The Earl's Bargain (Historical Regency Romance)

by Cheryl Bolen

  They reached Penryn at noon, and they took a repast in the private parlor at Oddfellows Arms. They still did not speak to one another.

  Louisa wanted to pump the serving woman for information about Lord Kellow, but she fought the urge to do so. It had occurred to her that Lord Wycliff might find her too domineering. A man preferred to be the dominant partner, the decision maker. She laughed a bitter laugh to herself. What did it matter if she were overbearing or meek? Harry already detested her, and nothing she could do now would ever change that.

  Harry quenched Louisa's curiosity when he glanced up from his bumper of ale and caught the woman's attention. "Would you be able to give me the direction of Gulvall House?"

  Lord Kellow's abode.

  The fair young woman's eyes flashed with mirth. "I thought a fancy gent like ye might be acquainted with Lord Kellow -- especially seeings as how yer of the same age and all."

  "I was trying to recall to my sister here," he said, glancing at Louisa, "how long it's been since his lordship inherited."

  The young redhead raised her eyes toward the heavens. "A good question. Let's see . . . 'is firstborn is aboot ten, I'd say, and I know 'e 'adn't inherited when he wed the lovely lady from Lun'en 'cause everyone was a sayin' what a fine Lady Kellow she'd make one day. Sorry I'm no 'elp to ye."

  "I'll just have to ask him when I see him. Where is Gulvall House?"

  "Aboot three miles from town. Don't know me north from me south, but it's that away." She pointed north. "Take the road what runs along the heath. The road to Truro."

  Harry gave the girl a shilling, and she curtsied her thanks.

  Moments later, she returned with steaming food. After she left, Louisa asked, "Then you plan to confront Lord Kellow yourself?"

  "I do."

  She raised a brow. "But if the man is of your age, as the woman said, you run a risk that he will know you."

  Harry thought on this for a moment. "It no longer matters if he knows me since it's not he -- but his father -- who is my sworn enemy. I care not if the son knows who I am. I have no ill feelings toward the offspring of my father's enemy. I only need to find out if his father was the Cornish lord."

  "I hope the beast has died."

  He stopped cutting his kidney. "You speak of the man responsible for my father's demise?"

  She nodded.

  "I'd rather he be alive. Only he can answer the questions I mean to ask."

  Louisa shuddered and pushed away her uneaten food. "I think I should be the one to confront Lord Kellow."

  Harry's eyes flashed defiantly. "You forget I have been out of the country for nearly a decade, and during that time the man who is now Lord Kellow has wed and started a family and is likely buried with duties of his Cornwall estate. It's not likely he's met me at my London club."

  Harry twirled his glass in his hands and met her questioning gaze. "I believe it suits me that you become my wife once again."

  "But it doesn't suit me," she snapped.

  "I'm the one making the decisions. I'm the one holding the purse strings, Louisa."

  She shot him an icy glance. "I'd best not defy you, else you'll be sure to renege on the bargain."

  "How low you must think me."

  She shrugged. Let him think she was as indifferent as he.

  He stood. "I wish to introduce you to Lord Kellow as my wife."

  She rose and flashed him a defiant look that was completely at odds with her capitulation. "Whatever you wish, my lord."

  * * *

  During the carriage ride north of Penryn, Harry imparted his plan to Louisa. To her utter surprise, he procured a neat stack of cards that he'd had printed in London. Crisp black Roman letters identified him as Harold Smith, Esquire.

  Since the weather had become quite mild, Louisa swept aside the velvet curtain and lowered the window. Sunshine and salty air filled the carriage. Louisa thought she could be quite happy in southern Cornwall -- if it weren't for the obtuseness of her traveling companion.

  Some thirty minutes later, she was looking up at the aged gray stone of Lord Kellow's Gulvall House, which sprawled magnificently along the crest of a hill that was surrounded by verdant woods. A most advantageous situation, to be sure. The house had been accessed from a winding road that forced the coach to travel at a slow pace. It must have taken fifteen minutes to ride from its base to the modest portico of Gulvall House, where the carriage rolled to a stop.

  Harry disembarked, then turned back and offered Louisa a hand. "Ready, Mrs. Smith?"

