The Redemption of the Shrew

by Barbara Monajem

“What sort of problems?” Gloriana demanded.

  “That I am not at liberty to disclose,” Julian said stuffily. “However, I am sure a diplomatic approach would be wisest.”

  “There’s no time for diplomacy,” Gloriana cried. “He may be selling my book even now!”

  “Unlikely, since he didn’t even steal it,” Julian said with exasperating certainty. “If you wish, I’ll write to him and send the letter express.”

  “Don’t you dare warn him,” Gloriana said. “I’ll make him rue the day he ever met me.”

  Julian was too well-bred to say it, but she saw the retort in his eyes: I’m sure he already does.

  ~ ~ ~

  They were on the road by dawn. By dint of travelling post until they caught up with the London mail coach, and bribing two passengers to vacate their seats, they made it to Town in excellent time. Gloriana sent Elspeth and their baggage home in a hackney and set out immediately in another hackney to see Madame Brun.

  She’d had plenty of time during the journey to ponder how to approach Philippe. She tried to think up a devious, crabwise sort of approach, such as luring him to a meeting place and taking him by surprise, but nothing came to mind. She would have to approach him directly. Even if she were so lost to propriety as to visit him at his lodgings, most likely she would not be admitted by the porter. If she wrote to him, he might not respond, and besides, she had to see him. To stare him in the face and see the guilt written there.

  “Ma chère Gloriana,” Sophie Brun said when the maid ushered her into the parlor. “Quelle belle surprise! I did not expect you back in London so soon.”

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” Gloriana said, “but I must speak to your brother on a matter of the greatest urgency.”

  “Why? What is wrong?” She took Gloriana’s hands and chafed them. “You are cold, and you seem unwell.”

  “I’m well, I assure you. It is a confidential matter, but I fear he will not respond if I write and ask to meet him. Perhaps if you speak to him on my behalf . . .”

  It dawned upon Gloriana, suddenly and unpleasantly, that her friendship with Sophie was in jeopardy once again. She would be deeply offended, and rightly so, when Gloriana accused her brother of theft.

  Unless she already knew about his disreputable past. She had never inquired about Sophie’s means of support, but it might well be her brother.

  “Fortune smiles on you, ma chère. He has given up his lodgings in London and now dwells here. He is upstairs in his bedchamber.”

  Anxiety washed over Gloriana. Philippe was here. She had to face him now.

  “He is to leave shortly for Town to attend a musical event held by Lady Bilchester,” his sister said. “I can only hope none of the young ladies present will seek to compromise him. They are the bane of his existence.”

  Gloriana intended to be a far worse bane, but she hadn’t expected to encounter Philippe so soon. She wasn’t prepared for a confrontation, particularly with him. She was tired and miserable and . . . afraid of what he might say or do.

  That realization stiffened her resolve. She did not fear Philippe. “I only need a few minutes with him.”

  “Very well.” Sophie left the room and came back seconds later. “I am very sorry, but he says no. To quote him, ‘Absolument non.’” Absolutely not.

  The lowly cur. Did he know why she had come?

  “He said more than that, but it was of a vulgarity the most extreme, and I shall not repeat it,” Sophie said.

  “How dare he?” Gloriana clenched her fists. She wouldn’t let him get away with this.

  “He is in a bad mood lately because of the so many lustful young ladies trying to trap him into marriage. He tried to discourage them by flaunting a mistress in public, but still they pursue him.”

  Was this the trouble Julian meant? Gloriana couldn’t suppress a disgusted snort. Men! They had no idea of real trouble.

  Sophie made a face. “And the widows and married ladies too, who fall over one another to entice him into bed.”

  Do they succeed? Gloriana wondered, not that it mattered to her. “I don’t lust after him.” Not anymore. “Which is his chamber?”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “On the right, but . . .”

  Gloriana paused on her march toward the stairs. “What?”

  “I think he anticipated such a reaction, for I heard him lock the door as I left.” Sadly, she said, “I am very sorry, but he has sworn to have nothing to do with you.”

  “No doubt,” Gloriana ground out. The thieving dastard. She reached the landing and banged on the door to the right. “Let me in, damn you!”

  After a pause: “Go away, Miss Warren.”

  “I need to talk to you.” She waited. “It’s important.” After a few seconds’ thought, she added, “Unless you prefer me to accuse you in public? Loudly and with a great deal of fuss?”

  He snorted. “That would be to no avail. You are one single woman I have definitely not compromised and never shall, and the whole world knows it.”

  Unbelievable. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive.” She thought about this idiotic comment, and added, “The only man lower on my list is Lord Hythwick.”

  “I am honored. Go away.”

  “Not until I speak to you, or I swear, I will tell the whole world what you have done.”

  “You are speaking to me, loudly and, as you put it, with a great deal of fuss.”

  “Privately,” she growled.

  He barked out a laugh. “Not a chance.”

  “For God’s sake, Philippe, don’t be ridiculous. I can’t compromise you with your sister standing right here.”

  “Then speak to me with her standing right there.”

  She took a deep breath. And another. She glanced at Sophie and regret washed over her. “I cannot. It would be unfair to Sophie. And unkind.”

