The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4)

by Barbara Monajem

  Philippe made his way to the door and banged the knocker a little too hard. She hadn’t written to refuse him—but then, he hadn’t given her any time to do so.

  Elspeth answered the door. “Oh, sir, what lovely horses!”

  Yes, but a shiny curricle and even shinier horses wouldn’t impress Gloriana. He remembered with chagrin that when driving the same equipage he’d given her the cut direct.

  “Miss Glow asks me to convey her regrets, but she is feeling poorly today.”

  Peste. “I hoped that if we took a drive together it would counteract some of the gossip,” he said. A footman emerged from the area stairs, carrying a huge bouquet of roses. He bowed to Philippe and strode away down the street.

  Elspeth wrinkled her nose. “Those were from Lord Hythwick.”

  Rage stirred within him. “That cur.”

  “Yes, sir. Miss Glow didn’t even bother to look at them. They do smell lovely, but from such a man they shouldn’t. She said to give them to the church.”

  “Damnation, I must see her.” It was all he could do not to move the maid aside and stride into the house. “He is a danger to her. Why must she insist on living alone? What he tried once, he may try again.”

  “Yes, sir, but you mayn’t come in. Surely you see that. It will only make the gossip worse.”

  “I know.” He was about to turn away, when a thought came to him. He’d pondered how to approach this with Gloriana, but her maid would do just as well or better. “A while ago, she wrote telling me she had found a way to search for the Book of Hours. I didn’t believe her—I thought she just wanted to get rid of me—but now I wonder if she was serious. Are you able to enlighten me?”

  A flurry of emotions crossed Elspeth’s face. “Not without her permission, sir, except to say that we have indeed found a way.” Her face clouded. “But I’m that worried, sir, that others will suffer if the book disappears from his house.”

  “Yes, for Hythwick will suspect the servants. He’s the sort of employer who would see a servant hanged because a precious snuffbox is missing, when actually he’d thrown it at the selfsame servant in a fit of rage.”

  Elspeth wrung her hands. “Yes, sir. I’m ever so frightened, sir, for—for all Lord Hythwick’s servants.”

  And one in particular? Once again, Philippe remembered the two servants kissing in the darkness at Garrison House—Elspeth and a big fellow. And the next morning, Hythwick’s muscular valet fetching his bloodied master.

  From within the house, he caught the creak of a stair. Philippe made another delicate probe. “And for his sister, Lady Marianne. She fears she was seen sneaking out of his lordship’s private rooms.” In spite of the fact that he’d told her not to search for the book. So much for being an obedient woman—but she was Freddy Barnham’s problem, not his.

  “By his lordship?” Elspeth gasped.

  “No, by his valet, who seems to have done nothing but warn her away, but she is afraid he will tell on her. She is terrified of her brother when he’s in a rage.”

  “Mr. Turner would never tell on her,” Elspeth said, and then clamped her mouth shut. She blushed rosily.

  “You are acquainted with the valet?” Philippe kept his voice bland.

  “We-We drink at the same tavern, sir. He’s a good, kind man, nothing like his master.” Her flush faded, and her eyes filled with dread. “Oh, no!”

  Philippe turned, just as another shiny curricle pulled up behind his. That lurid red and yellow was not in the best of taste. Its owner’s choice of clothes was appreciably better—buff breeches and an immaculately-tied cravat, marred only by the massive gilt buttons on his coat. Philippe suspected Mr. Turner possessed both tact and taste, but one could only do so much with a spoilt, selfish master.

  “What shall I do? Lord Hythwick is not the man to take no for an answer.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  The earl barked out a command to Philippe’s groom. Philippe caught the man’s eye and shook his head. No vehicle of his would move out of the way for that villain.

  Hythwick hissed an order at his tiger, who jumped to take the horses’ heads. The earl clambered down from the curricle and stomped along the pavement, clutching his whip.

  He stopped a foot from Philippe. “What are you doing here? She’s driving out with me.”

