Chapter 7

"How do you know Sinjin's not at White's or Almack's? What makes you think so esteemed a member of the House of Commons will be at home?" Edward asked.

Harry peered from the window of his coach as they passed White's, light shining from its bow window. "Because I know Sinjin. He's far too bloody conscientious to spend his time on hedonistic pursuits."

"Then he might be at Featherstone's house. Is that not where the serious Whigs gather to discuss political topics?"

"That he may be, and if he is, I shall find him there."

Harry's coach rolled to a stop in front of his old friend's house in Mayfair. Good ol' Sinjin was home. A moment later, the three men were settling in front of the fire in the book-filled library, glasses of Madera swirling in their hands. This library was unlike most aristocrat's libraries. No rows of matching custom-bound leather books could be found. Instead, a motley assortment of well-read books lined each shelf from the floor to the ceiling on every available wall.

"I will own," Sinjin said, "that I'm surprised to see you here tonight." Though Harry was a large man, Sinjin was larger. He must have grown half a head since they left Eton.

"You think I'm only interested in women and gaming?" Harry asked, shooting a lopsided grin at his friend.

Sinjin shrugged. "I wouldn't use the word only. I know that underlying those pursuits lies a fine man who will do anything for his family . . . " He eyed Edward. "And his friends, and it's my hope your bountiful energies will one day be channeled into a distinguished Parliamentary career. I know you've got it in you."

God, but he sounded exactly like Mrs. Phillips. "Perhaps. But as you know, all my present energies are channeled toward reclaiming everything my parents lost. That's why I'm here tonight."

Sinjin raised a brow.

"Tomorrow I go to Cornwall."

Edward's mouth dropped open. "I say, I can't just drop everything and go to Cornwall. Promised Miss Sinclair I'd accompany her to see that Bentham fellow."

"And you will. It's imperative that you look after Miss Sinclair while her sister and I travel west."

Edward looked even more shocked. "I cannot believe that Mrs. Phillips would

"Is Mrs. Phillips the beautiful woman who's friends with Miss Featherstone?" Sinjin asked.

Harry nodded. "The lady may refuse me, but I doubt it. I am making it worth her while." He eyed his cousin. "Nothing improper will occur, and you two are sworn to secrecy. I mean to protect her good name."

The other men nodded.

Sinjin's brows lowered. "I don't see how this concerns me."

Harry drew a long breath. "It's my belief there's a peer in Cornwall who purposely destroyed my family. I mean to find him." He remembered the fear in the solicitor's demeanor. "I also believe the man's power extends to vile practices. I have no assurances that he will not try to deprive me—and perhaps even Mrs. Phillips—of our lives."

Edward gasped. "See here, Harry! You can't go off like that without me—and others."

Harry ignored him and directed his attention at Sinjin. "If I haven't returned to London by April first, I shall need you to . . . ascertain if I'm alive . . . or if I need rescuing. I'm not worried for myself but for Mrs. Phillips. I shall do everything in my power to hide her existence from the fiend."

Sinjin's brows lowered. "Who is this man?"

Harry shrugged. "I wish I knew. Mrs. Phillips has seen him once. She knows not his name but knows he lives in Cornwall, that he is tall, perhaps elderly, and he's addressed as my lord." Harry took the list of Cornish lords from his pocket and handed it to his oldest friend.

"God but I wish Alex were here," Sinjin said.

Harry did too.

* * *

By the time a bright sun streamed through her chamber window, Louisa was completely dressed in a traveling costume and sat at her desk writing a note to Ellie.

My Pet,

I am sorry to say I've been called out of town to attend to affairs dealing with Godwin's estate. I doubt if I'll be back in time to see Mr. Bentham deliver his speech. Mr. Coke will do me the goodness of escorting you to see Mr. Bentham, and you must have Cook accompany you as chaperon. It wouldn't do to tarnish your reputation. Mr. Coke, especially, would not care for that at all. All my love.

Louisa

She dried the quill, then wrapped it in a piece of old cloth and placed it in her valise with the rest of her things. Perhaps she could finish her essay on labor unification during the journey that lay ahead.

She heard the wheels of a coach rattle on the street below, and she lifted the bulky bag and carried it downstairs.

Once she edged open the front door, Lord Wycliff bounded up the two steps and relieved her of the bag. She noted that he too was dressed for traveling. No silken finery today, nor his ever-present black. Today he wore fawn coloured pantaloons with boots and a greatcoat.

He gave her bag to the coachman, who placed it on top the carriage before he opened the door for Louisa and his master.

