The Portrait of Lady Wycliff

by Cheryl Bolen

  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 Sandworth – 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 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 grown fuzzy 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—before I met you—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 Cuthbert'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 heartily. "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 line 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 Mount's Bay—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 Cuthbert 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 sa
id 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.

  What would he do when he located the mysterious lord? His first objective, of course, was to persuade the man to sell him the house on Grosvenor Square. Harry was prepared to pay whatever it took to regain ownership of the house, even if he had to pay twice what it was worth.

  But what else did Harry wish to accomplish when he finally came face to face with the evil man? A surge of hatred rippled through him. He would have to find out why the man had orchestrated his father's downfall. What could his father ever have done to generate such vile contempt? Harry would never be able to peacefully lay down his head until he knew the answer to that question.

  Also, Harry was possessed of a strong conviction that the disappearance of his mother's portrait was intrinsically tied to the mysterious lord. And he vowed to do everything in his power to learn the whereabouts of the portrait.

  Despite his hopes that they would make Falwell by nightfall, Harry had not counted upon how early it got dark in these parts. Darkness forced them to stop for the night — though it was barely past four in the afternoon — in the village of Helporth. Had the terrain been less hilly with more reliable roads, he would have instructed John to continue. But it was far too dangerous for those unused to the region.

  In Helporth, they disembarked from the carriage and stood in front of the inn where they watched cool white mists rolling across the surrounding countryside like curls of smoke from a chimney. There was an eerie, unreal quality about it. Finally, Louisa set a gentle hand on his arm and urged him into the inn.

  Surely, he thought impatiently, Louisa could not continue to feign fatigue and beg to go to her room for the night before the clock struck six.

  Neither of them was hungry yet, though they had bespoken a parlor and bedchamber at the Three Lambs Inn. In the room's darkness, he and Louisa perused the map of Cornwall.

  "A pity it's grown so dark for I do believe we could have reached Falwell in another hour's time," she said, looking up at him with her remarkable blue eyes.

  Fighting the urge to stroke the satiny skin of her face, he nodded. "There's something to be said, though, for arriving in the daylight."

  Louisa turned away to watch the fire's licking flames. "If your offer for a game of piquet still applies, I believe I shall take you up on it.

  He procured cards, and they commenced an amiable game, which was followed by another and another until they were finally hungry enough to eat.

  Harry was growing sorely tired of eating at inns and sleeping on beds which were much smaller than what he was accustomed to. He was impatient to ride his mount and not sit in a cramped, stuffy carriage. He was consumed with curiosity about the vile man he was taking such great efforts to meet. Thinking on all this caused him to grow angry.

  And as had become his custom, whenever he was angry, he took his anger out on Louisa.

  "I think I shall be sorry to see our journey come to an end," she said softly, sipping her wine and gazing into his face with a dreamy expression.

  He harrumphed. "Not I! I'm so sick of Cornwall and of riding in carriages I pray I'll never again darken the misty peninsula as long as I live."

  She looked offended. "Surely the journey's not been all bad?"

  "Tell me, madam, one good thing that's occurred since we set off from London?"

  It cut him to the quick to see the look of pain which flitted across her lovely face at his thoughtless words, but he knew it was better to hurt her now than to cause her a lifetime of pain.

  "I shan't impede you, my lord," she said with dejection. "Once you find your lord, you have my blessings to ride off on your own precious mount back to London." She threw down her napkin and rose from the highly scrubbed table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I shall go to my bed."

  Shoving the table as he got to his feet, he said, "And I believe I shall go to the tavern."

  * * *

  Louisa would have been better off had she stayed in London. True, she would have had slimmer financial prospects, but at least her heart would not have been so badly bruised. How much better off she had been back in London.

  Nothing could be more painful than having Harry's cherished presence slammed into her every waking minute. She was tortured from being so close to him, yet knowing a love between them could never be. Tortured from wanting to touch him, to feel him close to her, yet knowing such intimacy could never happen. Worst of all was the painful knowledge that Harry detested her. What had she done to have merited such wrath? Surely she had not been mistaken weeks earlier in her thinking that he welcomed her company. He did. Then.

  But not now.

  She was torn apart. As painfully as she needed him, her need to be away from him was even greater. She lay in the soft feather bed, the fire smoking in the grate, her every thought of Harry. Already she mourned his loss—almost as much as she regretted having come on this journey with him.

