The Portrait of Lady Wycliff

by Cheryl Bolen

  Her face was grim when she answered. "I am sure." She fervently wished she were as convinced as she sounded.

  For the next several hours, Harry went from hot to cold. She would hold and rub his hand and cover him snugly when he shook with chill, then she would take off his covers and wipe his heated flesh with cool water when he was hot. Hot to cold. Cold to hot. The hours dragged on. And Louisa's fear mounted.

  Harry couldn't die! Although they had known each other less than a month, he was the only man — the only person — she had ever been truly close to. He understood her as she understood him. She knew his secret — as he knew hers.

  Louisa couldn't think about the immeasurable loss it would be to lose his voice in Parliament. That seemed as insignificant now as her foolish pride over Philip Lewis's essays. All that mattered in her life right now was that Harry get well.

  She tried to remember when she had ever been so frightened. She had been too young when her beloved mother died and too filled with scorn when the sixty-year-old gout-ridden Godwin had died. But were she to lose Harry. . .

  She tried to tell herself that she would lose him anyway once he found Godwin's benefactor. But at least his vibrancy would not still. All that really mattered was that he live. She would always carry a place for Harry within her heart.

  As night came, a parlor maid brought more wood for the fire, and Louisa told John to get some sleep. "I'll need you fresh in the morning to watch out for Lord Wycliff while I catch some sleep."

  The tired man nodded, then trudged off to the stables.

  Louisa took Harry's warm hand within her own and sat down. She prayed some more until he began to flail about, tossing his soaking sheets from him. Then she stood up again and took the bowl of water in her hands and began to rub his burning flesh with her wet hands, oblivious to the fact her tears were dropping into the bowl.

  When the hazy light of dawn began to squeeze into the room, Louisa set down the bowl of water and stretched her arms high above her head. Her feet throbbed with pain, her back ached, and her wounded knee had begun to swell.

  Then Harry opened his eyes, and Louisa thought she had never felt so wonderful.

  "Harry?" she said softly, moving closer to his bed.

  "Where in the bloody hell are we?" he groaned.

  Giving no thought to what she was doing, she took his hand and squeezed it. "We are in an innkeeper's bedchamber in Polperro. You, my lord, have been very, very sick."

  "Harry, not my lord," he corrected, a smile on his face as he squeezed her hand back.

  "Yes, Harry, dearest," she said in a breaking voice, her eyes moist.

  He smiled, turned over, and went back to sleep.

  He was going to make it!

  She climbed in the bed beside him and went fast to sleep.

  * * *

  In the days that followed, Harry showed a little more improvement each day. He grew stronger with each passing day, and the swelling on his arm — like that of Louisa's knee — diminished each day. His fever stopped on the third day, but his appetite had not returned, nor was he strong enough to get out of bed.

  Louisa continued to sleep with him. After all, she had told everyone he was her husband.

  As he regained his strength, he listened to John's tales of how he had been at death's door. During his recovery he gave a lot of thought to Louisa's slavish devotion toward getting him well. He pictured her standing over him, gently wiping him with cool water. And he kept remembering her words when he awoke. She had referred to him as Harry dearest. No accolade on earth could have been more welcome than those two words uttered by a sweet little blonde bending over him with worried eyes.

  Despite her kindness to him in those days when he was recovering, he found himself growing short tempered with her and knew it was not because of anything she had done. It was his own self he hated. He wasn't worthy to touch the hem of her skirt, such an angel was she. He had no right to be the recipient of her kindness. He deserved to die.

  Instead of keeping his feelings of self loathing within him, he took them out on her. He treated her with gruffness and displayed a consistent bad humor.

  And at night when she would lay her weary body beside him on the big feather bed, he would shudder with his need to take her within his arms.

  Then he would awaken the next morning and begin lashing out angrily at her. The porridge was too cold. She'd awakened him with her comings and goings to and from the kitchen. Why couldn't she let things bloody well alone? Was she obsessed with her ridiculous notions of ruling the world with her possessive ways?

