The Earl's Bargain (Historical Regency Romance) (2 page)

A moment later the butler reappeared. "Mrs.
Phillips said her meeting's almost over, that it would do an
aristocrat good to sit in on the remainder of the meeting."

Harry exchanged puzzled
glances with Edward. What did the widow mean
it would do an aristocrat good
?

With a strange mix of emotions, Harry
entered the drawing room at the back of the first floor. Like the
morning room, it had changed little. Its walls were still the same
asparagus green, as were many of the silk brocade sophas. However,
the room's occupants had changed considerably. Harry could not
remember ever seeing a more somberly dressed assemblage. And the
drably attired consisted entirely of women. Good heavens! Had he
wandered into a gaggle of bloody bluestockings?

From amidst the sea of gray and brown
woolens rose one of the prettiest young women Harry had ever seen.
Though she wore a dreary graphite colored morning gown of serge,
the lovely blonde sparkled like a diamond in a bed of coal. Of
rather small bones, her body curved gently in the right places, but
it was her face that drew his attention, for it was flawless: a
perfect oval with a perfectly chiseled nose and full mouth
revealing even white teeth. She took two steps forward, looking at
Harry, her expression inscrutable.

When she spoke, he realized her voice, too,
was lovely. Smooth and clear and youthful without being flippant.
"Which of you is Lord Wycliff?"

He moved toward her and bowed. "At your
service, madam."

She barely inclined her head, then indicated
extra chairs. "You may sit until we're finished."

"There must be some
mistake," Harry said. "I particularly wanted to speak with
Mrs.
Phillips." He could
not remove his gaze from the young woman's extraordinary eyes. They
were lighter blue than a robin's egg.

"I am Mrs. Phillips," she said
impatiently.

"But---"

"You expected an older woman." Her careless
response indicated a pattern grown tediously routine.

"You are the widow of Godwin Phillips?" It
seemed incredulous this youthful beauty could have been married to
Phillips. The man had been the age of Harry's father, and Harry
estimated his own age of two and thirty to be a decade older than
the slim blonde who stood before him all defiance and
arrogance.

"I am." Indicating the
dozen or so women who sat primly around the room, she said, "I will
not bother you with introductions,
my
lord
. If you and your companion will be
kind enough to sit down--"

"Yes, of course," Harry
said, taking a seat on a satin brocaded sopha beside Edward, who
already had displayed the good sense to be seated and escape Mrs.
Phillip's scathing gaze. For the first time in his life, Harry
sensed rebuke at being called
my
lord
.

He paid little heed to the words bandied
about among the prudish gathering, so moved was he at once again
sitting in the room which enfolded him in memories of the loving
family he had been part of. He could almost see his mother sitting
in the very chair Mrs. Phillips used, her golden head bent over her
ever-present embroidery. With his brows lowering, Harry remembered,
too, sitting at the walnut game table happily playing backgammon or
chess with his father.

"What is fair about every peer of the realm
having a vote when other men — men who are far harder working than
the idle lords — have no vote at all?"

Hearing peers so maligned cut into Harry's
reverie, and he looked up to see that the speaker was a matron
whose age exceeded his own. She wore spectacles and heavy merino so
shapeless it completely concealed any hint of feminine
roundness.

A second speaker rose.
"Certainly no consideration given to
the
greatest good for the greatest number
. And
something is inherently wrong with a franchise that extends only to
freeholders."

Aghast, Harry watched this
second speaker, a young woman who wore a three-cornered hat much
like his father used to wear, and epaulets clung to her
well-covered shoulders.
A man-hating
bluestocking, to be sure.

"Since we have digressed from the topic of
injustices in the penal system," said the lovely hostess, "I would
suggest we discuss Mr. Bentham's principles of utility at next
Tuesday's meeting."

While the ladies stood up and began to exit
the room, Harry stood, as any proper gentleman would do. None of
them acknowledged his presence or that of Edward, who stood
silently beside him. The men watched as Mrs. Phillips followed her
guests from the room, chatting merrily.

