Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke

by Wendy Soliman

  “Miss Trafford,” he said, raising a hand in greeting. “Your grandfather is asking for you.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Drake.” It was one thing to have her grandfather’s lame ducks foisted upon her, but quite another to have them tell her what she should or should not be doing.

  “Excuse me,” he replied. “I did not realise you had company.”

  Of course you did not. With no other choice available to her, Nia reluctantly made the introduction. “Lord Vincent Sheridan, may I present Mr. Drake. Mr. Drake is a poet who enjoys my grandfather’s patronage.”

  Mr. Drake bowed, for once struck speechless, which was a blessing. Lord Vincent merely inclined his head as he summed up Mr. Drake and clearly didn’t see much to impress. Well, at least there was one area in which they were in complete agreement. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with your work, Drake,” he said, turning towards Nia and offering her the ghost of a wink.

  He understands. Nia felt overwhelming gratitude. How long had it been since anyone had stopped to consider her feelings?

  “Well, I…er, that is, my opus has not yet seen publication, but I have every expectation of it very soon being read in all the best salons.”

  “How very optimistic of you.”

  “Can I escort you inside, Miss Trafford?” Mr. Drake proffered his arm in a proprietary manner that irked Nia. “It is time for luncheon.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Drake.”

  Her incivility had no discernible effect and he continued to hover. At that moment the boys burst onto the terrace again, along with Miss Tilling, and Nia’s humiliation was complete.

  “Hannah says I shall have a scar on my knee, most likely,” Leo said triumphantly.

  “And I shall have a black eye.”

  Nia smiled her approval at their clean hands and faces, well aware that situation would not stand the test of time.

  “Shall we walk Forrester up and down for you?”

  “It doesn’t do to keep fine horses standing around, you know.”

  “Did you know that Forrester was bred on our stud here at Winchester Park?”

  Nia stifled a smile when, wonder of wonders, Lord Vincent’s comment rendered the boys round-eyed and speechless. But not for long.

  “Gosh, that must be jolly,” Leo said.

  “I should love to see it.”

  “Then perhaps it can be arranged,” Lord Vincent replied. “With your aunt’s permission.”

  “Can we, Aunt Nia?” The turned identically appealing expressions upon her: expressions that almost always got them what they wanted.

  “We shall have to see.”

  Annoyed with Lord Vincent for placing the idea in their head, she shot him a look of disapproval. It bounced harmlessly off his indolent expression. Determined not to be bullied into a situation that would create more problems than she was ready to handle, Nia introduced Miss Tilling to his lordship as an aspiring artist. That much was true but it seemed indelicate to add that she was a hopelessly inept one, living off her grandfather’s goodwill and dwindling resources.

  “How lovely to have such a distinguished neighbour,” Miss Tilling trilled, making it sound as though she was the mistress of this house, infuriating woman! “I hope we shall see a lot of you.”

  Nia choked on her indignation. “Boys, take everyone back inside for luncheon,” she said, saving Lord Vincent the trouble of formulating a response. “I shall be there directly, once I have seen Lord Vincent on his way.”

  Mr. Drake looked as though he wished to argue the point. Nia fixed him with a steady gaze and he turned back towards the house, taking a reluctant-seeming Miss Tilling with him. The girl was exquisitely pretty, very dainty, flirtatious by nature, and used to engaging the attention of men from all walks of life. In short, she was everything that Nia was not, and never wished to be. Emily Tilling looked back over her shoulder and batted her lashes at Lord Vincent. If he noticed, he gave no sign, and Nia was hard-pressed to hold back a smile.

  “I hope I did not speak out of turn by putting the idea of a visit to Winchester Park into the boys’ head,” Lord Vincent said when they were alone again. “I ought to have sought your permission first.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “I can see that you already have too many responsibilities, what with your grandfather—”

  “He paints at night,” she said quickly. “Which is why he sleeps half the day.”

