Chapter 7
The following evening, Gloriana strolled along on Mr. Alexander’s arm, pretending they were a courting couple reluctant to part. Mr. Alexander had no objection to playing this role, but it made Gloriana uneasy. She didn’t think Mr. Alexander would take any liberties—he’d always kept his distance, as was proper—but he was male and very likeable, and . . .
What bothered her, she decided, was that she wished to have someone with whom to take those very liberties. She had been angry for years, too angry to let her carnal desires rise to the fore, but now they had begun to make themselves known—ever since those brief moments in Philippe’s arms.
What use was physical desire when the only man she’d ever seriously wanted didn’t want her? She sighed.
“Bored, Miss Glow?”
“No, just worried.” This was true. She didn’t know how anyone could choose burglary as a profession. It was far too nerve-wracking. They wandered past Lord Hythwick’s house, around a corner, down a street, then past his house again, touting—not a word in her customary vocabulary, but in this instance it meant playing lookout in case an alarm was raised, or officers of the law appeared.
It was a dark, damp, chilly evening, with a breeze nipping at her ankles. Was she shivering from cold, or nerves, or both? Every now and then they would stop and pretend to embrace. Mr. Alexander would pull her into his arms. She would clutch her sketchbook against her chest, which helped to maintain decency until he decided to move again. These brief respites from the chilly wind warmed her up considerably, but they also made her sad. These were the wrong arms around her and the wrong masculine chest against which to lay her head . . .
It was even worse because she knew what the right chest looked like. The night before, as she lay awake and worrying, she’d lit a branch of candles and drawn, from memory, Philippe without his shirt.
She had to stop thinking about Philippe. She thrust his image from her mind and conjured instead the burglar, Mr. Cartway, a tall, lantern-jawed Cockney with a gap-toothed grin. He’d come by the school that very morning, looked Gloriana up and down appreciatively, and said, “This your latest lady friend, Rev?”
“She is not,” Mr. Alexander retorted. “Miss Glow is my business partner at the school.”
Mr. Cartway chuckled and nudged Gloriana. “Where I come from, he’s known as the Rovin’ Rev, ’cause he fancies the ladies.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. Cartway. It is one of his greatest assets.”
Mr. Alexander blinked at her. “It is?”
“Yes, indeed. You understand bad behavior and therefore know how to handle naughty boys. Now, shall we get down to business?”
“Right-o,” Mr. Cartway said. “I made me inquiries. His High-and-Mighty Lordship is out of town. Be back Friday week. There’s naught but a skeleton staff, so now’s our chance. What do you want me to prig?”
“A book Lord Hythwick stole from my brother’s house several months ago.” Gloriana proffered him a quarter sheet of foolscap with a sketch of the Book of Hours, more or less actual size, front and back. “I suggest you try his bedchamber and whichever room he uses as a library or study. Most likely he has kept it hidden, perhaps even locked away. He would not risk showing it to guests for fear of a chance word coming to my ears or my brother’s. He cannot have known it would be several months before we realized it was missing.”
“That’s all you want? A book?”
“It’s a medieval book—a calendar of holy days with beautiful illuminated pages.” At his blank look, she added, “There are drawings on the pages, as well Bible verses and the life stories of saints in old-fashioned lettering. It’s very old and just the sort of thing Lord Hythwick likes to collect. The cover is leather, with silver metalwork at the corners, and a silver clasp. It belongs to my brother, and I must get it back.” Her throat filled, and she confessed, “It’s my fault that Lord Hythwick had the opportunity to steal the book.”
“But not your fault that he did so,” Mr. Alexander said.
“Hiffy’s a bad sort,” Mr. Cartway said. “Makes life hell for his servants. I’m happy to have a chance to diddle him.”
Hiffy? She stifled a giggle. In Mr. Cartway’s Cockney accent, the nickname sounded like ‘iffy.’ “Five pounds to search for it, and twenty-five if you succeed in finding it and bring it to me.”
“Right you are. Piece of cake.”
“But please, please don’t get caught.”
“Don’t you worry your head over me, miss. I’m an old hand at this sort of caper.”
“And whether or not you find it, please try to leave no sign that you were there.”
“No fear of that, ducky,” he said indulgently, as if she were a foolish child. Which she certainly had been for years, judging by her behavior, but not anymore.
He folded the sketch, shook hands, and took himself off. Immediately, Gloriana sent one of the boys with a note to Sophie, asking her to inform Philippe that he needn’t search for the book, as she had found another way to recover it.
She brushed her hands together in a that-took-care-of-him sort of motion. She hadn’t contacted Philippe directly, and he would no longer endanger himself.
So now, shivering on Mr. Alexander’s arm, she did her best not to worry about Mr. Cartway instead.
