Chapter 11
Hope slipped into Elspeth’s heart—for despite her brave words, she couldn’t forget Mr. Turner, no matter how hard she tried.
“I think you’ll like what I’m suggesting,” Gloriana said. “It will benefit you as well as me—assuming the man you wished to marry was indeed Mr. Turner.”
Heavens, yes. With all her heart. But it was impossible, so why imagine it might be?
Drat, she couldn’t help but imagine it. Meanwhile, Gloriana fidgeted, sighed, clasped and unclasped her hands, sighed again, and fidgeted some more. This was her version of patience, and it wouldn’t last long.
Elspeth took a deep breath. “Miss Glow, tell me what you have in mind.”
“I thought you might know how to contact Mr. Turner privately.” She paused. “In return for his assistance, I would compensate him handsomely.”
Elspeth’s heart sank as she realized what her mistress was asking. A member of the ton, with powerful relations to support her, had no idea of the potential consequences of such a plan to a mere servant. Severely, she said, “For stealing back the Book of Hours, I assume.”
“Yes!” Gloriana cried. “Darling Elspeth, I knew you would understand.”
“Indeed I do, but that would be most improper of him, Miss Glow.” Not to mention stupid and dangerous. “He is in Lord Hythwick’s employ.”
“Improper to retrieve something his master stole?” Gloriana demanded.
“Perhaps not, when you put it that way. But it would mean risking his livelihood—maybe even his freedom.”
“I don’t see how. Lord Hythwick couldn’t accuse him of stealing something that wasn’t even his.”
“No, but I don’t trust the Quality, miss, particularly not Lord Hythwick. He might accuse him of stealing something else, just for the sake of revenge.”
“He is a vengeful sort of man,” Gloriana admitted. “But why should he suspect Mr. Turner more than any other servant?”
“Because he is more likely to know about it than any other servant.”
“Yes, but . . .”
Let her squirm her way out of that one, thought Elspeth uncharitably, wishing she needn’t think about Gloriana’s suggestion but knowing she had no choice. Knowing this might be her only chance for love . . . but at what risk?
“They can’t convict him of theft if he has no stolen goods on him,” Gloriana said.
Perhaps not—although Elspeth didn’t trust magistrates either. “Even an accusation would ruin Mr. Turner’s reputation.”
Gloriana gave that an entire two seconds’ worth of thought. “Very well, he needn’t take the book. All I want to know is where Lord Hythwick keeps it. Once I know that, I’ll find a way to get it. Perhaps I can hire a burglar again.”
Elspeth considered Gloriana’s proposal but couldn’t find an objection.
“You told me Mr. Turner wasn’t happy in Hythwick’s service,” Gloriana said. “This is his chance to leave him—to set up a business of his own. Former valets often become innkeepers, for example. Or tailors. My brother will pay well to get the book back, and just think! Mr. Turner would then be able to afford a wife.”
Elspeth sat down. Yearning washed over her. Temptation gnawed. If only . . .
This was ridiculous. She didn’t even know if Mr. Turner cared for her. In fact, she was almost certain he didn’t. Those kisses had probably meant nothing to him. She stood and paced to the window. It was rude to turn her back to her mistress, but she didn’t care. She watched a few carriages roll by. Watched pigeons bickering on the pavement. Watched a maid belatedly sweeping a doorstep across the way.
Gloriana’s voice scattered her thoughts. “I shall miss you sorely, Elspeth, but this may be your only chance of marriage. You deserve that chance.”
Elspeth sighed.
“Well?”
Elspeth gritted her teeth. She needed time. “I’ll think about it, Miss Glow.”
“Think about what? It’s not complicated. All I want you to do is contact him for me. Lord Hythwick’s house isn’t far from here. Surely his servants and mine frequent the same taverns on their evenings off.”
Grrr. “Mr. Turner goes to the Bull and Crown from time to time.” But he’d made no attempt to talk to her since that horrid day last summer. A casual nod, after which he averted his eyes, couldn’t be called encouraging. She gazed down at her clasped hands. “I don’t know if I can, miss.”
“Can what? You needn’t ask him to do anything except meet secretly with me. I shall explain what I wish him to do.”
“I can’t just go up to him out of the blue like that!”
“It’s not out of the blue. You’re already acquainted. You don’t need an introduction.”
“No, but I don’t even know if he . . .”
Gloriana gave an exasperated huff. Honestly, was a little patience and understanding beyond her? Yes, of course it was. As the Quality went, she was unusually considerate, but one could only expect so much. “If he what?” she asked.
“If you must know,” Elspeth said, “I don’t think he wants to speak to me. We became close quickly but parted on a—a most unpleasant note.”
“So? You can’t let one bad moment destroy your entire life.”
“No?” Elspeth retorted. “You’ve done a pretty fair job of it yourself, miss.” She ignored Gloriana’s widened eyes and went on. In for a penny, in for a pound. “The only difference, Miss Glow, is that you can make as many stupid mistakes as you like, and money will come to your rescue.”