  “I see.” Nia very much hoped that he did not. “Leaving you to run his household?”

  “My grandfather collects people in the same way that others might collect stamps,” she replied, unable to keep a note of ill-usage out of her tone.

  “So I just saw for myself.”

  “He means well.” She shrugged as they strolled the length of the crumbling terrace. “He likes to encourage talent, but is sometimes too soft-hearted for his own good.”

  “Do bring the boys over tomorrow morning,” he said, fixing her with an entreating look. “I believe Lady St. John will be back. She is bound to call at the Park with news from my sister.” He smiled. “Make that demands for my sister’s new charity with which she is currently totally absorbed, and assumes her family will support her ideals. I have not the slightest doubt that we shall all be expected to dance to her tune.”

  “It would be nice to see Frankie again, but I’m not sure I can spare the time.”

  “The boys will plague you night and day until you agree.” The expression in his eyes was compelling, and Nia suspected he knew it. “I shall never know a moment’s peace, thinking of you being overset by their demands.”

  “Behave yourself!”

  “Oh, excuse me.” He arranged his features into a convincingly innocent expression that almost, but not quite, fooled Nia into believing it was genuine. “Did I say something to offend?”

  “Do you always say whatever you like?” Nia bit her lip to prevent an inappropriate laugh from escaping. She had precious little to laugh about, but Lord Vincent’s reckless mood appeared to be rubbing off on her. “Well, I suppose someone in your position can do as he pleases and get away with it.”

  “Does that mean you will agree to bring the boys?”

  Nia could find of a dozen reasons why she should not, but could also not think when her nephews last had a proper treat. Nor could she recall when they last interacted with a man whose company they enjoyed as much as Lord Vincent’s. Or was that Nia trying to justify her own desire to spend more time with him? She thought of Mr. Drake, of Sophia and Miss Tilling. Her grandfather’s fragile mind, and of all the responsibilities resting upon her own shoulders. When did she last have a treat, come to that?

  “Very well, Lord Vincent,” she said, tossing her head and offering him her hand to seal the arrangement. “We shall be happy to accept your invitation.”

  Chapter Three

  Having secured Miss Trafford’s agreement, Vince took his leave of Stoneleigh Manor and its strange assortment of residents. Upon return to the Park, he found all of his family in the drawing room, including Lady St. John, already returned from Southampton. Their beautiful young neighbour was a widow, recently settled in the district following the death of her husband, now an intimate with the Sheridan family.

  “I assume we have Annalise’s enthusiasm to thank for your early return,” Vince said, smiling as he took her hand. “She can be rather intense when she gets to grips with a new passion. Speaking personally, I find her exhausting at such times.”

  “On the contrary, Lord Vincent.” Lady St. John treated Vince to a specious smile. “Your sister’s fresh ideas are an inspiration to those of us who have been too long involved with charitable causes and have become jaded over the years. I came home because I felt I had outlived my usefulness and had nothing more to contribute. As well as setting up her charity, your sister is tearing Romsey House apart and completely redecorating. She did not need me getting under her feet.”

  “From what I have seen of the house,” Vince’
s mother, the dowager duchess remarked, “it certainly needs some attention. The place hasn’t been touched for decades and is shockingly neglected.”

  “Quite so, Your Grace.” Lady St. John inclined her head. “Given that Annalise and Clarence have not been married so very long, I didn’t wish to overstay my welcome.”

  “We are very glad to have you back with us,” the duchess replied. “Annalise and Lord Romsey plan to take their wedding trip later in the year, so my daughter tells me, after her husband has discharged his duties at the Foreign Office. The details are taking far longer than he anticipated.”

  “They always do,” Lady St. John replied, almost but not quite rolling her eyes.

  Vince assumed she was in a position to know since, like Romsey, her late husband had also been one of His Majesty’s diplomats.

  “Where have you been to get yourself so covered in mud, Vince?” Zach asked.