When all the women were gone, Harry turned
to his cousin and spoke in a low voice. "Bloody bluestockings."

"A good thing they've no guillotine," Edward
said.

Harry shook his head. "Violence, I should
think, holds no appeal for these do-gooders."

A woman's voice responded. "That is
absolutely correct, Lord Wycliff."

Peering at the angelic face of Mrs.
Phillips, Harry could well believe violence was as alien to her as
pock marks to her smooth, creamy skin. “I perceive you are a
follower of Jeremy Bentham."

"I admire him greatly but am not a
utilitarian purist," she answered.

"How gratifying," Harry murmured. "Tell me,
in what way do your views differ from Mr. Bentham's?"

She perused him through narrowed eyes.
"Whereas Jeremy Bentham promulgates the greatest good for the
greatest number of people — a belief that has much merit — I think
that ignores the worth of the individual.”

Harry nodded. "Then you’re more of a
Rousseau disciple?”

“
If I were forced to choose
between the two important thinkers, then, yes, I would prefer
Rousseau.”

She looked skeptically at him and began to
move from the room. "I suppose you would like to see your former
residence?"

“
Very much. In fact, I
should like to make you an offer for the house."

She spun around to face him, her eyes
flashing. "That you cannot do. I found out only this morning that I
am not the owner."

"Then I beg that you direct me to the
owner."

"That I cannot do."

Harry stopped in front of a massive painting
of the Spanish Armada, a painting that had been commissioned by his
great-great-grandfather. "And why can't you, Mrs. Phillips?"
Despite his efforts to conceal it, anger crept into his voice.

"Because I do not know who the owner is. My
communication came through the owner's solicitor."

"Then if you will give me the solicitor's
direction--"

"I will not."

She stood in the doorway to the ivory dining
room, framed in a golden radiance from the wall of uncovered
windows.

Harry seethed. "May I ask why?"

She nodded, her manner haughty. "I dislike
nobles."

Harry only barely resisted
the urge to clasp his hands upon her shoulders and shake her.
"Surely your study of equality has taught you that every man is an
individual. Cannot I be given the opportunity to earn your respect
before being dismissed as an
idle
noble?"

Edward pushed past Harry to confront Mrs.
Phillips. "I'll have you know, my cousin here was left without two
farthings to rub together, and by his own cunning has rebuilt his
family fortune."

Harry watched the youthful beauty for a
reaction, and when she turned her attention on him, he found
himself reading her face as one reads Shakespeare, finding still
another facet to admire.

"I hope you use your fortune," she said, "to
improve the living of the cottagers who've toiled generations for
Wycliffs." Presenting her back to him, Mrs. Phillips strolled
toward the dining room.

“
I say, Mrs. Phillips,
that’s beastly unfair of you,” Edward said. “My cousin took care of
all the Wycliff servants and cottagers before ever spending a
tuppence on himself.”

The fair one looked contrite. “Forgive me,
my lord. How rude you must think me.”

Harry stared her down until those pale blue
eyes of hers blinked. “On the contrary, Mrs. Phillips, I think
nothing of you. It’s my habit to reserve judgment until I’ve had
the opportunity to get to know someone.”

Her lips pursed, and he detected a glint of
humor. “Then as I’ve not had the opportunity to get to know you, I
shall reserve my opinion as to whether you’ve just maligned
me.”

He tossed his head back and laughed.

Which had the effect of cracking through his
icy reception.

“
I think you’ll find the
dining room unchanged,” she said as she swept open its
door.

Indeed, it was. Powerful emotions swamped
him as he moved into the eerily silent room. These walls now so
quiet had once echoed the lively conversations of prime ministers
and heads of state, as much of England's business had been
conducted at the very table Harry now surveyed. He could picture
his father seated at the head of the gleaming mahogany table,
surrounded by other members of the House of Lords and leaders of
Commons. At the other end, his elegant mother would have sat,
softly conversing.

