Page 57 of The Redemption of the Shrew

The moment she arrived home, Gloriana removed the sketch of Philippe and put it with the others she had done over the years—when she had first fallen in love with him, during the time she’d pretended to hate him, and in the days before he’d saved her from Hythwick. She kept them all in a drawer of her big dresser, and as usual, only Elspeth knew.

The next morning dawned fair and almost warm—one of those deceptive days in winter when spring seems to have come early and in a rush. After prodding Elspeth for news and finding there was none, Gloriana donned a warm pelisse and had Gregory, her footman, carry a chair and the sketchbook to the nearby square. Others, mostly nursemaids and children, had chosen to take advantage of the spring-like day. Gloriana settled herself in a sunny corner, warmed up by sketching snowdrops and a few crocuses which were bravely showing their heads, and then got down to the serious business of re-drawing the Book of Hours.

She had just finished a fair rendering of the life of St. Milburga, complete with rescue from a ravenous suitor and a flock of friendly birds, when a shadow passed over her. Startled, she glanced up.

“Well met, Miss Warren.” The Earl of Hythwick bowed and smiled, his gaze flickering to the sketchbook and back to her face.

With a struggle, she mastered her revulsion and returned what she hoped resembled a smile. “My Lord Hythwick.” She closed her sketchbook. “Have you come out to enjoy the lovely weather, too?”

“A taste of spring in the midst of winter—who could resist? Pray, do not let me interrupt your artistic pursuit. Such a ladylike occupation, I always say.”

“It’s no matter.” She stood. “I was about to go home.” She signaled to Gregory, who was already on the way over from where he’d been chatting to a nursemaid.

“Then I shall walk you there. Allow me to carry the sketchbook.”

“My footman will do it,” she said, but he had already snatched it from her hands and opened it up.

“How fascinating. Looks like a religious drawing to me.”

She pulled herself together. Surely the last thing Hythwick would wish to do was discuss anything to do with the book he had stolen—but evidently that wasn’t the case. Why?

“It is,” she said, infusing melancholy into her voice. “The martyrdom of St. Milburga, from my Book of Hours. You may not have heard, but it was stolen last year.”

“Ah, the book I wished to see.”

“Yes,” she said in a frosty voice. Not as badly as you wanted to assault me, she wanted to add, but with Gregory right there she couldn’t.

“What a pity,” he said blithely. His gall rendered her speechless. How dare he even refer to that dreadful day? One would think humiliation alone would ensure his silence, regardless of the fact that he’d stolen her book!

“When was it taken?” he asked. “Has the culprit been found?”

Yes, you dastard. “No, for we don’t rightly know when it disappeared. We only discovered the loss at Christmas.”

“I hope the servants were questioned.”

“Yes, of course. My brother took care of that.”

“And alerted the Bow Street Runners? They have become efficient at tracking down thieves, or so I have heard.”

“My brother has done all he can, but the book seems to be gone for good, so I have taken upon myself the task of recreating it—although I may reproduce the texts in English, as I cannot read Latin well. I had my brother’s tutor translate it for me years ago, and fortunately I still have his notes.”

The earl flipped through the pages, clapped the sketchbook shut, and passed it to the waiting footman. “You are an accomplished artist, Miss Warren.” He crooked his arm, and she had perforce to place her hand on it. “And an intelligent woman as well. It is convenient that I happened upon you today, for I wish to speak to you on another matter.”

She frowned up at him, hoping she didn’t look as unsettled as she felt. Hurriedly, she looked away again, repulsed by the warmth of his gaze. Surely he wasn’t about to offer her a carte blanche?

Her brother’s warning about vulnerability pricked at her. She should have heeded him—but it infuriated her that Philippe, who had no right, had also chastised her for dispensing with her chaperone.

So had Alice, but she didn’t mind that, for in her it was friendly advice rather than imperious criticism.

“Well then, do so,” she said testily. “You don’t have long, as it’s only a few steps to my house.” At least there was one good result of the absence of her chaperone—gentlemen visitors were unacceptable.

“I should like to tour your school,” he said.

She gaped at him. “Why? You’re not interested in the education of the working classes.”

“Not at all,” he said with a moue of distaste. “It’s a complete waste of time, but my sister, like you, is innocent and soft-hearted. She has expressed an interest in becoming a patron of your school.”

“How kind of Lady Marianne!”