Chapter 18
Sophie cuddled within the arms of her lover—but not, as always before, in bed. They sheltered from the night breeze between a wall and a tree, keeping watch on Hythwick House.
“Astonishing how he just walked in there, bold as brass,” Mr. Alexander said. “Any minute now, he’ll walk out again, book in hand.”
“That is nothing to what my brother did in France,” Sophie said. “He rescued many people from certain death.”
“An audacious man for certain. He’s a good match for Miss Glow.” He tightened his arms about her. “I like this—walking, talking, cuddling with you, but not in bed.”
Yes, so did she.
“Not that I’m complaining about being in bed with you. It’s the creeping about that I’m tired of.”
So was she.
“Seems unfair that they two will marry tomorrow, while we have to wait . . . forever?”
Surely not that long, but when would she know for sure about Jean-Esprit?
“He’s probably dead, love, and if he’s not, your brother and I between us will make sure he doesn’t harm you. Toss away those fears and take a chance.”
“I—I need more time to think about it,” she said.
Eric sighed.
~ ~ ~
Gossip spreads like wildfire, so take care not to provide the spark. This particular maxim of Gloriana’s mother was absolutely correct. Attending Alice’s salon had been a mistake—one that would last all evening, because a Warren couldn’t turn around and flee.
“There was a huge to-do at Lord Hythwick’s today,” Alice said, “and I know you had something to do with it, because you were seen.”
“I daresay I was, but all I did was accompany Mrs. Apsley home because she felt unwell. Poor lady, she could hardly walk.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Alice said skeptically, “but the question is, where is Marianne?”
“Not here at your salon,” Gloriana said. “But then how could she be, if her aunt is ill? She can’t come on her own.”
“No, but there’s more to it. By what I’ve heard, Marianne went out with Mrs. Apsley today, but didn’t return with her.”
“Perhaps she’s with a friend?”
Alice narrowed her eyes. “Then, according to a most reliable source, Hythwick arrived home, all in a froth, and shouted so loud that he could be heard in the street! A half hour later, he galloped away—no mean feat on a crowded London street. Where do you suppose he was going?”
“I have no idea,” Gloriana lied. “But as long as it has nothing to do with me, I don’t care.”
“Oh, very well.” Alice pouted. “I see you’re not going to tell what you know.”
Gloriana rolled her eyes.
“Let us move to another topic, then. Have you by any chance noticed the curious looks directed at you tonight?”
She had—both sly glances and frank glowers, but she’d assumed they were about her supposed interest in the Earl of Hythwick. “That’s nothing new.”
“Oh, but it is, darling. No one who knows you seriously supposed you would hop into bed with Hythwick. But with a certain French nobleman, however . . .”
Gloriana wanted to roll her eyes, but she’d just done that. Besides, she could feel the flush of guilt making its inexorable way up her cheeks.
“Aha! I knew it!”
“Knew what?” demanded Gloriana.
Alice poked her in the chest and whispered, “Philippe de Bellechasse was seen going into your house this afternoon. Not only was he permitted to cross the threshold, but he stayed for almost an hour! And don’t try to deny it.”
Gloriana didn’t. This particular piece of gossip was hers to confirm, if she so chose—and why not? Tomorrow she and Philippe would wed.
“It seems a strange hour of the day for a seduction,” Alice mused, “but perhaps Philippe bribed your maid and caught you off guard. You’d gone to bed for a nap, and he found you all warm and rumpled and in dishabille, and—”
“Stop it, Alice. I wasn’t in bed, and he didn’t seduce me.”
“Come now, darling. No one blames you for succumbing to the most desirable man in London. We shall have such fun teasing you. All the cats are ready to scratch your eyes out, but what a delicious conquest on your part! And on his too, for you don’t even like him.”
“Don’t be absurd. I like him very much.”
She cocked her head coyly. “Since this morning, perhaps. Tell me, is he as delightful in bed as one imagines?”
Inwardly, Gloriana gritted her teeth and snarled. Outwardly, she sighed and made a smug little moue. “If you must know, Alice, he came to my house to ask me to marry him.” She felt no need to specify precisely when the offer of marriage had taken place. “And I accepted.”
“You’re going to marry Philippe de Bellechasse?” Alice squealed. If the entire room hadn’t been eavesdropping before, they certainly were now.
