Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke

by Wendy Soliman

  Nia turned away from the mirror so she wouldn’t have to look at her own tired eyes and drawn features. So she wouldn’t have to meet Sophia’s enquiring glance in the glass. She knew; or suspected. Nia’s secret would be safe with Sophia but she wasn’t ready to share it yet, and Sophia had the good manners not to press her.

  “There is that, I suppose,” Nia replied, feeling it would be safe to look at her reflection again. “Make sure you keep the studio locked while I’m away, Sophia. I don’t want Mr. Drake or Miss Tilling snooping around. I don’t trust either of them.”

  “Don’t you worry about them.” Sophia firmed her jaw. “The scrounging beggars won’t get past me.”

  Nia grinned. “I almost wish they would try to. I still remember the last time Miss Tilling tried to sneak into Grandpapa’s studio, before we came here and she thought you were in London for the day. You chased after her with a riding crop and the look of abject fear on her face was hysterical. She actually thought you would use it on her.”

  Sophia chuckled. “She was right about that. You don’t get to rise to the top of my profession…former profession,” she amended, “without knowing how to take care of yourself. Some gentlemen do get the strangest notions in their heads about how they can treat ladies who are not their wives. Just because they have purchased their services, it does not mean they own them body and soul.”

  Nia sat up a little straighter and took an active interest in the conversation. Sophia was quite open about her career as a courtesan, and Nia found everything she had to say on the subject highly informative.

  “Do tell more,” Nia urged when Sophia’s words dried up.

  “You know I would, but we don’t have the time for particulars right now. If I had had someone to advise me when I was your age…no, I was younger than you the first time it was necessary for me to…but still, all in all, I have no regrets.”

  “When you talk like that, it makes me feel ashamed to complain about my lot.”

  “We all make the best of things, love. In my case, I would not have met your grandfather if I hadn’t been what I was, so it worked out for the best. In those days just about every single female under the age of forty was keen to get her hooks into him because he was so talented and so popular, invited everywhere. But Patrick was not of a mind to marry again. He said no one could replace your grandmother in his affections. I didn’t try to. I just made him laugh, and he knew I didn’t want more of him than he was prepared to give.” She caught Sophia’s eye in the mirror and smiled. “Just look at the wonderful times we have had since then. I really do love him, you know, and I didn’t think a person like me was capable of love.”

  “Sophia, that’s nonsense. I know life has been difficult for you, but you are the most loving, giving, fun person I have ever had the good fortune to know.” Nia flashed an impish smile. “To say nothing of the fact that you talk to me about all sorts of interesting things that most people would deem inappropriate.”

  And she did. Nia knew all about the various men who had kept Sophia in style before she happened upon her grandfather. Nia could well understand how Sophia had caught those gentlemen’s attention. She had seen some of the sketches Grandpapa had made of her twenty years ago—sketches that formed part of his private collection, never available for public viewing. Sophia’s vivaciousness radiated from the paper, and Grandpapa had skilfully captured her sensuality and that certain something in her expression—a delicacy and susceptibility that would appeal to any man’s protective instincts.

  Sophia was no longer in the first flush of youth, and her body had spread along with the passing years, but she was still vibrant, beautiful in a faded sort of way, delightfully irreverent and quite shockingly outspoken. Sometimes Nia thought she would join her grandfather and lose her wits completely, were it not for Sophia and Hannah—so different, but between them the bedrock of Nia’s struggle to keep her family’s collective heads above water.

  “We’re a right mixture, and no mistake,” Sophia said, echoing Nia’s thoughts. “There’s me, a has-been harlot who’s no better than she ought to be. Hannah, who was your father’s nursemaid and as reliable as it’s possible for a woman to be. And then there’s you. Pretty as a picture but too blind to see it, working your fingers to the bone to try and atone for the hedonistic pleasures that have seen your family reduced almost to bankruptcy.” Sophia’s smile was broad and infectious. “And they say opposites don’t attract.”

