Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke

by Wendy Soliman

  She hesitated, as though trying to think of a reason to decline. Eventually, with an almost imperceptible shrug, she fell into step with him.

  “The portrait is coming along exceedingly well. I should not be surprised if Grandpapa decided the duke doesn’t need to sit anymore. He will finish the painting in his studio.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Most assuredly. He works as much from the sketches he made before putting paint to canvas as he does through having your brother sit for him.”

  “I have never heard of another artist who works in such a way.”

  “I shall be relieved if he decides the time has come to retreat to Stoneleigh Manor.”

  “You have had enough of us already?”

  She smiled. “Forgive my anxiety, but I have no way of knowing how long Grandpapa’s creative mood will last for. He has been fine thus far, but it could change in the blink of an eye. I can control him better when he is in familiar surroundings, and Sophia is there to help me keep him calm. He gets so frustrated sometimes, but can’t make any of us understand why. At home, Sophia and I have means of distraction at our disposal.” Nia stifled a smile. “That is especially true in Sophia’s case.”

  “Selfishly, I don’t wish for you to go.”

  “What a strange thing to say. You ran away to London the moment Grandpapa and I came here to start work. Why should it matter to you?”

  “Is that what you thought? That I ran away?”

  She tossed her head. “I barely gave your absence a moment’s consideration.”

  He sent her a teasing smile, and said nothing.

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Really, you are impossible!”

  Vince did his very best to contain his smile. She really was delightful when roused. He was especially pleased to know that she had resented his absence. “Very likely.”

  “What possible difference can it make to you if we stay or go?”

  He could not answer her truthfully; mainly because he wasn’t sure what the truth actually was. Instead he countered with a question of his own. “Would you like to know what discoveries I made in London?”

  “Regarding the forger?” she asked, hope flaring in her eyes.

  They had reached the mews. Vince handed Forrester over to the groom who ran to take him, and turned her towards his mother’s pretty rose garden a short distance away.

  “Tell me, does the name Griffiths mean anything to you?”

  She canted her head as she considered the question. “That is the name of the person who sold the forgery?”

  “It is the name he gave Smythe, but I doubt if it is his real one.”

  “I don’t recall meeting anyone of that name, but we have met so many people. It is impossible to recall them all.”

  “He had a Welsh accent.”

  “Griffiths is a Welsh name.” Nia wrinkled her brow. “There is something niggling in the back of my mind. I have heard someone speaking with a Welsh accent, and fairly recently too, but I cannot for the life of me think where, or whom.”

  Vince led them onto a gravel walkway between budding roses that filled the air with their musky perfume. He broke off a partially opened bud and handed it to her with a flourishing bow.

  “Thank you.” She raised the flower to her nose and inhaled its scent.

  “I assume none of the three protégés of your grandfather’s whom we suspect have any Welsh connections.”

  She shrugged. “Not as far as I recall.”

  “And Drake?”

  She had been concentrating her attention on the rose bushes, as though reluctant to meet his gaze. But at the mention of Drake’s name her head jerked upwards and a look of alarm flitted across her expression. “What of him? Why do you ask?”

  Vince propelled her towards a bower and the bench in its centre. The entwined branches in full leaf above their heads provided them with shelter and privacy.

  “If you wish me to be of service to you, you must tell me of anything out of the ordinary that occurs with any of your father’s causes.”

  “Mr. Drake is not an artist. He is incapable of forging anything.”

  “But he is acquainted with a lot of people who are. If he feels he has a grievance, it is entirely possible that he would work in conjunction with someone else to exact revenge.”

  “I suppose he does have reason to feel aggrieved,” she agreed after a prolonged pause. “At least from his perspective, but that situation has only recently arisen, so he has had no time to formulate complicated forgery strategies. Besides, he does not possess the wits to pull such a scheme off.”

  “Tell me,” he said softly, wondering why she appeared so reluctant to confide in him.

  “Mr. Drake is a buffoon. A poet with little or no talent and an inflated opinion of his own self-worth. Grandpapa is generous with his patronage, but when he was in his right mind even he would not have given Mr. Drake house room. It was fortunate for Mr. Drake, I suppose, that he presented himself to Grandpapa at a time when he was in a…shall we shall, expansive mood that made no allowance for talent, or lack thereof.”

  “And because he has been taken into the Trafford household, it has convinced him that he really does have talent,” Vince surmised.

  “Yes, I am sure that is exactly how he thinks. Insufferable man!”

  Vince fixed her with a probing gaze. “Are you going to tell me what he has done to put you in such a taking?”

  “If you insist upon knowing all my business then I suppose I have no choice, but it cannot possibly have any bearing on the forgeries.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that.”

  She straightened her shoulders and scowled off into the distance, angry or embarrassed. Vince couldn’t decide which.

