Page 72 of The Redemption of the Shrew

From within the house, he caught the creak of a stair. Philippe made another delicate probe. “And for his sister, Lady Marianne. She fears she was seen sneaking out of his lordship’s private rooms.” In spite of the fact that he’d told her not to search for the book. So much for being an obedient woman—but she was Freddy Barnham’s problem, not his.

“By his lordship?” Elspeth gasped.

“No, by his valet, who seems to have done nothing but warn her away, but she is afraid he will tell on her. She is terrified of her brother when he’s in a rage.”

“Mr. Turner would never tell on her,” Elspeth said, and then clamped her mouth shut. She blushed rosily.

“You are acquainted with the valet?” Philippe kept his voice bland.

“We-We drink at the same tavern, sir. He’s a good, kind man, nothing like his master.” Her flush faded, and her eyes filled with dread. “Oh, no!”

Philippe turned, just as another shiny curricle pulled up behind his. That lurid red and yellow was not in the best of taste. Its owner’s choice of clothes was appreciably better—buff breeches and an immaculately-tied cravat, marred only by the massive gilt buttons on his coat. Philippe suspected Mr. Turner possessed both tact and taste, but one could only do so much with a spoilt, selfish master.

“What shall I do? Lord Hythwick is not the man to take no for an answer.”

“Leave it to me.”

The earl barked out a command to Philippe’s groom. Philippe caught the man’s eye and shook his head. No vehicle of his would move out of the way for that villain.

Hythwick hissed an order at his tiger, who jumped to take the horses’ heads. The earl clambered down from the curricle and stomped along the pavement, clutching his whip.

He stopped a foot from Philippe. “What are you doing here? She’s driving out with me.”

“She’s not driving out with anyone,” Philippe said mildly.

Elspeth curtsied. “Miss Gloriana is unwell this morning, my lord.”

“Thanks to you,” Hythwick uttered, jabbing a finger at Philippe but stopping just short of prodding him in the chest. “Go away. Leave her be.” He flicked a gloved hand at Elspeth. “She’ll see me.” He made as if to push past her.

Philippe stepped in front of him. “No, she won’t.”

“Move over, curse you!” the earl growled.

Philippe crossed his arms and stayed where he was. He would relish a reason to knock Hythwick flat once again.

“Damn you for an interfering French bastard,” Hythwick sputtered. “She’s made it entirely clear that she wants me. Get out of my way.”

With an effort of will, Philippe refrained from giving the man a facer. In the same mild voice, he said, “No.”

The earl’s eyes widened. He snorted. “Well, well. Can it be that you want her too?”

Mordieu, Philippe thought. He’s not as idiotic as he seems.

“I thought you were just playing the proper gentleman up there in Lancashire, but you want her for yourself.”

Unfortunately, he couldn’t deny it, what with Elspeth right there and Gloriana likely eavesdropping.

“She doesn’t like you,” the earl said. “She never has. Whom did she hit last night? Me? Or you?” He cackled. “She’s mine.”

Philippe clenched his fists. “Over my dead body.”

Hythwick hooted—but he stepped out of reach.

“Coward,” Philippe murmured. “How about a little of the—what do you call it? The home-brewed?”

“Please, sirs,” Elspeth said, “don’t come to fisticuffs on Miss Gloriana’s doorstep. There are ever so many gossips about.”

The earl stood back and said smugly, “God forbid that I should cause Miss Warren distress.” He glowered at Philippe. “You’re nothing but a goddamn rake. I should call you out.”