  “You said it yourself just now. Had your mother not died when you were young, your future might have been very different. We have each make the best of the hand we are dealt, I suppose, and there’s not much point complaining too loud.”

  “Precisely, so why you insist upon remaining in England defeats me. Stubbornness runs in your family and I hate to see what it’s doing to you.” Sophia’s voice softened. “Why don’t you take your grandfather back to that monstrosity of a house in Ireland straight away? We both know it is where he wants to finish his days, and I dare say I shall adapt to the wind and rain soon enough.” She grinned. “I’ve endured worse privations.”

  “Oh, Sophia, don’t you think I would if I could?”

  “Yes, I reckon I do.” She paused. “Well, if you won’t do that, can’t I persuade you to auction off those sketches your grandfather did of me all those years ago?”

  “No!”

  “You can’t afford to be sentimental, love.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just the thought of your…well, nude body being displayed to all and sundry that upsets me.”

  Sophia chortled. “Bless you, darling, but after the life I’ve led, I’m hardly going to be worried about that. In fact, I would rather enjoy the notoriety.”

  Nia smiled. “I’m sure you would, but I don’t want to do it. But it is not only up to me. I shall see what Sean has to say when he returns. If he doesn’t bring good news it might come to that, but I do worry that it will show Grandpapa in a desperate light.”

  “How so?” Sophia tugged at a stubborn curl. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Releasing old sketches for profit, I mean,” Nia said, returning to the subject under discussion. “After all, we are trying to pretend all is well with his world and that he has turned to landscapes from a position of strength.”

  “Hmm, I suppose so, but the offer’s there, love. Bear it in mind.” She put her brush aside and stood back. “There now, what do you think?”

  Nia, distracted by their conversation, had not been watching Sophia’s progress in the glass. She did so now, and let out a startled oh. Sophia truly hadn’t forgotten any of the tricks of a former trade that required her to know how to make the best of her looks. She had certainly transformed Nia’s hair by fashioning her rebellious locks into a neat chignon, leaving coppery-gold curls cascading about her face. She actually looked rather fetching.

  “I didn’t know I could look like that,” she said with a wry smile.

  “When did you last take the time to put your hair up?”

  “If I try, it just falls down again, so it’s a waste of time. Thank you, Sophia. At least I don’t have to apologise for my appearance, for once.”

  Sophia laughed. “You never have to, especially in that gown.”

  Nia stood up and critically examined her full-length reflection; something else she almost never bothered to do. The sprigged muslin walking dress was a relic from better days, purchased for her by her grandfather when they were still in Paris. The feel of the delicate petticoats whispering around her ankles reminded Nia that she had lived all over Europe, attended a lot of sophisticated salons where she had been introduced to princes, counts and royalty of every persuasion. She was perfectly equal to meeting a duchess, and a duke, and…well, whoever else happened to be in attendance. Lord Vincent’s opinion did not matter in the slightest. Of course it did not. She had made this effort, not to impress him, but to ensure she did not disgrace her family. She looked forward to seeing Frankie again and hearing all
her news, and trusted to luck that the boys would be sufficiently awed by their surroundings to behave themselves.

  She picked up her decorated straw bonnet, carefully fitted it over Sophia’s handiwork and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

  “Well,” she said. “Hopefully Hannah will have succeeded in scrubbing the boys clean and making them look presentable. Not that I expect that situation to endure, but stranger things have been known to happen.”

  “You look a picture, sweetheart,” Sophia said, hugging her. “Your Lord Vincent will be enchanted.”

  “Sophia!”

  “There’s nothing you can teach me about animal attraction,” Sophia replied with another throaty chuckle. “And Lord Vincent is attracted to you; you just mark my words. I kept my distance, of course, when I realised who your handsome caller was. Wouldn’t want to shock him by having a courtesan brought to his notice—”

  “I am not ashamed of you, Sophia,” Nia replied indignantly. “And if Lord Vincent is offended by your presence then he can go hang himself. The boys will soon get over their disappointment and we will be better off not knowing such a bigot.”