  * * *

  The following morning they had ridden for ten miles when Harry decided he and Louisa would walk while the carriage went on to Falwell.

  "I'm bloody tired of being cooped up in a blasted carriage," he said.

  "Me too." Louisa fell in step beside him.

  He was not sure how far they were from the coast, but its feel and smell were strong here. His thoughts flitted to the day Louisa had plunged off the cliff and of how worried he had been that he'd lost her.

  Fortunately, there was no coastal cliff to gobble her up here, just a hilly, pleasing landscape. Salt water tinged the cool air, and perennial breezes swept Louisa's soft muslin gown to outline the gentle curves of her body.

  He felt compelled to draw her hand into his as they walked along the footpath. Even with no words passing between them, he was oddly warmed by her presence as they trod up the forlorn hill.

  When they reached the top of the hill, Harry's breath caught at what he beheld. On the next bluff there arose a mighty castle. Its turrets caught the light of the midday sun, the castle's solidness the antithesis of Tintagal's ruins. His chest tightened. This was it. Their quest had ended.

  Chapter 20

  Long after the innkeeper's wife had cleared away their dinner dishes at the Speckled Goose Inn that night, Louisa and Harry sat in the parlor discussing their plans for the following day.

  "I cannot believe our good fortune," Louisa said happily. "To think tomorrow is actually the Public Day at Gorwick Castle."

  "The home of Lord Tremaine," he added dryly.

  "I know you're right. I shouldn't be getting my hopes up. After all, how many times have you been at Public Days and actually set eyes on the Lord of the Manor or – in this case – the Lord of the Castle?"

  He looked at her incredulously. "I've never been to a Public Day in my life, unless you count Cartmoor Hall."

  "No, I don't expect you would have," she said, laughing. "How stupid of me."

  "Except for pulling flowers from the edge of cliffs, I'll wager you've never done a stupid thing in your life."

  The crimson began to roll up her face.

  "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," he said, placing his hand over hers.

  A molten heat surged through her at his touch."You know very well you have put me to the blush again."

  "I seem to have a facility for doing that."

  She smiled, glad that she could find humor in herself.

  He grew pensive. "What if we don't see the Lord of the Castle tomorrow?"

  "Then we'll just have to find a way to stay within the castle walls when the tour is over."

  "I don't like the sound of that," he said. "It could be dangerous — if Tremaine is the man I believe ruined my father."

  "Since he's reclusive, I
don't think the lord would recognize you. After all, you spent eight years out of the country."

  "But he might recognize you."

  "I told you there was no way he could have seen me that night."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "For one thing, I was in darkness. For another, he had to be sixty feet away from me."

  "Had the man ever seen you, he would remember."

  "How so?"

  "You are an exceptionally beautiful woman."

  Sweet heaven above! Her cheeks were flaming again. She didn't know how to respond. To thank him would be to acknowledge the truth to his statement — which would be the pinnacle of conceit. How did practiced flirts handle such a situation, she wondered, not that she wanted to resemble those empty-headed girls in any way. Her inexperience with men — despite eight years as a married woman — only brought home how inadequate she was for Harry. Not that he would have had her anyway.

  He reached toward her and traced her nose with a single finger. "Sorry I made you blush."

  She tried to make light of the sensual gesture. "I daresay Cook could bring me to blush by reciting the grocer's list."

  He laughed at that, then poured more wine.

  Together they drank three bottles of wine, though Harry's glass count far exceeded hers, as did his capacity for drinking spirits. Louisa began to yawn, and the next thing he knew, she laid her head on the table, right next to the dripping candle, and went to sleep.

  Even when Harry carried her upstairs to their bedchamber, she did not awaken, though parts of him most certainly did. Louisa had a habit of doing that to him.

  Their room was dark when he placed her on the bed to light the taper. That done, he removed her pelisse. She would just have to sleep in her gown because he wasn't about to draw her wrath for removing any more garments. He stood there a long while, drinking in her loveliness. He thought of going back to the tavern and drinking himself into oblivion, but for some inexplicable reason he could not leave Louisa.

  He moved to the bed, stripping off his clothes until they heaped on the well-worn wooden floor. Then he climbed beside Louisa. She began to softly moan, then she called his name. Harry.