Page 89 of The Redemption of the Shrew

She cocked her head coyly. “Since this morning, perhaps. Tell me, is he as delightful in bed as one imagines?”

Inwardly, Gloriana gritted her teeth and snarled. Outwardly, she sighed and made a smug little moue. “If you must know, Alice, he came to my house to ask me to marry him.” She felt no need to specify precisely when the offer of marriage had taken place. “And I accepted.”

“You’re going to marry Philippe de Bellechasse?” Alice squealed. If the entire room hadn’t been eavesdropping before, they certainly were now.

~ ~ ~

Gloriana left the salon early. She’d had enough of being bombarded with everything from genuine felicitations to barely-veiled hostility. She had one of the footmen find her a hackney. Tomorrow she and Philippe would wed, but what about Elspeth’s plans? Mr. Turner might arouse suspicion if he jumped too soon from Lord Hythwick’s employ to Philippe’s . . .

The hackney pulled up in front of her house, and the jarvey jumped down to open the door and let down the steps. She descended, paid him, and had crossed the pavement to her doorstep when a female voice hailed her.

“Miss Warren?” It wasn’t a well-bred voice, but rather tremulous, as if afraid of being rebuffed. “I have come to beg for your help.”

The voice came from a traveling coach waiting at the side of the street. In the dim light cast by a street lamp, she spied a young woman in the half-open doorway of the vehicle. “It’s for my son, ma’am. He’s only nine years old, and he’s a good boy, I promise, but he gets into such dreadful company. I’m a-feared he’ll come to a bad end, ma’am, but I’ve no money to send him to school . . .”

Gloriana sighed as she approached the coach. “We don’t usually accept boys who have another means of support, for ours is a school for orphans, but if you wish to apply to Mr. Alexander for consideration—”

The woman yelped and stumbled forward but didn’t quite fall. She seemed to hang in the doorway . . . Someone else was gripping her by the arm—someone in the shadowy interior of the coach. She whimpered now, shaking and shivering with fright.

“Get in, Miss Warren.” Oh, God, Lord Hythwick was in the coach. “Or this woman will never see her son again.”

Gloriana’s mind reeled. Get into the coach with that dastard? She couldn’t possibly. Surely, he wouldn’t harm an innocent child!

“Oh, please, God help me, oh please,” the woman cried.

Gloriana moved her gently aside and climbed into the coach. The earl let go of the woman and grabbed Gloriana. She tumbled, half on the seat, half on the floor, and the door slammed behind her.

The coach began to move.

And the earl began to laugh.

~ ~ ~

Philippe stowed the Book of Hours in his greatcoat pocket. He, Cartway, and a third man who’d kept watch near the trussed-up footman who’d opened the door to them, made their separate ways to the Spotted Dragon. There, Philippe paid the two of them and stood everyone in the tavern a round of drinks—tedious but essential to the maintenance of friendly goodwill.

By then it was too late to return to Islington, change into evening clothes, and attend Alice Stowe’s salon. As he wasn’t in a sociable mood, this was fine. He wanted to be alone with Gloriana, laughing over how easily they’d hoodwinked Hythwick, and then take her to bed.

He stayed at the tavern awhile, mulling over the future with a pot of ale. He would move his belongings from Sophie’s house to Gloriana’s. Then perhaps they would leave London for a while, let the talk die down, and travel to his estate in Buckinghamshire, where they could enjoy the spring and summer in the fresh, country air. Or maybe they would go all the way to her brother’s estate up North.

The door to the tavern flew open, and Mr. Turner hesitated in the doorway, breathing hard. Philippe raised a hand to beckon him over, but a sudden sense of disaster engulfed him, sweeping away his pleasant plans. He stood and strode across to the valet.

“Sir,” Turner panted, “it may not be the emergency it seems, but I’m mortal afraid for Miss Glow.”

“What is it?” Philippe asked. “Tell me. Quickly.”

“His lordship arrived not an hour ago. I’d been on the watch, and when I saw him ride up, all a-fret, I opened the door, for he doesn’t frighten me the way he does the others. Our neighbor had just driven up in his coach, and right then and there, he told his lordship the news that you and Miss Glow were to marry.” He sank against the doorjamb, gulping for air.

Merde. Had she announced it at the salon? He would have preferred to wait until the marriage was a fait accompli. “And then?”

“The neighbor thought it a fine jest against his lordship, for everyone knew he wanted Miss Glow to be his mistress. So his lordship came in doubly enraged, called for his coach-and-four, and wouldn’t let anyone get a word in edgewise. He paid little heed to the news of the burglary. I packed him a week’s worth of clothing and asked if Lady Marianne’s maid was to come along, to attend to her ladyship after he caught up with her. He said no, Lady Marianne could tend to herself, and that he didn’t want me, either. Said he would have a charming companion with him, so there wouldn’t be room in the coach.”

Horror seized Philippe. “Mordieu.” He strode out the door.

The valet followed. “He took one of the maids with him—he’s been tupping her, poor wench—so I thought that’s what he meant by no room. But it didn’t seem right, sir, seeing as his lordship don’t talk of a serving maid that way, and I got to thinking, so I hurried over to Miss Glow’s. I was almost there, sir, at the top of the street, when I spies the coach further down under a streetlamp. The maid gets down from the coach—well, more like fell out—and runs off as if the devil is after her. Miss Glow steps inside, and they drive way.”

“Diable. I’ll kill him.”

“Aye, sir, you do that. The coachman and groom are armed.” Turner stopped, too winded to follow. “But they hate him. Thought you might like to know.”