  “There was a time when Lord Vincent would have enjoyed my company,” Sophia said with one of her wicked little smiles. “I would have made sure of that. Course, I was much younger then, and those days are now long gone.”

  “You will never be old, Sophia,” Nia cried, impulsively hugging her friend.

  “Come on now, love, time’s a ’wasting.” Sophia squeezed Nia’s shoulders. “Have a lovely time and make sure you tell me all about it when you get back. I want to know all the details, mind. Who was there, who said what to whom, what the ladies wore; every little thing. You know how I thrive on gossip, and I miss being at the heart of things.”

  “You still could be if you didn’t insist upon spending all your time with Grandpapa.”

  “Where else would I want to be?”

  “Very well then, I promise to tell you everything. Now, let’s go and find those boys.”

  Nia groaned when she found Mr. Drake loitering in the vestibule and Miss Tilling fussing around Hannah, as though she wasn’t perfectly capable of turning out two small boys. Miss Tilling hadn’t shown the slightest willingness to help in that respect before now and her transparent efforts to make herself useful were too little, too late.

  “You look quite nice,” Miss Tilling said grudgingly. “Anyone would think you were trying to make an impression.”

  “How kind of you to say so. However, I don’t need to try, as you so delicately put it. I am accustomed to good society.”

  “I really think I should come with you,” Mr. Drake said. “It isn’t seemly for a young lady to accept an invitation from an unmarried gentleman and keep the engagement without male protection.”

  “What do you imagine I need protecting from, Mr. Drake?”

  He shook his head and tutted. “Really, I have no way of knowing, but there is bound to be something.”

  “We’re ready, Aunt Nia.” Leo bounded up to her, saving Nia from saying something she might otherwise regret. Or worse, not regret.

  “Hannah made the most dreadful fuss over us,” Art complained.

  Nia bit her lip to prevent a smile from escaping and shared a glance with Hannah over the boys’ heads. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen them looking so clean, or so excited. Leo was literally hopping from foot to foot in his impatience to be gone. Nia was scarcely less impatient to escape Mr. Drake and the impossibly self-centred Miss Tilling, who was making little effort to conceal her jealousy.

  “Come along then, boys. Let’s be on our way.”

  A short time later Nia drove their gig, drawn by an accommodating if plodding cob, up the never-ending driveway to Winchester Park. Even the boys, who had not stopped chattering until that point, seemed subdued by their surroundings.

  “I say!” Art bounced up and down on the seat when they took a right-angled turn and the house finally came into view. “It’s enormous.”

  “Hundreds of people must live there,” Leo said, his jaw dropping open.

  “It makes our house in Ireland look tiny.”

  “Do you think Lord Vincent will remember he invited us…”

  “Or will we be asked what business we have here?”

  Nia was wondering the exact same thing. The boys were distracted as they observed several railed paddocks with fine-quality horses prancing about in them. In spite of their frequent entreaties for her to look this way or that, Nia seldom took her eyes off the path ahead of her, doing what she could to quell her nerves by constantly reminding herself that Lord Vincent had been quite insistent that they accept his invitation. If he had had a change of heart, presumably he would be too well mannered to allow it to show and they could leave again after a very short interval. And if the duke or his lady mother had no wish to meet her, Nia would not lose any sleep over the snub.

  As she drove closer to the magnificent mansion she was unable to decide whether she should approach the front steps or drive directly to the mews. The decision was made for her when she observed Lord Vincent standing on the front steps, raising a hand in greeting. Her treacherous heart did a strange little flip at the sight of him and she was glad she was still too far away for him to observe the colour that flooded her cheeks. The boys were less reserved and returned his wave with vigour.

  Nia brought the gig to a halt and a footman ran up to take the horse’s head. The boys leapt down before the conveyance had even stopped. Lord Vincent appeared to find their enthusiasm diverting and was laughing as he walked up to the gig and offered Nia his hand to help her alight.

