by Cheryl Bolen
She avoided his gaze and hastily moved back.
A moment later they were at Mr. Twining's business establishment.
Lord Wycliff insisted she conduct her business first.
When Louisa entered Mr. Twining's interior office, the solicitor stood. He was the age of Godwin and had been Godwin's solicitor since long before she and Godwin were married. Like Godwin, he was fat, the buttons on his waistcoat straining across his round belly. She averted her gaze to his pleasant face, where his bushy gray sideburns drew her attention.
"I'm so sorry about Mr. Phillips," he began, his eyes sweeping over her pale – non-mourning – dress.
"As you observe," she said curtly, "I chose not to wear mourning. I am not here to discuss Godwin but to learn in what financial circumstances he has left me."
Without being told to do so, she sat down in front of the solicitor's desk in a broad chair with wooden arms.
A look of -- what? Mistrust? Disapproval? Or pity? -- flitted across his jowled face as he took a seat. He coughed, then rang for his clerk. When the young man entered his office, Mr. Twining instructed him to bring Mr. Godwin Phillips' papers.
A moment later these papers were in Mr. Twining's possession. He rifled through several pages, his eyes skipping over the print. He coughed again. It was not a cough of substance but one of hesitation.
"As I told you two weeks ago, Mrs. Phillips," he began, "your husband did not own the house in Grosvenor Square. He was actually more or less its caretaker for his benefactor."
"His benefactor?" she asked incredulously. Godwin had no close friends and, goodness knows, he wasn't likeable enough to have a benefactor. Then she remembered those nights when Godwin would tell her not to come down, that a very important personage would be paying him a clandestine visit. A Lord Something or Other he was. Not that Godwin had shared such information with her. But because of the secrecy, she had stolen through the dark hallways and tried to listen to the men talk. The only thing she heard was her husband referring to the man as my lord.
"Who is this man?" she asked.
"I am not at liberty to say."
Her hands fisted in her lap, her mouth went taut. "Then tell me what this man's relationship was to my husband."
"That I am not privy to."
She shrugged. "Did my husband provide another – smaller -- home for me?"
He sadly shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Phillips."
"As his only beneficiary, I am entitled to my husband's estate."
"I do not deny that, Mrs. Phillips. It is just that there is little to his estate. When he moved to London permanently at the time of your marriage, he sold everything else he owned, and as you know, your late husband had rather expensive taste. His bills were enormous. Why his fees at Waiters alone--"
"I am not interested in Godwin's expensive lifestyle. I know the details only too well. What I require, Mr. Twining, is the exact figure of what is left from his extravagant spending. How much do I get?" What a mercenary hussy Mr. Twining must think me.
She leaned forward.
He cleared his throat. "As you know, none of the furnishings within the Grosvenor Square house will come to you." He rifled through papers, then coughed again. "I believe Mr. Phillips had a total of thirty-seven pounds in his bank at the time of his death. That will, of course, come to you."
She nodded, her anger swelling.
"Then, of course, all the jewelry and clothing he bestowed on you are yours to keep."
That much she had known. Not that Godwin had been all that generous to her. For the occasions they had gone to fetes and balls, he had lavished her with jewelry she found gaudy and wore only on those occasions when he insisted. These she still possessed, and they should fetch enough to purchase a cottage, but she certainly could not live the rest of her life on thirty-seven pounds! Surely there had to be more money. After all, Godwin had been a man of means.
"And as you know, Mr. Phillips settled your father with a very generous amount of money upon your marriage."
Her stomach turned over, and rage swept through her. "How much?" she demanded.
"One thousand pounds."
An exorbitant sum! She could have lived on such a sum for many years. She swallowed hard. "I don't want to know of Godwin's expenses. I want to know what's left."
He coughed again. "Actually, that's all, Mrs. Phillips. The money in the bank and your personal possessions. Also, if you care to sell any of Mr. Phillip's personal possessions, such as snuff boxes or fobs or--"
"I get the idea, Mr. Twining." She stood up, regal and proud. "Tell me when I am to vacate my home."