  He winced and turned away to avoid seeing the pain in her face. Despite his own remorse, he knew his unconscious had its own way of keeping someone as pure as Louisa Phillips out of his sordid life.

  * * *

  One afternoon after Louisa was convinced Harry was on the mend, she left him in the coachman's care as she went to the church on the outskirts of Polperro.

  She would be the only person at the church for it was a Tuesday. She opened the creaking timber door, entered the dark church, and strode down the nave, her eyes on the Crucifix behind the altar. She fell to her knees on the stone floor and gave thanks that Harry had survived.

  A noise beyond the altar startled her. She raised her lowered lids to see a young cleric – concern on his face – moving toward her. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked in a gentle voice.

  She shook her head. "I've never been better. I'm here to give thanks to the Almighty."

  The young man smiled. "You're not from around here."

  He had obviously determined a great deal from her voice. "I've come from London."

  He nodded. "I'm the vicar here. Rouse is my name."

  She stood up and curtsied. "I'm . . . " She started to say Mrs. Phillips. Then quickly said, "Mrs. Smith." Suddenly an idea occurred to her. "Does Lord Treleavens provide your living here in Polperro?"

  His green eyes flashed with good humor. "He does. Do you know him?"

  "No, but my husband may. Is he an older gentleman? Tall and lean?"

  He chuckled. "Not at all. Trelly and I were at Oxford together. He's my age and rather portly, I'd say."

  "Oh, dear. Perhaps it was his father my husband is thinking of. Was he tall and rather thin?"

  "Actually, Trelly inherited at the age of twelve from his uncle. I never met the chap."

  Then the uncle had to have been dead at least fifteen years, Louisa reasoned, for the vicar looked to be far closer to thirty than to twenty. Which meant neither the current Lord Treleavens nor his predecessor could have been Godwin's benefactor — and the previous Lord Wycliff's menace.

  "My husband will be so disappointed that Lord Treleavens is not the man he had thought he might know."

  "Did your husband attend Oxford?"

  Louisa had no idea if Harry had gone to university. Then again, Harry would not want to be confronting anyone who might recognize him. "I'm afraid not. Mr. Smith went to Cambridge." She flashed the vicar a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Rouse, for your concern and for answering my questions." She curtsied and left.

  * * *

  Early the next week Harry was strong enough to travel. The weather had turned mild and sunny, and Louisa regained some of her feistiness.

  In no uncertain terms she refused to let him sit on her side of the carriage. "To put it bluntly, my lord, I have no desire for you to touch me even in the most innocent way. If I had my choice, I would refuse to share a room with you at the inns, too, but I fear that might lead to the discovery of your true person, which would foil our plans."

  Our plans. Despite everything, it came back to the simple fact that, like it or not, desire it or not, he and Louisa Phillips were as drawn together as those united by clergy. A pity his heart's desire lay within the grasp of her small hands. He would never be worthy of her. She deserved a man far finer than he. Even though the very idea of her with any other man was like a blow with a cutlass, his thoughts flitted to Sinjin. He would be
Louisa's perfect mate.

  At the thought of Sinjin, Harry wondered what day it was. Hadn't he told Sinjin to come looking for him if he'd not returned to London by April first? How long had his illness delayed them? Good lord, was there a chance that Sinjin could be coming to Cornwall this very moment?

  Chapter 17

  Leaving the Polperro innkeeper's chambers brought Louisa mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was sorry to leave the intimacy of the room where she had been for so many days with Harry, days of worry and of a closeness she doubted she would ever rekindle with another human being. On the other hand, she knew they needed to be getting along. She had never planned to leave Ellie for this long, and she was becoming worried over her sister.

  Then, too, leaving Polperro might restore Harry to better humor. She tried to be patient when he was impatient with her. After all, a man like Harry was unused to being bedridden. No doubt his pride was bruised over his infirmity.

