The Redemption of the Shrew

by Barbara Monajem

  To find a flushed Sophie Brun turning swiftly toward her, while Mr. Alexander tidied some papers on his desk.

  “Miss Glow! I didn’t expect to see you today,” he said. “Madame Brun, I’m sure we can manage it. Just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Alexander.” Sophie’s blush drained away, and she smiled at Gloriana. “Do come have coffee with me if you have time.”

  She left, leaving the door ajar, and Gloriana raised inquiring brows at Mr. Alexander.

  “Madame Brun teaches French to the daughters of some merchants with social aspirations. She has acquired a new pupil, which may necessitate adjusting our schedule.”

  “Ah,” Gloriana said, uninterested. She moved to the doorway and glanced down the stairs. Sophie was letting herself out of the house. She closed the door and took the chair across from him. “I have something to ask you, but it must be kept completely confidential.”

  He seated himself. “Very well.”

  “I need to hire a burglar,” she said. “I thought you might be acquainted with one.”

  His mouth twisted into a resigned sort of smile. “You never fail to surprise me, Miss Glow.”

  “In fact, I’m sure you know a burglar. You mentioned him once.”

  “Perhaps I did, but I really don’t think—”

  “It’s important. Let me explain. It’s frightfully embarrassing, but you probably won’t believe me if I don’t tell you what happened last summer.” She did so as briefly as possible, stressing Lord Hythwick’s interest in the Book of Hours and his opportunity to steal it. She omitted the horrid fact that she’d accused the Marquis de Bellechasse first, saying only that when she’d consulted him, they had agreed that Lord Hythwick was the most likely suspect.

  “The marquis has promised to recover the book for me, but I don’t see how he can do it without breaking into Lord Hythwick’s house, and what if he’s caught? How dreadful it would be for poor Sophie Brun to lose her brother and her children to lose their beloved uncle! So I have decided that I should hire a professional burglar, for whom getting caught is one of the accepted hazards of his occupation.”

  Mr. Alexander’s eyes widened. “Madame Brun’s brother is a marquis?”

  “Yes, a French marquis. He escaped during the Revolution. Didn’t you know?”

  “No, how should I? We’ve never been introduced, and she has spoken of him only as her brother.” He frowned, evidently perturbed, although she couldn’t see why.

  “Does it matter? Marquis or not, I mustn’t put him in harm’s way. Will you please introduce me to your burglar friend?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Late that night, Sophie and her lover lay entwined once again. He seemed strangely preoccupied, which worried her, although she hated to admit that even to herself.

  He rolled away from her, onto his back, and fear seized her. Had he tired of her? No, judging by her past experience, that was unlikely. He put his hands behind his head, took a deep breath, and smiled. His eyes, warm and appreciative, rested on her. Surely that did not betoken the end of a love affair.

  More likely it meant he would pester her again for marriage. She could not marry him—not now and maybe never. It was wrong of her to keep him, risking his reputation and that of the school. She should let him go.

  “Your brother is a marquis,” he said.

  Merde, she said to herself. She would never say such a rude word aloud. Although, to be truthful, she had done so many times, along with other vulgarities, during the escape from France, for she had been playing the part of a woman of the people.

  “An aristocrat,” he added, as if she hadn’t understood the first time.

  “So?” She hunched a shoulder. “He is a man like any other.” Please, please don’t hold it against me. He was a man of the people, her Eric—not one who coveted a title, but rather the sort who disdained it.

  “And that makes you an aristocrat as well.” He grinned. “But you are not a woman like any other.” Under the coverlet, he walked his fingers up her torso, cupped her cheek, and kissed her.

  “Thank you.” I think. That kiss did not bring as much comfort as it should. “Why do you bring up a subject of so little interest?”

  “It is of interest to me,” he said, “because you didn’t tell me.”

  She folded her arms, hugging herself away from him, chilly now despite the blankets. “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe,” he said, and then as her heart sank, he pulled her close. “Not to me, sweetheart. You are the woman I love and that is that. But it will matter to your brother.”