  Despite her anger, being addressed as his wife filled her with a satisfying warmth, even though the title meant nothing. Especially to him. She placed her hand in his, climbed down and smoothed her skirts as she looked up at the aged, three-storey house.

  Her hand on Harry's arm, she followed him to the front door, where he knocked.

  The door was opened by a stiff-mannered man wearing worn and frayed gray livery and a powdered wig. He raised a brow at beholding the two of them.

  Harry offered his card. "Please announce me – and my wife – to your master."

  Eying the card but saying nothing, the servant closed the door upon them.

  Louisa and Harry exchanged amused glances. "If the card had identified you as the Earl of Wycliff, I'd wager we would sitting in the morning room as I speak," she said.

  He chuckled. "It's just as you're always saying, Mr. Lewis, people are unfairly judged by their rank, not on the basis of their individual accomplishment."

  "Ssh," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Someone might hear you address me like that."

  "I'm not so foolish as to address you as your alter ego in public."

  Before she could reply, the door swung open, and the servant begged them to follow him to the morning room. The room's green coloring seemed to make the chamber an extension of the verdant outdoors surrounding Gulvall. Her eyes sweeping across the richly decorated chamber, Louisa lowered herself onto a green silk brocade settee that faced the door. She cringed when Harry sat beside her.

  The servant departed, closing the door behind him. A moment later, a fair young man who was tall and lean strolled into the chamber. Oh, dear, Louisa thought, he's built exactly like our lord from Cornwall.

  Harry stood and faced the man. "Lord Kellow?"

  The young man, a quizzing look on his face, nodded.

  Harry bowed. "Forgive me for coming unannounced, but your London solicitor would not forward my inquiries to you – and since my wife and I are travelling to Penzance for our wedding trip, I thought we'd swing down to Penryn and see you in person."

  "My good man," said Lord Kellow, who stood almost nose to nose with Harry. "I do not have a solicitor in London. Perhaps you're thinking of the gentleman who handles my wife's father's estate?"

  "Your wife's father was a peer?" Harry asked.

  Lord Kellow shook his head. "Dear me, no. His name was Mr. Montague of Russell Square. Do you know him?"

  "No."

  "He's dead now." Lord Kellow glanced at Louisa and the settee where she sat, then his gaze flicked back to Harry. "Please sit down, Mr. Smith."

  The host took a seat in a Tudor chair near the settee. "Now what is it you wished to see me about?"

  Harry's dark eyes met the peer's. "About the Grosvenor Square townhouse."

  The man's brows folded together. "What Grosvenor Square townhouse?"

  "The one your father purchased."

  "You cannot be serious, my good man! My father detested London, and I assure you he never purchased property there. In fact, my father could never have afforded to purchase property in the capital."

  "Perhaps I'm mistaken," Harry said.

  "Actually," Lord Kellow added, "I'm far more affluent than ever my father was – thanks to the present Lady Kellow's father's hefty purse."

  "Does the present Lady Kellow not enjoy returning to London?" Louisa asked. As soon as she spoke, Louisa realized she was once again trying to take charge. No wonder Harry detested her
and her authoritarian ways.

  With smiling eyes, Lord Kellow met Louisa's gaze and shook his head. "She's quite as bad as my father was in her quickness to criticize London. After our first year in Penryn, she said she never wished to return to the Capital and its filthy black skies. And I must say, the asthma complaints that plagued her in London have completely disappeared since our marriage."

  Harry grinned, nodding, then slid a glance at Louisa. "Come, love," he said as he stood and offered her his hand. "I'm afraid we've troubled Lord Kellow for nothing."

  "No trouble at all," the man said as he stood up.

  "Nevertheless," Harry said, "I must apologize for having mistaken you for another peer."

  Kellow came closer. "Perhaps I can help?"

  "I'm trying to purchase the Grosvenor townhouse," Harry said, "but I've been unable to contact its owner. I was told the owner was a peer from Cornwall. I had the odd notion that was you."

  Kellow shook his head. "Dare say it's Arundell. His is the wealthiest family in Cornwall."

