He thumped his fist against the table, drawing curious glances from one or two patrons, in spite of the noise and raucous laughter that made conversation near impossible. He had been hoping to continue exploiting men with more money than sense for a little longer yet. Still, he reasoned, even if Miss Trafford’s suspicions were aroused, what could she do about them?
Thoughts of Nia Trafford had the usual effect upon him and he was obliged to move his hat onto his lap to disguise the evidence, just in case one of the whores noticed and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Hell and damnation, he wanted the little Trafford minx! He always had, but when he favoured her with his attentions she had looked down her pert little nose at him and barely spared him the time of day. No one, but no one, spurned the forger and got away with it, so what he had been forced to do to her grandfather’s reputation was all her fault. Damned if he knew what it was about her that had got under her skin, but it was slowly driving him as insane as her grandfather. Perdition, if he didn’t stop thinking about her, he would have to engage the very expensive services of one of the whores, and that was unthinkable. The day had yet to dawn when the forger was forced to pay for a roll in the hay.
Returning his thoughts to his lucrative trade, the forger convinced himself that even if the Traffords became suspicious, they could prove nothing. The three men to whom he had sold his alternative Trafford portraits hadn’t looked too closely at their provenances and would not willingly accept they had been duped. If they were shown to be fakes it would make them look ridiculous, and no man of consequence enjoyed admitting he had been taken for a fool. Besides, Trafford would be expected to step forward and disclaim the works personally. The moment he did that, his mental state would become apparent, and he would become a laughing stock. Miss Trafford, for all her cock-teasing ways, did adore her grandfather and would never permit that to happen.
The forger sipped at his ale, careful to take it slow. He needed to work this scam a couple of times more before anyone became suspicious. He chose his marks carefully, made sure they were serious collectors, and did thorough research into their resources. He also ensured they did not already have Trafford originals in their collections. His work was good, though he said so himself, but if a connoisseur were to place his beside the real article and look closely enough, there was an outside possibility he might become suspicious. To be on the safe side, he disguised himself when he met potential marks and, naturally, used a false name.
Now, thanks to Nia Trafford and her determination to bring her grandfather home, he was obliged to move faster than he preferred to. The gentry talked to one another; boasted about new acquisitions for their collections. If too many previously unheard of Trafford portraits became available all of a sudden someone, somewhere would become suspicious. Still, needs must, and the forger was capable of adapting his plans as he went. Besides, he enjoyed a challenge and the edge of danger it brought with it. Moving fast was risky, but at least he had inside intelligence directly from Trafford’s residence. If anyone heard of the fakes flooding the market, he would be tipped off. He was ready to flee at a moment’s notice and, even if a small voice inside of him sometimes told him not to be greedy and to get out while he still could, he chose to ignore it.
Ah, he was here at last. The forger sat a little straighter as several whores made a beeline for Lord Barrington, who doffed his opera hat and treated them to a charming smile.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said politely.
The forger didn’t hear any more of their conversation but continued to watch Barrington’s every move. It didn’t take him long to select a woman and they disappeared to an upstairs room. The forger knew from previous surveillance that Barrington didn’t linger. Sure enough, he returned less than an hour later, ordered a brandy, and stood alone at the bar to drink it. Now was the time to make his move. The forger stepped up beside him and introduced himself as a dealer in fine arts.
“I hear you are in the market for an original Trafford, my lord.”
Chapter Five
Vince stood beside Miss Trafford, grinning at the speed with which the boys had shed their shyness. They chattered away to a rather bemused Amos as they walked off towards the stud, not pausing to allow him time to answer their endless stream of questions.
“I hardly recognised them looking so clean,” Vince observed.
“Enjoy the sight while you can.”
He laughed. “I almost feel sympathy for them. Small boys dislike being clean above anything.”
Her lips curled into a reluctant-seeming smile. “I cannot argue with that.”
“Do they fall to your responsibility all the time?”
She lifted one shoulder. “When their father is away on business.”
What business? Vince was curious about Miss Trafford’s circumstances, but now was not the time to ask intrusive questions. He transferred his attention from the boys to the far more edifying sight of Miss Trafford herself, pleased by the transformation in her since yesterday. His approving gaze started at the brim of her bonnet and worked its way at a leisurely pace to the hem of her gown, lingering for longer than was polite on points of interest in between.
She was not classically beautiful. Vince had had dozens of far prettier chits thrown at him over the years but none of them had made such a favourable initial impression as Miss Trafford. Since making her acquaintance the previous day, he had been trying to decide what it was about her that had captured his interest. Her self-sufficiency, perhaps, her independent spirit, or possibly the fact that she was making no attempt to impress him.
That in itself was impressive.
What the devil were the Traffords doing, burying themselves away in a rundown manor house in the middle of nowhere? Patrick Trafford ought to be living in the lap of luxury, with servants falling over themselves to do his bidding. The fact that he was not, and that responsibility for the entire family appeared to fall upon the slender shoulders of a girl who could not be more than two and twenty, was as disturbing as it was intriguing.