  “It will not.” She put a certain amount of bravado in that statement, although it was not what truly worried her. “My brother is a revolutionary. He despised the aristocracy in France.”

  “Maybe, but he won’t want you dallying with a working-class bloke.”

  “You are not a laborer!”

  “No, but my old man was,” he said. “The gentry don’t like it when we poach on their preserves. As a child, I remember one fellow boasting at the tavern that he’d done it with a certain lady.” He shrugged. “Stupid thing to do—he was found drowned not long afterward.”

  “What happened to the lady?”

  “The usual,” he said. “Hushed it up, married her off.” This might have happened in France before the Revolution, but not during those terrible years that followed.

  “My brother is not permitted to shoot you. He believes in equality. I shall require him to prove it.”

  He chuckled. “I look forward to meeting him. If he is really as you say, maybe he will persuade you to marry me.”

  She said nothing. The two men must meet sooner or later, but she feared the consequences. She didn’t want to tell Eric why she couldn’t marry him . . . why she might never be free to do so. But Philippe might take it upon himself to explain the problem, and Eric might agree with his solution. Then she would have to withstand both of them.

  If she remained stubborn, Eric might leave her. If she gave in and agreed to a sham marriage, it was as good as giving Philippe a license to commit murder if Jean-Esprit proved to be alive.

  “It hasn’t been easy since he moved in here,” Eric said. “He is sure to stumble upon me one night.”

  She feigned an indifferent shrug. “He is a Frenchman who understands l’amour, not a stuffy Englishman who will scowl and make a grand fuss.” At least, she hoped he wouldn’t. “He won’t stay here forever. Let us not talk about this.”

  “Very well—but I have one more question. If you are an aristocrat, how did you end up with a plebian name such as Brun?”

  She burst into tears. He cradled her in his arms, uttering broken phrases of apology and comfort. “Forgive my idle curiosity. I don’t care about your name, my darling, my lovely, my beautiful Sophie.” He kissed her, wiped away her tears, and smiled. “But if your name isn’t really Sophie, tell me now. Or not. That doesn’t matter either. I will love you always, whatever your name.”

  “I am Sophie,” she said, and he made love to her gently and tenderly. She gloried in the knowledge that his heart was hers forever.

  But what good was that when soon she would have to relinquish her claim on him? After he left, she lay awake for hours. She must tell him everything and get it over with.

  But not yet.

  Chapter 7

  The following evening, Gloriana strolled along on Mr. Alexander’s arm, pretending they were a courting couple reluctant to part. Mr. Alexander had no objection to playing this role, but it made Gloriana uneasy. She didn’t think Mr. Alexander would take any liberties—he’d always kept his distance, as was proper—but he was male and very likeable, and . . .

  What bothered her, she decided, was that she wished to have someone with whom to take those very liberties. She had been angry for years,
too angry to let her carnal desires rise to the fore, but now they had begun to make themselves known—ever since those brief moments in Philippe’s arms.

  What use was physical desire when the only man she’d ever seriously wanted didn’t want her? She sighed.

  “Bored, Miss Glow?”

  “No, just worried.” This was true. She didn’t know how anyone could choose burglary as a profession. It was far too nerve-wracking. They wandered past Lord Hythwick’s house, around a corner, down a street, then past his house again, touting—not a word in her customary vocabulary, but in this instance it meant playing lookout in case an alarm was raised, or officers of the law appeared.

  It was a dark, damp, chilly evening, with a breeze nipping at her ankles. Was she shivering from cold, or nerves, or both? Every now and then they would stop and pretend to embrace. Mr. Alexander would pull her into his arms. She would clutch her sketchbook against her chest, which helped to maintain decency until he decided to move again. These brief respites from the chilly wind warmed her up considerably, but they also made her sad. These were the wrong arms around her and the wrong masculine chest against which to lay her head . . .

