The Redemption of the Shrew

by Barbara Monajem

  Since he was almost completely bald, she couldn’t help laughing as he squired her across the floor. “I’ve been spending more time at the school, teaching drawing to some of the boys.”

  “How ever did you convince them that drawing is worthwhile?”

  “By relating it to carpentry arts such as marquetry and inlay. It’s rewarding to see their progress and their joy in achievement.”

  And then Philippe arrived, driving her enjoyment away. His presence unnerved her. She had to concentrate on her steps.

  “Why do you scowl?” Mr. Bridge asked, but he realized at once. “Ah, I see—the revolutionary marquis. The latest on dit is that you have admitted publicly to agreeing with his views.”

  “With some of his views, and you know very well which those are,” she retorted. “I shouldn’t have said as much to Alice Stowe, but the world must be mighty short on interesting gossip if my political opinions are the best they can muster.”

  “Not your opinions, but the animosity with which you deliver them. No one seems to have the least idea in what way you agree with him, though.”

  “Because no one cares about matters of grave interest to society. They just want to be titillated, and for some inexplicable reason, animosity does that.” She sighed. The time had come to reveal her secret. “I have decided to take your advice and seek some wealthy patrons.”

  “Excellent. It’s about time!” cried Mr. Bridge, in such a triumphant tone that heads turned—even Philippe’s. He stared at her, his expression so appalled that she had to tear her gaze away.

  “Are you well, Miss Warren?”

  She swallowed and smiled wanly at Mr. Bridge. “Just a trifle nervous about telling the world.”

  “Never mind about the marquis,” he said. “It’s for the welfare of many deserving boys. Concentrate on that.”

  Yes. Thrust away the angry, disgusted . . . whatever it was expression on Philippe’s face and think about good works. The music ended, and as Mr. Bridge led her off the floor, she made a point of speaking more loudly than usual so others might hear as well.

  Why must Philippe be standing in full view? This was embarrassing enough without him listening.

  “Yes, Mr. Bridge, I believe it’s time we told our secret to the world.”

  That turned a great many heads. Philippe’s face drained. He swiveled and stalked toward one of the doorways. Good.

  “As you all know, I believe in noblesse oblige. Just because too many of the nobility shirk their responsibilities, it doesn’t mean the concept itself is wrong. I did not, and still do not, accept the notions of liberty and equality for all, as the vast majority of humanity are too foolish to handle the responsibility such freedoms entail.” She’d been foolish herself for years and years, and she was supposedly one of the educated sort! “However, I always wondered about Monsieur de Bellechasse’s opinion that education will raise the masses out of poverty and degradation, and that it is far more important than one’s status at birth.”

  A few subdued murmurs and a tsk or two greeted this statement. Hopefully, at least one listener agreed or might pass the word.

  “A few years ago—after my aunt died and left me a competence—I founded a school in Islington village for orphaned boys from the worst parts of London. Mr. Bridge was so kind as to help fund the school. We have had great success so far. Boys who began as beggars, thieves, and mudlarks are well on their way to becoming responsible citizens.”

  Someone snorted at that. “Not likely. Blood will out, and theirs is bad.”

  “Mark my words, they’ll only end up as better thieves,” said a gentleman who had supported her entirely opposite opinions in the past. “What has come over you, Miss Warren?”

  “Your aunt must be turning in her grave at such a waste of her money,” said a dowager. More mutters of agreement followed.

  “She was a dreadful snob,” Mr. Bridge said. “Serves her right.”

  “True,” another man chuckled. “A terrifying old besom.”

  Gloriana muffled a laugh. Her poor auntie! She’d been a severe trial to live with, but she’d acted according to her beliefs—while Gloriana had played a part, pretending to agree, at first to annoy Philippe, but afterwards out of consideration for her aunt and—oh, admit it, Gloriana, if only to yourself—to ensure her inheritance as well. Should she have opted for sincerity instead?

  Probably, but then she wouldn’t have been able to found the school.

  “I suspect the good Lord would agree with Miss Warren’s use of her money,” Mr. Bridge said. “And mine. And, we hope, some of yours as well.”

  “Definitely not!” trumpeted a dowager who’d known her as a child. “It’s sheer folly. I thought better of you, Gloriana, but you are proving as wayward as the rest of the Warrens. Lord Hythwick was right to decide against you—except that he would have stopped this nonsense of yours immediately the vows were said, which would have been better for all concerned.”

  Gloriana caught sight of Philippe in the doorway. Her confession seemed to have restored him to his usual sardonic good humor. Did he imagine she hadn’t realized what Hythwick was like? Probably. He persisted in believing the worst of her, whether her motives or her intelligence.

  “Lord Hythwick made the correct decision, for both his sake and mine.” Gloriana shot a glare at Philippe. His eyes flicked past her, and he frowned.

  “And I shall forever regret the necessity to do so,” said a familiar voice behind her. Lord Hythwick stepped forward and bowed. “Always a pleasure, Miss Warren.”

  “Good evening, my lord.” His sister came up behind him in a frothy gown of palest rose. “And Lady Marianne. How lovely to see you tonight.”