  Getting back on the road again was the best thing. They left the Polperro inn early in the morning, the sou'westerly wind fighting against Harry's four matched grays. They drove along the coastal route, which was so vastly different from the desolate Bodmin Moor. Here there were spreading oaks and elms, and primroses bloomed everywhere.

  It was warmer here in the south, too. Louisa flung off her rug an hour into the journey, and she eagerly viewed each little village of tiny, thick-walled row houses that had withstood centuries of salty air and blustery winds..

  Underlying all her thoughts, though, was her worry over Ellie. When she had left London, she had felt certain she would return in a little over a week. Now that week had stretched into almost three. They had covered half of Cornwall, but their search had thus far proved fruitless. She wished she could hop on a post chaise headed to London, but she had given Lord Wycliff her word she would help him identify Godwin's benefactor. And Louisa Sinclair Phillips had never gone back on her word.

  Besides, were she to return to London without having proven successful, she would receive not a farthing from Lord Wycliff, and she and Ellie desperately needed the money.

  Poor Ellie. Left alone in the metropolis that terrified her so with only the occasional companionship of the immature Edward Coke. The poor little pet must be quite miserable.

  Louisa flicked a glance at Lord Wycliff, who sat across from her in the carriage. She was embarrassed to find that he was watching her. "In the next village," she said firmly, "I must post a letter to Ellie, and I beg that you will do likewise with Mr. Coke. Mr. Bentham has long ago finished delivering his talks, and I fear your cousin will have forgotten about my sister."

  "That's hardly likely."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because my cousin is a gentleman and will feel obligated to offer your sister protection until we return. Besides, your sister is a lovely creature."

  A sting of jealousy swept through Louisa. She did not at all like for Harry to find any other female attractive. Even if that female were her beloved sister. On further reflection, though, Louisa took his words for a compliment. After all, Ellie was but a younger, more petite version of herself.

  "Could you please ask your cousin to take Ellie to the theatre or the opera? I believe she would find those most amusing." She smiled as she thought of Ellie's sweet countenance and innocence.

  "Consider it done."

  * * *

  Being fully apprised of the nature of his cousin's business in Cornwall, Edward grew alarmed when the third week arrived and still he had heard no word from Harry. Had Harry located the mysterious lord and then been done in by him? Any manner of murderous scenarios flashed through Edward's brain, which was already given over to adventurous accounts of villainy and the triumphs of honorable heroes.

  In the depths of his mental wanderings, Edward rather fancied himself a dashing hero. And now his opportunity had arrived. He would single handedly rescue his cousin from the grip of death – and the sword of a vile lord.

  Though Harry had cautioned him not to impart to Miss Sinclair the particulars of his journey, Edward let the cat out of the bag one fine afternoon when he was taking Miss Sinclair for a walk about the Grosvenor Square park, innocently telling her that he had grave fears for the safety of his cousin and her sister.

  She turned her sweet face — which he rather liked — up to his. Most ladies of his acquaintance tended to be taller than him – such a pity that he could not have taken after Uncle Robert's side of the family and been tall like Harry.

  He noticed that Ellie's eyes were wide with surprise.

  "My sister is with Lord Wycliff? I do not believe you, sir. Louisa specifically told me she was seeing to matters of her late husband's estate, and Louisa would never lie to me."

  He had gotten himself into rather a pickle. Harry expressly told him not to mention that Mrs. Phillips had gone away with him. Some ridiculous notion about not wanting to sully the widow's good name! As if a woman who delivered talks berating the state of matrimony and advocating free love had not already hopelessly tarnished her reputation. "See here," he said frantically, "you're not to know that your sister's gone to Cornwall."

  "To Cornwall? Why Louisa doesn't know a soul there, and if you are trying to tell me my sister has a tendré for your cousin, I refuse to believe a word you say. She doesn't even like your cousin. He's an aristocrat!"

  "I'm not saying that, either. Why must you keep trying to put the most ridiculous words into my mouth?"

  She stomped her dainty heel. "I'm not trying to put words into your mouth. I'm merely trying to learn my sister's whereabouts. Has your wicked cousin abducted her with intentions of stealing her virtue?"

