“Take all three of them out to the pump, Annie, and get them clean,” Nia said, shaking her head. “I shall fetch them some clean clothes, although why I bother…”
Miss Tilling popped her head around the door. “Is there to be any breakfast this morning?” she demanded to know.
“If you care to make it yourself,” Nia snapped.
Miss Tilling sniffed with disdain. “I merely asked a civil question. Really, Miss Trafford, I cannot account for your sour moods recently.”
“Don’t feel obliged to remain with us if you find them disagreeable.”
“Mr. Trafford needs me. I cannot let him down.”
Nia shared an exasperated glance with Hannah, and didn’t bother to make any response.
“Sorry, Nia,” Sean said, bounding into the kitchen. “I overslept. Oh lord,” he added, espying his mud-caked sons through the window and wincing.
“They were trying to help, apparently,” Nia said, dredging up a smile from somewhere.
“They always mean well.” Sean grinned also. “I’ll fetch them some clean clothes.”
“Thank you.”
Finally, boys and dog were clean and Sean had plans to keep them occupied all day, first with lessons and then with work in the grounds that hopefully would not include another ducking in the pond. Sophia appeared with her grandfather’s painting supplies and they were ready to leave for the Park a mere hour later than planned.
Nia had hoped that their evening at the Park would leave her grandfather disinclined to take to his studio when they arrived home to continue his nocturnal painting. No such luck and he headed straight for it the moment they got back. Desperately tired, her mind addled after hours of bandying words with Lord Vincent, Nia had almost taken Sophia up on her offer to bear him company in her stead. Almost. Sophia already did too much and Nia would not exploit her good nature for selfish reasons.
The price for sticking to her guns was a feeling of total exhaustion. She needed her wits about her if she was to play Lord Vincent at the game he appeared determined to engage her in: a game to which he had not had the courtesy to explain the rules. But this morning her mind felt dull, her body lethargic. She had dark circles beneath her eyes and was almost too tired to drive Ned. Lord Vincent had not only agitated her passions but had also unbalanced her well-organised world with his charming manners, wicked smile and persuasively convincing words.
To say nothing of his lips, and that confounded kiss.
Even when her grandfather quit his painting and she had been free to retire, sleep eluded her because she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, and the most extraordinary effect it had had upon her. Well, now that she was awake, after a fashion, she was perfectly capable of dismissing it from her mind as easily as she planned to dismiss Lord Vincent himself from her conscious thoughts. She would put all her energies into ensuring her grandfather felt comfortable, had everything he required to hand, and then she would fade into the background; read a book, close her eyes for a few minutes—no one would notice—take a walk in the grounds…no, not that. Lord Vincent might track her down if she ventured outside alone.
If his lordship chose to watch Grandpapa at work, there was nothing she could do to prevent him. But that did not mean she had to speak with him. Quite what she was so afraid of, Nia could not have said. But she was sensible enough to accept that she was out of her depth when it came to Lord Vincent. He had woken something inside of her, some deep yearning she had not previously been acquainted with, and the strength of her feelings frightened her. For once, she wanted to forget her responsibilities, the duty she owed to her grandfather and the rest of her family, and explore those yearnings.
But she did not, could not, take that risk.
Their arrival at the Park brought her mental perambulations to a halt and she was forced to pay attention. What the Sheridan groom who stepped forward to take Ned’s head thought of their means of transportation, she did not care to speculate. She accepted the hand of another groom who helped her to alight and collected up Grandpapa’s supplies beneath Nia’s watchful eye.
The Sheridans’ rather intimidating butler showed them into the atrium. Coffee was offered, the butler told them the duke would be with them in a moment, and then left them alone. Grandpapa set up his easel, and Nia moved the end of the daybed several times according to his direction. Thank the lord that he appeared to be functioning at full capacity—at least for now.
Excitement at this commission pushed aside some of her tiredness. It was some months since Grandpapa last painted a portrait and she could tell he was full of enthusiasm to indulge his first love. Whenever he displayed such fervour, the results were usually outstanding. Although she had warned the duke not to expect too much, she desperately wanted the portrait to be a success; for her grandfather’s sake as much as anything else. His condition was worsening and she was unsure if his talent would survive the loss of his wits. Was it instinctive or did it require a rational brain to produce his masterpieces? No one seemed to know, but Nia nervously accepted she would soon discover the answer for herself.
“There we are, Nia,” Grandpapa said, sipping at his coffee as he cast a critical eye over the arrangements they had made in the atrium. “That ought to do splendidly.”
As soon as the duke arrived and was seated to Grandpapa’s satisfaction, he would dash off several charcoal sketches of his grace before outlining the portrait proper with a soft pencil. He would refer to his sketches for direction as frequently as he looked at the duke in person, always trusting the first impressions he captured in those sketches.
“Good morning.” The duke joined them, his dogs at his heels, and smiled as he offered Grandpapa his hand. “I hope I have not kept you waiting. Always, something seems to occur that requires my attention at the most inconvenient times. Good morning to you, Miss Trafford.”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Nia replied for them both.
“Will I do?” he asked.