  “Oh, sorry about that, Mother,” Vince replied. “I should have changed before showing myself in your drawing room.”

  “Stop procrastinating and tell us why you’re bathed in mud,” Portia, Vince’s younger sister, demanded, her round face alight with amusement at the sorry state of him. “Don’t tell me you fell from that new stallion of yours.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Portia, but it was nothing quite so dramatic.”

  He told his family about the incident in Compton. “Really, Zach, this dispute is getting out of hand,” he said. “Something needs to be done.”

  Zach, who was elegantly draped against the mantelpiece, shrugged. “So I am constantly being told. What is less clear, is what can be done. I rather think the villagers enjoy being at odds with one another and I can hardly order them to befriend each other if they would prefer not to.”

  “We need a cause which they feel strongly enough about to overcome their prejudices,” Lady St. John said pensively. “They put aside their differences each year to challenge your family and friends to a cricket match, Your Grace, so it’s not impossible to get them to cooperate, if they have the right incentive.”

  “Do you have anything specific in mind?” Zach asked her, giving their neighbour his complete attention.

  “No, but I shall give the matter some thought. There must be an answer. It’s simply a case of thinking what it must be and then convincing the villagers they thought of it themselves.”

  Vince’s youngest brother, Nate, laughed. “”I admire your optimism, Lady St. John.”

  “Who were the urchins you rescued?” Amos asked, standing behind his wife, Crista’s, chair and resting a hand on her shoulder.

  “I dare say you know the answer to that question, Lady St. John,” Vince replied.

  This time she did roll her rather expressive eyes. “Leo and Art, I would imagine.”

  “Precisely so. We have the good fortune to have Patrick Trafford and his family living on our doorstep,” Vince told his family. “Well, at least, I think we are fortunate. Time will tell.”

  “How could we not be fortunate to have such a famous neighbour?” Portia asked, looking perplexed.

  “Did you see Trafford himself?” Lady St. John asked before Vince could reply to Portia’s question.

  Vince nodded. “I had no idea he was so…well, I expect you know.”

  “Yes, unfortunately, I do.”

  “I feel very sorry for your friend, Miss Trafford. She has a lot to contend with.”

  “Do explain,” Nate urged. “Why all the mystery?”

  “Trafford has lost his wits.” Vince went on to explain all he had seen and heard at Stoneleigh Manor. “People take advantage of his good nature and Miss Trafford is left to deal with the consequences. I did not go inside the manor but it was evident from what I did see that the place is in chaos.”

  The duchess shook her head. “Does Trafford still paint?”

  “Apparently so.” But Vince thought about the paint he had seen beneath Miss Trafford’s nails, and the manner in which she had looked at him as though preparing to commit his features to canvas—the look of an artist—and doubts crept into his mind. He wondered now if the scent of jasmine that had clung to her might actually have been linseed oil, used for mixing oil paint. There was no reason why she should not mix her grandfather’s paints. That did not mean she herself was an artist, but Vince would not discount the possibility. “I suspect that if people knew the true state of his mind, he would quickly fall out of fashion, and therein lies Miss Trafford’s difficulty.”

  “His eccentricities might make him more famous,” Zach suggested. “Artists are supposed to be temperamental and impolite. It adds to their fascination.”

  “That is most unkind,” Lady St. John chided. “But very likely true.”

  “The boys are mad about horses, Amos,” Vince remarked, “and so I’ve invited them and Miss Trafford over here tomorrow morning. I hope that won’t interfere with anything.”

  “Not in the least,” Amos replied. “I am sure I can find something for them to do that will make them feel useful.”

  “Miss Trafford has agreed to come?” Lady St. John sounded surprised. “It is unheard of for her to leave her grandfather to take up social engagements. She is very protective of him.”

  “Vince must have deployed his disgusting charm,” Nate suggested to his brothers.

  “Really?” The duchess looked interested.