  It was even worse because she knew what the right chest looked like. The night before, as she lay awake and worrying, she’d lit a branch of candles and drawn, from memory, Philippe without his shirt.

  She had to stop thinking about Philippe. She thrust his image from her mind and conjured instead the burglar, Mr. Cartway, a tall, lantern-jawed Cockney with a gap-toothed grin. He’d come by the school that very morning, looked Gloriana up and down appreciatively, and said, “This your latest lady friend, Rev?”

  “She is not,” Mr. Alexander retorted. “Miss Glow is my business partner at the school.”

  Mr. Cartway chuckled and nudged Gloriana. “Where I come from, he’s known as the Rovin’ Rev, ’cause he fancies the ladies.”

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Cartway. It is one of his greatest assets.”

  Mr. Alexander blinked at her. “It is?”

  “Yes, indeed. You understand bad behavior and therefore know how to handle naughty boys. Now, shall we get down to business?”

  “Right-o,” Mr. Cartway said. “I made me inquiries. His High-and-Mighty Lordship is out of town. Be back Friday week. There’s naught but a skeleton staff, so now’s our chance. What do you want me to prig?”

  “A book Lord Hythwick stole from my brother’s house several months ago.” Gloriana proffered him a quarter sheet of foolscap with a sketch of the Book of Hours, more or less actual size, front and back. “I suggest you try his bedchamber and whichever room he uses as a library or study. Most likely he has kept it hidden, perhaps even locked away. He would not risk showing it to guests for fear of a chance word coming to my ears or my brother’s. He cannot have known it would be several months before we realized it was missing.”

  “That’s all you want? A book?”

  “It’s a medieval book—a calendar of holy days with beautiful illuminated pages.” At his blank look, she added, “There are drawings on the pages, as well Bible verses and the life stories of saints in old-fashioned lettering. It’s very old and just the sort of thing Lord Hythwick likes to collect. The cover is leather, with silver metalwork at the corners, and a silver clasp. It belongs to my brother, and I must get it back.” Her throat filled, and she confessed, “It’s my fault that Lord Hythwick had the opportunity to steal the book.”

  “But not your fault that he did so,” Mr. Alexander said.

  “Hiffy’s a bad sort,” Mr. Cartway said. “Makes life hell for his servants. I’m happy to have a chance to diddle him.”

  Hiffy? She stifled a giggle. In Mr. Cartway’s Cockney accent, the nickname sounded like ‘iffy.’ “Five pounds to search for it, and twenty-five if you succeed in finding it and bring it to me.”

  “Right you are. Piece of cake.”

  “But please, please don’t get caught.”

  “Don’t you worry your head over me, miss. I’m an old hand at this sort of caper.”

  “And whether or not you find it, please try to leave no sign that you were there.”

  “No fear of that, ducky,” he said indulgently, as if she were a foolish child. Which she certainly had been for years, judging by her behavior, but not anymore.

  He folded the sketch, shook hands, and took himself off. Immediately, Gloriana sent one of the boys with a note to Sophie, asking her to inform Philippe that he needn’t search for the book, as she had found another way to recover it.

  She brushed her hands together in a that-took-care-of-him sort of motion. She hadn’t contacted Philippe directly, and he would no longer endanger himself.

  So now, shivering on Mr. Alexander’s arm, she did her best not to worry about Mr. Cartway instead.

  ~ ~ ~

  Philippe read the note, tossed it into the grate, and watched it burn. God only knew what mad plan she was pursuing now. Well, he had plans of his own.

  Since Hythwick was still at his Melton Mowbray estate, breaking into his house wasn’t particularly risky. Still, that evening Philippe brought two loaded pistols in case the footmen were vigilant. More likely, they were drinking and playing cards in the kitchen, as servants were wont to do when the master was away, especially one like Hythwick who considered them of no account.