His heart caught at the sight of the baroque
family silver, the Wycliff crest etched on the footed teapot. His
need to reclaim these possessions was as strong as his obsession to
see them again.

A lump in his throat, he had to look away.
Sunlight poured into the room from windows draped in faded gold
silk. His gaze flicked to the ceiling where a pair of glistening
chandeliers suspended from cream colored plaster medallions.

When he looked back at the wall behind the
head of the table, disappointment crashed over him. A Flemish
tapestry hung where the Gainsborough portrait of his mother had
been displayed for as long as he could remember. He wheeled around
to Mrs. Phillips. "Where, may I ask, is the portrait of my mother
which hung where the tapestry is now?"

She gave him a blank look. "I remember no
portrait. What did it look like?"

"A typical Gainsborough. My mother was. . ."
His voice gentled. "Very beautiful. She had golden hair and large,
honey-colored eyes. In the painting she wore a gown the color of -
- -” He pointed to a bowl of pale pink camellias. “Those.”

Mrs. Phillips shook her head. "I have seen
no such painting in the eight years I've lived here."

Eight
years
? She would have been but a girl. He
almost commented on it, but his need to see his mother’s portrait
was stronger than his curiosity about the youthful widow. “You’re
sure? It’s not in another room?”

Her features softened as she shook her
head.

"Daresay it’s in the attic?" Edward
offered.

Harry cast a hopeful glance at Mrs.
Phillips. "With your permission, I should like to have a look in
the attic."

"Certainly, my lord. You know the way, I
presume."

"Of course." He and Edward began to mount
the stairs.

* * *

Louisa Phillips stood at the bottom of the
stairs and watched the back of the handsome nobleman whose censure
she had drawn. She bit her lip. His reprimand had been well
deserved, given the unfairness of her blanket dismissal of him,
based on nothing more than the circumstances of his birth. Why, it
was no better than throwing out the baby with the bath water!
Erroneous preconceptions had been the very topic of one of her
well-received essays recently. Except the preconceptions cited in
that tract dealt with lumping all cockneys in the batch with
unsavory cutthroats because of their misfortune of birth.

Birth!
She frowned as she retraced her steps to the drawing room.
Lord Wycliff might not be an idle noble, but he was still an
aristocrat. She bristled at the thought of them. They not only held
all the land and wealth, they also hoarded legislative power,
neglecting to write laws favorable to the individuals they
repressed.

She had no admiration for those who sat back
counting money earned by long-dead ancestors. Even though she was a
woman who had been a dependent wife since the age of fifteen, she
was capable of earning money by her own wits to put food on the
table. She had managed to tuck away one hundred and fifty pounds
from her essay writing. The money — as well as her authorship — had
been hidden from Godwin. She had never willingly shared anything
with her husband, much less her radical views which were so opposed
to his Tory tastes. Never had he guessed the essayist Philip Lewis
was his complacent young wife, Louisa Phillips.

Now she felt a tinge of remorse. Had she
been saving the money from her writing so she could run away from
Godwin? She had not allowed the intrusion of such thoughts while
Godwin had been alive. And now it no longer mattered. She was
free.

She felt wretchedly guilty over her lack of
grief, but Godwin was not a nice man.

Her chest tightened. One hundred and fifty
pounds would not go far if Godwin had not provided for her. She had
always assumed this house would be hers. She was still reeling from
the news that someone else owned the house she thought would come
to her. Would all of Godwin's wealth also be taken from her?

What would she do? And how could she
possibly make a home for her and Ellie if she were indeed
penniless? Perhaps she should not have sent for her younger sister,
Louisa thought, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. It
was too late now to withdraw the invitation. Ellie should arrive in
London the next day.

She thought again of Godwin, and her hands
curled into fists. Once more he had let her down. She strode
angrily from the hallway, forcing her irritation onto Lord Wycliff.
Even if he had soiled his noble hands making a fortune, Lord
Wycliff was still born to the title, still confident he could
swagger into his old home, make an exorbitant offer and once again
possess the town house for which he held such an affinity.