The Portrait of Lady Wycliff Read online

  What the critics say about Cheryl Bolen's books

  Bolen's writing has a certain elegance that lends itself to the era and creates the perfect atmosphere for her enchanting romances. – Romantic Times

  One of the best authors in the Regency romance field today. – Huntress Reviews

  * * *

  For the past decade Harry, the Earl of Wycliff, has worked feverishly to reclaim all that his father had lost. Only one item remains elusive: the Gainsborough portrait of his beloved mother. And the impossibly young, stunningly beautiful widow Louisa Phillips holds the key to finding it. If only he can persuade her to help him . . .

  The Portrait of Lady Wycliff

  (The Lords of Eton, Book 1)

  By

  Cheryl Bolen

  Copyright © 2018 by Cheryl Bolen

  The Portrait of Lady Wycliff is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  EPILOGUE

  The Lords of Eton series

  Cheryl Bolen’s Books

  Prologue

  Eton, 1804

  Each year since he'd come to Eton at the age of nine, Harry Blassingame, now the Earl of Wycliff, had eagerly looked forward to the end of term. When the days began to lengthen and the sun's warmth to strengthen, he would glory in the knowledge that he'd soon be returning to Cartmoor Hall. His beautiful mother would make a great fuss over him, and he and his father would take long rides over their estate.

  But this year—his last at the school where he'd spent nearly half of his eighteen years—the end of term seized him with melancholy. He could no longer go home to Cartmoor. It was being let to strangers. Both his parents had been put to rest in Cartmoor's family vault. And now he would forfeit his two closest friends in all the world.

  It was to the chambers of one of those fellows he and Jack St. John—Sinjin—were headed. In spite of being the lowly third son of a duke, the resident of the fine chambers, Lord Alex Haversham, claimed by far the loftiest rooms of the three, owing to the fact he possessed the heftiest purse of the trio.

  This would be their farewell.

  During their walk from Sissingham House, Sinjin had been uncommonly quiet. After so many years of friendship, Harry had come to read his friend as one recalls lines of a beloved poem. Gloom had settled over his normally pragmatic companion. Sinjin, too, loathes this parting.

  Nothing could ever destroy the friendships forged over half a lifetime, but nothing between them would ever again be as it was now. They all knew this.

  Younger boys with parents on either side of them emptied from the residential houses along the way, and their servants lagged behind, bearing trunks that held the lads' belongings.

  Each step closer to Haversham brought them closer to that painful leave-taking. Harry felt as if a steel cloak weighted his shoulders as they entered Strong House and began to climb the wooden stairs to their friend's chambers. As they reached the landing outside of Haversham's door, a young woman with tousled hair emerged from their friend's chamber. Harry's gaze whisked over her. She was dressed as a youthful male servant.

  He and Sinjin gave sheepish smiles to one another. Alex Haversham was quite the lady's man. Young or old, low born or high, females freely bestowed their affections on this well-liked duke's son, even knowing there was no chance for a permanent union.

  When the two passed through the cream-coloured door to their friend's chamber, Haversham looked up with glassy eyes. A half-empty decanter of brandy and three empty glasses reposed on the table in front of him. His arm made a sweeping gesture toward it. "Do help yourselves." They each poured a glass, and the newcomers sat upon a velvet sofa facing their host.

  "I wonder when the three of us will be able to get together again." Haversham drew in a deep breath. "All these years we've done everything together." He eyed the others, and their nods confirmed. "My papa's bought me colours, and I leave for the Peninsula next week."

  Harry's first thought was like the stab of a rapier. Alex Haversham could be killed in battle. He fought against showing just how scared he was for his friend. "God, it could be years before you return to England!"

  The duke's son nodded grimly as he gazed at Harry. "And you? What will you do?"

  "I'm leaving England, too."

  Haversham straightened up to face Harry squarely. "You're not joining the army!"

  Of course his friend knew he hadn't the funds with which to buy a commission. Harry shook his head. "No. I'm going to sea."

  "In the Royal Navy?" Sinjin asked.

  "Not exactly. I have a plan to restore the Wycliff coffers."

  Two pair of brows lowered while his friends pondered his response. Then Haversham's eyes rounded. "You're not going to be a pirate, are you?"

  Harry did not answer for a moment. "I wouldn't call it that. More like reapportioning Frenchmen's riches."

  Sinjin shook his head sadly. "I'm truly sorry you have to resort to such a practice. If I had any money, I'd give it to you, but you know the St. John fortune went the way of powdered wigs."

  "Your father may be poor, but at least he's highly respected." Harry wished to God he could say the same about his departed father.

  "Thank you," Sinjin answered. "I am happy to say that I plan to follow in my father's footsteps. Whilst he serves in the House of Lords, I am going to stand for the House of Commons—with my father's influential Whig friends' financial help."

  Harry smiled. "I can think of no one better suited to serve in Parliament."

  Sinjin looked from him to their host. "I shall miss you two awfully."

  They all nodded. Silence filled the chamber like a menacing creature.

  "Let us make a pact," Haversham finally said. "If any of us is ever in need—except for the need of money, which none of us possess—he has only to summon the other two. No matter what, we will come. I know I can count on both of you, and I give you my word that I will always be at the ready to help my two closest friends."

  "It's a pledge I am happy to make." Harry took his glass and held it up. "Let's drink to that."