  Hythwick’s was one of the grand old mansions on a sizeable plot of land, with a wall easily scaled if one knew how, and a bump-out at the back with a drainpipe just asking to be shinned. Philippe climbed onto the roof of the bump-out, staying low so as to show no silhouette, and was about to pry open a window when he realized it already was open about an inch.

  Strange, but he pushed it slowly up. It made no sound. Evidently the servants kept everything in perfect condition or else. He climbed in and looked about . . . Darkness and silence.

  Too silent, somehow. One learned to sense these things.

  He gazed about the dim room, keeping his back to the wall and gripping one of the pistols. A long, tall shape materialized from behind a sofa, chuckling as it appeared.

  “Wotcher, Phil.”

  Philippe let out a long, relieved breath and pocketed the pistol. He knew Cartway well, having hired him for difficult burglaries in London. “What the devil are you doing here?” A stupid question. He cursed under his breath and closed the window. “I suppose Miss . . . Glow hired you.”

  “Got it in one, mate. You, too? I thought you was done with milling kens.”

  “I am. Fool woman, I told her I’d get the book for her. This explains why she wrote telling me not to bother.”

  “She a friend of yours?”

  “God, no. She cannot stand the sight of me.”

  “And now you’re risking life and limb on the crack lay for the sake of her loverly blue eyes?” Cartway chuckled again. “Right, then. You take this room, I’ll try his bedchamber.”

  “Fine,” Philippe said.

  “Miss Glow and the Rovin’ Rev are playing bo-peep.”

  Which meant they were acting as lookouts. Why the devil must Gloriana take such stupid risks? “Who is the Roving Rev?”

  “Cove what runs that school of hers. Got a rovin’ eye, he has.”

  He’d better not be roving it over Gloriana. Philippe bit his tongue to keep from saying so.

  “She won’t come to no harm with him,” Cartway said kindly.

  “Fine,” Philippe said again. “Let’s get to work.”

  ~ ~ ~

  At last, at last, the shrill sound of a crowing cock split the night.

  “He’s done,” Mr. Alexander said. “Let’s be off.” They were to meet at a tavern about a mile away on the outskirts of St. Giles.

  “Wasn’t he supposed to cluck like a hen if he’d found it?” Gloriana said. Which meant mostly likely
he hadn’t. “Shouldn’t we wait and listen?” Her teeth began to chatter.

  “No,” Mr. Alexander said. “Best be on our way.” They’d had to avoid the Watch a couple of times already.

  Fifteen minutes’ brisk walk brought them to the Spotted Dragon. Not much of the dragon was visible on the weathered sign, which creaked back and forth in the wind. Almost no light showed through the grimy windows, but when Mr. Alexander pushed open the door, a blast of heat hit them.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” Gloriana breathed. “I thought I would never be warm again.”

  “Hush,” Mr. Alexander growled. “You’re conspicuous enough as is, without coming the aristocrat in this sort of place.”

  “I’m not coming the aristocrat,” she said. “I am one.”

  “Aye, you can’t help that.” He led her through the crowd of ancient wooden tables. “Best you say as little as possible.”

  Annoyed, she followed him. She wasn’t the sort of person to sit back quietly.

  “Well, well, if ain’t the Rovin’ Rev,” called a cheerful voice.

  “Wiv a loverly new lady, I see,” said another. “Wot ’appened to the curvy blonde?”

  “That was years ago.” Mr. Alexander paused to shake hands with one man, pat another on the back, and exchange an odd hand signal with a third—all the while fielding rude comments about her until finally they reached his table of choice.

  Good God. Everyone in this dim, filthy place thought she was his doxy!

  Well. If he could begin as a laborer’s son and become a gentleman, surely she could act as if she were of a lower class. She eyed the grimy chair but stopped herself in time from brushing it off. She plumped herself down as ungracefully as she could manage. Her cousin Daisy had served ale in a tavern. She’d befriended laborers and smugglers. Surely it wasn’t all that hard to do . . .