Chapter 6
“Lord Hythwick.” Gloriana stared. “No, he was unconscious.”
“I do not think so,” Philippe said. “He rolled over. He was facing you when you put the Book of Hours away.”
Gloriana thought back, remembering with a shudder the gleam of hatred in Lord Hythwick’s eyes. “But . . . but he’s a wealthy man. He could buy a similar Book of Hours if he wished to. Why take the risk of stealing mine?”
“What risk? After we both went downstairs, he had at least fifteen minutes in which to return to your bedchamber, take the book, and conceal it in a valise. Miles, Melinda, and the others arrived just as the earl climbed into his coach. No one was thinking about the book then.”
This was true.
“Servants were the logical suspects,” Philippe said. “They always are, no matter how long they have served and how steadfastly they have proven their loyalty. No wonder the lower classes long to rebel.”
“I told you I trusted mine, and I didn’t want to suspect Miles’s servants either,” she protested. “Nor did he.”
“Excuses,” he said, dismissing her care for her servants with a contemptuous flick of the wrist. “I was the next obvious suspect. A foreigner, not particularly well off, and a thief as well.” She began to object, but he put up a hand. “All I am saying is that Lord Hythwick felt perfectly safe and still does.”
She slumped in her chair. If Philippe was right—and admittedly, he usually was—how was she to get the book back?
She closed her eyes, trying to think, but her mind was a blank and so very tired. Dimly, she heard a tap on the door, followed by the murmur of low-voiced French.
“She is English. She needs tea.” That was Sophie.
“Merci, chérie.” The door closed again, and Philippe returned with a tray, which he set on a table before the fire. “It seems my sister still stands your friend.”
“She is very kind,” Gloriana said dully, staring at her hands.
“Are you ever happy?” he asked suddenly. “Do you ever enjoy yourself?”
What a strange question, but an acute one. She hadn’t been happy for years, which must have shown, but the last several months had been filled with good moments. “I was quite—quite happy over Christmas. I love my family, and I get on well with my friends. I love the boys at my school too. I do my best to provide for them.”
He let out a long, slow breath, which seemed like an acknowledgement. “Yes, I believe you do.” He said it as if he meant it. As if she was at least doing something of which he approved. A tiny flower of longing uncurled itself in her heart. Hurriedly, she crushed it.
He poured her a cup of tea and set it on the table next to her. “Sugar?” He nipped off a lump and stirred it into her tea.
She thanked him and took a sip. She didn’t understand him. One minute, he seemed to loathe her, and the next he was not only polite, but kind as well. He sipped his tea silently, gazing into the fire. He had a beautiful profile. She had sketched it many times from memory.
But she must not let herself dwell on Philippe’s profile or anything else about him, particularly a long-buried yearning for his approval. She had to get the book back.
She set the cup on the saucer with a rattle. Her hands were trembling. What was she going to do?
She imagined confronting Lord Hythwick and knew she could not. He would laugh in her face. He might not even deny having stolen the book. He might taunt her with it, knowing she could do absolutely nothing to retrieve it.
She couldn’t let him keep it. She had to get it back.
She took another sip of the hot, bracing tea. She was good at planning and plotting, and since she couldn’t deal with Hythwick directly, she would find another way. With each sip of tea, she became more determined to win this battle.
Life or death, she would get the Book of Hours back again.
~ ~ ~
“No,” Philippe said, and Gloriana raised startled eyes. He’d watched her absorption with increasing misgiving.
He shouldn’t have revealed his suspicions. He’d been so caught up in proving his own innocence that he’d given no thought to Gloriana’s safety.
“No,” he said again. “You will not confront Lord Hythwick.”
She put up her chin. “Did I say I would?”
“You are planning something. It does not take any great brilliance to see that. You confronted me, but that will not succeed with Lord Hythwick.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said. “I will find another way to approach him.”
His blood ran cold, then hot. “If you are thinking of offering yourself to him in exchange for the Book of Hours,” he gritted out, “that will not work either.”
