At this, the Bavarian, Austrian and Prussian representatives pricked up their ears, all equally as suspicious of the potential superiority of the others as the map of Europe was slowly being redrawn, all wondering if the British had designs on filling the void which would be left by Napoleon. Land meant power and the British knew that better than most—they had been amassing it for centuries.
Piers kicked himself for not articulating it better, knowing lack of sleep was not an excuse which would cut the mustard with the Prime Minster if he inadvertently caused another war because of an ill-thought-out sentence. There was no denying he wasn’t as sharp as he should be thanks to the scant hour of rest he had managed last night in between a particularly vivid and lusty dream involving Miss Brookes, himself and a wingback armchair, and the government messenger who hammered on his door sometime around two. That was three nights in a row he had dreamt of her, fuelling his newly awoken lust which refused to subside no matter how much he willed it to. He had only met the siren twice, briefly, and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her in five days, so couldn’t understand why she already had such a hold on his urges or occupied so many of his thoughts.
As his exhausted mind tried to wander to her, he dragged it kicking and screaming back to the table. ‘The maps I am referring to came overnight with the latest dispatch.’ Piers hated speaking Russian. At best he had a schoolboy’s grasp of the language, at worst, because he was still learning it, his accent made him sound like a complete amateur. He much preferred German, or French, or even Italian despite it being a little too dramatic for his staid character. ‘Copies are being made as we speak, which we will have delivered to your legations within the hour. We are in this together, Your Illustrious Highness.’ Another reason why he loathed speaking Russian. Their aristocracy had an overinflated sense of their own importance and the Ambassador Count von Lieven was a stickler for such details. ‘And only by working together, with mutual trust and complete transparency, will we all defeat Napoleon.’
Before that answer was dissected and purposely misinterpreted, he hastily brought the meeting to a close. One by one the diplomats filed out of the room, leaving Piers alone with Castlereagh and Bathurst.
‘Is it just me or is this getting harder.’ Castlereagh was never one to beat around the bush. ‘It’s like herding cats in fog.’
‘It’s been a difficult couple of months. Everyone is battle weary.’ Including Piers.
‘It worries me.’ Bathurst frowned. ‘We have all come so far, and victory feels so close, yet I fear it could all go to hell in a handcart if the alliance crumbles.’
‘I miss the old days.’ Castlereagh huffed out a sigh. ‘Diplomacy was so much easier when we did it over cigars and port. Everyone is always more agreeable when they are three sheets to the wind. Nowadays, we’re all so suspicious of one another.’
‘We could have a pipe of port delivered to the next dreary meeting. It would certainly make it more bearable.’ Piers began to gather his papers, trying to ignore his rumbling tummy because there was no chance of any breakfast for him for at least the next three hours. Once the translations of the latest dispatch and now also those blasted maps and charts were done, he had a mountain of other things which urgently needed his attention, not least Isobel’s birthday present. His life wouldn’t be worth living if he didn’t make the time to buy her something. Birthdays in the Writtle household were sacrosanct, and not even a war was a valid excuse for not marking one.
‘Port would certainly make the Russians more bearable. At least for me it would.’ Castlereagh sighed wistfully. ‘Perhaps we should have two pipes of port delivered.’
‘That would at least make Portugal feel a little more loved. They are very proud of their port.’ Bathurst’s flippant comment irritated.
‘Since Chaumont, they feel like the poor relation. With hindsight, we probably should have included them in those negotiations rather than assuming they would simply go along with whatever we wanted regardless.’ They hadn’t because Portugal was the poor relation. It had always fought alongside Britain because that was traditionally where their interests lay, but there was no denying they now took the Portuguese, their army and their unflinching support for granted. ‘Melo is flexing his muscles because he wants it to appear to the others as if they do have a say, even though we all know they really do not. We really should treat them with more respect. They deserve it.’
‘You make a good point, Eastwood.’ Castlereagh frowned as he nodded. ‘We could have played that better. Perhaps we should do something to make them feel special and keep them onboard? They are our most stalwart allies after all.’
They were and had been right from the very beginning. They had also suffered more than the other allies. ‘Perhaps we should wheel out the Regent to make a gushing speech over a nice dinner?’ It was a throwaway comment, meant to be as glib and dismissive as the Secretary of War’s had been, but Bathurst’s eyes lit up.
‘That’s actually not a bad idea. A bit of pomp and pampering might be just the thing to make them feel loved.’ Castlereagh stared at the Secretary for War and shrugged. ‘It is an easy solution to a spiralling problem. We could paper over the cracks with a state banquet.’
‘Then I think we should do it. And the sooner the better.’ Bathurst didn’t appear to need any more convincing. ‘Contact the Master of the Household and see if we can secure a date within the month.’ Both men stared at Piers as if they were expecting him to jot that down on his already enormous list of things to do. As the silence stretched, the alarms bells began to ring.
‘Surely you’re not expecting me to organise it?’
‘We have to run it past the Prime Minister and cabinet first.’ Bathurst never even blinked as he deftly avoided the question. ‘But before we put it to him, we need to investigate if it’s even viable in such a short timeframe. Only the palace will know that, so speak to them today and report back as soon as you can.’