For a long moment, Gloriana was silent. “Yes, but you haven’t made a stupid mistake, Elspeth.” Pause. “At least, not yet. Why not talk to him? At the very worst, you’ll find out that he doesn’t care for you.”
“Why won’t you talk to your marquis?” Elspeth retorted. “Why not explain why you’ve been acting like an idiot for so many years? What’s the worst he can do?”
“We’re not talking about my situation, which is far more complicated.”
“Not really. Either way, it’s naught but a man and a maid.”
“I will talk to him, sooner or later. But what I’m asking you to do is urgent.” She frowned. “Why did you and Mr. Turner part on an unpleasant note?”
“Because his master had just assaulted my mistress, of course! Poor man, he was mortified. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes, and he bid me such a curt farewell . . .”
“Why? It wasn’t his fault.”
“True, but one cannot help having a certain pride in one’s master or mistress—or feel a degree of shame.”
Gloriana reddened, and rightly so. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly,” Elspeth said.
“I’m sorry,” Gloriana said in a small voice. “I never dreamed my behavior would make you feel ashamed.”
“One becomes accustomed over the years, Miss Glow.”
Gloriana cringed as if she wanted to sink into the ground, so Elspeth relented. “Perhaps it’s just as well, for Lord Hythwick’s foul deed gave Mr. Turner the perfect opportunity to distance himself from me, if he regretted giving me reason to suppose he had intentions.”
“Maybe, but what if he’s just a reserved sort of man? What if he’s still mortified? I’d hate to think I ruined your life as well as mine.”
“Now, now, miss, don’t take on. You’re a far better mistress than most, and besides, inconsiderate behavior is expected of the Quality.”
Gloriana gave her a look but didn’t swerve from her goal. “Think of this as an opportunity, Elspeth. You want to find out how he feels about you, and my request is the excuse you need. You don’t have to let him know how you feel—or at least, not at first.”
Elspeth blew out a breath. Gloriana, drat her, was absolutely right.
“Find a way to drop your handkerchief, or your reticule, or a glove where he has no choice but to pick it up for you.”
“And if some other man picks it up? Then what?”
“Hmm . . . Very well, trip and fall right next to him, so that he must catch you. Better yet, pretend to come over faint, and clutch his arm for support.”
Elspeth couldn’t help but snicker. “I could do that.” She paused. “But I’m not saying I shall.”
Incorrigibly, Gloriana sailed on. “Ask him to escort you home, and then explain everything to him. He may even feel that helping me is a way to redeem himself in your eyes.”
“I’ll . . . do what I can, Miss Glow,” Elspeth said.
“Excellent! Thank you!” She put her arms around Elspeth and hugged her hard. “You are my dearest, dearest friend.”
Elspeth patted her on the back. This talk of friendship always made her a little uneasy, for much as she loved Gloriana, the difference in their stations would never completely go away.
She pulled herself together and said crisply, “Thanking me is all very well, but I cannot promise that Mr. Turner will agree to your plan.”
“If he loves you, he will.”
That sounded like something Elspeth would say to Gloriana—and probably had said more than once. It was time for Elspeth to follow her own advice.
~ ~ ~
The following morning, Philippe slept late and woke dreaming of Gloriana’s rich, joyful laughter. It was that laughter which had drawn him to her the first time—on a street in York, where she’d come with her aunt for a couple of days’ shopping. She had been so lively and pretty, too! He was not without friends in the city, and he’d found a way to beg an introduction.
What a mistake.
She didn’t laugh much now, or at least not in his hearing, and dreaming of it had more the air of a nightmare. He groaned and rolled out of bed. Damn, she was even invading his dreams. He’d fallen asleep in a good mood, having made some progress in his plan of revenge.
He washed and dressed in shirt and breeches, and made his way downstairs to find something to eat.
“Oh, there you are,” Sophie said, tying on her bonnet. “I was about to leave for the school.” She motioned to the table by the door. “Gloriana stopped by earlier, and she gave me that letter for you.”
Philippe eyed his sister. “I told her not to contact me.”
“I know, chéri, but you cannot seriously expect her to obey you.”
“I suppose not, but I can certainly ignore her letter.” He headed toward the kitchen.
“I do not think that would be wise,” Sophie said softly.
He turned. She held the letter out to him. The seal was broken. Astonished, he asked, “You read it?”
“She told me to.” Sophie chuckled. “She knew I would tell you what it says, if you refused to read it for yourself.”
Damnable woman. He wished he could forbid Sophie to associate with Gloriana, but he hadn’t the heart to deprive his sister of friendship and gainful occupation—not that she was likely to obey him anyway. “She said as much?”
“No, she did not need to. Come, it will only take a second. It is nothing rude, merely businesslike.”
Irritated, he snatched the letter.
Dear Philippe,
You need not bother trying to recover my book. I have found another, much safer way to get it. Kindly do not contact me further with regard to this matter.
G.W.
He cursed. Sophie giggled. “She gives you some of your own medicine. ‘Kindly do not contact me.’” She laughed again.