  “Might I beg a dance with you this evening?” Hythwick asked.

  If only she could say no, you vermin! But even if she weren’t trying to gain access to his house, it would cause talk if she refused, so she smiled and said, “Certainly, my lord. I should be honored.”

  The earl and his sister carried on, and the man who’d described her aunt as a besom asked for more information about the school. They went away to find someplace to sit, leaving both Philippe—who was scowling now—and the naysayers behind.

  This made the evening much more pleasant, until she happened to notice Philippe sauntering down a corridor away from the ballroom. A few seconds later, Miss Arabella Stansom followed him.

  Gloriana stared, dithering. It was all too obvious what Arabella was up to, and she just might succeed. Philippe could run away from a naked woman in the country, where no one who mattered had seen him with her, but he couldn’t escape unscathed from a London ball. He would have no choice but to marry Arabella if they were found in a compromising situation.

  Gloriana must prevent such a disaster at all costs. “Excuse me,” she said to the friends with whom she was chatting. “I’ll be back directly.” She stalked across the ballroom in time to see Arabella disappear through a doorway at the end of the passageway.

  Fury simmered inside her. She glanced about. No chaperone or giggling miss hovered nearby, so the girl’s plan must be her own. Gloriana hurried down the corridor. Judging by what Alice Stowe had said, Arabella was determined to trap Philippe. She would go to any lengths necessary—such as tearing her gown, perhaps, and then crying, “Rape!”

  Gloriana reached the door and barged through, seething.

  Lady Marianne Delfin and Philippe were standing with their heads together, looking at a book, whilst Arabella scowled at them, arms akimbo. She stamped her feet, burst into tears, and stormed out of the room, which proved to be Mr. Lansing’s library.

  Gloriana felt the blood rush to her face. She’d made a fool of herself by barging in. “I didn’t know which room this was. I—I feared that stupid girl would try once again to compromise you, Ph—Monsieur de Bellechasse.”
Although come to think of it, he shouldn’t have been here alone with Lady Marianne, either.

  He smirked at her. “I did not need to be rescued, but I suppose you meant well.”

  “If you’re not careful, you will need rescuing. For heaven’s sake! What a catastrophe if you found yourself obliged to wed a silly pea-goose like Miss Stansom.”

  “Yes, how horrid,” Marianne said. “For her as well as you, monsieur. How ghastly to be married to a man who dislikes, even despises one.”

  How heartbreaking to love such a man.

  “That will not happen,” he said. “And now, you two ladies must leave me here and return to the ballroom together.”

  Gloriana bristled at this blatant order. “So some other foolish girl can accost you?”

  He gave her an impatient glare, and Marianne giggled. “They cannot help themselves.”

  “You need not fear for me.” His voice was hard, his demeanor implacable. “Long ago, I vowed that no one will force me to marry. I shall wed whom I choose, when I choose.” He might as well have added, certainly not you.

  “Thank you for the book of poetry,” Marianne said. “I hope it will improve my comprehension of the French language.” She looped her arm into Gloriana’s, and together they left the room.

  “He’s such a good-looking man,” Marianne confided softly as they strolled toward the ballroom.

  “Indeed,” was all Gloriana could manage.

  “Oh, dear,” Marianne said. “I forgot—you hate the marquis, don’t you?”

  “That is nothing but gossip. We disagree on a number of subjects, but there is no enmity between us.”

  “I thought not, for you speak to him with the ease of old friends.”

  “You mean I scold him,” Gloriana said. “We have known one another for a long time, so I suppose that accounts for it.”

  “I like him very much.” She sighed.

  Good God. “My dear Marianne, are you falling in love with his handsome face?”

  “He is far more than a handsome face,” Marianne said reproachfully. “He is kindhearted as well. And clever, too!”

  “Perhaps, but what about Freddy Barnham?”

  She pouted. “Alvin doesn’t approve.”

  “He won’t approve of the marquis either,” Gloriana said. Dear Lord, no. If he refused to consider Freddy Barnham because of a childhood dispute, how would he react to a suitor who had beaten him half to death a few short months ago? “He would do anything to prevent you from marrying Philippe de Bellechasse.”

  Marianne’s answering smile was the sort that hides happy secrets—or delusions. “We shall see.”

  Chapter 10

  “I shall have a little talk with Gloriana,” Philippe said in an under voice. He and Lady Marianne were standing together in a corner of the ballroom—a good location for private conversation whilst being noticed by those around them. He had his doubts about the efficacy of their plan as far as Freddy and Marianne’s future was concerned, but if it kept Gloriana away from Hythwick House, that was good enough for him.

  Lady Marianne giggled. “I don’t think she’s the obedient sort.”

  “I shall have to make her see sense.” To do that, he might have to tell her about his own difficulties. Damn, the last thing he needed was a tête-a-tête with her.

  A couple of ladies sauntered toward them, and Marianne immediately changed the topic. She was an excellent co-conspirator. She understood that his requests amounted to orders; she didn’t ask too many questions, and she had found an excuse to continue their interrupted discussion—a question about a poem by François Villon. The book was open in her hand, and her gaze was serious.