"The house's owner has graciously said you can stay there until the end of next month.
As she mentally calculated that Godwin's possessions might fetch twenty or thirty pounds and that she had a little over a month to find a new home, she rose and bid the solicitor a curt good-day.
* * *
Harry did not like the worried look on Mrs. Phillips' face as she left the solicitor's office. He fought his unexpected urge to take her in his arms and smooth away her troubles. Even if she was a bloody bluestocking.
He stood and met her somber gaze with one of sympathy, then he squeezed her arm as he walked past her and entered Mr. Twining's office, shutting the door behind him.
The clerk had announced him as Lord Wycliff. Mr. Twining met the peer with a broad smile on his round face. "What can I do for you today, my lord?"
"I'll not beat around the bush, Twining. I want Wycliff House back, and I'm ready to negotiate with the proper owner."
The smile of Mr. Twining's face faded. "I will, of course, convey your wishes to the owner."
"And who would that be?" Harry asked.
Mr. Twining coughed. A more false cough Harry had never heard.
"I must exercise a solicitor-client privilege in not communicating that information to you, my lord."
"Come, Twining, every man has his price. What's yours? How much do I have to pay you to get the address of the owner of my former home?"
He withdrew a bag of gold coins and set it on the solicitor's desk.
Mr. Twining looked from the coins to Harry, his eyes glassy. Sweat beaded on his brow. Then he shook his head. "I'm an honorable man. I shall not disclose such privileged information."
Harry wasn't used to being turned down. Everyone had a price, but he knew this man would not bend. Not because he was honorable.
Because he was scared. The last time Harry had seen such fear on a man's face was when he'd been prepared to run a sword through the man.
Chapter 5
The return journey to Grosvenor Square was solemn. Mrs. Phillips had obviously been as disappointed as he. Oddly, her sorrow disturbed Harry more than his own. Even if he never regained Wycliff House, his comfortable life would continue much the same. When Louisa Phillips left Wycliff House, a bleak future was all she could expect. Where would she live? What would she do for money?
For Harry knew the contemptible scoundrel who had been Louisa Phillips's husband had left her nothing. How could a man be so dishonorable?
Louisa's estrangement from her family, he had learned, was irrevocable. Her parent was as loathsome as her husband had been. How could they have played her so cruelly? What was a woman of gentle birth to do when thrust into London with neither money nor the protection of a husband? Other women in the same deplorable circumstance -- especially a woman as beautiful at the widow Phillips -- would seek to marry, but not Louisa Phillips. She was not like other women.
She hated men.
Harry spent the better part of the coach ride trying to determine how he could help the unfortunate widow. The problem was that she was too bloody proud. She would never accept his charity. He must think of a way to help her anonymously.
He flicked a glance to her. And his heart could have bled for the somber desperation he saw on her troubled face. It was all he could do not to gather her into his arms and comfort her.
God,
but he wanted to!
When he left her at the door to Wycliff House, he merely said, "We must think of some way to extricate you from this situation." His knuckle nudged under her chin as he lifted her face to meet his gaze. "Don't despair."
* * *
As foolish as it seemed, Lord Wycliff's words gave her hope. She felt less forlorn as she mounted the stairs to Godwin's chamber.
Though it was late afternoon, his bedchamber was as dark as a cave. Louisa shivered as she entered it. The cold was only partly responsible for her shivers. She told herself the room was cold because there had been no fires in the room since he'd died. A chill slid along her spine as she crossed the room and opened the heavy red draperies. She disliked this room ever so much. As she had disliked the man who had inhabited it.
Instead of experiencing exultation from her liberation, she cowered in fear, half expecting Godwin's corpulent presence to show itself.
She had never remembered the room smelling so foul. It was a stale odor that reminded her of death. He had died here.
Now that the room was flooded with daylight, she could expunge Godwin from her memory. The eight years with him had been but a bad dream. She would never again have to lie beneath him. He was dead. And she was free.
