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.
Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the tavern, nor was it a cold evening, but the wind nipping about her ankles suggested that the brief spring-like weather would soon be over. She’d stewed over the failure of her first attempt, but had decided to get this hopeless effort over with, the sooner the better. Perhaps this time some other servants she knew would be there, so at least she wouldn’t feel such a fool.
She squared her shoulders and pushed open the door of the Bull and Crown. Warmth and a babble of conversation greeted her. People around one of the tables were drinking a toast. At the back, judging by the noise, a rousing game of darts was in full swing. She glanced about, but she mustn’t stand like a stock . . . and she didn’t see Mr. Turner, so what was the point . . .
“Miss Morrison! Looking for someone?” A female voice and a cheery wave greeted her. What tremendous luck! It was Mrs. Coyle, the housekeeper of Lord Hythwick’s neighbor. They had become acquainted last year when it looked as if Miss Glow might marry his lordship.
Elspeth slumped with relief. This might mean a lot of tedious gossip, but anything was better than having to use small beer as an excuse again.
“Just a friendly face,” Elspeth said. “My mistress gave me the evening off, and I longed to get out of the house while the weather is still warmish.” She took the empty chair next to Mrs. Coyle, who introduced Elspeth to the others at the table, some of whom she’d met before.
“So glad I was to learn that your mistress was not to marry Lord Hythwick. Sorry, Joe,” Mrs. Coyle said to a balding man across the table. “Nothing against you and Mr. Turner and the others who are stuck working for Hiffy, but I can say it aloud where you daren’t.”
The balding man muttered something that might have been an acknowledgement. Mrs. Coyle launched into her usual gossipy ramble, and when the barmaid approached, Elspeth ordered a pot of porter—which she should have thought of last time if she hadn’t been so flustered. Cook couldn’t take offense at a jug of porter, since she couldn’t make it at home. And Miss Glow might actually drink some of it . . . At least she knew what to do next time.
Belatedly, she noticed a tankard of ale on the table before her. “Oh, is this someone’s place?”
“Only Mr. Turner’s,” the housekeeper said. “He’s at the back playing darts.”
Her heart began to thrum. “Oh dear, I shouldn’t take his spot.”
“He can pull up another chair when he returns.” Mrs. Coyle pushed the tankard toward the center of the table. The barmaid plunked down a pot of porter, and Elspeth took a tentative sip.
“Is Mr. Turner a good player?” she asked.
“The best,” Joe said grumpily. “Tonight, it’s Hiffy’s house against Mr. Spencer’s. We always win.”
“You’re wondering why he sounds so gloomy, aren’t you?” Mrs. Coyle didn’t wait for a reply. “It’s because he can’t say right out that he’d be happy for Hiffy’s house to lose. Now, if Mr. Turner was working for someone else, nobody’d mind him winning all the time, but he can’t be expected to play badly a-purpose, now can he?”
“No, of course not,” Elspeth ventured. “You mean he would rather Lord Hythwick’s house lost too?”
“Yes indeed, Miss Morrison. They all hates him, you see. He’s a dreadful man. One of the maids is expecting—a good girl, she is, or was, but Hiffy don’t take no notice of anything but what he wants. We’re all wondering what to do with her, poor thing, for Hiffy will have her dismissed when he finds out—as if it wasn’t all his fault. You don’t know how lucky you are that your lady didn’t marry Hiffy, not just for her sake, but for yours, for you’re young enough and pretty enough to catch his fancy.”
“Heavens,” Elspeth said faintly. “A lucky escape indeed.”
“We all likes Lady Marianne, though.” Joe’s deep flush was visible even in the dim light of an oil lamp. Gruffly, he added, “If it were her team, we’d be happy to win.”
“Yes, a most pleasant lady, I believe,” Elspeth said politely, and suddenly Mr. Turner was there, large and strong and unbearably attractive, but also wearing a scowl.
“Won again, did you?” Mrs. Coyle laughed.
Elspeth’s heart drummed in her breast. She did her best to summon a smile. “Mr. Turner, good to see you again.”
Did his expression lighten a fraction? She couldn’t tell. He nodded. “Miss Morrison.” Not at all encouraging, alas.