  “Villon is one of my favorite poets,” Philippe said. “He had a hard life.”

  “As have you, monsieur,” Marianne said, but she had no idea of the extent of his difficulties or how much his checkered career resembled Villon’s. He wasn’t about to enlighten her. They resumed their discussion of the poem until the ladies drifted past.

  Marianne had been unsurprised, when he’d first broached their little plot, to learn that her brother had stolen a precious book from Gloriana’s house. Needless to say, he hadn’t told her about the attempted rape.

  “A boy was expelled from Eton for stealing a snuffbox from one of the masters, but Alvin was the real thief,” she’d said. “I know, because I heard him telling one of his horrid school friends. But I dared not say anything, for he would have beaten me, and even if my parents believed me, they would have done nothing to correct the injustice.”

  “And if the theft was a conspiracy of boys wishing to get rid of another, the boy who was expelled would have been bullied unmercifully if the masters agreed to his reinstatement.”

  She sighed. “That is probably true, but nevertheless, I have always felt badly about being unable to help. I shall take great pleasure in helping you recover Gloriana’s book.”

  “Thank you, but you must not search for it,” he said. “It is too dangerous. If a servant spies you poking about and mentions it to your brother, he may suspect. If you chance to find out where he keeps it, let me know, but whatever you do, don’t take it.”

  “I shan’t,” she had said firmly. So far, so good—as long as she continued to do as she was told.

  Now, at the ball, Freddy Barnham was also playing his part well. He lounged against a nearby wall, glowering. The two ladies glanced at him and then at Philippe and Marianne, tittering. They drifted past, feigning disinterest.

  “It is the greatest of pleasures to tutor such a lovely lady in the language of my country,” Philippe said. “Let me know if any of the argot in the poems confuses you.” Once the gossips were out of earshot, he added, “And please make sure Gloriana has no opportunity to try searching for the book herself.”

  “I shall.” Marianne smiled sweetly and tripped away.

  He avoided her for the rest of the evening, for it would not do to rouse Hythwick’s ire just yet. He avoided Gloriana, too, but that didn’t stop him from propping up a wall, doing his best not to glower like Freddy, while the despicable earl danced with her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gloriana continued to avoid Philippe for the next several days, even going to the extent of crossing the street and diving into a millinery shop when she spied him on a big black gelding, and later clambering hurriedly into a hackney when she would have preferred to walk. Out of sight, out of mind, or so she hoped. She’d kept her feelings for him alive for five years. Perhaps if she crushed them for the next five, they would cease to exist.

  “Come have coffee with me,” Sophie beckoned from her doorstep later that week. Gloriana had no choice but to agree. She didn’t intend to forgo friendship with Sophie just because she was eternally at odds with Philippe.

  “Thank you, I’d like that,” she said, crossing the threshold, “unless your brother is here—”

  Sophie motioned her into the drawing room. “He wishes a word with you. I shall see about the coffee.” She shut the door behind her, and Gloriana found herself face to face with Philippe.

  “Don’t blame my sister.” He was leaning against the mantelpiece, warming himself by the fire. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  She glowered at him. “Because I don’t want to argue with you.”

  “Then don’t, just listen to what I have to say. Sophie made me promise to get it over with quickly and let her enjoy your company.”

  “Get what over with?”

  “My . . . confession.”

  Confession? “What, you’re a murderer as well as a thief?” Immediately, she regretted such unkind words.

  He scowled. “So far, I have only killed in defense of myself or others, but one of these days I may strangle you. I know perfectly well why you suddenly became bosom bows with Marianne Delfin.
Enough, Gloriana!”

  “How dare you interfere with my friendship?” She flung away from him and went to the window, fists clenched, for if she faced him, she might shriek at him. “You are insufferable!”

  “I do not question your friendship, but the reason for it. You wish to gain access to Hythwick House and search for the book.”

  She didn’t answer, for to deny this would be a lie. She didn’t want to lie anymore, but she had to find the book. She watched two sparrows as they fluttered and hopped along the pavement, and tried to think what to say.

  “You will not succeed, and more than likely, you will put yourself in danger again. Can you not see that Lord Hythwick still has designs on you?”

  This horrid thought had occurred to her while dancing with Hythwick, but she wasn’t about to admit to Philippe that it worried her. She turned away from the window, saying airily, “Perhaps he does, but I shall be careful not to find myself alone with him.”

  “Mordieu,” he uttered. “Quelle folie! Stop looking for ways to get the damned book back and leave it to me!”

  “Why should I? You owe me nothing.”

  “True, and I should be glad to leave it that way, but I cannot.”

  “Why not?” She stormed to the window again. Why couldn’t he just leave her be? The sparrows had moved on, but she couldn’t unless he got out of her way. “My book is none of your business.”

  “No, but my freedom is.”

  “Your freedom?” She faced him again, confused now.

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “Hythwick risked a scandal if he accused me of attacking him, so he found another way to revenge himself. He has denounced me to the government as a French spy.”

  She gaped at him. “What?”

  “It is a lie,” he said.

  “Of course it’s a lie,” she cried, her mind whirling. “But—But . . .” Oh, God.