The duke was wearing tight-fitting inexpressibles, shiny hessians and a loose shirt, no neckcloth, waistcoat or coat. His hair was tousled, as though windblown. He looked as though he had just dismounted from his horse and entered the house after a lengthy period out of doors, bringing fresh air and explosive energy with him. If Grandpapa could capture that natural elegance on canvas, if he could somehow depict the ease, grace and charm with which the duke had assumed the position he had been born to occupy then the project would be a resounding success. It was a challenge that would have any artist worth his salt salivating with anticipation, mainly because the duke was such an unusual and interesting person. It would be a difficult commission to get exactly right, but Nia had every confidence in her grandfather’s ability to do just that; provided he did not suffer a relapse, of course. It would be interesting to see if the project stirred memories of happier days.
With the eye of an artist and the heart of a woman, Nia could appreciate His Grace’s masculine beauty without being unduly affected by it. All that taut flesh over hard, rippling muscle didn’t make her heart flutter. He was very attractive, with natural presence and disconcerting poise. She could well understand why he was pursued with such determination by ladies from all walks of life whenever he showed himself in society. Such would be the lot of any single gentleman in his position. He would be a perfect match for her friend Frankie, Nia thought; Frankie who hadn’t an obsequious bone in her body and proved it by constantly taking issue with His Grace if he happened to say something she disagreed with. Nia had noticed her do so on several occasions the previous night and she suspected that the duke found her attitude refreshing. It must be terribly trying for him to have people toadying to him everywhere he went. Nia almost felt sympathy for him.
Nia had supposed Lord Vincent would be here to greet them since the portrait had been his idea and wondered where he was hiding himself. Not that she wanted to see him. After participating so enthusiastically in that kiss, she was absolutely sure she was not ready to fa
ce him, and probably never would be. At the same time, she was anxious to get this initial meeting over with so they could put the matter behind them and meet in future without embarrassment. Not that he would be embarrassed. He probably made a habit of kissing willing females when he had nothing better to do with his time. He was certainly very proficient at it.
Perdition, was it her or was it too warm in here?
All things considered, she thought it rather bad-mannered of Lord Vincent not to pay his respects, even if she had…well, lost his respect.
“Vince delayed his departure in the hope of seeing you this morning, Miss Trafford,” the duke remarked, as though guessing at the nature of her thoughts.
She willed herself not to blush; but was conscious of doing so anyway. “His departure?” she asked with as much composure as she could muster.
“He has gone up to town for a few days.”
“Oh, I see.”
“He has decided to do some sleuthing of his own, to see what he can discover about the person we referred to yesterday.”
Nia flashed a warning glare at the duke. Her grandfather did not know about the forgeries, and she had no wish to burden his fragile mind with that knowledge. Fortunately, he was busy arranging his pencils and charcoals and did not seem to be paying attention to Nia’s conversation with the duke. The duke appeared to realise what he had said and flashed an apologetic glance at Nia.
“Right, Trafford,” he said. “Where would you like me and the hounds?”
“If you would be so kind as to sit on the end of the daybed, Your Grace. Do you suppose the dogs would oblige by sitting at your feet?”
“Most likely.”
The duke gave them a hand signal and they did precisely that. Nia made a mental note to ask him how he achieved such instant obedience. It was not as though dogs understood ducal authority, surely? If there was a trick, perhaps she could use it on Ruff. Such an optimistic possibility made her smile.
“Would it inconvenience you to lean your forearms on your thighs, Your Grace, and try to look as casual as possible?”
“There,” he replied, doing as Grandpapa had asked. “Will that do?”
“Admirably, would you not say, Nia?”
“I think it might work very well,” Nia replied, quietly moving to take a seat behind her grandfather, making sure to keep out of his light and not allow her shadow to fall over his easel.
***
Vince reached London as darkness fell and headed directly for Sheridan House. Pausing only to change out of his travelling clothes and eat a hasty supper, he ventured out again, bound for Whites. But his thoughts remained in Winchester. Having decided it would be safer to put distance between himself and his growing interest in Nia Trafford, he found reasons to linger in expectation of her arrival until the last possible moment. But no matter how frequently he looked down the drive from the privacy of his chamber, there was no sign of Ned plodding along it, hauling Nia’s rickety gig. He had to leave eventually or he would not have made the journey to London in one day.
Now that he had arrived, he was unsure quite what he expected to achieve. White’s was sparsely attended at this time of year. Even so, he saw several people known to him and acknowledged their greetings without being drawn into their company. Settled beside the fire, a drink on the table beside him, he was content to peruse the newspapers and bide his time, fairly confident that Smythe would put in an appearance before the night was out.
He did so an hour later and accepted Vince’s invitation to join him.
“What brings you up to town at this time of year, Sheridan?” Smythe enquired.
“A few bits of family business, and the need for a change of scenery.”
Smythe chuckled. “Some country chit got you in her sights?”
You have no idea. “Not precisely.”
“It’s a good time to be in London for a man in your position. Not too crowded, and no match-making mamas on the prowl.”
Vince smiled. “There is that.” He paused to take a sip of burgundy. “Have you never thought of taking a country estate, Smythe?”