She began to walk about his room, looking for things of value. There was his silver penknife. She took it up and placed it on the bed. Then she came across his ivory snuff box. It, too, went into the pile on the bed. She slid a gold band from her own finger and tossed it on the heap.
When she finished gathering everything of value she could find, she pulled the bell rope, and when Williams answered, she gave him her instructions. She first pointed to the meager pile on the bed. "I desire that you undertake a mission for me," she said.
"Anything you say, Mrs. Phillips."
"I wish for you to sell my husband's things I've collected on the bed."
He glanced at the bed.
"Also, I would like for you to take all of Mr. Phillips's clothing and leather goods to a second-hand clothier and obtain for them as much money as you can. It appears your former master has left this earth with no settlements for you or for me, Williams."
His lips folded. "A pity, ma'am. I'll do all I can to get a fair price for Mr. Phillips's goods. Ye can count on me."
She smiled. "Thank you, Williams."
* * *
The following morning, while Ellie was still asleep, Louisa left the house with Williams as her escort. They went to a jewelers on Conduit Street. A very reputable jeweler from whom Godwin had purchased many of her jewels.
Williams stayed outside as Louisa strolled confidently into the store and deposited a bag overflowing with jeweled necklaces and matching bracelets and earrings. She proceeded to dump the contents of the bag on the jeweler's counter.
The jewelers' eyes rounded.
"I wish to inquire as to the worth of my jewels," Louisa said confidently.
Without a reply, the jeweler popped a magnification device onto his left eye, then picked up the sapphire necklace. A moment later, he put it down. "I'm afraid, madam, that while these look quite lovely, they are comprised of very inferior stones. The sapphires I can give you no more than twenty pounds for."
She snatched them from him and began to put all the jewels back into the bag. "I shall go to another jeweler for another opinion," she said.
"I regret that they will give no more than I," he said. Now a shadow of some emotion -- was it sympathy? -- passed over his face. "Perhaps I could raise the amount to thirty pounds, Mrs. Phillips."
She froze. "How did you know my name?" She had never been there before.
"I remember your jewels, madam. And your husband." Another, less sympathetic, shadow crossed his face. "Your husband desired that I make a dazzling necklace from fake jewels. I refused. Then he asked that I make one of flawed jewels. He was adamant about wanting a necklace that gave the appearance of great wealth -- which he no doubt did not possess."
She softened toward the jeweler, who was old enough to be her father. He wasn't trying to cheat her, after all. She knew the man was telling the truth. He knew Godwin well. "Your assumption was correct, sir. I am learning that my husband's wealth was all a sham. Now that he is dead I find myself quite penniless."
He nodded sympathetically, putting the glass once again to his eye and examining the remainder of the jewels. When he finished, he removed the glass and looked at her with sadness in his eyes. "I will give you one-hundred pounds for all of them. I assure you no one else will do better. I know this because I am willing to give you exactly what they cost your late husband."
She knew he was being more than generous. "I accept your offer."
* * *
Later that afternoon, as Louisa sat sewing in the upstairs study, Williams entered the chamber. Assured that he and Louisa were alone, he gave her a fistful of coins. "This is all I could get for the master's things," he told her as he counted out a little less than seventy-two pounds.
She took the money and put it into her sewing bag. "I'm very grateful to you, Williams."
"It's grateful to you I am, Mrs. Phillips, for not puttin' me out on the street."
She smiled at him, hoping she could continue to put a roof over his head. If only she could find a nice little cottage that didn't cost so very much. Then perhaps she wouldn't have to dismiss Cook and Williams. Like her, they had nowhere to go.
After he left the room, Louisa put away her sewing and took up her pen. She had best concentrate on her writing. Every shilling counted, and it looked as if she was going to have to earn her keep -- and Ellie's and Cook's and Williams' -- through her writing.