  “She’s not driving out with anyone,” Philippe said mildly.

  Elspeth curtsied. “Miss Gloriana is unwell this morning, my lord.”

  “Thanks to you,” Hythwick uttered, jabbing a finger at Philippe but stopping just short of prodding him in the chest. “Go away. Leave her be.” He flicked a gloved hand at Elspeth. “She’ll see me.” He made as if to push past her.

  Philippe stepped in front of him. “No, she won’t.”

  “Move over, curse you!” the earl growled.

  Philippe crossed his arms and stayed where he was. He would relish a reason to knock Hythwick flat once again.

  “Damn you for an interfering French bastard,” Hythwick sputtered. “She’s made it entirely clear that she wants me. Get out of my way.”

  With an effort of will, Philippe refrained from giving the man a facer. In the same mild voice, he said, “No.”

  The earl’s eyes widened. He snorted. “Well, well. Can it be that you want her too?”

  Mordieu, Philippe thought. He’s not as idiotic as he seems.

  “I thought you were just playing the proper gentleman up there in Lancashire, but you want her for yourself.”

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t deny it, what with Elspeth right there and Gloriana likely eavesdropping.

  “She doesn’t like you,” the earl said. “She never has. Whom did she hit last night? Me? Or you?” He cackled. “She’s mine.”

  Philippe clenched his fists. “Over my dead body.”

  Hythwick hooted—but he stepped out of reach.

  “Coward,” Philippe murmured. “How about a little of the—what do you call it? The home-brewed?”

  “Please, sirs,” Elspeth said, “don’t come to fisticuffs on Miss Gloriana’s doorstep. There are ever so many gossips about.”

  The earl stood back and said smugly, “God forbid that I should cause Miss Warren distress.” He glowered at Philippe. “You’re nothing but a goddamn rake. I should call you out.”

  “But you won’t,” Philippe said. “You’re afraid of me, and rightly so.”

  The earl sniffed. “You’re beneath my notice. Horsewhipping would be more appropriate.” He turned to go, but then whirled. “Stay away from my sister.”

  Philippe grinned. “Why should I? She likes me.”

  “Or else,” Hythwick hissed, and stomped away.

  “Oh, sir, you oughtn’t to have mocked him,” Elspeth whispered.

  Philippe shrugged. “I can take care of myself.” The problem was taking care of Gloriana, and that he couldn’t do unless he married her. “Hythwick is so desperate to bed your mistress that he has lost all commonsense. Usually he is morbidly afraid of scandal. Frankly, I’m worried for Miss Glow’s safety.”

  “So am I,” Elspeth sighed.

  “If his lordship returns, on no account let him into the house. Don’t even answer the door if he knocks.”

  “Very well, sir.” They watched his lordship clamber into the curricle and drive away.

  “Your Mr. Turner must be an excellent valet,” Philippe said, “to mask so well the deficiencies with which nature provided Lord Hythwick.”

  Elspeth snickered. She did not, Philippe noted, take umbrage at the implication that there was more than just acquaintanceship between her and the valet.

  “And to put up with his tantrums as well. No doubt he would like to change masters.”

  “Indeed he would, sir.”

  “Or perhaps
go into business for himself, if he had the wherewithal to do so.”

  Her eyes widened. She paused, then seemed to make a decision. She leaned closer and whispered, “Miss Glow offered him a substantial reward to search for the book.”

  He smiled back at her. “I was hoping to hear that. Very well, Elspeth. I believe the time has come to make a plan. If Lord Hythwick goes to the Wellforth rout this evening—as I assume he will—might Mr. Turner be willing to meet with you and me and a friend of mine at the Spotted Dragon?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure he will.”

  “And Miss Gloriana as well, if she is feeling better this evening. The Spotted Dragon is a lowly sort of place, but it’s far safer than anywhere Lord Hythwick is to be found.”

  Chapter 15

  Over his dead body?