~ ~ ~
Gloriana could do nothing but wait. She doubted Philippe would pay her any heed, but short of abducting him and locking him away in a dungeon, she had done her best. In the meantime, she gave Elspeth permission to go to the Bull and Crown anytime she might expect to find Mr. Turner there—but how often did Lord Hythwick give his valet a free evening? Not as often as he should. Of that she was certain. It might take ages to contact him.
Patience is a virtue, she told herself grumpily, which reminded her of the Book of Hours and the saints who had practiced patience and every other virtue under conditions far worse than hers. She longed for the book and the guidance it had provided when she realized her mother’s ideas of appropriate behavior didn’t fit with hers.
Now, it began to be borne upon her that she might never, ever get it back.
Not that she was ready to give up yet, but she would far rather do without it than have anyone come to harm trying to retrieve it. As she lay awake a few nights later, tossing and turning, she had an idea—one with which she might even persuade Philippe to let be.
She slipped out of bed, lit a branch of candles, and flipped past the drawing of the half-naked Philippe. Painstakingly, she sketched the first page of the Book of Hours from memory. She would redraw, and then paint, the whole book if necessary. Learning the old-fashioned lettering might be fun, and she could even reproduce the passages in English instead of the original Latin, making it much easier to read.
It also gave her something to do while sitting at home waiting. She found drawing comforting, and in this case, it was far more useful than stitchery. She would draw whilst at the school, as well. What could be better?
She did exactly that, working on her own drawings whilst the boys did the lesson she had set them, setting it down to walk about the classroom and check on the progress of her pupils, and then picking it up again.
Unfortunately, setting it down meant someone else could pick it up. Mr. Alexander came into the classroom, asking to speak to her, but said he could wait until she had finished her round of the room. He wandered over to her drawing table, picked up the sketchbook, and leafed through it.
A snort of mirth, quickly suppressed, snatched her attention. She gasped at the sketchbook in Mr. Alexander’s hands and felt herself grow brilliant red.
“Lovely drawings, Miss Glow,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “One of the subjects seems unusual for a religious illumination—for that is what these are, correct?”
“Most of them,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “Since I can’t count on recovering my Book of Hours, I am redrawing it myself.”
“An excellent notion,” he said. “Might the boys spare you for a moment or two?”
“Certainly.” She grabbed the sketchbook, preceded him out the door, stalked into her office, and slammed the door the instant he slipped in behind her. “It’s not what it looks like.”
He burst into laughter. “Whatever it is, it’s entirely your business, Miss Glow.” Damn the man, he was shaking with it. “Better that the boys don’t see it, though. We’re supposed to pretend to be respectable, at the very least.”
“I am respectable,” she said. “And I don’t intend to explain that drawing.” She paused. “What is so dratted amusing, may I ask?”
“N-Nothing,” he said.
“It’s not nothing. What do you know about my acquaintanceship with the Marquis de Bellechasse, such as it is?” It occurred to her, very belatedly, that he had known about it that night in the Spotted Dragon not so long ago—for she and Philippe had done nothing to make him or anyone else suppose that they were attracted to one another. “As a matter of fact, how do you know?”
It was his turn to redden. “I am not at liberty to say.”
And why was that? Because he was protecting his informant?
The only other person besides Elspeth who knew anything about her stupid tendre for Philippe was his sister, Sophie. Memories tumbled into her mind: Sophie at the school more often than before, Sophie blushing in Mr. Alexander’s office, Sophie in the kitchen with him, drinking tea.
“Sophie Brun told you.”
He shrugged, but the uneasiness on his face belied the casual gesture.
Well, now. Sophie was French, so perhaps less concerned about propriety than most English ladies. She was a widow, too, and therefore less likely to blush and bridle about physical love. But she wouldn’t discuss her brother’s amours with just anyone . . .
“You are lovers,” Gloriana pronounced. “Aren’t you?”
Again, he shrugged. “For several months now.”
Gloriana sighed with envy. “How very lovely for you both.”
His brows shot up. “You don’t object?”
“Why should I?”
“Because if we are caught, it will be bad for the school’s reputation. I have asked her to marry me, but she evades the question, perhaps because her brother will disapprove—and yet, she says he will not mind that she has a lover.” Mr. Alexander paused, his mouth wry. “I don’t suppose he means it. It’s probably to stop her from urging him to take you to bed.”
Gloriana felt herself blush again. “She means well, but it is impossible. I am an unmarried woman, not a widow like Sophie. I cannot take a lover on a whim.”
“So why not marry him?” he asked bluntly.
“Because he does not love me.” Somehow she managed to say it coolly, calmly, and without the slightest show of emotion. “It is a physical attraction and a great nuisance, but it’s nothing more.” She did not intend to discuss this further. “I see no reason why you should not marry Sophie. Why should Philippe disapprove? Because you are not gently-bred? He won’t care about that.”
“Sophie says the same, but I am not so sure. He is a marquis.”
“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.”