“I’m sorry I took your place,” she ventured.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Coyle said. “Pull up another chair, there’s a good lad, and we won’t tease you about always winning, now will we?” She rolled her eyes and jerked her chair sideways to make room between hers and Elspeth’s. Good, because he would have no choice but to talk to her. Elspeth shifted her chair as well.
Mr. Turner brought over another chair and sat down. Elspeth passed him his tankard. He thanked her and took a long draught. “How’ve you been, Miss Morrison?”
“Tolerably well, thank you.” Elspeth took another sip of the porter. She must drink it slowly, in order to stay as long as necessary. “I hope you will have the chance to play for another team someday soon.”
His cheek twitched. “Not while I’ve my old mum to provide for.” She thought he might intend to ignore her after that, but then he glanced at her, and his lips curved in a ghost of a smile. She liked so much about him—his kindly face, his warm blue eyes, and his muscular forearms. Not that one would see his muscles ordinarily, but he had rolled up his sleeves to play. He was sweating a little, and her head swam as she inhaled his heady aroma. She smiled back.
“And your mistress?”
“Also very well. She spends a great deal of time at her school for needy boys.”
Thank heavens this comment led to general conversation, in which opinion was divided between approval and disapproval of Miss Glow’s school and its objectives—just like the nobs, according to what Miss Glow had told her. Mr. Turner didn’t have much to say. He sat back in his chair, arms folded and wearing a faint frown.
“Even Lord Hythwick has shown some interest,” Elspeth said, drawing some amazed stares. Beside her, Mr. Turner straightened, his frown deepening. He said nothing—he wasn’t much of a talker, she remembered, which had made his confidences at the Dower House so exceptional—and took another swig of ale.
“He and Miss Warren are still speaking?” Mrs. Coyle asked.
“Why, yes,” Elspeth said. “There are no hard feelings. Why should there be?”
Mr. Turner choked on his ale. Elspeth shifted nearer and thumped him on the back. He croaked a ‘thank you,’ wiped his mouth, and favored her with a swift, incredulous stare.
Elspeth blinked innocently back and suddenly realized that since she’d moved to thump him, her knee, through the gown, was now touching Mr. Turner’s. She should move away again.
An unaccustomed wildness came over her. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She left her knee where it was.
“They are perfectly civil to one another,” she said, “for what would be accomplished by incivility except a horrid combination of gossip and chaff? Indeed, Miss Warren and Lady Marianne have become good friends. His lordship’s interest in the school is not for himself—I believe he disapproves—but for Lady Marianne, who wishes to become a patron. He has asked to tour the school first, to ensure that it is suitable.”
“That don’t sound much like Hiffy,” Joe said. “If he don’t approve, nothing more to say.”
“Perhaps he has turned over a new leaf,” Elspeth suggested. “A more charitable, open-minded one.”
Mr. Turner huffed. “Not likely.” He didn’t move his knee either.
Elspeth took a bracing swallow of porter. Her heart thumped wildly—for what if he didn’t fall in with the next part of her plan? On the other hand, why shouldn’t he? He’d escorted her in the completely safe darkness on the Garrison estate. “I should be leaving soon. It’s frightening walking home in the dark, and worse the later the hour.”
“You came here on your own?” Mr. Turner asked. “Miss Morrison, it’s not safe out there for a woman alone.”
“I know, but I was longing for some porter and good conversation, so I decided to take a chance.”
He tsked. “I’ll walk you home.” He drained his tankard and began to roll down his sleeves.
She couldn’t risk a coy refusal. “Oh, would you, Mr. Turner? How very kind.” She took a final swallow of porter.
After the door of the Bull and Crown closed behind them, she said, “Mr. Turner, I have to ask you—”
At the same instant, he said, “Miss Morrison, I must warn you—”
They both laughed. He offered her his arm. “You first.”
She tucked her hand in his arm, shivering a little with the pleasure of it. “What I have to say will be quite lengthy, and I fear it will shock you.”
He raised his brows, his expression quizzical—and unexpectedly warm.
That was going too fast. “Not that sort of shocking. I assure you, I don’t usually allow my knee to rest against that of a man. But my mistress asked me to speak to you privately, and I couldn’t think of a better way to manage it.”