She bristled. “How dare you?”
“He will take advantage of you and then deny all knowledge of the book.”
“I’m not stupid.” She clenched her fists. “You have no reason to suggest that I would do any such thing.”
Had she forgotten her flirtations with various men? More to the point, had she forgotten their contretemps of five years ago? He never would. One didn’t easily dismiss the image of a naked woman appearing out of nowhere. Like Venus on her seashell, infinitely powerful and alluring, it had been enough to drive any man mad with desire.
It must have meant nothing to her—no more than a wager she hadn’t won. Perhaps that was why she’d become so publicly contemptuous of his ideals. She didn’t like losing. No more did he, but he’d lost everything once, and it wasn’t so very bad. One lived on.
He wasn’t even convinced, despite her denial, that she hadn’t meant to compromise Lord Hythwick last summer. She’d been too foolish to consider the risk involved, and she still was. “Women habitually use their sensual powers to gain their own ends. Why wouldn’t you?”
She shook her head, and her eyes filled with what looked like pain. She clutched her stomach and swallowed visibly. For a moment, he wondered if she would be sick.
“My turn to apologize,” he said, more or less meaning it. He didn’t want to believe her, but it was damned difficult not to. He had to get rid of her before he did something he would regret. He rose, crossed to the dressing table, and chose a fresh cravat. “I beg your pardon, but I must dress, or I shall be late for the party.”
She rose as well. In the mirror he watched as she swallowed again, seemingly once more in control, but the misery still dwelt in her eyes. He grimaced at the mirror, exasperated with both her and himself. “You need concern yourself no longer. I shall retrieve the Book of Hours for you.”
Her brows knit and her eyes challenged his in the mirror. “Why should you? My missing book is not your problem.”
He avoided her gaze, concentrating on the cravat. What was it about eyes meeting in a mirror that was more painful than face to face? “No, but I cannot let you attempt to retrieve it. It is not safe.”
“I have a gun. I am not afraid to use it.”
That was precisely what worried him. He finished knotting the cravat and turned. “So I noticed, but shooting Hythwick, however appealing, will cause more problems than it solves. It certainly will not help you get the book.” He grabbed his coat, stuck his head out the door, and beckoned to Sophie, who was eavesdropping shamelessly in the corridor. She came in to assist with his coat.
“I wouldn’t shoot him,” Gloriana said. “I would merely threaten him.”
“And what if he tried to grab the pistol, and it went off?” he demanded. Sophie helped him tug the coat on and straightened it across his shoulders and chest. “Worse, what if he succeeded in disarming you?”
“Philippe is right,” Sophie said. “You must not take such a risk.” She passed him a handkerchief, his watch on its fob, and a couple of rings. “And you, mon cher, must get yourself a new valet.”
Philippe nodded, thankful for her attempt to change the subject. He hadn’t found a permanent replacement since the death of his valet several months before. First, he’d had to fulfill a promise to recover certain stolen items, and lately, far worse troubles had led to giving up his lodgings and moving in with Sophie.
“My servants have not the skills a man of fashion requires,” Sophie said.
“And it is much additional work for them, I am aware.” He snatched a small purse from the dressing table and donned his shoes. “I must go.”
Gloriana took a deep breath and placed herself in his way. Perhaps she thought this stance made her seem determined. All it did was distract him. He averted his eyes from her bosom as it rose. As it fell.
“I repeat, my missing book is not your problem,” she said. “Do not attempt to retrieve it.”
He took refuge in offense. “You don’t trust me. How foolish of me to imagine you might do so.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean that! Please don’t try to find my book.”
“I shall do as I wish. Do not attempt to contact me again.”
“I forbid you to find my Book of Hours!” she cried.
He left while she was still speaking, tossing a few words back up the stairs to his sister. "See that our guest is returned safely back to Town.” The front door slammed firmly behind him.
~ ~ ~
Damnation! What was she to do now?
