The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4)

by Barbara Monajem

  “They all think I’m your latest conquest,” she muttered to Mr. Alexander. “Why didn’t you correct their assumption?”

  “Would you rather they made lewd suggestions to you on their own behalf?”

  “God help me, no.” Gloriana shuddered. “I suppose I should try to act the part, but I haven’t the least notion how.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. What will you drink? The wine isn’t up to your standards, but the ale is decent.”

  “Ale is fine,” she said. “Or porter? My maid drinks porter, and she let me try hers once. I liked it very much.”

  He grinned. A thin, irritable wench came over. “What’ll you have?”

  “Belch for me, and a shovel of malt for the lady.”

  Gloriana suppressed a giggle, wondering if, when Elspeth went out with the other servants, she ordered a shovel of malt. “Belch?”

  “Beer,” he said. “Their home brew is good.”

  The grouchy barmaid plunked down their drinks. Gloriana had taken one potent sip of porter when the door opened and Mr. Cartway strolled in.

  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.”

  “I was glad of his help, miss,” Mr. Cartway said. “Good to see an old friend too. We had a proper jaw on the way here. We thinks his nibs has it with him.”

  “In Melton Mowbray, where he hunts at this time of year,” Philippe said. “Perhaps he wants to keep it close by.”

  “Safe and secure where he’s the only one what gets to ogle it.” Mr. Cartway rubbed his hands together and leered like a villain in a novel.

  She laughed sadly. “Yes, he’s just the sort of man to bring it out and pet it, gloating.” Her heart twisted. “He won’t read the psalms or say the prayers or—or anything it’s meant for.”

  “I’ve never taken you for a religious woman,” Philippe said after a moment.

  “That shows how little you know about me.” She jutted her chin. “I didn’t lose it. He stole it. There’s a difference.”

  “Aye, there is, ducky,” said Mr. Cartway, “and we’ll get it back for you, never fear.”

  She smiled at him and nodded her thanks.

  “But not by way of burglary, unless we have no other choice.” Philippe eyed her. “Nor by highway robbery. That’s too risky for everyone concerned, including the earl’s coachman and guard.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of any such thing,” she said indignantly.

  “Perhaps not yet, but I don’t want to find that you’re hiring a highwayman next.” Philippe took a gulp of gin and stabbed a finger at her—frightfully rude of him, but it was forceful all the same. “Leave this to me, Gloriana. I said I would recover it for you, and I shall.” He sat back and folded his arms. “In my own time and my own way.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Gloriana opened her mouth to retort but seemed to think better of it, and took a sip of porter instead. Philippe wasn’t fooled into taking this for acquiescence. Why the devil didn’t she trust him?

  More to the point, why should he expect her to? Only two days ago she’d accused him of theft, and now
she’d not only seen him in the company of a professional burglar, but trading greetings with a crowd of low-bred people, many of whom were criminals as well.

  She didn’t seem uncomfortable in the Spotted Dragon. Perhaps she felt safe enough with the Roving Rev, which annoyed him for no good reason.

  She hadn’t taken umbrage at Cartway’s familiarity, surprising him even more. Where had her customary haughtiness gone? Six months ago, her grateful acceptance of an endearment such as ‘ducky’ would have been unthinkable.

  He glanced at her pot of porter. Still almost full. Hardly a lady’s tipple, but she seemed to like it. She wasn’t intoxicated. She couldn’t have been here long enough to broach her second pot.

  The irritating Mr. Alexander drained his tankard. “I’d best be off. It’s late for a schoolmaster. I’ve to be up before dawn.”

  Gloriana took a hurried gulp of porter and made as if to leave as well.

  “No need to rush, Miss Glow,” Mr. Alexander said. “Finish your porter. Much as I enjoyed playing bo-peep with a beautiful lady, I’d rather not walk off with you under the nose of a man who truly covets you.”

  Philippe let out a French oath. Gloriana glanced at Mr. Alexander, a crease between her brows. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Mr. Cartway will be happy to escort you home, if you’d prefer,” Alexander said blandly.

  Cartway chuckled and put up a hand. “Phil and me’s friends. Like to keep it that way.”

  The crease deepened. Philippe waited for her to object. Instead, she shrugged and stared moodily into her porter, but he sensed she was clenching her fists under the table.

  “It would be my pleasure to escort Miss, er, Glow,” Philippe drawled. He couldn’t decide whether he liked this fellow Alexander for manipulating Gloriana into a corner, or longed to punch him for putting him in an impossible position. Perhaps both.

  “Is that acceptable to you, Miss Glow?” Mr. Alexander asked. “I’m sure you’ll be safe with his lordship Mr. Bonaventure.” Heavy on the sarcasm, but it wasn’t an uncommon reaction to his dual personas. Gloriana must have told him.

  “I would rather inconvenience Mr. Bonaventure than you,” she said. “Hard-working schoolmasters deserve their rest. Thank you for helping me tonight.”

  “Right you are then. I’ll be off.” Alexander tossed a few coins onto the table and was gone before Gloriana could change her mind.

  Mr. Cartway stood as well. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Glow. I’d best be on me way as well.” He bade them a cheery goodnight.

  This left Philippe and Gloriana confronting one another across the table.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I couldn’t very well refuse.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Gloriana cried. “I don’t enjoy being passed from hand to hand like a—a stinking packet of fish.”

  Philippe grimaced. “That’s a poor choice of simile. Mr. Alexander thought he was doing me a good turn.”

  “He’s as bad as Sophie,” Gloriana said. “I don’t know why he thinks you covet me.”