  “Shortly after your first visit to Stoneleigh Manor, he proposed marriage,” Nia told him with obvious reluctance.

  Vince burst out laughing.

  “I am glad you find that revelation so diverting.” She tossed her head. “Not everyone thinks me unattractive, you know.”

  “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.” Vince made a mighty effort to control himself. “For once I cannot fault the man’s taste. I was laughing at his pretentions, that’s all. He must think very well of himself to imagine he has anything to offer that would tempt you.”

  “Worse than that,” Nia replied gloomily. “He thinks too well of himself to believe my refusal is genuine. He was very angry at first.” A mischievous smile broke through her reserve. “I hurt his pride, you see, because I am afraid I didn’t mince my words. However, he obviously got over his disappointment and repeated his proposal just the other day. I imagine he assumes I am like most young women who dream of marital bliss and dread the idea of remaining single.”

  Vince harrumphed. “Even if you did, you could do a great deal better than Drake.”

  “He obviously does not share that view and thought I would have had a change of heart. I think he realises we are getting close to the time when as a family we will retreat to Ireland, where he most certainly will not be invited to join us. He has no means of support that I am aware of and is probably worried about no longer having free board and lodging.”

  “Very likely.” Vince made a mental note to keep a close eye on Drake.

  “But, as I say, Mr. Drake is not a forger, and I think it very unlikely that he is working with someone who is. He seldom leaves Stoneleigh Manor, so how could be collude with his accomplice?”

  “Hmm, let us put Drake aside for one moment and consider the other contenders: the three possible forgers who once enjoyed your Grandfather’s patronage. One of them also paid you inappropriate attentions, I collect.”

  “Yes.” She pulled a disgruntled face. “Some people will stop at nothing to benefit from Grandpapa’s patronage. I know a lot of marriages are arranged for reasons that have nothing to do with mutual love and respect, but I could never be persuaded into such a union. You probably think that makes Mr. Kenton the prime suspect, but h
onestly, we parted on the best of terms. He is a handsome man and, unlike Drake, didn’t seem particularly disturbed when I refused him.”

  “You mean he did not allow his damaged pride to show?”

  Nia shrugged. “He proposed for the same reason as Mr. Drake: to benefit from Grandpapa’s reputation. When that failed, he accepted my decision and went his own way.”

  “Because your brother asked him to leave?”

  “Because it would have been embarrassing if he stayed, and we both knew it. It was time for him to move on, and that is what he did. The last I heard, he was still in Brussels, doing quite well for himself.”

  “All these men wishing to marry you, Miss Trafford.” Vince smiled at her. “Do you leave a trail of broken hearts in your wake wherever you go?

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied with asperity. “Neither Kenton nor Drake are in love with me. It disgusts me, the way men will go to any lengths to secure their own comforts, even pretending affection when they feel none. That is one of the things I most decidedly will not miss when we return to Ireland and live in quiet seclusion.”

  She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself. She was at an age when she should have nothing more taxing on her mind that the acquisition of a new gown, or whom she would most like to dance with at the next ball she attended. Vince doubted whether she had ever had time to consider such flummery. He ran his arm along the back of the bench and idly twisted one of her escaped curls around his index finger.

  “You deserve much better than that,” he said softly.

  Still twirling the rosebud he had given her between her fingers, she looked up at him, eyes wide and wary, lips parted, shiny and wet. Their gazes clashed and held, rendering further words unnecessary. She looked so lost and vulnerable at that moment, and more tempting than she had any right to be. Vince abandoned his attempts to rationalise his attraction towards her, along with his efforts to overcome it. Something that felt so intrinsically right couldn’t possibly be wrong. He placed his forefinger beneath her chin, tilted it backwards and slowly lowered his head as he slanted his mouth over hers and covered her lips firmly and possessively with his own. His actions were fuelled partly by jealousy at Drake’s audacious proposal. The very thought of her throwing herself away on that strutting popinjay sent him into a thunderous rage. But mostly his actions were driven by the fundamental instinct to protect and reassure.

  Nia moaned, and he thought at first she was about to twist her lips away from his and give him a dressing down for overstepping the mark. He would allow her to do so: of course he would. Vince was not in the habit of forcing his attentions where they were not welcome. He was about to release her when her lips suddenly firmed beneath his as she twined her arms around his neck as she kissed him back. Euphoria swept through Vince as he took control of the situation. His arms closed around her back as, fiercely possessive, he coerced her lips apart before plundering her mouth with seductive strokes of his tongue.

  The small part of his brain still capable of rational thought told him this was probably not the most sensible course of action he had ever taken. It would complicate everything and, in spite of Nia’s intention never to marry, create expectations he had no plans to fulfil. Nia was not the type of lady a gentleman dallied with and did not then offer to marry.