“How rude of Philippe to walk out like that, but one cannot blame him.” Sophie picked up the tea tray and headed for the stairs. “Come. We shall be more comfortable in the drawing room.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that he wouldn’t return the book to me,” Gloriana protested.
“Perhaps not, but my brother is easily wounded.”
Gloriana huffed at this absurdity.
“Where you are concerned,” Sophie added tartly.
“You are angry with me,” Gloriana said.
“For the sake of my brother, oui. I am not merely angry, I am enragée. This tea is surely cold.” She plunked the tray down on the drawing room table and rang for the maid. “You accuse him unfairly. He is an honorable man.”
Gloriana wasn’t sure about this. He had run from her five years ago, instead of agreeing to wed her as a man of honor would have done. But she couldn’t say as much to Sophie. Nevertheless, she hastened to defend herself. “He understood why. He admitted to being a thief in the past.”
“Nevertheless, you caused him much pain. He does not steal from his friends.”
Gloriana twisted her hands together. “I am not his friend.”
Sophie gave her a look strongly reminiscent of her brother. “He does not harm those he loves.”
Why must hope forever linger in some corner of her heart, waiting for the chance to grow? Gloriana shook her head. “He doesn’t love me.” How pathetic, but she couldn’t leave it at that. “Did he tell you he does?”
“No, he tells me nothing, only that he wishes never to see you again. He would not say such a thing if he did not care profoundly.”
That didn’t make any sense, but Gloriana was unable to bring herself to argue.
“If he did not care, he would not need to avoid you. If he did not care, he would not promise to help directly after you accused him.”
Very well, maybe that did make a little sense, but she didn’t want it to, for she would have to hope again. “I don’t want to be beholden to him, and if he finds the Book of Hours, I shall be.”
“It is right and proper to be beholden to others,” Sophie said. “I am beholden to him for my life and the lives of my children. He got us safely out of France.”
“He’s your brother. It’s his duty to take care of you.”
The maid appeared in the doorway, and Sophie asked for fresh tea.
“Do not order it for me,” Gloriana said. “I cannot stay.”
“Bring me coffee, then,” Sophie said, making no attempt to persuade Gloriana to remain.
~ ~ ~
“Kindly cease suggesting that Gloriana and I should go to bed together,” Philippe told his sister at breakfast the next morning.
“Cher Philippe,” she said, “it is the obvious solution. Lovers all over the world reestablish harmony in bed.” She refilled his coffee cup.
“We were never lovers,” he said.
“No? Not even a kiss or two?” She proffered the sugar.
“A few kisses mean nothing.” He paused to stir the coffee. “And we never had harmony, she and I.”
“Never?”
“For a few days, perhaps, but there is nothing to reestablish. Suggesting it is unkind to us both.” He broke a piece off one of the baguettes Sophie had taught the English cook to bake. They were not as good as the baguettes in France, but one could not expect miracles—with bread or with women. “Even if we could control our mutual antagonism long enough to take off our clothing, it would end in disaster. I cannot wed such a woman. She is wild and uncontrolled. She disputed with me for years, and if that was not bad enough, it seems she meant very little of what she said. Now she comes here to accuse me, and she hits me again and again.” Irritable now, he spread butter lavishly on the bread. “She is impossible.”
“And yet you love her.”
“I was a fool once, but I am wiser now.” He took a bite.
“You were a boy then. Our father mistreated you, but you must not let that ruin your entire life.”
“The distant past is irrelevant. I was a fool to love Gloriana.” He swallowed some coffee. “I do not want to see her. I do not want to talk to her. I will get her book for her, and then she will leave me alone. And that is that.”
“But what if she loves you?” Sophie said.
She knows nothing of love, he wished to say, but it seemed he knew nothing of her. Who was the true Gloriana—the woman who had founded a school for orphaned boys, or the termagant who had insulted him for years? He wanted to know, to understand, wanted it with a painful, grinding insistence in his heart and his gut, but he did not intend to ask. It would only lead to more heartbreak. He tore off another piece of baguette and took up the butter knife.
