Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke (14 page)

“I lock the door when we are not there because I don’t want anyone snooping at Patrick’s latest work,” Sophia said. “Knowing about the forgeries has made me more cautious.”

Nia nodded. Her grandfather’s studio adjoined the rooms he shared with Sophia and could only be reached through a single doorway in the hall.

“Well then, either you have simply misplaced them or they were stolen before we moved here. There is no other explanation.”

“I want them back,” Sophia wailed. “Selling them is one thing. Having them stolen is entirely another. Besides, I never planned to sell them all.”

“Don’t worry, Sophia.” Nia hugged her friend. “We will find them. Somehow.”

“That we will,” Sean replied. “This is a different matter from forged portraits of persons unknown, which is very convenient, by the way.”

“Because if the portraits were of well-known people, the people in question would know they did not sit for them,” Nia added.

“Whereas you are very obviously the subject of the sketches, Sophia,” Sean said, grinning. “There is no mistaking that.”

“Thank you.” Sophia smiled through her tears, still courtesan enough to recognise a compliment from a handsome man when she heard one.

“Besides, Grandpapa has shown them to a lot of people because he is inordinately proud of them, and of you. If they were to turn up on the open market, or the closed one for that matter, while Grandpapa is still alive, we would be able to prove they were stolen.”

“Someone is investing in their future,” Nia said glumly.

“It looks that way,” Sean agreed. “Someone who is willing to exercise patience.”

“The sketches will be worth a lot more when Patrick passes on,” Sophia added, sniffing.

“They will be back in our possession long before that day dawns,” Sean replied with determination.

They turned when they heard an upstairs window open and their grandfather’s voice booming out.

“Sean, my boy, where the devil have you been? I haven’t seen you in months.”

It was a little over a week since Sean went to London. Nevertheless, Nia was pleased to see her grandfather looking clear-eyed and aware. There would be no hunting horns today.

“Hello, Grandpapa. How are you?”

“Never better, never better.”

“I shall be up directly to say hello.”

“You two go up,” Nia said to Sean and Sophia. “I shall return to my weeding. It helps me to rationalise my thoughts.”

“Murdering a recalcitrant dandelion feeds your violent proclivities, more like,” Sean said, grinning and tweaking her chin. “Whose neck are you breaking in your imagination when you do battle with those roots, I wonder.”

“Probably better if I don’t tell you that.” Somehow, Nia summoned up a brief smile. “If I did, you would probably start questioning
my
sanity.”

“Don’t be downhearted,” Sean replied, kissing her cheek. “We are not beaten yet.”

“Are we not?” Nia expelled a long breath. “I am so tired of lurching from one crisis to the next, Sean. It wears one down after a while and I am not sure how much fight I have left in me.”

“It is not like you to be so defeatist,” Sean said, frowning. “What can I do to ease your burden?”

“Find those sketches,” Nia replied with asperity.

A muscle in his jaw flexed and hardened. “I fully intend to do precisely that.”

Sean patted her shoulder before walking towards the house with Sophia. Left alone, Nia didn’t return immediately to her weeding. Instead she resumed her seat and did her very best to think positive thoughts. An optimist by nature, even she could find little to be positive about. The theft of the sketches—and in spite of the reassuring words she had found for Sophia, she was perfectly sure they had been stolen—was the final blow. Not only had they lost a valuable means of keeping themselves out of debt, but it also felt as though she had suffered a personal violation.

If she had been angry about the forgeries, it was nothing to the way she felt now. Her grandfather had always given his time and advice as freely as he threw his doors open to those in need of artistic support. And this was how those people repaid him. Part of her wanted to protect Grandpapa from the seedier side of human greed by whisking him back to Ireland, where he would be isolated and safe. But if she did that, the forger would become even more brazen and she absolutely refused to sit back while he made money through Patrick Trafford’s reputation. There had to be another way, but she was too emotionally charged to think coherently. She covered her tired eyes with her hands, barely conscious of the tears that seeped through her fingers as she sobbed her heart out.

Nia had no clear recollection of just how long she sat there, indulging in a rare bout of self-pity. Only when she sensed a looming presence hovering over her did she remove her hands and look up, directly into Lord Vincent’s concerned features.