‘And if it is?’
‘Then we extend an invitation to His Royal Highness Dom João, and if he accepts, we decide the best course of action and choose the best person to lead it.’ A true politician’s answer. Never confirm or deny anything until the last possible moment, and no comfort whatsoever to Piers. ‘This isn’t any old party, Eastwood, it’s a potential diplomatic disaster unless handled correctly. It will require someone who understands the delicate balance of power, the different egos, the fluctuating politics and the ever-changing situation and is adept at manoeuvring around it. Besides, whomever that person is would oversee it, rather than organise it. The capable staff at St James’s Palace will do all the menial work.’
It already sounded dangerously like a hideous fait accompli. ‘I am most assuredly the wrong man for the job.’
‘I disagree.’ Castlereagh tucked in his chair and leaned heavily on the back of it. ‘Nobody knows the Portuguese better than you do, Eastwood. You’ve attended their Royal Court, you know their customs and speak their language like a native.’
‘But I don’t know the first thing about banquets!’ Or any other sort of fancy social gathering for that matter. Piers normally avoided them all like the plague. Always had. ‘Which surely is the most important prerequisite for somebody put in charge of one.’
‘What’s there to know?’ Castlereagh had the gall to smirk at his comment. ‘If the palace can accommodate us, you liaise with them and the Portuguese, send out a few choice invitations to the great and the good, placate the other allies, glance at the seating plans to make sure we don’t inadvertently upset anyone and make sure His Royal Highness makes a suitably gushing speech which flatters the Portuguese without jeopardising the status quo.’ He slapped Piers on the back. ‘It’s a simple enough job and nothing a fellow of your intelligence and experience can’t do in his sleep.’
Deflated, put upon but horribly and nobly resigned, Piers gathered up his never-ending pile of work before glan
cing wistfully out of the window at the beginnings of the sunset. It was barely dawn, it wasn’t even six o’clock and already he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, it was going to be one hell of a bad day.
* * *
‘Good afternoon, Miss Brookes.’ Milton, the Writtles’ butler, met her at the door and relieved her of her coat and warm bonnet. ‘Your father has been asking about you.’
‘Doubtless only in between sitters when he remembers I exist.’ Dear Papa did tend to get absorbed in his work, losing all track of time and place. Five days into what would likely be a month of preliminary sketches, he had commandeered the music room as his studio and now ruled there like an unreasonable despot who only cared about the art he was creating. It was a familiar pattern which she was well used to but which always came as a shock to the unsuspecting clients who, not unreasonably, assumed the same sane and personable man they had commissioned to paint their portraits would be the one to do the painting.
‘Which poor family member is he torturing now?’
She had made a point, on the first day, of quietly apprising everyone in the household of his demanding methods to forewarn them, just in case one of them strangled him after an hour of standing as still as a statue in the total and unreasonable silence her father insisted upon. Already, the poor Writtles had accepted that the Augustus Brookes behind the easel was a very different character from the one they had taken tea with last week.
‘I believe it is a very reluctant Lord Eastwood at present.’
Who had, to her father’s great consternation, thus far deftly managed to avoid being sketched by holing himself up in Whitehall and pleading work.
‘He ran out of excuses?’
‘No, Miss Brookes.’ The butler grinned. ‘He inadvertently ran into his mother while attempting to sneak in unnoticed an hour ago and was promptly frogmarched to the music room before he had time to remove his coat. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she has locked him in to force His Lordship to comply.’ A prospect too entertaining not to investigate.
After a cursory glance in the ballroom which confirmed the many layers of size on the canvas were finally dry, Faith hurried to the music room. She slipped inside, knowing her usually sane father was always at his most unpredictable if he was interrupted, and quietly took in the scene.
Poor Lord Eastwood was sat uncomfortably upright astride a saddle strapped to a trestle table while her father fervently sketched. As Milton had claimed, both his greatcoat and hat had been hastily tossed on one of the striped silk sofas and even with his broad back to her, she could picture his expression. His face might well be static and arranged just so for Papa, but those eyes—those stormy, expressive, mesmerising eyes—would tell a completely different story.
When her father glanced up and acknowledged her with a curt nod, Lord Eastwood’s dark head whipped around and the message in them was clear. He was royally fed up, thought the whole thing daft and was plainly desperate for any just cause to escape.
‘Good afternoon, my lord.’
‘Hello, Miss Brookes.’ His deep, velvety voice sounded so despondent; she barely stifled the laugh as her father bellowed his disapproval.
‘How many times do I have to tell you not to move, my lord? I cannot draw a fidget! I need stillness!’ Like a shot Papa was then off his stool and manhandling his unwitting victim, grabbing his chin and impatiently rearranging it forward, then tilting it up, then down, then roughly to the side as he sought the correct angles. ‘Absolute stillness!’
To his credit, Lord Eastwood bore it all with surprising good humour, only his eyes tilted to hers when she moved to peek at the sketch. Although forcing her gaze to focus on the drawing was near impossible when it decided it would much prefer settling on him.
