Page 55 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“I do not think that would be wise,” Sophie said softly.

He turned. She held the letter out to him. The seal was broken. Astonished, he asked, “You read it?”

“She told me to.” Sophie chuckled. “She knew I would tell you what it says, if you refused to read it for yourself.”

Damnable woman. He wished he could forbid Sophie to associate with Gloriana, but he hadn’t the heart to deprive his sister of friendship and gainful occupation—not that she was likely to obey him anyway. “She said as much?”

“No, she did not need to. Come, it will only take a second. It is nothing rude, merely businesslike.”

Irritated, he snatched the letter.

Dear Philippe,

You need not bother trying to recover my book. I have found another, much safer way to get it. Kindly do not contact me further with regard to this matter.

G.W.

He cursed. Sophie giggled. “She gives you some of your own medicine. ‘Kindly do not contact me.’” She laughed again.

~ ~ ~

Gloriana could do nothing but wait. She doubted Philippe would pay her any heed, but short of abducting him and locking him away in a dungeon, she had done her best. In the meantime, she gave Elspeth permission to go to the Bull and Crown anytime she might expect to find Mr. Turner there—but how often did Lord Hythwick give his valet a free evening? Not as often as he should. Of that she was certain. It might take ages to contact him.

Patience is a virtue, she told herself grumpily, which reminded her of the Book of Hours and the saints who had practiced patience and every other virtue under conditions far worse than hers. She longed for the book and the guidance it had provided when she realized her mother’s ideas of appropriate behavior didn’t fit with hers.

Now, it began to be borne upon her that she might never, ever get it back.

Not that she was ready to give up yet, but she would far rather do without it than have anyone come to harm trying to retrieve it. As she lay awake a few nights later, tossing and turning, she had an idea—one with which she might even persuade Philippe to let be.

She slipped out of bed, lit a branch of candles, and flipped past the drawing of the half-naked Philippe. Painstakingly, she sketched the first page of the Book of Hours from memory. She would redraw, and then paint, the whole book if necessary. Learning the old-fashioned lettering might be fun, and she could even reproduce the passages in English instead of the original Latin, making it much easier to read.

It also gave her something to do while sitting at home waiting. She found drawing comforting, and in this case, it was far more useful than stitchery. She would draw whilst at the school, as well. What could be better?

She did exactly that, working on her own drawings whilst the boys did the lesson she had set them, setting it down to walk about the classroom and check on the progress of her pupils, and then picking it up again.

Unfortunately, setting it down meant someone else could pick it up. Mr. Alexander came into the classroom, asking to speak to her, but said he could wait until she had finished her round of the room. He wandered over to her drawing table, picked up the sketchbook, and leafed through it.

A snort of mirth, quickly suppressed, snatched her attention. She gasped at the sketchbook in Mr. Alexander’s hands and felt herself grow brilliant red.

“Lovely drawings, Miss Glow,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “One of the subjects seems unusual for a religious illumination—for that is what these are, correct?”

“Most of them,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “Since I can’t count on recovering my Book of Hours, I am redrawing it myself.”

“An excellent notion,” he said. “Might the boys spare you for a moment or two?”

“Certainly.” She grabbed the sketchbook, preceded him out the door, stalked into her office, and slammed the door the instant he slipped in behind her. “It’s not what it looks like.”

He burst into laughter. “Whatever it is, it’s entirely your business, Miss Glow.” Damn the man, he was shaking with it. “Better that the boys don’t see it, though. We’re supposed to pretend to be respectable, at the very least.”

“I am respectable,” she said. “And I don’t intend to explain that drawing.” She paused. “What is so dratted amusing, may I ask?”

“N-Nothing,” he said.

“It’s not nothing. What do you know about my acquaintanceship with the Marquis de Bellechasse, such as it is?” It occurred to her, very belatedly, that he had known about it that night in the Spotted Dragon not so long ago—for she and Philippe had done nothing to make him or anyone else suppose that they were attracted to one another. “As a matter of fact, how do you know?”

It was his turn to redden. “I am not at liberty to say.”

And why was that? Because he was protecting his informant?