***

“Miss Trafford.” Vince was overwhelmed by a torrent of protective feelings when he observed just how distressed she actually was. “I am intruding.”

She lowered her hands from her swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “I did not hear you arrive,” she replied, making it sound like an accusation.

“I would leave you in solitude, but you are so deeply distressed that I cannot bring myself to do so. Tell me what I can do to be of service to you.”

He offered her his handkerchief. She wiped her eyes with it, blew her nose and then nodded her thanks. “I will have it laundered and returned to you,” she said, slipping it into a concealed pocket in her gown.

“May I?” He nodded to the space beside her on the bench.

“Please do.”

Vince swished the tails of his coat aside and sat beside her. “I don’t wish to pry, but sometimes it helps to talk about things to a stranger. I am a very good listener and know how to respect a confidence.”

She remained silent for a protracted moment, retreating inside her head to a place where he could not reach her. Clearly unsure about the wisdom of opening her heart to him, Vince said nothing more to try and persuade her. Motivated by the very best of intentions, as a gentleman it was still unthinkable to pry into a lady’s private affairs without just cause. Feeling helpless, he watched a kaleidoscope of emotions chasing themselves across her countenance as she slowly regained her composure. He suspected she would brush the incident aside as nothing more than momentary weakness. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the house, as though worried about being seen with him, and abruptly stood up.

“Walk with me, Lord Vincent.”

“By all means.”

He allowed her to decide upon the direction they took, unsurprised when she headed for the tree-lined driveway that led to the gates. They would only be visible through the thick leafy canopy provided by close-packed trees from one or two upper windows. Whoever occupied those rooms, Miss Trafford clearly did not worry about being observed by them. She turned onto a track that ran through what had once been an orchard. He was acutely conscious of her light floral fragrance mingling with the stronger aroma of linseed oil and the sweet scent of apple blossom.

“I applaud your inventive means of keeping the lawn in check,” he said, smiling as he nodded in the direction of her cob tethered in the middle of it, industriously chomping away.

“Needs must,” she replied with a negligent shrug. “I suppose I ought to apologise for my appearance too,” she added, indicating her old gown covered in grass stains. Vince decided not to point out that she also had dirty smudges on her face—smudges that he was fighting the urge to remove for her.

“Never apologise for honest work.”

She veered off the weed-strewn path and took a narrower one between apple trees badly in need of pruning. It was obviously a favourite haunt of hers, presumably when she required a moment’s solitude from her myriad duties, because the path had been regularly trodden, and recently. Vince could see the area it opened up to beyond the orchard had once formed a part of the formal gardens. It was now a pretty wilderness with shrubs fighting a losing battle for space against the weeds.

There was the remains of an arbour housing a crumbling stone bench and Miss Trafford headed directly towards it. Seated, she idly plucked at the leaves of a rambling plant and stared off into the distance. Vince sat beside her, conscious of the absolute silence of their situation: a silence broken only by the occasional call of a bird or the rustling leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. Never had a lady appeared in more need of comforting; never had Vince felt a greater desire to provide that service. And yet he hesitated. Miss Trafford was a very private, very proud, self-sufficient person who needed to be treated with considerable care and every consideration.

“This place must have been a haven of tranquillity when it was a garden,” she said after a prolonged period of silence.

“In some ways it is better the way nature intended.”

She looked at him then; a long, probing sideways glance. “How strange. I have often thought the exact same thing. I come here whenever I can, and the peacefulness never fails to soothe me.” She managed a brittle smile. “Unless the boys find me here, of course.”

“And yet you welcome the interruption.” He paused. “From them, at least.”

She threw aside the leaf she had just shredded to pieces. “Why are you here, Lord Vincent?” she asked.

“I told you I would call today, to see if you had decided to accept my mother’s invitation.”

“Ah, I had quite forgotten about that.” Vince struggled not to smile. Not many people forgot about invitations issued by duchesses. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. My brother has returned from London, you see. He got back just this morning, and his arrival sent everything else from my head.”

“And that is why you are upset? He did not bring the news you wanted to hear?”