He sighed. “And here I thought you liked me a little.”
“Yes, of course I like you.” She gulped but dove in. “Very much, and I trust you too. Otherwise I wouldn’t have dared, whatever my mistress asked of me. I am not a flirtatious woman, never have been, so it doesn’t come naturally. But I wanted to speak to you because it saddened me when we were obliged to part on such an unhappy note. My mistress’s request provided me with an opportunity, but you have no idea how nervous I was coming here! I feared you would do your best to avoid me—or think me a loose woman for liking you too much.”
“You couldn’t possibly like me too much,” he said with a grin. “If I were a rich man, I’d have come a-courting you long before this, but I’m not and likely never shall be.”
Elspeth’s heart flew! He loved her!
“That, and I was so bloody ashamed—”
She squeezed his arm. She understood perfectly, but she had to put it into words. “You’re not responsible for your master’s behavior.”
“No, but it makes me sick, and yet I can’t afford to leave him, what with my mum needing whatever I can send her. Maybe in a year or two I’ll have saved enough to take a chance on another master.” He paused. “Miss Morrison, I don’t know why he asked to see that school, but it’s not because of anything Lady Marianne wishes to do. Please warn your mistress not to allow herself to be alone with him again, even for a minute.”
“She won’t. She knows better than to trust him—and for more than one reason.”
“He tried again?”
“To assault her? No, but . . . would it surprise you to learn that your master is a thief?”
He blew out a long breath. “No.”
That surprised her.
“By what I’ve overheard of household gossip, he stole as a boy in school and later from his father, when he’d run through his allowance.” He eyed her in the darkness. “What’s he done now?”
She explained about the missing Book of Hours, and for a while they strolled along in silence. At last Mr. Turner said, “So that’s what he was up to.”
They were getting too close to Miss Glow’s house, so they changed direction and walked the other way. Despite the subject of their conversation, the dark streets seemed friendly and safe when one was on the arm of a wonderful man.
After another ruminative pause—this was one of the characteristics of Mr. Turner’s way of speaking—he said, “Soon as he was on his feet again, he started cursing and swearing at me to hurry up. Afraid of Lord Garrison coming to finish off what the Frenchman started, he was. Would’ve served him right. Then he went into the corridor. That was after you brought me the water, and Miss Warren and the marquis had gone downstairs. He came back a minute or so later, but I was in such a rush to pack that I didn’t look at him straightaway, so if he was carrying something, I didn’t see it. He must have put it in the strongbox with his valuables.” He paused. “Almost certainly—because when we returned, he had me set it by the bed and told me to leave it be. Usually, he has me choose his rings and fobs and such.”
He stopped at the corner of the street. “He’s such a piece of shite. Hell to work for, but he pays me well. He knows it takes skill to make him show to advantage.” He blew out a frustrated breath, and it was all she could do not to hug him. “But it’s no matter. I’ll have a look for it, shall I? That’s what your mistress wants, I take it.”
“Yes, and if you feel that it’s too dangerous to steal it yourself, just let us know where it can be found, and she’ll hire a burglar for that part.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Mayhap we could feign a burglary. Make it look like somebody broke in. It succeeds more often than not.” Her horror must have shown, for he grinned. “Don’t look at me like that, love. I’ve never stolen a thing, but I keep my ears open.”
Elspeth pulled herself together. “My mistress will reward you handsomely, and you won’t have to work for that man anymore, or for anyone else, if you don’t want to. You could start a business of your own—buy an inn, perhaps, or become a tailor.”
Another long silence. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be an innkeeper. Or a tailor.” He paused. “Or a burglar, so don’t fret.” He chuckled.
“Oh, you!” she said, laughing as well. “Another occupation, then. The important thing is . . .” She didn’t have the courage to put it into words.
His smile slowly grew. He took her hands in his. “We could afford to marry.”
Delight overwhelmed her. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Right, then,” he said. “I’ll do it—on two conditions. First, if anything goes wrong—if I lose my position or worse, I wind up in Newgate, your mistress will take care of my old mum.”
“I’m sure she’ll agree to that. But nothing must go wrong!”
“And second, you’ll give me a good luck kiss.”