  “Good morning, Miss Trafford. I am so very glad you were able to come.”

  “Good morning, Lord Vincent. There was not the slightest possibility of my not keeping the engagement,” she replied with a significant look at the boys.

  He chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose there was.”

  “I say, sir, can we see the horses now?”

  “We are most frightfully keen.”

  “I hardly slept a wink, I was that excited at the prospect.”

  “Yes, I was the same.”

  “Boys, boys,” Nia said, sending Lord Vincent a look that said he only had himself to blame for this. “Remember your manners, please.”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Lord Vincent replied, tousling their heads by spanning one large hand across them both at once. “I am pleased at their enthusiasm. Ah, and here is Amos, come to show them around. Miss Trafford, may I present my brother, Amos Sheridan.”

  A gentleman as tall and elegant as Lord Vincent assessed her for a moment or two before sending his brother a quick sideways look and then treating her to a devastating smile. Nia dipped a curtsey, and felt a little overcome. Lord Amos appeared as relaxed in her company as Lord Vincent had been the previous day, when it must be apparent that she was far from being his social equal.

  “Your servant, Miss Trafford,” he said, extending his hand to her.

  In spite of their elevated position in society, it appeared this family did not stand on ceremony, although Nia would reserve judgement on that point until she had met the duke and dowager duchess. If she met them.

  “Lord Amos,” she said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.”

  “And these are Miss Trafford’s nephews, Leo and Art,” Lord Vincent said, indicating the boys with an elegant wave of one hand. “But please don’t ask me which is which because I simply couldn’t tell you.”

  “I am Leo, Lord Amos.”

  “And I am Art.”

  “We are most frightfully keen to see your horses, sir, if it’s of no inconvenience.”

  “We are Irish, you see, and so we understand all about horses.”

  “Ah, that would explain it.” Nia watched the brothers exchange an amused glance. “Well then, I had best not keep you waiting.” Lord Amos placed a hand on each of the boy’s should
ers. “If you will kindly excuse us, Miss Trafford.”

  “With the greatest of pleasure, Lord Amos. Boys,” she added sternly. “Just remember what we talked about, and make sure you don’t get in anyone’s way, or make nuisances of yourselves.”

  Two small heads nodded with impatience. Nia sent Lord Amos an apologetic smile, wondering if he knew quite what he had let himself in for.

  ***

  The forger mingled with the flow of patrons leaving the Drury Lane theatre and heading for the hostelries that littered Covent Garden. He bypassed the more popular establishments where brassy whores rubbed shoulders with potential customers from all walks of life, distracting them with their questionable charms while pickpockets went about their dishonest business with skill and dexterity. His destination was the Lamb and Flag, a slightly more respectable establishment where the whores were of a higher class; the clientele more selective and the ale not watered down.

  Removing his opera hat as he ducked beneath the lintel, the forger made his way to a table at the rear of the taproom. Its location enabled him to keep his back to the wall and afforded him a decent view of the doorway. He politely declined several offers of company from attractive lightskirts but did order a tankard of ale from a harried barmaid. When it arrived, he supped it slowly. He was here on business and needed to keep his wits about him. He had been assured his quarry would be here this night, after the theatre. Each week Lord Barrington selected a different whore to cater to his needs as part of his regular routine. He paid well and didn’t require anything too extreme, so competition for his custom was keen. The forger knew all this because he had been watching him for a while, waiting to make his move.

  The forger cursed his bad fortune. He had been convinced Trafford would remain safely out of the way in Europe for a lot longer yet, where it was easier for his connections to conceal the fact that he was losing his wits. Had he been courteous enough to do so, it would have enabled the forger to continue making a dishonest living by faking his work. But that silly granddaughter of his had persuaded him to return to British soil. What the devil had she been thinking? Oh, she was trying to hide her grandfather away in the country, but how long could the presence of such a renowned artist remain secret? More to the point, how long would it be before word of the paintings he was passing off as original Traffords reached Miss Busybody’s ears?