“Yes, but he is not a hypocrite. He truly believes in equality. As long as he feels that you love her and will care for her . . . Ah. It is because of your reputation.”
Mr. Alexander let out an exasperated breath. “Maybe. A few women in any other man’s past are nothing, but a clergyman must adhere to a different standard.”
“You weren’t cut out for the church,” she said.
“Not at all, but my adopted father chose that profession for me, and gratitude obliged me to obey.” Moodily, he added, “I liked the charitable work, but after my wife died, several women in the parish pursued me. When I gave in to the advances of a lusty widow, her rivals complained about me to the bishop.”
“Poor Mr. Alexander,” she said. “Philippe has the selfsame difficulty with too-eager women. He should sympathize.”
“Perhaps, but men tend to be overprotective where their sisters are involved. Sophie insists that he will not object, and yet she panics when I suggest meeting him. As for marrying . . .” He blew out a breath. “To tell the truth, Miss Glow, I’m not sure she wants to.”
“Oh.” Because Sophie didn’t love him? Then how could she be his lover for months? It was incomprehensible—and horrid. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “I can be content either way, but the secrecy is difficult, and if I get her with child, she won’t have a choice.” He cocked his head to one side. “Has Sophie told you anything about her earlier life—her husband, or her escape from France?”
“No,” Gloriana said, pondering. “It never came up in conversation, and I never thought it proper to ask.”
“She has not told me, either,” Mr. Alexander said. “It’s another subject she refuses to discuss. What do you know about her brother’s past?”
“Only that he escaped from France during the Terror, that he rescued a number of aristocrats, and that he dedicates his efforts to improving the lot of the lower classes through peaceful reform.” She wasn’t about to mention Philippe’s thievery—although Mr. Alexander had probably realized that in the tavern with Mr. Cartway. Curiosity gripped her. Why had she never inquired deeply into his past? “What has Sophie told you?”
“Just that he left his family as a youth and worked for a living, when he could have lived in luxury,” Mr. Alexander said. “He would have gone to the guillotine if he’d done so, but he couldn’t have known that. She says nothing about her part in all this—her marriage, her children, their escape . . . nothing. I don’t understand why.”
“Do you want me to ask Sophie about it?”
He put up his hands in a fending-off gesture. “No. She will tell me when she is ready.”
All of which made her realize how much she didn’t know about Philippe. How could she be expected to understand him if she didn’t even try?
~ ~ ~
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!”
He smiled. “It
will be her first foray into a charitable endeavor, and although I don’t approve of the goals of your school, it will do my sister good to learn a bit more about what the world is really like. Might help take her mind off her infatuation with that fellow Barnham. But in any event, I told her I would have to visit the place before allowing her to do so.”
“Of course,” Gloriana said, still a bit stunned. Why hadn’t he just told his sister to find another charity?
Well, that was obvious. She didn’t need Philippe to tell her Hythwick still coveted her.
But getting his sister involved wouldn’t further that goal.
Nor could he assault her in the school—in fact, she would make sure to be elsewhere—so for the moment she would play along. “I shall arrange it with Mr. Alexander. He is the headmaster and a very good sort of man. He’ll be happy to show you about.”
“No need,” he said. “I shall drop by whenever I have a moment, and hope you will take me on a personal tour.”
Chapter 12
Sophie Brun made her way down the street to the school late one afternoon. She found her lover in the back garden with his shirtsleeves rolled up, mending the door of the chicken coop. He held three nails between his lips, while he pounded in a fourth. Eric was clever and handsome and so practical, too, just like Yves. During the escape from France, she had done well posing as the wife of a laborer—perhaps a little too well, but she’d owed it to him. But then everything had gone sour, just as it had with Jean-Esprit.
And now she had Eric Alexander, only this time she wasn’t just giving in to circumstances, nor simply succumbing to desire—she was deeply in love as well. She sighed, allowing herself a tiny shiver of delight at his powerful, manly form, and then addressed him formally, as was appropriate, for their liaison must be kept secret. If it came out, she would be obliged to marry him.
How she wished she dared do so!
“Good afternoon, Mr. Alexander,” she said. “Is Miss Glow here by any chance? I haven’t seen her at all this week.”
He took the nails out of his mouth. “No, she’s hiding.” His voice and expression were grim.
“From whom? Not my brother again, surely.”
“No, from Lord Hythwick.” He banged in another nail. “Seems he came flat up to her in the square where she was sketching, with a cock-and-bull story about wanting a tour of the school. Something about his sister becoming a patroness, but I have my doubts—as does Miss Glow.” Bang. “She thought to have me take care of him, but he insists on a private tour from Miss Glow herself.” Bang. Bang. Bang! He seemed more irate with each stroke of the hammer. “He came by on Wednesday, and was greatly put out when she wasn’t here.” He spat. “What a turd the man is.”
Ordinarily, she enjoyed his little vulgar gestures, but today she was too appalled at the implications. “Ah, mon Dieu. But surely he wouldn’t assault her in the school!”
“Why not? He’s a bloody earl, so he thinks he can get away with anything.” He raised his eyes suddenly. “Here comes your brother. Seems you’ll have to introduce us properly at last.”
Philippe came through the wicket gate. She straightened, knowing this was inevitable but wishing it wasn’t. The two men had met before, but that was entirely different from meeting formally in her presence. “Bonjour, chéri. I will be home in two minutes.”
“Charles told me I would find you here,” he said.
“Yes, I came to ask after Miss Glow. I have not seen her for days. This is Mr. Alexander, the headmaster of the school.”