  Louisa shook her head. "We started with him, but he was not the man we were seeking."

  Kellow lifted a brow. "I suppose it could be Tremaine. Nobody knows much about him. Reclusive and all that, but I've heard he's wealthier than anyone will ever know."

  Tremaine. The next to last lord on the list, the last geographically. A peer whose seat was in Falwell, near Land's End. "What does he look like?" Louisa asked.

  Lord Kellow shook his head. "Actually, I've never met him. As I said, he's rather reclusive."

  "What age would he be?" Harry asked.

  "I expect he's near my own father's age. Were he alive, my padre would be four and seventy."

  Harry glanced at Louisa. She nodded. That would be the right age. He took Louisa's hand and moved toward Lord Kellow. "We're exceedingly sorry to have troubled you," Harry said.

  "No problem whatsoever," Kellow mumbled. His brows lowered as if he were deep in concentration.

  As Harry and Louisa left the spacious morning room and headed down the broad stone hallway to the front door, Lord Kellow followed them.

  Even when they left the house and walked up to the carriage, he followed. They turned back to say goodbye to him, and he slapped at his head, a broad grin on his face.

  "By Jove! Knew you looked familiar to me," Lord Kellow said to Harry. Then his eyes narrowed. "Though the name Smith doesn't match up. Why, Lord Wycliff, did you wish to deceive me?"

  Chapter 19

  Harry stiffened.

  Kellow smiled and walked toward them. "Perhaps you would remember me as Tom St. John – my name before I ascended."

  Harry's jaw dropped. "By Jove! At Eton, you gave no sign you would ever grow so tall."

  A grin flashed across Kellow's face. "My mother claims I didn't begin to grow until I married!"

  Since he had been no closer to Kellow – or Sinjun, as he was then called – at Eton than he was now, Harry did not feel he owed the fellow an explanation. "A pity your growth came so late. You'd have been a much more formidable opponent in sport."

  "I doubt I could ever have bested you."

  "I daresay your recollection of my abilities has dimmed with the years."

  Kellow tossed a glance at Louisa. "Pray, is this really your wife?"

  As much as he disliked lying to the fellow, Harry refused to allow Kellow to think ill of Louisa. "Of course!" he said with mock outrage, moving closer to Louisa and closing his arm around her. "We have our reasons for secrecy. Another time, perhaps, I shall be at liberty to discuss them with you."

  "As you wish, Wycliff."

  Harry turned his back on the man and helped Louisa into the carriage.

  As the carriage pushed away, Louisa asked, "Were you not utterly dumbstruck when Lord Kellow recognized you?"

  "Thunderstruck is more like it."

  "I take it you two were not close at Eton?"

  "Not particularly. Poor fellow was one of the last chaps picked for the matches."

  "I daresay you were the one doing the picking."

  Harry shrugged.

  "Had you no desire to impart the truth to Lord Kellow?"

  He leveled his gaze across the carriage at her. "None whatsoever. I'm not an idiot."

  "I do abhor lying."

  "As much as you abhor the idea of being my wife?"

  She continued gazing at her gloved hands, then slowly lifted her lashes and glared at him. "Being your pretend wife."

  He shrugged. "Pray, which is most odious to you? Lying or being my pretend wife?"

  "I'm surprised you credit me with an intolerance toward fabrication, given my nom de plume."

  "Yes, you do live a lie. Somewhat."

  She thrust hands to hips. "I can honestly say my pen name is the only time in my entire life I have lied, and my reasons for doing so more than justified my dishonesty. My work would never have found an audience had it been known the author was a female, and it was very important to me that my writings be published. I believe what I have to say promotes the common good."

  "Utilitarianism. And you're justified in thinking so."

  His compliment silenced her.

  He stretched out his long legs and watched her beneath hooded brows. Undoubtedly aware of his scrutiny, she refused to glance in his direction. Instead, she lifted the curtain and peered at the verdant countryside.

  "When will we reach Truro?" she asked a little while later.

  "What makes you so sure I'm not going to skip Truro and go directly to the reclusive Tremaine?"

  She spun toward him, her brows lifted. "You're not?"

  He chuckled. "It's a possibility. What think you of it?"