  “I have my moments,” Vince replied indolently. “You will call in the morning, I hope,” he added to Lady St. John. “I think your friend would enjoy seeing you.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Nate taunted. “You had to bribe Miss Trafford with the prospect of seeing Lady St. John. Ah ha. Perhaps your charm is not so potent after all.”

  “I can give you lessons at your convenience, little brother.”

  “Excuse them, Frankie,” Portia said, grinning. “They have yet to grow up.”

  “Why ever would we want to do that?” Nate asked, looking genuinely perplexed.

  “Yes, thank you, I shall,” Lady St. John said, smiling in response to Vince’s invitation. “It is a long time since Nia and I had the opportunity to converse through any means other than correspondence. How did she seem?”

  “Distracted and overworked. I don’t suppose I helped much when I appeared uninvited.”

  A speculative smile played around Lady St. John’s lips. “No, I don’t suppose you did.”

  “How did you meet Miss Trafford?” the duchess asked Lady St. John.

  “In Brussels at the end of the war. Trafford was at his best then and was working his fingers to the bone doing portraits of officers before Waterloo. Really, I thought it was rather insensitive of their families to commission them. It was as though they thought their loved ones would perish and wanted to preserve their likenesses before the battle, just in case.” Lady St. John shook her head, setting her curls dancing. “Anyway, the boys’ mother and Nia’s parents were all alive then and Nia did not have so many responsibilities.”

  “Oh, I did not know her parents were dead as well,” Vince remarked.

  “They and her brother’s wife returned to England and sadly fell victim to the scarlet fever epidemic. The boys, their father and Nia remained in Brussels with Mr. Trafford while he finished his work. The irony is, they ought to have been in more danger, what with them being so close to the fighting, and yet it was the English contingent who perished.” Lady St. John lifted her shoulders and sighed. “It was all very sad.”

  “Perhaps that’s what made Trafford lose his senses?” Zach suggested.

  “Very possibly.” Vince nodded. “It would certainly explain why he switched from portraiture to landscape painting. Everyone who knows about it, and it is not public knowledge yet, seems to think it’s a brave change of direction by a talented man who had made a fortune from his art and can afford to indulge his whims, but—”

  “But he cannot paint portraits anymore because the people sitting for them would see he had lost his senses,” the duchess finished. “How ve
ry sad.”

  “You are right, both of you,” Lady St. John said. “Nia Trafford confided in me that her grandfather had made the switch at her suggestion for that very reason.”

  “I wonder why he doesn’t just retire, if he is so unwell,” Portia mused.

  Vince wondered the same thing. From what he had seen that day, he had a few ideas, but decided against voicing them. “On a different note,” he said. “Something occurred to me on the ride back home, Zach.”

  “Some insightful thought you have a burning desire to share with us all,” Zach suggested with a wry twitch of his lips.

  “All of my thoughts are insightful.” Vince ignored Nate’s scoffing laugh and concentrated his attention on Zach. “We are agreed that we need to find a solution to the feuding between the villages, are we not?”

  Zach nodded. “Go on.”

  “It has got more intense since Amos married Crista.”

  “I hope I haven’t made things worse,” Crista replied, looking a little alarmed by the possibility.

  “Not in the least. The problem is not of your making. It’s just that you happened to be living in Shawford when Amos found you and had the good sense to marry you.”

  “Ah, I see what you mean,” Amos said. “Since I am the first brother to marry and chose a lady Shawford claims as its own, that gives Shawford the edge in this ridiculous feud.”

  “But now that Trafford is living in Compton,” Zach added, “it could even the score.”

  “Except Trafford won’t show himself in public. Nia won’t permit it because she never knows if he will be coherent or not,” Lady St. John said.

  “He may not need to,” Vince said pensively. “Just knowledge of his being there would give Compton reason to boast.”

  “But people wouldn’t leave him in peace and it sounds as though peace is what the poor man needs,” the duchess pointed out.