‘How is it going?’
‘As you can plainly see…’ He managed to speak with the minimum movement of his mouth to appease her father. ‘It is pure, unmitigated torture.’
She chuckled. ‘That bad?’
‘Perhaps not as torturous as the rest of my interminable day has been, or heaven forbid a dreadful society party—but most definitely a close third.’
‘Interminable? But it’s only two.’
‘Which means I have already been up for twelve hours and probably will be for another twelve more at this rate. My mistake here was coming home to eat and believe me, I am kicking myself for it.’
‘And I also need silence, Lord Eastwood!’ For good measure, her father shot her a furious look. ‘You too, missy! Stop distracting my muse.’ A comment which widened poor Lord Eastwood’s eyes.
She did openly laugh at that. She couldn’t help it. His appalled thoughts were so loud, she could practically hear him thinking them.
‘By muse…’ She waved her arms expansively in the ether theatrically to encompass the entire universe. ‘He means his artistic muse, my lord, and not that you have suddenly become it and must therefore sit for him for all eternity or he will never be able to paint again.’
Those wonderfully broad shoulders relaxed at the welcome clarification, which earned him another prod from her father.
‘Straighter, my lord! Slightly arch the neck and stare forward like I showed you. Hold the reins higher.’ Papa flapped his palms upwards. ‘A tad more…’
He did as he was instructed, Lord Eastwood’s now amused eyes locking with Faith’s once more and something about the way they twinkled caused her stupid pulse to quicken with gay abandon when it had thus far behaved itself. Off-kilter, she stared resolutely at the drawing to cover her discomfort and instantly frowned—and not just at her wayward and unwelcome reaction to him.
The picture was all wrong.
Despite being a preliminary and exploratory drawing, and therefore expected to be rough around the edges, it still fell woefully wide of the mark.
That was unlike her father. He normally had a way of uncovering the real essence of a person behind the public façade swiftly, often in minutes, capturing the subtle nuances of body language and expression perfectly. Effortlessly, in fact. That was what made his portraits so desirable. They were usually so natural, fluid and yet still intensely personal. But this charcoal Lord Eastwood was more like the one she had just read about in the newspapers rather than the man who worked with his niece playing beneath his desk. Instead of quiet confidence and cheerful stoicism, she saw surly arrogance, and his expressive eyes were flat, almost as if there was nothing at all behind them. Never mind that the pose was all wrong. It was too noisy and aggressive, too regal, too pompous and lacked the real man’s innate subtlety.
‘I can sense your disapproval, Faith!’ Her father’s delicate stick of charcoal snapped between his fingers as he bristled. ‘Admit it! You do not like it, do you?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘It’s not so much that I don’t like it as…’ As Faith struggled to temper her words, her father swivelled around on the stool to stare belligerently, arms crossed and jaw set stubbornly. Behind him, Lord Eastwood took the opportunity to roll the tension out of his shoulders and sit more casually. Instantly, it suited him. ‘What I meant is, this is supposed to be an informal family portrait, yet your depiction of Lord Eastwood is a little too formal for the composition, don’t you think? Does he need to sit so rigidly in the saddle?’
Her father gazed back at his drawing and shrugged defensively. ‘Lord Eastwood enjoys riding in his spare time, so putting him on a horse is informal.’
‘Of course it is…under all normal circumstances…’ She pointed to the scowl he had drawn and the resolutely furrowed dark brows. She had witnessed his actual scowl, caused it even, and it was nowhere near as evil as the one her father had drawn. ‘However, here he looks as though he is about to charge into battle.’
‘Nonsense!’ Her insulted father refused to see it. ‘He is nonchalantly sitting in the saddle.’
‘While clearly contemplating d
astardly and murderous deeds.’ She traced the harsh line of the eyebrows in the air to avoid smudging the paper. ‘Those are angry eyes, Papa, and while I will grant you Lord Eastwood is largely unenthusiastic about this portrait and prone to a little surliness from time to time…’ She couldn’t resist looking up and seeing the amused twinkle in the real eyes. ‘I am not convinced he deserves to be captured for posterity with a face like thunder. And the least said about the fearsome horse you have sketched the better. It looks so thoroughly sinister, even one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse would have second thoughts about riding it.’
Unsurprisingly, her father took instant umbrage at her words and she wanted to kick herself for being so forthright when she knew how fragile the artistic ego could be—especially her supremely talented father’s. ‘And I suppose you could do better, daughter?’
Normally, she would dismiss that comment out of hand, knowing he might initially chafe at her criticism, but he would swiftly see for himself exactly what she was talking about once his temper had cooled. But this time, she wasn’t certain. Papa might know Lord Eastwood liked to ride, but that knowledge came alongside a huge swathe of evidence from the court of public opinion which had obviously clouded his vision—just as it clouded hers. Yet if she could see there was plainly more to Lord Eastwood than the newspapers had reported, when she had more reason than Papa to distrust this almost-Earl, then she owed it to the portrait to help her father see those complex layers too.
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