  Gloriana hurried upstairs, hugging to herself the hope that Philippe cared for her. Almost immediately, she admonished herself for such weakness. He didn’t really want her at the Spotted Dragon, interfering with his plans. He’d already saved her once from Hythwick, and his pride meant he had to continue to do so.

  But he had asked her to drive out with him. Surely that meant something.

  Maybe, but she didn’t know what.

  By mid-afternoon, the puffiness around her eyes was largely gone, thanks to the application of cucumber slices and cold tea. She’d had Elspeth refuse all morning callers—a good thing, too, for those who dropped by were gossipmongers—and settled on the drawing room sofa with a book.

  She was nodding over it when a frenzied knocking on the door startled her awake. “Miss Glow,” Elspeth said a few moments later, “it’s Lady Marianne Delfin without even her maid to accompany her. She seems upset and begs to speak with you.”

  “Of course.” Gloriana stood and smoothed her gown. A few seconds later, Marianne hurried in, her bonnet askew, her hair windblown. Gloriana hurried forward, hands outstretched. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything!” Lady Marianne burst into tears.

  Gloriana gathered her into her arms. “There, there,” she said, and to the hovering Elspeth, “Bring tea, hot and strong.”

  Marianne stopped weeping to say, “No! I daren’t stay more than a minute.”

  “No tea, then,” Gloriana said. “Prepare my bonnet and pelisse, Elspeth. I’ll ring when I’m ready.” She waited until the maid had shut the door and guided Marianne to the sofa, where she removed the girl’s bonnet and straightened it out. “Now tell me, why must you hurry away?”

  “My aunt went to her bedchamber for a nap, so I sneaked out, but if my brother finds out, he’ll beat me!”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?” She ran her fingers through Marianne’s hair, gently removing the knots.

  “He will think I was meeting Freddy. He’ll send me to the country and lock me up until he finds a peer to marry me.” She blew her nose, stifling a sob, and gazed at Gloriana with wide, tear-drenched eyes. “And I’ll never see my darling Freddy again.”

  “Surely it’s not that bad,” Gloriana said. “Your brother can’t force you to marry anyone. You’ll turn twenty-one soon, and you won’t need his permission anymore.”

  “If some scheming hussy hasn’t snatched Freddy up by then,” Marianne said dolefully. “But that’s not why I came. It’s because of the gossip. Auntie says the latest on dit is that you are going to be my brother’s mistress, and that we shall then be obliged to shun you.” She sniffled. “Please don’t! Think how horrid it will be.”

  With commendable calm, Gloriana said, “I have not agreed to be his mistress and never shall.”

  “That’s what I thought, but people say you threw yourself at my brother last night. They say you are scandalous like the rest of your family, and that you are desperate to have him at whatever cost.”

  “I expect that’s how it appeared, but I was only trying to distract him from you and Freddy. Philippe was furious at me for interfering in his plans, whatever they are.”

  She hung her head. “They were my plans, and they were foolish ones. I thought if Freddy were seen to protect me from Philippe’s advances, my brother would regard him more favorably.”

  Annoyed now, Gloriana said, “How could you use Philippe in such a way? He would never force himself on anyone.”

  “He didn’t object. He was amused at the idea of playing a villain.” She sniffled again. “But it didn’t work. Philippe left the ball, and Alvin saw me talking to Freddy. He forbade me to speak to him ever again, and said he would send me away if I disobeyed.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “What am I to do?”

  “It’s obvious,” Gloriana said. “You must elope.”

  A tremulous smile lit up Marianne’s woebegone face. “Truly? That’s what Freddy says, and Philippe agrees, but think of the scandal!”

  “There won’t be much scandal. It’s a perfectly eligible match. Most likely, your brother will do his best to hush up any gossip by saying he gave his permission because you were going into a decline, or some such.”

