Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  "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. She'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 color 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 dickens 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, though, of course it wasn't called that any more. Not since that contemptible Godwin Phillips had taken possession of it.

  With an inexplicable feeling of lowness, Edward rode the phaeton back to the livery stable nearest his lodgings, and he instructed his man to pack some clothing. Then he realized a phaeton 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 gig and rode off toward the west.

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

  * * *

  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.

  "I have faith in you, Louisa."

  It was the first civil comment he'd made to her since he had regained his strength. In some small way, it helped to buoy her sagging spirits. She was as weary as she could ever remember being in her life. Her weariness coupled with Harry's brutish manner toward her had worn her down to the point she could collapse for a week.

  His ill treatment bruised her, especially since the disturbing revelation that had come to her as she stood at Harry's bedside watching him weakly flail under the hallucinations of the high fever. And despite all the reasons why she should not, Louisa had come to realize that she did, indeed, love Harry Blassingame, the Lord of Wycliff. He was an arrogant aristocrat. He was far too handsome to ever settle with a single woman. He had been a lying, thieving pirate. To make matters even worse, he didn't even like her!

  Nevertheless, she was in love with him.

  And, God help her, she did not want to be.

  * * *

  When afternoon came, Harry suggested they walk along the cliffs now that her knee had fully mended. He sent the coach ahead to the next village.

  "You know," Harry said solemnly to Louisa, "we will soon be reaching Penryn."

  He did not need to say more. She knew what his thoughts were. That was the problem with Harry and her. They knew each other far too well, and he obviously did not like what he saw in her.

  She felt an utter failure. She'd been unable to help Harry find the Cornwall lord, she'd axed any hopes of gaining that little house and a comfortable income, and she'd never have a champion in the House of Lords.

  Worst of all, she would never know the love of Harry Blassingame, Earl of Wycliff.

  Had someone told her six weeks ago that she'd fall desperately in love, she would have committed that person to Bedlam. She disliked all men as much as she disliked Godwin. Or so she had thought.

  But she had not reckoned on finding a man who read her thoughts, or on finding a man who would risk his own life to save hers, or of finding a man whose sensual presence invaded her very dreams.

  She knew, too, he had a commanding enough presence and a keen enough mind to have been a force of great power in the House of Lords.

  A pity the world would not know what a capable leader it had lost.

  "I beg that you not pick any wild flowers today, my love."

  My love? She looked at him with questioning eyes.

  "Sorry. A habit picked up in front of innkeepers, I'm afraid."

  If only he meant it. "I believe, my lord, I have learned not to pick crocus that grown wild at cliff's edge." She gave a little laugh and skipped ahead of him.

  "What makes you so energetic today?" he asked.

  "Three weeks of being cooped up either in a traveling coach or in an innkeeper's stuffy bed chamber."

  He caught up with her and offered his arm, and she tucked hers into his.

  "I apologize that I haven't told you before how grateful I am for your care while I was sick."

  "'Twas nothing."

  "Nothing indeed! You did not leave my side for six days."

  "Had it been I, you would have done the same."

  He set his warm hand over hers. "I would, Louisa. It seems you know me far too well."

  "As you know me."

  "You're right, once again."

  "I am most happy you realize that, my lord."

  "Harry," he said in a throaty voice.

  "Harry," she repeated, her voice soft as she squeezed his hand.

  "I don't know if I'll ever become accustomed to night falling at four in the afternoon as it does here," he said. "
It appears from my map that we'll barely reach Mevagissey by dark."

  "Cheer up. We'll be in Penryn tomorrow -- and in time to make short work of finding Lord Kellow."

  He frowned. "And I hazard a guess that my scheming Mrs. Phillips already has a plan in place for meeting the fellow."

  Was she too scheming? Was that why he found her companionship so objectionable? Her lashes dropped. "I have no plan, my lord. Have you?"

  He muttered an oath. "I will once I see the lay of the land."

  They walked the last hour in relative silence, Louisa's only comfort her tenacious grip on Harry's proffered arm.

  Chapter 18

  A strange thing occurred at the inn in Mevagissey. Harry had instructed that two rooms be procured: one for him and one for his sister, Miss Smith. Louisa was fighting mad. First, she was deeply offended that Harry was so repulsed by her presence; then, she was furious that they'd traveled as husband and wife for the duration of their journey. Had he originally thought to seduce her?

  She fumed. Was her rage only to mask her grievous hurt? Now that Harry had been in her company for three weeks, he had not only grown tired of her, he obviously had grown to abhor her. And she felt like crying.

  The private parlor was already dark, though it was only half past the hour of four. Harry lit the candle for their table from the hearth and sat down across from her at a table near the fireplace.

  She glared at him.

  "Surely you're not still angry over the sleeping arrangements," he said, grinning. "Have you come to crave my body in your bed, madam?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "The only thing I crave is your absence! I am excessively displeased that you did not think to travel as brother and sister three weeks ago. It's my belief you thought to seduce me." She glared at him. "I have lost all respect for you."

  He shrugged, then picked up his bumper of ale.

  His indifference stung. She sat up straighter and shot him a haughty glance, hoping she gave the appearance of being equally indifferent.

  A timid serving woman brought their haddock and set it on the table without uttering a single comment. The two of them ate in silence. Toward the end of the meal, he said, "I beg that you play a hand of piquet with me after dinner. It's far too early for bed."

  Still angry, Louisa stiffened. She had no desire to be accommodating to him. She forced a mock yawn. "I find traveling extremely tiring, my lord." She took her last bite of fish, then rose from the table. "I shall meet you back down here at dawn. We should be in Penryn by noon tomorrow." Then she turned on her heel and left.

  * * *

  Bloody hell! That woman and her haughty manner sorely tried his patience. 'Twas just as good that she did not wish to play cards with him. Every minute he spent with her was unmitigated torture. He had been unable to allow himself to spend another night in her bed. It had been all he could do not to force himself on her every night since he'd regained his strength.

  Each time he gazed at her, he remembered how she had looked bent over his fevered body, worry etched on her beautiful face. He would remember her calling him Harry Dearest, and he physically hurt with need of her. Each night as he lay beside her, he thought of how desperately he longed to stroke her silken skin, to feel her breasts pressed against his chest, to touch his lips to hers . . . to bury himself within her.

  'Twas just as well that he spend his evening in the tavern away from Louisa. He picked up his bumper and decided he just might drink himself into oblivion.

  * * *

  The following morning, they met silently in the parlor, and after coffee, toast, and ham, departed the fishing village of Mevagissey.

  Louisa pushed back the curtains in the carriage to view the town's saffron cottages with their green porches. She watched a young boy carrying the slops to a common ditch and dumping them, and she viewed a girl fetching water and carrying it back to her family's granite cottage.

  Soon, the village was behind them. The next signs of habitation were clayworks north of the coast. She had heard of the windowless huts where the claymen slept, but she had never before seen them. Now, she watched them with a fascination mingled with pity. How wretched it would be to be forced to sleep with a dozen others in a single room that had neither fresh air nor a window to allow a peek of the sun.

  At least they had a place to sleep, she conceded. In London's East End, living conditions were much worse. Many did not have a bed on which to sleep; others paid a penny to hang up in a vertical position for a night.

  She had many years of work ahead in order to improve such horrid living conditions.

  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 defia
nt 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."