Sophie pouted. “Why did you not kiss her today? You quieted her. You had her in your arms. You could have kissed her and made all well.”
He frowned, brandishing the knife. “Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you should find yourself a husband,” he said. “One who will keep you happily occupied in bed, so you will mind your own business.” He spread butter and confiture de fraises, and smiled across the table at her. “You have been too long without a man.”
She flushed, turning a pettish shoulder. “I cannot marry, and you know very well why.”
“There we disagree, ma chère. You worry about nothing. If you marry, I shall ensure that all will be well.”
She didn’t answer, for on this subject, they disagreed. She was far too law-abiding. They had no proof that Jean-Esprit, her cur of a husband, was dead, and now Philippe’s troubles made it well-nigh impossible to pursue inquiries in France. In his opinion, she should consign legality to the devil and marry whenever she wished. He would get rid of Jean-Esprit if and when it became necessary.
Why that blush, though? Mordieu, had his sister fallen in love? No, it was impossible. She went nowhere and met no one.
As for himself . . . he had gone too long without a woman, which made dealings with Gloriana doubly difficult. He didn’t want to employ a new mistress. Last night, he had seriously considered giving in to the advances of one of the lusty widows of his acquaintance.
Unfortunately, he didn’t want the widow. He wanted Gloriana. As long as he kept on encountering her here, there, and everywhere, he couldn’t help but want her.
He finished breakfast and left. He had a plan, and he intended to put it into effect forthwith. When the Book of Hours was once again in Gloriana’s hands, he would find a way to be free of her once again.
~ ~ ~
Gloriana sat before her dressing table the next morning, worrying. Philippe had ignored her pleas to forget the Book of Hours. The more she thought about it, the more she feared he would try to steal it from Lord Hythwick’s mansion. He was experienced at theft. He probably knew how to pick locks, climb in windows, or whatever else burglars did to gain access.
What if he were caught in the act? She would never forgive herself. She considered approaching him again, begging him to forget the Book of Hours, but she knew he wouldn’t agree.
Besides, he didn’t want to see her. He wanted her to stay away, so she would do exactly that.
She considered her options. She could write to him, saying the book had been found at home in Lancashire.
But that would be a lie. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d had enough of lying to Philippe. And apart from that, it wouldn’t help to get the book back.
Or she could gain access to Hythwick’s house by social means. She was acquainted with his sister, Lady Marianne Delfin. In fact, for the few brief seconds when she’d actually considered marrying him, Marianne had been the one and only factor on the positive side of the scale. She could further her acquaintance with Lady Marianne and hope that invitations would be forthcoming. But that would take a while, and in the meantime, Philippe might put himself in danger.
Not only that, Hythwick might forbid his sister to associate with Gloriana. He treated her civilly enough in company, as expected, for if the story of the assault leaked out, it would tarnish his reputation as well as hers. Still, he might pronounce to Marianne, in his haughty way, that the Warrens were too scandalous and must be avoided.
Had she looked as stupidly haughty to Philippe—and others, notably her brother and cousins—as Hythwick did to her? Quite possibly. She felt herself reddening with shame. What a pity one couldn’t change the past.
Onward to the present. Forget Philippe and concentrate on recovering the Book of Hours.
Another option would be to hire a burglar of her own, but she hadn’t the slightest notion how one went about finding one. That was one of the drawbacks of being wealthy and well-born—one had almost no contact with the criminal classes. In Lancashire, she could have spoken to Daisy’s smuggler friends. Daisy was even acquainted with a highwayman! She didn’t know any burglars, as far as Gloriana knew, but surely the criminal sorts knew one another and could supply a recommendation.
But she wasn’t in Lancashire, so that wouldn’t work . . .
Ha! Maybe she did know how to find a burglar after all.
She dressed, ordered her coach, and soon was on the way to Islington. After arriving at the school, she hurried up the stairs, tapped on the door of Mr. Alexander’s office, and walked in.
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.