~ ~ ~
Philippe read the note, tossed it into the grate, and watched it burn. God only knew what mad plan she was pursuing now. Well, he had plans of his own.
Since Hythwick was still at his Melton Mowbray estate, breaking into his house wasn’t particularly risky. Still, that evening Philippe brought two loaded pistols in case the footmen were vigilant. More likely, they were drinking and playing cards in the kitchen, as servants were wont to do when the master was away, especially one like Hythwick who considered them of no account.
Hythwick’s was one of the grand old mansions on a sizeable plot of land, with a wall easily scaled if one knew how, and a bump-out at the back with a drainpipe just asking to be shinned. Philippe climbed onto the roof of the bump-out, staying low so as to show no silhouette, and was about to pry open a window when he realized it already was open about an inch.
Strange, but he pushed it slowly up. It made no sound. Evidently the servants kept everything in perfect condition or else. He climbed in and looked about . . . Darkness and silence.
Too silent, somehow. One learned to sense these things.
He gazed about the dim room, keeping his back to the wall and gripping one of the pistols. A long, tall shape materialized from behind a sofa, chuckling as it appeared.
“Wotcher, Phil.”
Philippe let out a long, relieved breath and pocketed the pistol. He knew Cartway well, having hired him for difficult burglaries in London. “What the devil are you doing here?” A stupid question. He cursed under his breath and closed the window. “I suppose Miss . . . Glow hired you.”
“Got it in one, mate. You, too? I thought you was done with milling kens.”
“I am. Fool woman, I told her I’d get the book for her. This explains why she wrote telling me not to bother.”
“She a friend of yours?”
“God, no. She cannot stand the sight of me.”
“And now you’re risking life and limb on the crack lay for the sake of her loverly blue eyes?” Cartway chuckled again. “Right, then. You take this room, I’ll try his bedchamber.”
“Fine,” Philippe said.
“Miss Glow and the Rovin’ Rev are playing bo-peep.”
Which meant they were acting as lookouts. Why the devil must Gloriana take such stupid risks? “Who is the Roving Rev?”
“Cove what runs that school of hers. Got a rovin’ eye, he has.”
He’d better not be roving it over Gloriana. Philippe bit his tongue to keep from saying so.
“She won’t come to no harm with him,” Cartway said kindly.
“Fine,” Philippe said again. “Let’s get to work.”
~ ~ ~
At last, at last, the shrill sound of a crowing cock split the night.
“He’s done,” Mr. Alexander said. “Let’s be off.” They were to meet at a tavern about a mile away on the outskirts of St. Giles.
“Wasn’t he supposed to cluck like a hen if he’d found it?” Gloriana said. Which meant mostly likely he hadn’t. “Shouldn’t we wait and listen?” Her teeth began to chatter.
“No,” Mr. Alexander said. “Best be on our way.” They’d had to avoid the Watch a couple of times already.
Fifteen minutes’ brisk walk brought them to the Spotted Dragon. Not much of the dragon was visible on the weathered sign, which creaked back and forth in the wind. Almost no light showed through the grimy windows, but when Mr. Alexander pushed open the door, a blast of heat hit them.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Gloriana breathed. “I thought I would never be warm again.”
“Hush,” Mr. Alexander growled. “You’re conspicuous enough as is, without coming the aristocrat in this sort of place.”
“I’m not coming the aristocrat,” she said. “I am one.”
“Aye, you can’t help that.” He led her through the crowd of ancient wooden tables. “Best you say as little as possible.”
Annoyed, she followed him. She wasn’t the sort of person to sit back quietly.
“Well, well, if ain’t the Rovin’ Rev,” called a cheerful voice.
“Wiv a loverly new lady, I see,” said another. “Wot ’appened to the curvy blonde?”
“That was years ago.” Mr. Alexander paused to shake hands with one man, pat another on the back, and exchange an odd hand signal with a third—all the while fielding rude comments about her until finally they reached his table of choice.
Good God. Everyone in this dim, filthy place thought she was his doxy!
Well. If he could begin as a laborer’s son and become a gentleman, surely she could act as if she were of a lower class. She eyed the grimy chair but stopped herself in time from brushing it off. She plumped herself down as ungracefully as she could manage. Her cousin Daisy had served ale in a tavern. She’d befriended laborers and smugglers. Surely it wasn’t all that hard to do . . .
“They all think I’m your latest conquest,” she muttered to Mr. Alexander. “Why didn’t you correct their assumption?”
“Would you rather they made lewd suggestions to you on their own behalf?”
“God help me, no.” Gloriana shuddered. “I suppose I should try to act the part, but I haven’t the least notion how.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. What will you drink? The wine isn’t up to your standards, but the ale is decent.”