  “I shall go away, if you wish,” Sophie said, “but the servants have big ears. You cannot be private whilst shouting in a corridor.” She paused. “Philippe, she says she does not lust after you, which may or may not be true.”

  Gloriana glared indignantly at her friend.

  “But she is far too angry to force herself on you,” Sophie said. “Please open the door.”

  “Non.” Curt, indifferent, and final.

  Inspiration struck Gloriana. She dug in the pocket of her cloak for the loaded pistol she always carried while traveling. So far, she’d never had cause to use it. She pointed it at the lock.

  Sophie gasped. “Gloriana, you must not!”

  “Unlock that door, Philippe, or I will shoot,” Gloriana said.

  He made a rude noise. “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I think she means it,” Sophie said in French.

  “Then let her prove it,” he retorted, laughing now.

  Sophie threw up her hands. “Don’t shoot him, please, chérie!”

  Gloriana hadn’t considered that option, but in this mood . . . “Fortunately for your horrible brother, I have only one shot, and that is for the lock.” She aimed. “Stand back, you blackguard.”

  Philippe’s laughter swelled to absolute hilarity.

  “Ah, mon Dieu,” Sophie cried. “Please stand away, Philippe!”

  Boom!

  The lock shattered. Gloriana thrust the door open and stormed into the room.

  ~ ~ ~

  Didn’t lust after him? Philippe knew the signs, as he saw them every damned day. Her eyes, which were narrowed with rage as she stalked in, widened now at the sight of him dressed only in his breeches.

  What did women see in him? He might be cursed with a pretty face, but he wasn’t a good man, nor even a charming one unless he chose to exert himself. He’d resorted to parading a mistress he didn’t particularly wan
t, simply to deter them. Not that even this tactic had worked.

  Annoyingly, he was beginning to be aroused, too. He could ignore most women, but this one never failed to get at him to some degree. He turned away to grab his shirt. “Pray give me leave to dress before you commence ranting, Miss Warren.”

  “Thank the Good Lord,” Sophie breathed. “You are alive and unhurt.”

  “I’m sorry I frightened you, Sophie,” Gloriana said. “And I’m sorry about your door too. I’ll pay to have it fixed.”

  “Indeed, you will.” Philippe pulled the shirt on and reached for a cravat. “I don’t know what you can possibly have to say to me, but treating my sister in such a callous way is unforgivable.”

  “You should have opened the door.”

  “He is stubborn,” Sophie said, “and so are you, chérie. In my opinion, you two would be much happier going to bed together than fighting, but no one listens to me. Therefore, I shall leave you now.” She shut the door behind her.

  Philippe and Gloriana were left to confront one another, distracted by images of lying naked together in bed. But there was nothing new about that as far as Philippe was concerned. Fortunately, the still-untucked shirt covered his affected part. As for the way her bosom heaved . . .

  On second thought, that might indicate nothing more interesting than rage.

  He sighed and faced the mirror. “I am preparing to leave for a party. You have five minutes.” After which, he intended to put her bodily out the door. “What do you want from me?”

  “You know perfectly well what I want,” she said.

  He rolled his eyes at this typical female obtuseness. “Why do women expect us to be mind readers?”

  “Pretending ignorance won’t work, Philippe. Where is it?”

  He put a damper on his rising temper and concentrated on tying his cravat. “Where is what?”

  “You stole it from me, you dirty, disgusting thief.”

  That gave him pause, for he was a thief, or had been. Lately, he’d increased his coffers by gambling. It wasn’t as reliable as burglary or highway robbery, but usually he came out ahead. He faced her, cocking a brow, remembering too late that for some absurd reason, the raising of one questioning eyebrow made the ladies flutter and sigh.

  She didn’t. “Ha!” She shook a furious finger at him. “I see it in your eyes. You admit it. You are a thief, just as Daisy said.”

  Evidently, Julian Kerr had no more control over his wife, another Warren woman, than Philippe or any sane man would have over Gloriana. He pitied her future husband, whoever he might be.

  “Was a thief,” he said. “But I fail to see what that has to do with you.”

  “You stole my book.” She clenched her fists. “You vile, sneaky, underhanded, hypocritical dastard. And then you have the gall to laugh at me when I come to confront you.”

  “I wasn’t laughing at you.” He’d been laughing at the absurdity of fate. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t avoid this lunatic woman.

  “Every word you say is a lie.” She was practically foaming at the mouth. “Give it back to me.”

  “I didn’t steal anything from you, book or otherwise.” He hadn’t even taken her virtue five years ago, when she’d offered it like the brazen hussy she was.

  Nobody would trap him into marriage.

  But that wasn’t the problem just now. He frowned, wondering what she was talking about. He had indeed stolen a book from a collector in Chester several months ago—it was related to a deal on which he couldn’t renege—but as far as he knew, there was no connection to Gloriana.

  “Give it to me now, or I swear, I shall return, and this time, I will kill you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Out with you, right now. If you return, if you ever bother my sister again, I’ll have you forcibly removed.”

  “My book!” she shrieked and lunged at him. “Give it back!”

  ~ ~ ~

  She couldn’t win. She never won against this man.