“Not precisely.” She paused, once again either lost in reflection or struggling with indecision. She then straightened her shoulders and gave him her full attention. “He didn’t only go to London to consult with Grandpapa’s agent and arrange his exhibition. However, that was one of his duties. The only one he was able to achieve.”

“Who is your grandfather’s agent?”

“Mr. Belling. He has a gallery in Bond Street.”

“Ah yes, I know of him by reputation.”

“But there is much you do not know.” She took another deep, fortifying breath and met his gaze. Vince held his breath, convinced she had decided to confide in him. “Someone is selling forged portraits, passing them off as Grandpapa’s early work.”

Vince sat a little straighter. “The devil they are!”

“We know of three so far. Sean managed to see the third one while in London and confirms it is definitely a forgery. A very good one indeed, but a forgery for all that.”

“Then why did he not tell the purchaser he had been duped?”

“If only it were that easy.” She sighed. “We think the forger must be one of Grandpapa’s protégés, seeking to profit from his skill because he knows Grandpapa is losing his mind and is in no position to disclaim the work. To do so, he would have to show himself in public, everyone would notice how vague he has become, and no one would believe him.” She straightened a spine that was already rigidly upright. “I cannot, I will not, expose him to ridicule.”

“Quite so.” Vince flexed his jaw, thinking about the stranger acting furtively in Compton a short time ago. He had only caught a glance at the back of the woman he had been engaged in conversation with, but she had looked familiar. Vince had seen her somewhere, and recently. “What a very peculiar way your grandfather’s students have of repaying his kindness.”

She flashed a wry smile. “I hope you do not expect me to disagree with you.”

“Do you have any idea who might be responsible?”

“I have been racking my brains. There are perhaps three men with the requisite skill who have been with us recently enough to be aware of Grandpapa’s fragile state of mind.”

“If they are that talented, can they not make their own mark?”

She shrugged. “It is not as easy as you might imagine. Good fortune, a rich sponsor, timing, opportunity, and so many other factors play a part. I can well understand these men’s collective frustration when they do not receive the acclaim they perhaps deserve, but to take advantage of Grandpapa…” Miss Trafford shook her head. “It is truly wicked.”

“Can your brother connect any of them directly to the sales of the forgeries?”

Again she shook her head, a sad little smile playing about her lips. “The forger has been very clever, claiming in each case that the portrait had belonged to a relative, recently deceased, and that he needed to sell it to pay death duties. Naturally, he did not reveal his real name, but offered the paintings at far less than they would be worth if Grandpapa had actually painted them in return for discretion and a quick sale.”

“Hmm, the buyer thinks he has made a wise investment and is perfectly willing to keep the particulars private.” Vince scowled. “As you say, very astute of him.”

“Especially since Grandpapa no longer plans to paint portraits. When that becomes public knowledge, those that do exist will increase in value.” She curled her fingers into a tight fist and thumped her thigh in frustration. “It is infuriating, especially since there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.”

“There is always something that can be done if one has the means and desire to set matters right.”

She glared at him. “That is very easy for you to say. You have money and a privileged position from which to fight your battles.”

“If you think I was making light of your difficulties, then you quite mistake the matter.” He took her hand, gently forced her clenched fingers apart and linked his own through them. Goodness knows what madness drove him to do it; he just didn’t seem able to help himself. Miss Trafford appeared momentarily surprised, but did not attempt to remove her hand. It was rather grubby since she had not worn gloves while gardening. “But there is more, I think. You already know about the forgeries, so this latest one could not have come as that much of a surprise.”

“Yes, there is more.” She paused again, and then, with a reckless shrug she started to speak, their hands still entwined. “Twenty years ago, when Grandpapa was at the height of his fame and Sophia was at the height of her beauty, he did a series of sketches and paintings of her
au natural
. They are some of his very best work, but we are, as you can tell from our living conditions, exceedingly pressed. Sophia keeps saying we ought to sell some of the sketches. What we could ask for them would set us up for years, but I couldn’t bear to do it, and kept putting it off. Now we have no choice. It is either that or Grandmama’s jewellery, and that is locked away for the boys’ wives.”