“Ale is fine,” she said. “Or porter? My maid drinks porter, and she let me try hers once. I liked it very much.”
He grinned. A thin, irritable wench came over. “What’ll you have?”
“Belch for me, and a shovel of malt for the lady.”
Gloriana suppressed a giggle, wondering if, when Elspeth went out with the other servants, she ordered a shovel of malt. “Belch?”
“Beer,” he said. “Their home brew is good.”
The grouchy barmaid plunked down their drinks. Gloriana had taken one potent sip of porter when the door opened and Mr. Cartway strolled in.
Followed by Philippe de Bellechasse, a scowl on his handsome face.
“What in the name of heaven is he doing here?” Gloriana scowled right back. To Mr. Alexander, she explained, “That is Sophie Brun’s brother.”
“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Bonaventure,” the wench said. “Ain’t seen him for an age.” She nodded and smiled coyly at Philippe on the way to the tap. He blew a kiss in return. How terribly vulgar, but that was Gloriana’s upbringing speaking. Her heart suffered a storm of jealousy, so she took refuge in the porter.
Mr. Alexander raised a hand to beckon Cartway over, but it took a while, what with the rash of greetings—grins, hand-shaking, and backslapping all around. Several of the tavern’s low-bred customers were acquainted with Philippe. Gloriana fought the mixed feelings this aroused. Clearly his support and appreciation of the lower class wasn’t all talk. She valued that—no, she envied it, for she had no idea of how to breach the gap herself.
She wished—oh how she wished—that Philippe would show her the same friendliness he showed to the denizens of this lowly tavern.
It might help if she treated him better. It also might help if he did what he was told.
“Sorry to hear about Antoine,” a man in a frieze coat was saying. Antoine was Philippe’s recently deceased valet.
“Aye,” his cohort said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “For a Frenchy, he weren’t a bad sort.”
“I hear he run mad,” the first man said. “That so, Phil?”
Philippe nodded. “So much so that he ran off, fell down a hole, and landed on his head.” He smacked the heel of one hand against the palm of the other. “Gone, just like that.”
“Poor old Antoine,” the second man said, “but no surprise. Most Frenchies is mad one way or another.”
“Including me,” Philippe said with a laugh and moved to greet another group—men and a couple of blowsy-looking women. He smiled and jested with them too.
“Did the girl call him Mr. Bonaventure?” Mr. Alexander murmured.
“It’s the alias he uses amongst the common people,” Gloriana said. “Or so my cousin Daisy told me.”
“Why use an alias?”
“Because he disapproves of the artificial distance created by social classes. Education and money cause too much of that already, so why make it worse by using meaningless titles?”
Mr. Alexander took a swig of beer. “He seems well-liked here.”
Yes, and Gloriana didn’t know what to think of it. How could he so easily associate with members of all classes? Perhaps the French accent helped. People didn’t automatically categorize him as a gentleman, and yet, they must know he wasn’t really one of them.
“Daisy says he’s considering renouncing his title, although he shows no sign of it when amongst the ton. He’s very much the haughty aristocrat when he chooses.” As I was, Gloriana thought, but I’ve had enough of it.
Mr. Cartway approached their table, shook his head, and showed them empty hands. He plucked the sketch from his pocket and handed it to Gloriana. “Sorry, ducks.”
She swallowed her sadness and said, “Thank you for trying.” She dug in her reticule and paid him five pounds. He pocketed it, took a seat next to her, and ordered a heavy wet. Philippe came up at last and requested gin, of all horrid beverages.
She wrinkled her nose. “What are you doing here?” Drat, she shouldn’t have said it like that.
“I might ask you the same, Gloriana.” He yanked out a chair and sat down. “Playing lookout for a thief, not to mention drinking in a disreputable tavern with a libertine, is not appropriate behavior for a lady.”
“What happened to your vaunted belief in equality of the classes?” she shot back. “Not to mention women’s rights to do as they choose.”
“That doesn’t extend to putting yourself in danger.”
Mr. Alexander narrowed his eyes. “She wasn’t in danger. She was with me, and while I don’t claim to be a saint, I am no libertine.”
“You had better not be,” Philippe said, placing his hands on the table in a typically male, aggressive fashion.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gloriana said, “don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Alexander is my partner in the school. I know what I’m doing.” She took refuge in another sip of porter and waited for the inevitable retort.
It was worse than she expected. “If you knew what you were doing, you would not have lost the book in the first place,” Philippe said. “It should have been kept locked away.”
How could she possibly treat him politely when he said such horrid things to her? “Why were you searching for it? I—” Forbade you to do so. She bit her tongue on that retort, because he would laugh, and so would the others. “It was not your business to do so.”