But no sooner had she dipped her quill than Ellie moved into the room with a length of sarcenet. "I do believe I'll begin a new dress. Mr. Coke is sure to think I possess but two dresses."
Louisa looked up at her lovely sister. "And what Mr. Coke thinks matters to you?"
Ellie giggled. "Despite that he's a man, and you hate men, Mr. Coke is all that is amiable. Can you not agree?" She fixed her sister with a smile.
"I know nothing bad about him," Louisa said, "though I must say I don't think of him as a man. He seems rather boyish to me."
"He's four and twenty." Ellie said this as if she were saying he was a hundred.
My own age, Louisa thought, realizing that she was not so very old after all. Actually, she would not be that age until her next birthday.
Compared to his elder cousin, Edward Coke seemed neither manly nor mature. Thinking of Lord Wycliff, she imagined she heard his voice. A moment later, Williams confirmed that he and his cousin were downstairs.
Ellie's hand flew to her hair. "I cannot go downstairs until I make myself more presentable."
Louisa smiled as she rose and spoke to her sister. "I'll tell them you will be down in five minutes."
"Five minutes! That's not nearly enough time," Ellie protested.
Louisa attempted to sound firm. "That will be enough time, my pet." Then she strolled from the room and told herself that if that wretched Lord Wycliff were standing at the bottom of the stairs gazing admirably up at her again, she would completely ignore him. I will not let the man's attention rattle me.
Fortunately, he was in the morning room, not at the bottom of the stairs. Unfortunately, he stood when she entered the room, and as always his eyes lingered admiringly over her from the top of her head to the tip of her satin hoes.
She tried to ignore him. This she did by addressing his cousin first. "Mr. Coke, how good it is to see you and your cousin." An almost imperceptive nod was directed at Lord Wycliff.
Not to be ignored, Lord Wycliff stepped forward, swept into a bow, then took Louisa's hand and pressed his lips to it. For a bit longer than necessary.
Curse him! She chose to address Mr. Coke again. "My sister will be down in moment."
"Capital!" he said. "'Tis a lovely day. I thought to persuade her to do me the honor of accompanying me on another walk in the square."
>
"Which is an excellent plan," Lord Wycliff added, looking at Louisa, "for I have business of a very personal nature to discuss with you, Mrs. Phillips."
Good lord! He's looking at me again with those dangerously dark eyes. The way he said 'personal' brought color to her cheeks. Now she was acting more the schoolgirl than Ellie.
Soon Ellie was in the room, and then she wasn't. And no one was there except for Lord Wycliff and his wretched eyes. Louisa got up and walked to the window and watched her sister, who was dressed in light blue, as Ellie put their key into the lock on the gate to the park in the center of Grosvenor Square.
Louisa turned back and faced Lord Wycliff. "What is it you wish to discuss with me, my lord?"
"First," he said, "I wish to discuss the most brilliant piece of writing -- of philosophy -- I've ever read."
"Pray, of what author do you speak?" she asked as she moved toward him, her brows lifted.
"Jeremy Bentham. I've just read his Classification of Offenses. You had told me about it, but this was the first time I had actually read it."
Now her eyes alighted as she went to sit on the settee. "He presents it all so logically and with such ease, one is instantly baffled as to why no one ever proposed so simple a solution to imprisonment before." Lord Wycliff suddenly saw the light.
He smiled as he came to sit on the settee across from her. "My feelings exactly. Classifications have been commonplace since the days of Plato's dialogues. That it has taken us hundreds of years to apply classification to punishable acts is incomprehensible.”
"I agree completely!" she shrieked. "It should have been as obvious to us as the noses on our faces."
"If Mr. Bentham never wrote another word, his Classification of Offenses would have been enough to secure his position as one of the world's greatest thinkers."
Louisa beamed at Lord Wycliff. "I am so very happy you understand."
"And I am so thankful to you."
She faced him, her brow hitching. Had he not said he wished to speak to her of something personal? "You said first you wished to discuss Mr. Bentham. Pray, what else did you wish to discuss?"