  She’d tried to control her temper, but she knew, when it came down to it, she wouldn’t denounce him in public. Not that she cared a whit about him, but it would upset Daisy, and Julian too, which would upset Daisy even more, and Miles and Melinda too, as well as Sophie Brun.

  She certainly didn’t have the courage to kill him. Which meant he had won. Again.

  She pounded his chest with her fists, screaming and crying with rage. “You stole my Book of Hours. The only thing in the world I cared about! I hate you!” Pound. “I want to kill you!” Punch. “Slowly.” Thump. “Painfully.” Thud. “Gruesomely, you loathsome beast.” She was getting tired, but he just stood there motionless, letting her hit him over and over.

  “I know you hate me,” she raged and thumped him again. “I understand that you despise me.” Misery fueled each exhausted thud of her fists. Sobs crowded from her throat and from her very heart. “Isn’t that enough? Did you have to steal my book too?”

  Suddenly, he grabbed her hands and held them still. “I did not steal your book.”

  “Liar. Dastard. Beast,” she sobbed, struggling, but he held her firmly against his chest.

  “I swear upon my honor,” he said.

  She kicked him.

  “By all that’s holy, I did not steal your book.”

  She kicked him again, weakly now. He was a Catholic. He wouldn’t swear in such a way unless he truly meant it, would he?

  “Do not kick me. Upon my immortal soul, Gloriana. I swear.”

  She subsided against his chest. She had to believe him. She had no choice.

  His arms came around her and held her, comforting and warm and safe.

  What was wrong with her? Nothing about him comforted her. She mustered her will and pushed away.

  ~ ~ ~

  Regretfully, but relieved she had initiated this withdrawal, Philippe released her. He would gladly have held her forever. No half-measures would do. The alternative to permanent possession of Gloriana Warren was never to see her again. He had chosen that option and preferred to stick to it, but it wasn’t easy to resist a woman who shot her way into one’s bedchamber. Ah, she was magnificent.

  But she was not for him. He fetched a handkerchief from his dressing table and offered it to her.

  The last time he’d tried to give her a handkerchief, she’d slapped his hand away. This time she accepted it and blew her nose.

  He refused to let it encourage him in any way. He was used to shedding the pain she caused—like water running off an oilskin and disappearing down a gutter. He tugged off the cravat, which her rain of blows had crushed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said thickly. “I apologize for accusing you.” She wiped her eyes and sniffled.

  He had never seen Gloriana so abject, but it wouldn’t last long. He might as well take advantage of this rare contrition. “I shall treasure this rare occurrence—an apology from Gloriana Warren.”

  Immediately her head came up. “I had a valid reason for suspecting you.”

  He couldn’t suppress a chuckle. The old Gloriana was back. “True, I used to be a thief, and I had an opportunity to take your so beautiful book.” He tossed the crumpled cravat onto the floor and gestured her to one of the bergère chairs before the fire. “And you dislike me so very much.”

  Crossly, she sat down. “I didn’t want it to be you.”

  He took the other chair and disposed himself at his ease—or the appearance of it. He gave her a look. “No?”

  “No, of course not. Despite our differences, I would rather not hate you.”

  He didn’t believe this, but he let it pass. He wished he didn’t want, oh so very fiercely, to question her about their supposed differences, but he had sworn to sever all contact with her and must keep to that de
cision or go mad.

  “Hatred is pointless and exhausting,” she said. “Not only that, Julian cares for you, and Miles and Melinda value your friendship.” She sniffled. “I wonder if Sophie will still be friends with me.”

  Most probably, but Gloriana didn’t deserve reassurance. “You should have thought of that before you came storming in here to accuse me.”

  “And you shouldn’t have given me the cut direct,” she shot back.

  True, it was a wasted gesture, because it hadn’t succeeded in getting rid of her for good. “So. Now that we have traded compliments, let us pass to identifying the true culprit.”

  “How?” She sniffled again. “I trust all my servants, and Miles questioned his and got nowhere, but perhaps it was one of them.”

  “No, no. It is obvious who stole it. If you did not dislike me, you would have seen it immediately.”

  “What do you mean?” She twisted her hands together. “The only obvious culprit was you.”

  “Come now,” Philippe said. “Who else was in the room? Who else saw you put the book away? Who is a collector of antiquities? And who doubtless wants his revenge?”

  Chapter 6

  “Lord Hythwick.” Gloriana stared. “No, he was unconscious.”

  “I do not think so,” Philippe said. “He rolled over. He was facing you when you put the Book of Hours away.”

  Gloriana thought back, remembering with a shudder the gleam of hatred in Lord Hythwick’s eyes. “But . . . but he’s a wealthy man. He could buy a similar Book of Hours if he wished to. Why take the risk of stealing mine?”

  “What risk? After we both went downstairs, he had at least fifteen minutes in which to return to your bedchamber, take the book, and conceal it in a valise. Miles, Melinda, and the others arrived just as the earl climbed into his coach. No one was thinking about the book then.”

  This was true.

  “Servants were the logical suspects,” Philippe said. “They always are, no matter how long they have served and how steadfastly they have proven their loyalty. No wonder the lower classes long to rebel.”