“I was glad of his help, miss,” Mr. Cartway said. “Good to see an old friend too. We had a proper jaw on the way here. We thinks his nibs has it with him.”
“In Melton Mowbray, where he hunts at this time of year,” Philippe said. “Perhaps he wants to keep it close by.”
“Safe and secure where he’s the only one what gets to ogle it.” Mr. Cartway rubbed his hands together and leered like a villain in a novel.
She laughed sadly. “Yes, he’s just the sort of man to bring it out and pet it, gloating.” Her heart twisted. “He won’t read the psalms or say the prayers or—or anything it’s meant for.”
“I’ve never taken you for a religious woman,” Philippe said after a moment.
“That shows how little you know about me.” She jutted her chin. “I didn’t lose it. He stole it. There’s a difference.”
“Aye, there is, ducky,” said Mr. Cartway, “and we’ll get it back for you, never fear.”
She smiled at him and nodded her thanks.
“But not by way of burglary, unless we have no other choice.” Philippe eyed her. “Nor by highway robbery. That’s too risky for everyone concerned, including the earl’s coachman and guard.”
“I wasn’t thinking of any such thing,” she said indignantly.
“Perhaps not yet, but I don’t want to find that you’re hiring a highwayman next.” Philippe took a gulp of gin and stabbed a finger at her—frightfully rude of him, but it was forceful all the same. “Leave this to me, Gloriana. I said I would recover it for you, and I shall.” He sat back and folded his arms. “In my own time and my own way.”
~ ~ ~
Gloriana opened her mouth to retort but seemed to think better of it, and took a sip of porter instead. Philippe wasn’t fooled into taking this for acquiescence. Why the devil didn’t she trust him?
More to the point, why should he expect her to? Only two days ago she’d accused him of theft, and now she’d not only seen him in the company of a professional burglar, but trading greetings with a crowd of low-bred people, many of whom were criminals as well.
She didn’t seem uncomfortable in the Spotted Dragon. Perhaps she felt safe enough with the Roving Rev, which annoyed him for no good reason.
She hadn’t taken umbrage at Cartway’s familiarity, surprising him even more. Where had her customary haughtiness gone? Six months ago, her grateful acceptance of an endearment such as ‘ducky’ would have been unthinkable.
He glanced at her pot of porter. Still almost full. Hardly a lady’s tipple, but she seemed to like it. She wasn’t intoxicated. She couldn’t have been here long enough to broach her second pot.
The irritating Mr. Alexander drained his tankard. “I’d best be off. It’s late for a schoolmaster. I’ve to be up before dawn.”
Gloriana took a hurried gulp of porter and made as if to leave as well.
“No need to rush, Miss Glow,” Mr. Alexander said. “Finish your porter. Much as I enjoyed playing bo-peep with a beautiful lady, I’d rather not walk off with you under the nose of a man who truly covets you.”
Philippe let out a French oath. Gloriana glanced at Mr. Alexander, a crease between her brows. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Mr. Cartway will be happy to escort you home, if you’d prefer,” Alexander said blandly.
Cartway chuckled and put up a hand. “Phil and me’s friends. Like to keep it that way.”
The crease deepened. Philippe waited for her to object. Instead, she shrugged and stared moodily into her porter, but he sensed she was clenching her fists under the table.
“It would be my pleasure to escort Miss, er, Glow,” Philippe drawled. He couldn’t decide whether he liked this fellow Alexander for manipulating Gloriana into a corner, or longed to punch him for putting him in an impossible position. Perhaps both.
“Is that acceptable to you, Miss Glow?” Mr. Alexander asked. “I’m sure you’ll be safe with his lordship Mr. Bonaventure.” Heavy on the sarcasm, but it wasn’t an uncommon reaction to his dual personas. Gloriana must have told him.
“I would rather inconvenience Mr. Bonaventure than you,” she said. “Hard-working schoolmasters deserve their rest. Thank you for helping me tonight.”
“Right you are then. I’ll be off.” Alexander tossed a few coins onto the table and was gone before Gloriana could change her mind.
Mr. Cartway stood as well. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Glow. I’d best be on me way as well.” He bade them a cheery goodnight.
This left Philippe and Gloriana confronting one another across the table.
“Sorry,” he said, “but I couldn’t very well refuse.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Gloriana cried. “I don’t enjoy being passed from hand to hand like a—a stinking packet of fish.”
Philippe grimaced. “That’s a poor choice of simile. Mr. Alexander thought he was doing me a good turn.”
“He’s as bad as Sophie,” Gloriana said. “I don’t know why he thinks you covet me.”
“Oh, he’s correct about that. Carnally speaking, I do covet you and always have.”