"Before we leave London," Louisa said, "I beg that you impart to Mr. Coke the necessity of him escorting my sister to see Mr. Bentham."

"I have already done so."

Her brows winged together. "How did you know I didn't wish to bring her with me?"

"Because I knew you couldn't deprive her of the pleasure of seeing Mr. Bentham."

Lord Wycliff handed her into the coach where a rug was provided. She lifted the curtain to peer from the glass. Louisa didn't at all like the look of the skies. Clouds were gathering, and rain seemed imminent. Which would considerably slow their progress. It was cool, too. Much colder than it had been in weeks.

When he started to sit beside her, she protested. "I think not, my lord. There are just the two of us. We can each have our own seat for the journey."

"Ah," he said, sitting opposite of her, "unlike me, you are thinking quite clearly this morning. I fear I am a creature of habit."

"I trust you were up late last night reading one of the books I provided for you," she said mischievously.

His black eyes sparkled. "To be sure." Then he cocked his hat and slid down in his seat, giving every appearance of a man taking a nap.

She knew so very little about him. Had he really been up late reading her book, or had he spent the night gaming and womanizing as other men of his class did? From their rides in Hyde Park and from the ball at Lord Seymour's, it was clear that Lord Wycliff was well known in the ton, especially among the women. Their unabashed flirting with him had given Louisa a peculiar surge of pleasure that was not unconnected to possessiveness.

Despite that she was tired this morning, she continued to peer from the window. It had now begun to rain. The streets quickly filled with mud and water and noxious odors. She could not say that she would regret leaving behind this city with its sooty skies and stinking air and pitiable creatures at every turn.

She looked away from the sight of a small boy who could not have been more than five years old but was alone on the pavement, wearing shoes several sizes too large for his tiny feet. The poor lad didn't even have a coat to shield him from the day's cold.

She gathered the rug about her and grew morose. Her thoughts, like the skies, turned melancholy. She knew she must direct her energies even more potently toward helping children like the lad she had just seen.

Perhaps she did need to continue living in London. Once he got the information he desired, would Lord Wycliff continue taking her to events where she could meet men of power? Would he be true to his word and take his seat in Parliament in order to promulgate the beliefs she had imparted to him? Or was his interest feigned in order to gain what he wanted?

Again, Louisa realized she knew very little about the man who reposed across from her, his long muscular legs taking up a great deal of the inside of the carriage. She stared at his solid thighs and realized they were nearly as big around as her waist.

She took note of the quality of his well-tailored pantaloons and the workmanship of his boots. They were obviously very expensive but not showy like something Godwin would have worn. The difference between Lord Wycliff's class and Godwin's aspirations to emulate it was as distinct as night from day.

However, that was not to say she liked the peer. His worth had yet to be proven. Her approval would continue to be withheld from him. After all, he was a man, and God knows none of them were trustworthy.

By the time Lord Wycliff's coachman had paid at the last London tollgate, the rain was falling onto the carriage roof like buckets being emptied. She felt terribly sorry for the poor coachman, for in addition to the pounding rain, it had become bitterly cold.

And through it all, Lord Wycliff slept.

Louisa was discovering the rug, thick and tightly woven wool though it was, offered little protection against the chill that seeped to her very bones. How could Lord Wycliff sleep through such discomfort? Then she remembered her elder brother, who had an unfortunate drinking problem. Frederick, after a night of overindulging, was oblivious to everything. She remembered the time Ellie had poured icy water on him in a vain effort to awaken him for Sunday services. He had merely turned over and continued snoring.

Had Lord Wycliff overindulged last night? With such thoughts ringing in her brain and her arms tucked under the heavy rug, she finally did as Lord Wycliff. She drifted off to sleep.

* * *

When Harry awoke, Louisa was asleep. He was unable to remove his gaze from her. He had seen many beautiful women asleep beside him, but none compared to Louisa Phillips. There was an innocence about her, not just because she was fair and petite and young looking, but also because of the naiveté of her hopes for reform and because of her true compassion.

Which made him even more ashamed of his deception. She was only now beginning to trust a man, and he was about to turn around and blow up the little ground he had gained for his gender.

Though Louisa Phillips professed to eschew the strictures of society, Harry was determined not to blacken her reputation.

He turned his attention to the matter of securing a room at an inn. Since the rain had seriously impeded their progress, they would probably be forced to spend several nights in posting inns. How were they to do that while sparing her reputation?

An idea came to him, but he knew the widow would not like it.