  There she went again. Did she think every man in London went around stealing good women's virtue? Damn Harry for saddling him with a blasted chit who was still wet behind the ears. "My cousin need not steal any woman's virtue. He can have the most beautiful women in London merely for the asking."

  "Are you saying my sister would willingly give your odious cousin her virtue? That my sister is nothing more than a harlot, sir?"

  He rolled his eyes toward the heavens. "I'm saying no such thing, Miss Sinclair. I'm certain your sister's virtue is still intact. Bluestockings don't appeal to Harry."

  She huffed.

  He stopped and placed both of his hands on her shoulders. "Harry learned that the man who owns Wycliff House lives in Cornwall, and only your sister can identify him. Harry bribed her to go with him. That's all there is to it."

  Ellie's mouth dropped open. "Louisa does not own Wycliff House?"

  "I'm afraid not," he said gently, his hands still on her slim shoulders. "That brute of a husband of hers didn't leave her anything. That's how Harry got your sister to go with him. He promised her a house and a comfortable settlement for the rest of her life."

  Ellie bit at her lip.

  "But I'm afraid they've come to harm," Edward said. "The man they're searching for, whom I am told is rather unsavory, must have found out about them and decided to make sure they would no longer be a threat to him."

  Ellie shrieked. "What can we do?"

  "Not we, but I," he said forcefully. Puffing out his chest, he said, "I shall have to rescue them."

  "But. . .you could be killed." She held both hands to her breasts.

  "'Tis a chance I shall have to take." He turned away. "I had best have my man pack my things now."

  She clung to his sleeve. "Take me with you!"

  He stopped dead in his stride. "I can't do that."

  "Why?"

  "Because. . .it ain't proper."

  "But my sister's with Lord Wycliff. If Louisa does something, that makes it right. My sister has an acute sense of right from wrong."

  "Your sister has been a married woman. That makes her a great deal different than you."

  "How so?"

  "Because she's. . .you know."

  "I don't."

  "She's been with a man before."

  "Of course she's been with a man. S
he's with another one as we speak."

  "When I said been with a man, I meant, well, blast it, Miss Sinclair, your sister has lain with a man."

  He watched with sympathy as the colour crept up her cheeks. "Oh," she managed to squeak.

  "So you see, you can't come with me."

  "But you're a gentleman. I can trust you not to. . ."

  Steal my virtue, he wanted to finish.

  Instead, she said, "want to lie with me."

  "Of course you can trust me not to try to do that. Nevertheless, I still can't take you."

  "But you can't leave me alone here in London! I'm so terribly frightened."

  He hated like the devil to watch the pitiful little thing pleading in front of him like that, but the fact was he simply couldn't take her with him. It could be quite dangerous, not to mention the impropriety of it. "You'll have your Cook."

  She stomped her slippers once again. "Oh, you odious man!" Then she ran off to Wycliff House.

  With an inexplicable feeling of lowness, Edward rode the curricle back to the livery stable nearest his lodgings, and he instructed his man to pack some clothing. Then he realized a curricle would mean poor travelling, indeed. But Harry had taken the coach, which would give excellent protection from the elements. Edward fleetingly thought of taking a post chaise, but that would hardly do. He had no idea where he was actually going.

  An hour later, bag in hand, he returned to the stables to fetch his curricle and rode off toward the west.

  He was completely unaware that a young lady dressed as a tiger hitched herself behind his curricle.

  * * *

  In the next village Harry and Louisa came to, they learned that a post chaise would stop for the mail the following morning. Harry scribbled out a message to his cousin, while Louisa, in the broad flourishes of her distinctive penmanship, scratched away a three-page letter to her sister.

  "You don't need to write a bloody book," Harry quipped.

  Louisa shot him an I'd-like-wring-your-aristocratic-neck look.

  He franked the pair of letters, then they got back into the coach.

  "I'm beginning to think I dreamed up our non-existent lord," Louisa told him, her voice – like herself – utterly tired.