Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke (7 page)

“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 shoulders. “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?

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.”

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.