“Heavens, no. I’m a city man through and through. The country bores me rigid. Besides, I enjoy the arts. Plenty of galleries and dealers in town to keep me abreast of anything interesting that comes on the market. It helps to be on hand and snap them up, you know.”
“Are yes, I had forgotten about your precious collection.” Vince stretched and pretended boredom. “Any new acquisitions recently?”
Smythe hesitated, opened his mouth as though about to speak and then closed it again, concentrating upon his wine instead. Vince waited him out in silence.
“I picked up a Trafford portrait the other day, as a matter of fact,” Smythe replied with casual modesty. “One of his early, lesser-known works.”
“Really.” Vince flexed his brows. “Of whom is the portrait?”
“Some young girl. She isn’t named but there’s no question it’s a Trafford, albeit not done with the flair he demonstrated in his later works.”
“Zach is interested in Traffords. He had not heard any had come on the market.”
Symthe chuckled. “My point precisely. Now perhaps you understand my reason for being here, in the hub of things.”
“How did you hear of this gem? Through an agent, presumably.”
“Actually, I was approached by someone I didn’t know.” Smythe shrugged. “It happens all the time, once you become a recognised collector. Nine times out of ten the advances are bogus.”
“But not this time? The portrait had provenance?”
“Well no, not precisely.” Smythe seemed reluctant to make the admission. “But I’m no greenhorn. I know an original Trafford when I see one.”
“Which makes me wonder why it was not offered for auction.”
“You’re too suspicious, Sheridan. The vendor had his reasons.”
“I dare say.” Vince shrugged. “Who was the chap who sold it to you? Do you have his direction? He might have access to others.”
“Name of Griffiths. He’s from Paris, which is where I am bound next week for a lengthy stay. There are several auctions coming up and I’m keen to see the works before deciding if I want to bid for any of them.”
“Ah, that’s a shame.”
Smythe looked surprised. “Didn’t know you took such a keen interest in my activities.”
“Well, there’s a reason for that. Strictly between you and me, it is a bit of a coincidence that you mentioned Trafford’s name because it just so happens that he’s now in this country, living on our doorstep, no less.”
“The devil he is!” Smythe sat bolt upright. “I’d heard rumours about him being…er, a trifle distracted, shall we say?”
“Exaggerated.” Vince stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. “He’s a little frail, so his granddaughter doesn’t want it made public that he’s back on these shores just yet. He will never be left alone if that happens.”
“Is he working?” Smythe asked expectantly.
“Actually, he’s accepted a commission to paint Zach’s portrait.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Most likely,” Vince replied without hesitation.
“I heard he had moved on to landscapes, which I thought would add to the value of my portrait. Damned if Griffiths didn’t deceive me about that.”
Vince flashed a wry smile. “Glad to hear you rejoice in Trafford’s recovery.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Still, you just wait until I catch up with Griffiths in Paris.” Smythe drained his glass and signalled to the servant for a refill. “Well, serves me right. I ought to have known better than buy from someone I’m not acquainted with. I always said I wouldn’t do it and scorned the greed of those that did.”
“We shall be having a small gathering to show off Zach’s portrait and some of Trafford’s landscapes. If you are interested, I’d be happy to send you an invitation.”
“If I’m int
erested?” Smythe’s eyes flared with anticipation. “I’d walk over hot coals to meet the great man. When is it likely to be?”
“As soon as the portrait is finished. Trafford works fast, I understand. It could be a matter of weeks.” If he keeps his wits about him.
Smythe groaned. “I shall be in Paris.”
“You might want to delay your departure if you have a mind to get over your dislike of the country and meet Trafford.”
“I would if I could; never doubt it. But my wife has made a whole series of engagements which she will never permit me to renege upon.” Smythe flashed a hopeful smile. “Sure I can’t persuade you to give me a private introduction to Trafford?”
Vince shook his head. “Sorry, not possible, I’m afraid.”
“Damnation!”
“What did Griffiths look like?” Vince asked after a short pause.
“Why?” Smythe blinked, his affable expression giving way to one of suspicion. “What does his appearance matter to you? He had every right to sell me that portrait. I made damned sure of that.”
“Idle curiosity, nothing more.”
“Nothing remarkable about him. Average in every way. Had a Welsh accent, so he did.”
With a name like Griffiths, Vince supposed that was to be expected. He was about to ask further questions when, to his intense frustration, other members joined them and the opportunity was lost.
Tired from his long day’s ride, Vince declined to participate in the game of cards that Smythe joined. Instead he returned to Sheridan House early and retired. Smythe was the key to his plan to uncover the identity of the forger, or his agent, but if he was to be in Paris at the time Zach’s portrait was unveiled, he would be of no help whatsoever. What he had managed to learn about the man Smythe had dealt with was next to useless. Griffiths was almost certainly and alias, as was the Welsh accent. His lack of progress was disheartening.
Smythe had promised to keep Trafford’s presence in Winchester a secret. He had probably promised to keep the particulars of his new portrait secret too, but had not been able to resist boasting about it. If Winchester was inundated with art collectors keen to make Trafford’s acquaintance, Vince would know who to blame for revealing his whereabouts.
Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke Page 18