~ ~ ~
Gloriana left the salon early. She’d had enough of being bombarded with everything from genuine felicitations to barely-veiled hostility. She had one of the footmen find her a hackney. Tomorrow she and Philippe would wed, but what about Elspeth’s plans? Mr. Turner might arouse suspicion if he jumped too soon from Lord Hythwick’s employ to Philippe’s . . .
The hackney pulled up in front of her house, and the jarvey jumped down to open the door and let down the steps. She descended, paid him, and had crossed the pavement to her doorstep when a female voice hailed her.
“Miss Warren?” It wasn’t a well-bred voice, but rather tremulous, as if afraid of being rebuffed. “I have come to beg for your help.”
The voice came from a traveling coach waiting at the side of the street. In the dim light cast by a street lamp, she spied a young woman in the half-open doorway of the vehicle. “It’s for my son, ma’am. He’s only nine years old, and he’s a good boy, I promise, but he gets into such dreadful company. I’m a-feared he’ll come to a bad end, ma’am, but I’ve no money to send him to school . . .”
Gloriana sighed as she approached the coach. “We don’t usually accept boys who have another means of support, for ours is a school for orphans, but if you wish to apply to Mr. Alexander for consideration—”
The woman yelped and stumbled forward but didn’t quite fall. She seemed to hang in the doorway . . . Someone else was gripping her by the arm—someone in the shadowy interior of the coach. She whimpered now, shaking and shivering with fright.
“Get in, Miss Warren.” Oh, God, Lord Hythwick was in the coach. “Or this woman will never see her son again.”
Gloriana’s mind reeled. Get into the coach with that dastard? She couldn’t possibly. Surely, he wouldn’t harm an innocent child!
“Oh, please, God help me, oh please,” the woman cried.
Gloriana moved her gently aside and climbed into the coach. The earl let go of the woman and grabbed Gloriana. She tumbled, half on the seat, half on the floor, and the door slammed behind her.
The coach began to move.
And the earl began to laugh.
~ ~ ~
Philippe stowed the Book of Hours in his greatcoat pocket. He, Cartway, and a third man who’d kept watch near the trussed-up footman who’d opened the door to them, made their separate ways to the Spotted Dragon. There, Philippe paid the two of them and stood everyone in the tavern a round of drinks—tedious but essential to the maintenance of friendly goodwill.
By then it was too late to return to Islington, change into evening clothes, and attend Alice Stowe’s salon. As he wasn’t in a sociable mood, this was fine. He wanted to be alone with Gloriana, laughing over how easily they’d hoodwinked Hythwick, and then take her to bed.
He stayed at the tavern awhile, mulling over the future with a pot of ale. He would move his belongings from Sophie’s house to Gloriana’s. Then perhaps they would leave London for a while, let the talk die down, and travel to his estate in Buckinghamshire, where they could enjoy the spring and summer in the fresh, country air. Or maybe they would go all the way to her brother’s estate up North.
The door to the tavern flew open, and Mr. Turner hesitated in the doorway, breathing hard. Philippe raised a hand to beckon him over, but a sudden sense of disaster engulfed him, sweeping away his pleasant plans. He stood and strode across to the valet.
“Sir,” Turner panted, “it may not be the emergency it seems, but I’m mortal afraid for Miss Glow.”
“What is it?” Philippe asked. “Tell me. Quickly.”
“His lordship arrived not an hour ago. I’d been on the watch, and when I saw him ride up, all a-fret, I opened the door, for he doesn’t frighten me the way he does the others. Our neighbor had just driven up in his coach, and right then and there, he told his lordship the news that you and Miss Glow were to marry.” He sank against the doorjamb, gulping for air.
Merde. Had she announced it at the salon? He would have preferred to wait until the marriage was a fait accompli. “And then?”
“The neighbor thought it a fine jest against his lordship, for everyone knew he wanted Miss Glow to be his mistress. So his lordship came in doubly enraged, called for his coach-and-four, and wouldn’t let anyone get a word in edgewise. He paid little heed to the news of the burglary. I packed him a week’s worth of clothing and asked if Lady Marianne’s maid was to come along, to attend to her ladyship after he caught up with her. He said no, Lady Marianne could tend to herself, and that he didn’t want me, either. Said he would have a charming companion with him, so there wouldn’t be room in the coach.”
Horror seized Philippe. “Mordieu.” He strode out the door.