  Her lovely lips puckered in thought for a moment. "If I'm picturing the map correctly – and I am possessed of picture-perfect memory – going to Cuthbert instead of to Lord Tremaine's Falwell would actually take us back father to the east. And if Curthbert's Lord Walke is not our man – and I must confess it does seem more likely Lord Tremaine is our man – then we would have diverted from our path for naught. I say we should forget Cuthbert and head toward Land's End." She paused a moment, then meekly added, "If my opinion is being solicited."

  He threw his head back and laughed hardily. "Your opinion is, indeed, being solicited." He tapped his signal to the coachman, then after the coachman stopped, Harry directed him to head toward Land's End.

  "Aye, my lord, but I shall have to consult me map."

  "As I would expect you to do," Harry said. John was a good man. He not only knew his horses, but was also skillful at directions. Harry had the greatest confidence in his abilities.

  While they sat there inside the unmoving carriage, Louisa gazed out the open window. Finally she looked back at him. "Pray, why did you think it necessary for me to play the part of your wife at Gulvall?"

  "Because I knew Kellow was a fellow of my own age, and I realized there was a possibility he would recognize me."

  She looked quizzingly at him. "And?"

  "And I thought I would be less recognizable if I appeared to be a happily married man." He cleared his throat. "It seems I have a reputation as a . . . well, as a bit of a rake."

  "And having a wife would erase your wicked past?"

  "Having a wife as lovely as you could," he said throatily. What the deuce was he doing? He hadn't meant to give himself away. Wasn't he supposed to be convincing Louisa she was completely unattractive to him?

  A deep flush crept up her cheeks.

  He had to redirect the conversation. "Using your picture-perfect memory, I beg that you tell me what the next town we come to will be."

  "I only memorized the routes we had planned to take. Since we're altering our direction, I cannot tell you. I did not memorize the name of every village in the Duchy of Cornwall."

  He had gone and aggravated her again. Where Louisa was concerned, he could not seem to do anything right.

  Fortunately, she softened. "Actually, as the crow flies, it's almost directly a straight l
ine west to Falwell, but, of course, the roads never seem to go in a straight line."

  "No, they don't," he said grimly. Surely the reclusive Tremaine had to be the fiend who had caused his father's ruin. Yet, a nagging doubt persisted. Everywhere they had gone, they had met with failure. All of this time spent could be for naught. No, he amended, a surge of an unfamiliar emotion washing over him. Not for naught. He could never regret one single, precious moment he had spent with Louisa. Even when he had lain in his fevered stupor, he counted himself fortunate for the pleasure of gazing up into his angel's face.

  He gritted his teeth and forced himself to look away from her. Bloody hell! She was far too good for him. He wasn't fit to be sitting in the carriage with her. He moved to the opposite window from where Louisa watched.

  At noon, they reached Marazion, where they stood gazing out to the medieval structure rising from St. Michael's Mount before changing horses and taking a quick repast. Harry smiled to himself when Louisa insisted on purchasing a comfit from the establishment next to the inn. She wished to give it to the coachman, and she refused to allow Harry to pay for it. No doubt, she pitied John Coachman because of his misfortune of being born to the working class.

  Once they were on the road again and he was just about to close his eyes for a nap, Louisa startled him. "Why didn't we ask Lord Kellow about Lord Walke?"

  A good question. Had they erred in deciding to dismiss Curthbert without making any inquiries about its Lord Walke? Since they had already eliminated four of the possible six lords, what would it have hurt them to try to find out everything they could about Lord Walke and his Padflow Priory? Harry bolted up and muttered an oath.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I had no right to be so negative. It's not as if we can't go right to Cuthbert if Lord Tremaine is not our man. Actually, it won't be a minute out of our way home from Falwell to go through Cuthbert. Going to Falwell first is a much better plan."

  He still frowned, though what she said made a great deal of sense. He only hoped one of the last two would be their man. Preferably Tremaine.

  She returned to gazing out the window while he tried once again to close his eyes and drift into a relaxing sleep, but he was unable to suppress his thoughts, thoughts of lords and fruitless quests -- and Louisa. Always, all thought returned to Louisa.