  “Oh, he’s correct about that. Carnally speaking, I do covet you and always have.”

  Chapter 8

  Gloriana gaped at him, and their eyes met. It was dim in that tavern, but not dim enough. The awareness in his eyes sent a bolt of desire through her, top to toe.

  “However, I am an honorable man. Unlike Lord Hythwick, I shall not act upon my desires, however tempted I may be—or have been in the past.”

  Oh, how dare he? She surged up, gripping the tankard. “There’s nothing honorable about being a coward.”

  His eyes flashed, but he slouched at ease in his chair. “Shall I call you a few choice names too?”

  She flung the tankard at him. That was certainly the behavior of a doxy. Porter dripped down his waistcoat. He rose slowly to his feet. A babble of crude commentary broke out. Hands shaking, she dug in her reticule, dropped a shilling on the table, and stalked out.

  The sounds of laughter and jests, Philippe’s among them, followed her out the door.

  She hurried away down the street, fury giving her courage, but underneath she was afraid. She had never been alone in the London streets at night. Shadows loomed everywhere. She fumbled in her reticule and pulled out the pistol, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to shoot anyone.

  “Attendez-moi, Gloriana.” Wait for me.

  Why was he following, to insult her even more? “Go away. I don’t need your escort.”

  Philippe came up beside her. With a sudden, swift movement, he removed the pistol from her hand.

  “Give it back!”

  He put it in his pocket. “When we reach your house.”

  She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. “I hate you.”

  “I do not like you much either, but I am responsible for you tonight.”

  “You wouldn’t be,” she snarled, “if you hadn’t gone to search for the book. If you would mind your own business, as I asked you to, we could avoid each other. We might be lucky and never, ever encounter one another again.”

  “You should be glad I am willing to search for the book. If I get caught burgling Hythwick’s house, chances are we never shall meet again.”

  “I don’t want you to get caught. What would happen to Sophie and the children?” She threw up her hands. “It’s simple. You don’t like me, and I don’t like you. Therefore, why do you persist in trying to help me?”

  In the light of a streetlamp, she watched him shrug. It was an elegant, insouciant, very French shift of the shoulders. “Perhaps I like the prospect of foiling Lord Hythwick.”

  She thought for a moment. “That is a motive I can appreciate. Nevertheless—”

  He interrupted. “Then let us call a truce. I apologize for almost calling you names.”

  “Apologies are useless when they are not sincere, and even if yours is, which I doubt, mine most certainly would not be. I repeat: stay out of my business.”

  “Mordieu,” he muttered. “You are impossible.”

  “Can’t you understand? I couldn’t bear it if you or anyone else came to harm because of me. I even worried about Mr. Cartway tonight. It is my fault the book was stolen.”

  Philippe shook his head. “You provided him with the opportunity, but the theft is Hythwick’s fault and no one else’s.”

  “That’s not the impression you gave earlier.”

  “I was angry. I treated you harshly.”

  She huffed. “And you’re not angry now?”

  “I am fatigued, Gloriana. Weary to the bottom of my heart.”

  She was weary, too.

  “Come, let us cry truce. It is not far to your house.” He offered her his arm.

  She hesitated, but took it. It seemed childish not to, and she wasn’t in danger of longing for his love after what he had almost called her tonight. Was that what he thought of her—that she was nothing but a wanton who would use her charms to lure any man?

  Had he completely forgotten the vows of love they had shared so long ago?

  Or did he not believe she’d meant them?

  He had made it entirely clear that he hadn’t meant them, so what right had he to insult her?

  “You kept the Book of Hours by your bedside,” he said after a while, and when she bristled and drew away, he put up a hand. “No, no, I meant no offense.” He tucked her hand in his arm again.

  She complied stiffly, trying to keep her anger fierce and alive to combat the simple pleasure of his touch.

  “I wondered why you seem so eager, even desperate, to retrieve the book immediately, since sometimes these matters take time. Perhaps it is because the book is valuable, or because it belongs to your brother. Or perhaps, given your talent in drawing and watercolors, it’s because you l
ove the so beautiful illuminations. But neither of these explains why you kept it by your bedside for use at the time of day when one contemplates a little and says one’s prayers.”

  Flabbergasted, she said nothing. He’d been thinking about her. How was she supposed to combat that?

  “I am . . . curious to learn about the religious Gloriana,” he said. “The one who mentions the proper uses of such a book.”

  Even worse. Why must he ask about something so close to her heart?

  “There is nothing to learn,” she said. “It is true that I liked to look at the illuminations, but also to read about the saints and to repeat the prayers aloud. Sometimes . . .” She hesitated. She never spoke about this. It was too private, but suddenly she needed him to know that she wasn’t a wanton woman, but an honorable one. “Sometimes I just hold it in my hands and draw comfort and—and strength from it.”

  Except that she’d been drawing strength in order to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. How foolish and useless and utterly wrong.

  “A much better use than locking it away,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  “I used to take it everywhere with me when I traveled.”

  “But not when you left Lancashire last summer? Is that why you didn’t discover the loss at once?”

  She sighed. “Yes, I decided not to bring it then. I felt . . .” Unworthy, but she’d had enough of confessing. Why had she thought explaining about the book would make him think better of her? She was too tired to think clearly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Perhaps not, but I am willing to try.”

  Why? She wanted to ask, but she wasn’t willing to risk any more of his disdain. And yet, he’d been thinking about her. She glanced up at him in the dim light of a streetlamp. “You are a Catholic, are you not?”

  He seemed to ponder her question. “By birth, yes.”