The valet followed. “He took one of the maids with him—he’s been tupping her, poor wench—so I thought that’s what he meant by no room. But it didn’t seem right, sir, seeing as his lordship don’t talk of a serving maid that way, and I got to thinking, so I hurried over to Miss Glow’s. I was almost there, sir, at the top of the street, when I spies the coach further down under a streetlamp. The maid gets down from the coach—well, more like fell out—and runs off as if the devil is after her. Miss Glow steps inside, and they drive way.”
“Diable. I’ll kill him.”
“Aye, sir, you do that. The coachman and groom are armed.” Turner stopped, too winded to follow. “But they hate him. Thought you might like to know.”
~ ~ ~
It took two, maybe three seconds for Gloriana to realize she’d been duped. She righted herself and would have retreated to the opposite corner of the coach, but Hythwick grabbed her and plunked her next to him. Her reticule thumped dully against the side of the coach. The pistol! Thank God she’d brought it along.
He didn’t seem to hear it. Maybe he was laughing too loud to notice anything but his own glee.
Her voice, once she managed to control it enough to speak, emerged shaking with fury. “She doesn’t even have a son, does she?” Through the window, she saw the woman’s fleeing figure.
He stopped laughing long enough to say, “She’s just a trollop of a maid. Didn’t I tell you charity was for fools? Now you see why.” He chortled wickedly. “Two can play at de Bellechasse’s game.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t pretend innocence, my dear. I know it was de Bellechasse who arranged for actors to pose as my sister and Barnham, so I would waste my time chasing after the wrong couple.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because they told me so. I can be very persuasive.”
She shuddered. “I hope you didn’t hurt them.”
“You’re far too soft-hearted, Gloriana.”
She resisted the temptation to say she hadn’t given him permission to address her by her Christian name. He would only laugh all the harder.
“That was a very affecting letter you sent me, by the by. Don’t try to tell me that wasn’t de Bellechasse’s doing too.”
“So sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn’t,” she retorted. “If Mrs. Apsley hadn’t been so distraught, I would have had no reason to write it.”
The temptation to pull the gun out and shoot him, to put an end to his gloating, clawed at her. At any moment, he might discover the pistol, depriving her of her one hope of escape. No one knew where she had gone, so she had to save herself.
She needn’t actually shoot him. Threatening to do so would be enough, given the right time and place.
For she must be careful about that. She was a lone female without funds, whilst he was an earl with an obedient coachman and groom, and the funds to bribe any number of other people.
“But you knew what was going on,” he said. “De Bellechasse sent you to the nursery to make sure his plan didn’t fail.”
She shrugged. “Yes, he didn’t give me a choice.”
The earl snorted his disbelief. “Come now, why should you do him any favors?”
She couldn’t think of an answer for this, but fortunately Hythwick didn’t expect one. He just went on talking. “He will stop at nothing to do me harm.”
And whose fault is that? With difficulty, she kept her mouth shut and tried to plan her escape.
And escape, she must—before Hythwick violated her. She would survive it, but how would it affect Philippe? Would he still marry her?
Even if he did, the assault would haunt their future. Murder on her part would be a better solution, so she must steel herself to shoot Hythwick if necessary. She would be damned—perhaps literally—before she let this dastard destroy Philippe.
“He thinks he has won, but I never forget an insult,” Hythwick said. “If we don’t catch up with Barnham and Marianne in time, I’ll get my revenge on them sooner or later.”
Gloriana gasped. “We’re pursuing them?”
“Aye, this will be the devil’s own ride, but I’ll enjoy it far more in such charming company.”
“I’m not feeling particularly charming.” She hoped she sounded petulant rather than terrified. At least she now knew where they were headed.
“As for de Bellechasse, you are the best possible weapon—and you climbed right into my coach, like the fool you are.” He leaned in, and his hot breath bathed her. Surprisingly, it smelled only of brandy. He must have fortified himself before abducting her. He pressed a smacking kiss on her lips.
She kept her mouth clamped shut and endured until he drew away. He sniffed. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
She glared at him. “It seems that you, too, will stop at nothing.”
That set him guffawing again. “I’ve won this trick, Gloriana. Once I’m done with you, de Bellechasse won’t want you anymore—definitely not as a wife. What a pity you’re not already married to him, for that would have made my triumph all the sweeter.”
Bit by bit, she was beginning to think clearly. They would pass through Islington on the way to the Great North Road. She was known there. She could take refuge at the school.
If she could get out of the coach, that is. Leveling a pistol at him should take care of that.
