixed feelings this aroused. Clearly his support and appreciation of the lower class wasn’t all talk. She valued that—no, she envied it, for she had no idea of how to breach the gap herself.

She wished—oh how she wished—that Philippe would show her the same friendliness he showed to the denizens of this lowly tavern.

It might help if she treated him better. It also might help if he did what he was told.

“Sorry to hear about Antoine,” a man in a frieze coat was saying. Antoine was Philippe’s recently deceased valet.

“Aye,” his cohort said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “For a Frenchy, he weren’t a bad sort.”

“I hear he run mad,” the first man said. “That so, Phil?”

Philippe nodded. “So much so that he ran off, fell down a hole, and landed on his head.” He smacked the heel of one hand against the palm of the other. “Gone, just like that.”

“Poor old Antoine,” the second man said, “but no surprise. Most Frenchies is mad one way or another.”

“Including me,” Philippe said with a laugh and moved to greet another group—men and a couple of blowsy-looking women. He smiled and jested with them too.

“Did the girl call him Mr. Bonaventure?” Mr. Alexander murmured.

“It’s the alias he uses amongst the common people,” Gloriana said. “Or so my cousin Daisy told me.”

“Why use an alias?”

“Because he disapproves of the artificial distance created by social classes. Education and money cause too much of that already, so why make it worse by using meaningless titles?”

Mr. Alexander took a swig of beer. “He seems well-liked here.”

Yes, and Gloriana didn’t know what to think of it. How could he so easily associate with members of all classes? Perhaps the French accent helped. People didn’t automatically categorize him as a gentleman, and yet, they must know he wasn’t really one of them.

“Daisy says he’s considering renouncing his title, although he shows no sign of it when amongst the ton. He’s very much the haughty aristocrat when he chooses.” As I was, Gloriana thought, but I’ve had enough of it.

Mr. Cartway approached their table, shook his head, and showed them empty hands. He plucked the sketch from his pocket and handed it to Gloriana. “Sorry, ducks.”

She swallowed her sadness and said, “Thank you for trying.” She dug in her reticule and paid him five pounds. He pocketed it, took a seat next to her, and ordered a heavy wet. Philippe came up at last and requested gin, of all horrid beverages.

She wrinkled her nose. “What are you doing here?” Drat, she shouldn’t have said it like that.

“I might ask you the same, Gloriana.” He yanked out a chair and sat down. “Playing lookout for a thief, not to mention drinking in a disreputable tavern with a libertine, is not appropriate behavior for a lady.”

“What happened to your vaunted belief in equality of the classes?” she shot back. “Not to mention women’s rights to do as they choose.”

“That doesn’t extend to putting yourself in danger.”

Mr. Alexander narrowed his eyes. “She wasn’t in danger. She was with me, and while I don’t claim to be a saint, I am no libertine.”

“You had better not be,” Philippe said, placing his hands on the table in a typically male, aggressive fashion.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gloriana said, “don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Alexander is my partner in the school. I know what I’m doing.” She took refuge in another sip of porter and waited for the inevitable retort.

It was worse than she expected. “If you knew what you were doing, you would not have lost the book in the first place,” Philippe said. “It should have been kept locked away.”

How could she possibly treat him politely when he said such horrid things to her? “Why were you searching for it? I—” Forbade you to do so. She bit her tongue on that retort, because he would laugh, and so would the others. “It was not your business to do so.”