Vince intended to win her trust and persuade her to confide in him. What business could possibly take her brother away so frequently, leaving her to cope alone? And what had happened to all the blunt her grandfather had accrued at the height of his fame? Surely he could not have run through it already? Who were all the parasites living beneath his roof, and why were they there? In short, what could Vince do to be of service to her? Never had he felt a more compelling desire to make himself useful.
But he sensed Niamh Trafford was a very private person, slow to trust, reluctant to confide in strangers, with secrets she would be reluctant to reveal. Vince intended for her to look upon him as a friend in whom she could confide. Unless he read her all wrong, she had never been in greater need of one.
She did not seem nervous about being at the Park, but there was evidence of strain around her eyes, as though she had not slept well, or for long enough. Her cheeks coloured as he continued his lazy perusal of her person but she held her head high and withstood it.
“You are staring at me, Lord Vincent.”
He sent her a sensual smile. “That is not my fault.”
She flexed a haughty brow. “I am to blame for your incivility?”
“No incivility was intended, but if you will insist upon looking so well then you must expect to be admired.”
The corners of her lips lifted. “I’m sure your mama taught you it is the height of bad manners to stare at a lady.”
“Has no one ever told you that mothers don’t know everything?”
The capricious light left her eyes and she seemed to withdraw into herself. “I am aware of that from personal experience.”
What the devil had he said to overset her? Vince stored her strange reaction away for later consideration.
“Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “My family is anxious to make your acquaintance. We are all a little awed to have such a famous family living on our doorstep.”
She pla
ced her hand on his sleeve and looked at him askance. “I find it hard to imagine your family being awed by us, or anyone else for that matter. I mean, just look around you…this magnificent house, these beautiful grounds. Who could compete with that?”
“Which just goes to show how little you know us.” He looked down at her with a reassuring smile. “We might have money and rank, but both were inherited so we can take no credit for that. We have simply carried on where our ancestors left off. We have never, any of us, achieved anything remarkable in our own right, and fully intend to bask in the reflected glory of having your grandfather as a neighbour.”
“Please don’t do that, Lord Vincent,” she said, alarm flaring in her expressive eyes.
“If you would prefer us not to, then of course we will not say a word.” He fixed her with a probing gaze. “It is not my intention to make your life more difficult for you than it already is.”
“Thank you. I had hoped to keep my grandfather’s presence here a secret, you see, at least for a little longer. But, I suppose, now that you all know—”
“We shall not breathe a word.” The hand resting on his arm trembled and Vince impulsively covered it with one of his own. “We shall respect your privacy, Miss Trafford, and that of your grandfather. You are right to say that word of his presence will most likely spread, but if the Sheridans make it known he is to be left in peace, no one from either of the local villages will go near him.”
She canted her head and subjected him to cool appraisal. “You sound remarkably sure of yourself.”
“I would refer you back to all that inherited wealth and consequence. The villagers bicker all the time for the privilege of owning us, and would never ignore a ducal decree.”
“But I do not even know the duke.”
“No, but you are about to meet him.”
She looked up at Vince, the elegant lines of her profile compressed with a combination of anxiety and gratitude. “Thank you,” she said simply.
He sensed she wanted to say something else, but they were now approaching the double doors to the drawing room, which a footman opened for them before they actually reached them.
“Ready?” he asked.
She squared her shoulders and threw back her head. The pulse beating at the base of her throat was the only indication of her nervousness. “Indeed.”
Her poise reminded Vince that she had been living continuously with her grandfather, and must be used to mixing with people from all walks of society. She would not be overawed by this occasion and would know how to behave.
As they entered the room, all conversation stopped and five elegant heads turned in their direction. Lady St. John eased the momentary awkwardness by jumping to her feet and engulfing Miss Trafford in an affectionate hug.
“My dear, it has been too long.” Lady St. John held Miss Trafford by the shoulders and submitted her to an exacting scrutiny. “You look very well, but you have lost weight since we last met.”
“Whereas you are more beautiful than ever.”
“Nonsense.” Lady St. John waved the suggestion aside. “I am now quite established as an aging widow.”
Zach turned a laugh into a cough, drawing the ladies’ attention to him.
“Miss Trafford,” Vince said. “May I introduce my brother, Zachary Sheridan, the Duke of Winchester?”
Zach was his usual urbane self as he stepped forward and offered Miss Trafford his hand, effortlessly raising her from her curtsey.
“Miss Trafford, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours, Your Grace.”
“I hope you and your nephews will be regular visitors to the Park during your sojourn in Compton.”
“That is very kind of you, but Lord Amos might argue that point when he has spent a little time in my nephews’ company.”
Zach laughed. “It will be good practice for him.”
Vince introduced everyone else in turn—his mother, his brother Nate and sister Portia and, of course, Amos’s wife, Crista. Miss Trafford appeared particularly taken with Zach’s wolfhounds, Phantom and Phineas. When she offered them her gloved hand for inspection and then tickled their ears, the pampered beasts clearly recognised a soft touch and settled themselves at Miss Trafford’s feet the moment she took a seat. Zach was watching her closely and Vince knew her instinctive reaction to his dogs would meet with his approval. He told Vince once that he didn’t completely trust anyone who disliked animals.