  "Indeed," Sinjin agreed. "I would lay down my life for either of you." His glass clinked against the other two.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1812

  The scalloped rows of brilliant diamonds and emeralds laced through the long, manly fingers of Harold Blassingame, the seventh Earl of Wycliff. A lump balled in his throat as he remembered how the necklace had looked on his mother, whose beauty stilled eight years previously. Oddly, recovering the Wycliff Jewels did not bring the triumph he had expected. Even the recovery of C
artmoor Hall from nearly a decade in a usurper's possession had left Harry wanting. Vindication of the Wycliffs would not be complete until he regained Wycliff House in Grosvenor Square.

  Edward Coke, the cousin who was as close to Harry as a brother, planted one booted foot on the Jacobean desk that separated the two young men. "How many quid to persuade Livingston to part with Aunt Isobel's jewels?"

  Harry eyed Edward, a somber look in his black eyes. "Twice what Rundel & Bridge would have valued them."

  His cousin winced. "Daresay Livingston knew you'd have come up with ten times the amount, though I bloody well don't know how he learned of your fat purse. 'Twas common knowledge when you left England eight years ago that Uncle Robert had left you penniless."

  "The fact that I so handsomely paid Kindale to vacate Cartmoor Hall has no doubt carried through London like leaves scattering on the wind," Harry said.

  “The Hall I can understand. Deuced fine stables you’ve got there, but to spend such blunt on some bloody stones?” Edward shook his closely cropped head of blond hair before leaning forward to pluck the Wycliff wedding ring from a heap of sparkling jewels on the desk. "Think you to find a suitable young lady to wear this, Harry?" He slid the emerald encrusted band on his pinky finger, but it stopped well short of his bony knuckle.

  Harry shrugged. How could he tell Edward his reasons for returning to England? How could anyone else understand the magnetic pull of the land that had been in his family for three hundred years? How could he explain his need to restore the family’s good name or his need for a family? And a wife.

  But as his tracks to redemption grew steadier, Harry's conscience burdened him. What decent and noble woman would have him if she knew what he had been doing these last eight years? Oh, he could avoid the truth. His title and fortune alone could likely snare any woman of his choice.

  The problem was he did not desire a marriage based on deception. What he sought was a loving match. The kind his parents had enjoyed. His stomach twisted at the memory of his father’s perfidy. Yet his mother had never lost her love for the man she had wed when she was twenty. The two shared everything. It was almost as if their hearts beat in the same rhythm. And when his father's heart stopped, his countess followed him to the grave not a month later.

  "Think you a woman would have me if she knew by what means I achieved my wealth?" Harry asked.

  Edward's eyes rounded. "Surely you don’t have to tell a wife everything. Take my father. He bloody well shields my mother from any manner of his, er, activities."

  A flicker of annoyance flashed across Harry's face. "You mean he doesn’t own up to his mistresses?"

  Edward swallowed and did not meet his cousin's gaze. "Well, of course. Simply isn't done."

  "Despite his grave faults, my father was ever honest with — and faithful to — my mother, admirable qualities in a marriage, I think." Harry drew his attention from Edward and looked at the tall casements that gave onto Upper Brook Street. "I doubt I'll ever have a wife with whom I can be completely honest."

  "Enough talk about wives!" Edward shuddered. “Let us make up for the lost years of debauchery." A broad smile lighted his youthful face.

  Harry could not repress his grin as he got to his feet. "I would prefer to see Wycliff House. I plan to make Mr. Godwin Phillips's widow an offer that cannot be refused."

  Edward's slender torso rose to its full height, which was several inches shorter than his elder cousin's. "Hope she's not as unscrupulous as her husband was. By the way, I've learned who now possesses your father's diamond snuff box. What say you we also pay a call on Lord Cleveland?"

  Harry whirled to face his cousin. "Whoever told you I wanted his snuff box?"

  "I. . .I just thought you were going to great pains to reclaim everything---"

  "I want nothing of his," Harry sneered.

  * * *

  As they rounded the corner to Grosvenor Square, Harry's heartbeat began to roar. He had not gazed upon Wycliff House in nearly a decade. Outwardly, the three-story edifice of creamy brick had not changed. It made up for in grandeur what it lacked in size. Lavish iron balusters lined the street level, save for the arched entry portico. Rows of tall, pedimented casements distinguished the upper floors that already stood out from neighboring houses because graceful Corinthian columns framed each window. A chiseled frieze of Grecian athletes banded the top of the building.

  No other modes of transportation waited in front of the house where he and Edward tethered their horses. Harry could barely remember a time when a variety of conveyances had not lined this street. The old earl had taken seriously his duties in the House of Lords and had entertained often when Parliament was in session.

  The front door was opened by a middle-aged butler to whom Harry presented his card. "It is a matter of a somewhat personal nature that I wish to discuss with Mrs. Phillips."

  The butler's brows elevated slightly when he read the card. "Won't you come to the morning room, my lord?"

  They strode across the broad entry hall’s marbled floor and settled in a small room his mother had called the morning room. "My mistress is presently engaged." The butler lowered his voice. "'Tis Tuesday, you know. Her meeting day. I shall inform her of your presence."

  That the morning room looked remarkably as it had nearly ten years earlier pleased Harry. Elegant draperies of light blue moiré hung beneath gilded cornices on the windows facing Grosvenor Square. Blue silk damask sofas and chairs scattered about the room on a patterned carpet of gold and royal blue. A large crystal chandelier suspended from a ceiling bordered in ivory molding. Thank God the scoundrel Godwin Phillips had the good sense to change nothing.

  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 it."

  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 sofas. 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-coloured 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. The slim blonde who stood before Harry all defiance and arrogance could only barely be past the age of consent.

  "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 si
t down---"

  "Yes, of course," Harry said, taking a seat on a satin brocaded sofa beside Edward, who already had displayed the good sense to be seated and escape Mrs. Phillips' 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. 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 leave 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.