“We have already met,” Philippe said, but he proffered a reasonably cordial hand. Perhaps he didn’t realize—and why should he? Eric set down his hammer to grasp her brother’s hand and smiled. He didn’t seem the least bit awkward or discomposed—but he wouldn’t, of course. He knew how to conduct himself in many different spheres.
And yet, she knew very well that Philippe was sizing Eric up. It was just one of those things men do, if they feel they have reason.
But perhaps it had nothing to do with her. More likely he wondered about the relationship between Eric and Miss Glow.
“Philippe, Mr. Alexander says Miss Glow has not been here this week because she is hiding from Lord Hythwick.” She repeated what her lover had just told her.
“Mordieu.” Philippe spoke through clenched teeth. “I told her he has designs on her. I told her to avoid him, but will she listen? Non!”
“It’s hardly her fault that he came up to her in the square,” Eric said mildly.
“No, but she could have told him to go to the devil.”
Eric snorted, and Sophie said, “No doubt she did not wish to make a scene. Or perhaps she does not wish to disappoint Lord Hythwick’s sister.”
“Bien, but she could have said she did not give private tours. I am surprised she has the sense to hide from him now. I will find another charity and ask Lady Marianne to say she prefers it. She is a good sort of girl, one who does what she is told.”
Eric let out a crack of laughter. Her brother’s eyelid twitched. She knew the signs of Philippe holding himself in check. “Gloriana is impossible. I don’t know what I see in her.”
“She is beautiful and kindhearted and passionate,” Sophie said.
“And intelligent and hardworking,” Eric offered.
“She’s also headstrong and completely irrational,” Philippe retorted.
“At least she is avoiding Lord Hythwick now,” Sophie said.
“It is unlike her to remain at home like a reasonable woman,” Philippe said. “She will do something rash.”
Sophie tucked her hand in his arm. “Come, mon frère. Let us get you a glass of wine. À bientôt, Mr. Alexander.” She steered her brother out of the garden, and behind them, Eric set to work again.
“He is your lover,” Philippe said the minute they were out of earshot.
She gasped, her heart beating too fast. How did he know?
“You need not deny it, Sophie. It was obvious in the way you stood talking to one another, more so when he spat in your presence, and plain as the day by the glances you gave him just now. Did you think I would object?”
No! That was exactly the problem. “He is a man of the people,” she said, but only for something to say.
“So was Yves, and I did not object to him.”
“He was saving my life,” she huffed. “It was not a permanent arrangement.”
“I have made enquiries about Mr. Alexander. Although he has a reputation, it is nothing of concern.”
“You enquired about him? Why?” Immediately, she knew. “Because of Gloriana.”
“And also because of you, chérie. I did not wish to see either of you in close company with a rake—but it seems he is merely a man of ordinary desires who was maligned by a jealous woman.” He eyed her narrowly. “Why so unhappy, Sophie? Do you not love him?”
She didn’t want to admit it—but he wouldn’t believe her if she said no.
“Does he not wish to marry you?”
She shook her head. “He does, but you know I cannot.”
He tsked. “We will soon learn whether Jean-Esprit is dead—but you should marry your lover anyway. Think of the effect on the school if your liaison becomes public.”
“I cannot make holy vows when I am already married! Nor can I become a bigamist. It is against the law.”
“I doubt if Mr. Alexander would care about any of that.”
“Perhaps not, but I do. And what will happen if Jean-Esprit comes to England and finds us? You are not allowed to kill him.”
“You make life difficult for no reason, Sophie. He is an old man and may already be dead.”
She hoped so, but he’d still been living a few years ago, during the brief period of peace when Philippe had traveled to France.
“And if he is alive, I will not permit him to touch you or the children.” He spread his hands. “Voilà! That is that. You cannot prevent me from doing what I must to protect you. I am certain your lover will agree with me about that.”
She nodded. Her Eric would defend her to the death.
“Have you told him that you do not know whether Jean-Esprit is alive?”
She shook her head.
“If you love him, you owe him an explanation.”
That was too much. She stormed into the house. “Just as you owe one to Gloriana!”
That took care of him. But as for her darling Eric . . . what was she going to do?
~ ~ ~
Elspeth hurried through the dark streets to the Bull and Crown. She hated walking alone. Not only that, she wasn’t in the habit of going to a tavern alone, either, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t tell the other servants about her mission, as its purpose must be kept secret. They would find it strange if she went out too often at night. They might even suspect she was going to meet a man, which would mean gossip—the unpleasant sort.
Not only that, if she asked Gregory, the footman, to accompany her to forestall any salacious gossip, she would have no reason to ask Mr. Turner for help. If she pretended to be unwell or afraid of the dark, Gloriana’s footman would be the obvious person to walk her home.
This was her second try. The first had been ghastly, for Mr. Turner hadn’t been in the Bull and Crown, nor had anyone else she knew. She’d resorted to buying a jug of small beer, saying they’d run out at home, and scurrying away into the night. But she couldn’t bring the stuff home, for Cook had of course made plenty. She couldn’t bring herself to pour it out either, so when she passed a boy sweeping the crossing, she gave him the beer, jug and all. He could drink the beer and sell the jug, so at least someone benefitted from Miss Glow’s folly.
But now she didn’t have a jug to return to the tavern—which would have been a good excuse. She was hopeless at this sort of subterfuge. At any subterfuge, as a matter of fact. She liked things simple and straightforward. Small chance of that with a mistress like Miss Glow.
The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4) Page 16