  Marianne gave a tearful little giggle. “Yes, that would be just like him. He cannot stand being put in the wrong.” She bit her lip. “But will you be able to recover the Book of Hours if I run away? Not that I’ve been much help, I’m afraid. I crept into his private rooms, but I didn’t find it. I expect it’s in his strongbox, but Alvin always has the key on him.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” She daren’t tell Marianne how close they were to getting the book, for fear of endangering Mr. Turner. In the meantime, she must help Marianne—and if Philippe was angry at her for interfering, so be it. “Come, I’ll walk you home. You shouldn’t be out alone, and if your brother should happen to hear that you were with me, he won’t suspect an elopement.”

  Soon they were hurrying along the street. “I shall get a message to Freddy, saying you want to leave as soon as possible,” Gloriana said.

  “Yes, please. But how shall I know what he has arranged? I dare not correspond with him, nor attempt to speak to him, even at a ball.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gloriana said. “Freddy will arrange everything, and I’ll find a way to let you know. I expect it will take a day or two. Will he attend the Wellforth rout, do you think?”

  She sighed. “I expect so. I shall be there too, and Alvin as well, watching my every move. Will you be there? Please?”

  They had reached Hythwick House. “Yes, I’ll be there. In you go, dearest. Be patient, and pretend to be meek and obedient. Freddy loves you. He will whisk you away in no time.”

  “Thank you,” Marianne breathed. “You are such a good friend.”

  Welcome words. Gloriana hurried away, pondering strategy, and instead of going home, she turned in the opposite direction to make a morning call on the one person in her milieu whom she thought of as a true friend.

  But she couldn’t with propriety make a call on a gentleman, so she spent a half hour consoling old Mrs. Bridge on her son’s impending marriage. “She’s a pretty-behaved girl,” the elderly lady said. “I grant him that, but she’s not our sort.”

  “I think perhaps we, as a society, should reassess who exactly are our sort. Perhaps, for example, those who are well-meaning and kindhearted should be one’s sort, rather than those who have money or position.”

  “Yes, dear, that’s all very well as an ideal, but it’s not realistic. And what’s this I hear about you throwing yourself at Lord Hythwick? It’s most unwise. He has already made it clear he won’t marry you.”

  “I didn’t throw myself at him,” Gloriana retorted.

  “No? How I wish I had seen it! But I’m far too old to stay up half the night at balls.”

  “There wasn’t much to see. I merely changed my mind about dancing with him, because I’m sick of society’s stupid rules about how many times one may dance with a man in any given evening.”


  “But flouting such a reasonable rule for Hythwick is senseless. He’s not even a graceful dancer! I also heard that you slapped the Marquis de Bellechasse because he made improper advances.”

  She huffed. “He did no such thing. Where do people get such notions? He’s known for not making improper advances toward anyone. He annoyed me—in fact, I became enraged at him—but that is nothing new.”

  “I must admit, it did seem unlikely. If you were going to become someone’s mistress—not that I’m suggesting any such course of action, dear girl—surely you would choose the marquis over Hythwick.”

  Gloriana laughed at that. “Definitely, but I doubt we should ever proceed past the stage of argument to more pleasurable activities.” She sipped her tea, wondering what it would be like to be in harmony with Philippe.

  Absolutely wondrous, and also impossible.

  “I shall do what I can to mitigate the effect of the gossip,” Mrs. Bridge said, “but you must learn to mend your temper, particularly in public.”

  Gloriana nodded ruefully and said nothing—for the only person with whom she ever lost her temper, in public or in private, was Philippe de Bellechasse.

  At last Mr. Bridge came into the drawing room. She gave him a speaking look, hoping he would read in it a desire for private speech. After a few minutes desultory conversation, she rose to go, and he escorted her from the room. “What is it, Miss Warren?”

  “Last night, you said if I ever needed a favor . . .”

  His eyes twinkled. “Am I about to regret those hasty words?”

  “I hope not. It’s not exactly for me.” She glanced about, but no servants hovered nearby. “It’s for Lady Marianne Delfin,” she whispered. “Will you be at the Wellforth rout this evening?”

  He raised his brows, and her heart sank.