His hand came to rest on her knee. She shifted as far from him as possible, and he chuckled. “I plan to enjoy myself tonight. Naturally, I would prefer that you enjoy yourself as well.”
“How kind of you.”
“But that won’t stop me. One way or another, you’re mine.”
“You do realize, I hope, that once the scandal comes out, my brother will kill you.”
“And be obliged to flee the country, leaving his wife and children behind? I don’t think so. No, we’ll all do our best to scotch the scandal.” He walked his fingers up and down her thigh, then leaned down. For a ghastly second, she feared he meant to lift her skirts. She felt for her reticule and the reassuring bulk of the gun.
But all he did was pull a strongbox out from under the seat. “Since I anticipated some reluctance on your part, darling Gloriana, I have something with me that will ensure your enjoyment. As a willing mistress, you will be much better paid.”
She swallowed a retort and said with what she hoped was mild disdain, “I don’t need money.”
“I have something far better for you.” He fished in his pocket, took out a key, and opened the box. “A pity it’s so dark in here, but you’ll probably recognize it by feel . . .” After several moments, he snapped, “It’s not here!” He threw the box across the carriage. It bounced off the opposite bench onto the floor.
“What’s not here?”
His fist came at her. She ducked, and the blow glanced off her shoulder. She stifled a cry. He grabbed her arm and hissed into her face. “Where is it?”
“Wh-Where is what?” she quavered, scrambling for something to say—anything that would calm him.
He shook her. “You know damned well what. The Book of Hours!”
“But—But—” Her teeth chattered. What should she say? She had to feign surprise. “You had it?”
“Yes, you bitch.” His fingers bit into her arm.
Suddenly she knew that she had another weapon, one she’d aimed at Philippe for years. She could play a convincing part. She didn’t even have to dream up a line, for it came on its own. “Philippe told me he did!”
“What?” He let her go and sat back.
She let a long moment of silence pass, and then infused astonishment into her voice. “You stole my book?”
“Yes, you stupid bitch, I stole it, and it’s been in my strongbox ever since. Why isn’t it there now?”
“But—but I thought Philippe was the one who took it.” Did she sound sufficiently surprised, upset, enraged? “You were both there in the Dower House. He’s not a rich man, but you are. Why would you steal it when you could purchase a similar one? I never suspected you.” She added waspishly, “Of course, now I understand.”
His voice rasped in the dark coach. “Where has it gone?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “When I confronted Philippe, he said he had it, but he refused to return it unless I helped him.” Now she had a story that made sense. “He’s in some sort of trouble with the Home Office.” Hythwick would have no problem believing that, as he was the cause of it. “He seems to think wedding a well-bred Englishwoman will solve his problem.”
“That’s why you agreed to marry him?”
“Why else? I loathe the man, but I want my book back. I told him no book, no wedding.”
“He could have his pick of well-bred women. Why you?”
“I might ask you the same question. You can have your pick of willing mistresses. Why me?”
He chuckled and sat back against the seat. “Understood, and once again, I win. You’re a much more valuable prize than the book.”
She crossed her arms and scowled. “I want my Book of Hours, and I will get it if it’s the last thing I do.”
He snorted. “Seduce him. He might fall for a lie from you. Tell him I didn’t have you first.”
You won’t. “He won’t believe that.”
He laughed again, and she gazed out the window. They were on the Islington Road now. Her chance would come soon.
“So that’s what Turner was talking about,” he said after a while.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Thieves came to my house tonight, bound and gagged my porter, and left soon afterward. But as far as the servants could tell, nothing was stolen, so I paid no heed to my valet’s gabbling. I had more important things to do.” He grunted. “The thief must have been de Bellechasse.”
“It seems likely.” She peered out the window again. Her best bet was the Angel Inn, for people were up at all hours at that busy hostelry.
“You won’t get away.”
She whipped her head around. Moonlight through the window glimmered on the barrel of a gun. Her heart hammered against her breast. She must not show fear . . . or must she? How best to allay his suspicion? She shrank away, putting up her hands as if to placate him.
“If you try to escape, I’ll shoot you. Not to kill, mind you—only to maim.”
She huffed but allowed her voice to tremble. “So considerate of you, but you needn’t worry. I don’t suppose I would get very far even if you didn’t shoot me.”
“No,” he said contentedly, “you wouldn’t.” He set the gun on the bench on his opposite side. “But I felt I should warn you for my sake as much as yours. When I enjoy you tonight, I would prefer you to be as desirable as you are now.”