He apprised her of it when she awoke. He had watched her awaken, gathering the rug tightly about her as she pulled herself to a sitting position. When she looked across at him, she blushed. Did the prospect of a man watching her sleep cause her embarrassment?

"Rather cold, is it not?" he said casually.

"Would that we had a hot brick," she lamented. "But I should not be so selfish when the poor coachman has none of the luxuries we enjoy."

"Do you always direct your thoughts to the plight of others who are less fortunate than you?"

She gave him a most straightforward stare. "Someone must, my lord."

"And you prefer that someone be a person in a position to do something to evoke change?"

"Of course. That's what I've worked toward for a very long time."

"And I shall be your instrument."

She nodded. He liked the way her blue eyes danced like those of a child impatient to open a present.

"Are you not exceedingly cold without a rug, my lord?"

His pulse quickened as he thought of sitting next to her, sharing her rug. "It is rather unpleasant."

"Then you thought to share the rug with me?"

A coy smile slanted across his face. "I did."

He enjoyed watching the guilt wash over her.

"Very well," she said with reluctance. "You may move to this side, but I will not have any part of you touching me. Is that clear?"

"Like a bell, madam," he said as he stood to a stooped position  and moved to her seat.

"I believe we need to discuss the matter of rooms at the inn," he said. "I know you don't care a fig about the opinion of the ton, but you need to realize that in order to work with them you have to earn their respect."

"What does that have to do with rooms at the inn?"

"Were it to be discovered that we traveled together, I fear your good name would be ruined."

She gazed at him through narrowed eyes. "What, then, do you propose, my lord?"

"That we use other names. Registering as, say, a Mr. and Mrs. Smith would neither attract attention nor draw scrutiny. On the other hand, were we to secure separate rooms under other names, any intercourse between us would be sure to draw censure."

Her eyes rounded. "You're proposing that we sleep together?" There was disbelief and irritation in her voice.

"I promise not to touch."

"And I'm supposed to trust you?" she questioned. "My dear Lord Wycliff, you are a man, and I've yet to find one worthy of trust."

"I don't know what else I can say or do to warrant your acceptance."

"The matter is out of your hands."

He leaned back into the window, allowing cold air to rush beneath the rug in the gap between them.

She haughtily pulled the rug away from him and hugged it to herself.

* * *

Night came early. Just before five in the afternoon, the coach pulled into an inn yard in Reading. It had taken them all day to travel forty miles. Despite that the rain was still coming down in sheets, Louisa would be happy to stretch her legs.

And to get away from Lord Wycliff. The audacity! He really expected that she would allow him to sleep in her room! The man was completely insufferable.

He held an umbrella over her as they ran to the inn.

Once inside, he bespoke a private parlor "for my wife and me."

Louisa was about to protest when she felt very strong hands squeeze at her arm. Then, she realized a scene would attract a great deal of attention. She would merely shake it off for now, then later insist the obstinate man obtain separate sleeping rooms. Right now all she could think of was her desire to plop down in front of a bright fire and drink a cup of warm milk.

She and Lord Wycliff were at liberty to take a seat immediately in front of the hearth. Soon the chill in her bones faded, and she felt her cheeks growing hot. She also felt Lord Wycliff's eyes on her and finally looked up to meet his gaze.

"Really, Mrs. Phillips," he said, "you mustn't worry about your virtue. I assure you the last thing I want is to share a bed with a man-hating reformer."

Even though the last thing she wanted was to share a bed with a man, she was oddly piqued by his remark. "Then how would you suggest we share a room without sharing a bed?"

"How do you know I couldn't lie with you without wanting to make love to you?" he asked.

She hoped he would mistake her blush for flush from the fire. "I know that you're a man, and all men want the same thing."

"I assure you, Mrs. Phillips, the thing you allude to I can have whenever I want. It has not been so long since I was with a woman that I would lower either my preferences or my expectations."

Now she was really mad. Lower his expectations indeed! She took a long drink from her mug of milk and avoided eye contact with the conceited, arrogant, obnoxious peer of the realm.

Before long the innkeeper's wife brought each of them a plate of mutton and hot bread with freshly churned butter.

Lord Wycliff cut, but did not eat, his mutton. "I see I have offended you," he said. "I thought you would be pleased that I do not find you desirable."

She lifted her chin haughtily. "I am."

"Then we can sleep together?"

She bit into a thick slice of crusty bread and slowly chewed it before answering. "I can scream quite loudly, you know."

He smiled before biting down on a forkful of meat.