“I hear your nephews have a dog, Miss Trafford,” Zach said, “which was how you came across my brother.”
“He did rescue the boys from a rather awkward situation,” she replied biting her lower lip, presumably to contain a giggle.
“I don’t suppose you will remember who we all are,” Portia remarked cheerfully after a short pause in the conversation. “There are rather a lot of us. I expect it’s a bit daunting.”
“I am fairly good with names and faces, Lady Portia. My grandfather has met so many people over the years, you see. Recently it has become my responsibility to remember who they all are and where we were introduced.”
“Oh, poor you,” Portia replied. “I should make a hopeless muddle of such a task.”
“It must have been an interesting time,” the duchess remarked with a kindly smile. “Travelling around Europe, I mean, and meeting so many different people. But was it not dangerous?”
“Not really, Your Grace. We avoided close proximity with battlegrounds.”
“Very wise. But I must say, I admire your ability to remember who people are. I myself have a terrible memory for names but never forget a face.”
“That is what my grandfather used to say, but then he is an artist, and so he recalls people by the shape of their heads. If they happen to have unfortunate features, well…that just makes them more memorable and fills him with an urgent need to capture their likeness. Or rather filled,” she amended with a sad shake of her head.
Miss Trafford’s willingness to speak without any signs of inhibition, albeit without volunteering any information he didn’t already possess about her circumstances, eased the tension Vince hadn’t been aware afflicted him. He accepted a cup of tea from his sister’s hand and, standing beside Zach, observed Miss Trafford as she conversed with his mother and the other ladies. She looked perfectly at home in their drawing room, rather as Crista had done when she first entered it as, of all things, a jeweller’s assistant. It transpired she was a great deal more than that. She was responsible for the design and manufacture of some incredibly intricate jewellery but, as a woman, could not claim credit for her skill.
Zach showed no inclination to embrace matrimony and had named Amos, as the brother closest to him in age, as his heir, with Vince and Nate following thereafter. That being the case, Vince had wondered about his mother’s reaction to Amos’s obvious infatuation with Crista. A jeweller as possible mother of the next duke? Was that feasible?
Vince ought to have known better. His mother did not have a pretentious bone in her body and her only priority was Amos’s happiness. When it became obvious that Crista filled a need in her second son, she did not hesitate to promote the match. She was behaving in a similar fashion now towards Miss Trafford, going out of her way to put her at her ease. Not that Vince had any thoughts of matrimony but it would not have escaped his mother’s notice that it was he who had introduced her to the Park, albeit purely by chance. Hopeful of seeing another of her children comfortably settled, she probably read more into the situation than actually existed. Vince exchanged a glance with Zach, who merely shrugged.
“Do you intend to remain in Compton for long, Miss Trafford?” Crista asked.
“Our plans are fluid, Lady Amos. It depends upon a lot of things.”
“Did I hear you mention you have an older brother?” Nate asked.
“Yes. He is currently in London, transacting some business on behalf of my grandfather. We are expecting his return any day.”
“It must be very di
fficult for you,” Portia said, “to have lost both your parents.”
“Portia, I’m not sure—”
“It’s all right, Lord Vincent. My grandfather’s fame ensured our loss was reported in the newspapers at the time. It is not a secret.”
“It would have been especially hard for your brother since he lost his wife, too,” the duchess said sympathetically. “And now your nephews rely upon you.”
“I do the very best that I can, but I have help.”
“Speaking of which, how is Sophia?” Lady St. John asked.
Miss Trafford’s cheeks bloomed a becoming shade of pink. “I don’t know how I would manage without her.” She gave her head a defiant toss. “Sophia is my…well, was my grandfather’s muse.”
That was news to Vince, but if Miss Trafford expected a shocked reaction, she was to be disappointed.
“How interesting,” the duchess said, her eyes widening. “I should enjoy meet her.”
“Oh, would you really?” Miss Trafford looked rather alarmed at the prospect. “We are all rather at sixes and sevens at the moment, I’m afraid.”
Vince noticed Lady St. John pat Miss Trafford’s hand, as though she had known what the duchess’s reaction would be before she mentioned the infamous Sophia. Vince had to assume she was Trafford’s paramour, as well as his muse, accounting for Miss Trafford’s embarrassment. What a very interesting family they now had on their doorstep.
The visit lasted the prescribed half an hour, after which time Miss Trafford thanked the duchess and the rest of Vince’s family very prettily for receiving her.
“I hope we shall see you again, Miss Trafford,” the duchess said, shaking her hand.
“I understand your desire to keep your grandfather’s presence here confidential,” Zach said when it was Miss Trafford’s turn to take her leave of him, “and you may rest assured that he will be left in peace, at least by the villagers.”
Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke Page 6