  But the carnal sensations streaming through his body made him blind to the voice of reason. He gave up trying to decide what was so special about Nia and instead invested all his passion, all his skill and expertise, into kissing the lady whom he was unable to stop thinking about. Elemental sparks flared as he drew seductively on her lower lip, teasing her, awakening her sensual nature because he simply couldn’t resist the challenge. A small gasp slipped past their fused lips as he pulled her into a tighter embrace. It was not a gasp of disapproval, as evidenced by the feel of her soft, firm breasts flattening against the solidity of his chest—an exquisite taste of forbidden charms that drove him increasingly wild.

  Dear God, this was madness! If he did not put a stop to this now, immediately, he might never be able to. He somehow found the strength to release her just as they heard someone calling her name. She looked dazed, confused; as though she had just been comprehensively kissed. No matter how urgently her presence was required in the house, she needed a moment to compose herself. If she encountered any members of his family, or her own, in her current state of bewilderment, no one would doubt how she had been occupying her time.

  “My grandfather must have need of me,” she said, looking everywhere except at him. But when she tried to stand, her knees buckled and she fell back onto the seat again.

  “Give yourself a second or two,” he said.

  She ignored his advice and got up again. This time her legs supported her weight. Without waiting for him, she ran towards the door to the conservatory. Vince let her go, wondering how he could have handled the situation so ineptly: wondering why he had given vent to his baser instincts and frightened her off.

  He walked slowly in her wake, conceding that everything he did in Nia’s company defied rationality.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There’s a right to-do in the house, and no mistake,” Annie said breathlessly.

  “Tell me about it.”

  The forger fended off her efforts to plaster her body against his. They were in a quiet alleyway behind the Ploughman tavern in Compton where they were unlikely to be seen or disturbed. Even so, Annie was responsible for making purchases daily from the market stalls for the residents of Stoneleigh Manor. Everyone knew who she was, and it was only a matter of time before they also discovered the identity of the mystery tenant who employed her. Speculation was already rife. Such was the nature of villagers everywhere.

  “Well, the master has produced the most amazing portrait of the duke, by all accounts. I haven’t seen it yet, but he had it brought back to the manor yesterday so he can finish it in his own studio.”

  The forger nodded, showing no emotion, even though he was boiling with rage. Of all the damnable luck! Initially he had panicked when he heard Trafford had accepted the commission, but upon reflection he had convinced himself he no longer had the wits to pull it off. It seemed he had miscalculated, but the forger was nothing if not inventive and owed his success, to say nothing of his rapidly increasing nest egg, to his ability to adjust his plans according to circumstances. If he could not outwit an old man with an addled brain and an arrogant slip of a girl then he deserved to fail.

  And the forger never failed.

  His mind whirled as Annie prattled on, tugging on his lapels as she stood on her toes and endeavoured to kiss him.

  “We have a difficulty, my dear,” Annie said. The forger did his very best not to sneer, thinking Annie had a talent for understatement. “I heard Miss Trafford and Miss Ash talking this morning. Lord Vincent has been to London, asking questions of Smythe about the painting you sold to him.”

  “What did he learn?”

  The forger seethed. Damn Sheridan for involving himself in something he had no business to involve himself with! No doubt he wished to impress Nia Trafford with his insightful discoveries. Not that there was anything for him to discover. The forger had covered his tracks well. Part of him could understand Sheridan’s desire to win favour with Miss Trafford. She was not beautiful, was far too opinionated and did not possess a respectful bone in her body. But there was an indefinable something about her that caught a man’s fancy. Sheridan, for all his position and money, clearly saw it too.

  “He knows the name you used and the fact that you spoke with a Welsh accent, but apart from that, I am not precisely sure. Hannah distracted me, you see, and I cannot make it obvious that I am eavesdropping. You told me most particularly that I must not.”

  “You did well to remember that,” the forger forced himself to say, recognising Annie’s need for one of his carefully rationed compliments.

  “However, I did hear Miss Trafford say that there would be an unveiling of t
he portrait at Winchester Park, along with Mr. Trafford’s landscapes, for a select audience. You and some of Mr. Trafford’s other protégés are to be invited, but so is Smythe.”

  The forger jerked upright, dislodging Annie’s hands from his lapels. “Perdition!” he muttered.

  “That is why we have a difficulty. Lord Vincent is bound to ask him if he recognises the man who sold him his painting and he very likely will, in spite of the fact that you disguised yourself in your dealings with him.” Annie’s round face was pinched with worry. “We cannot possibly let that happen. We shall have to leave these shores now. We have enough to live on, surely?”

  The forger certainly had enough, but he had no intention of sharing it, or his life, with Annie. She was merely a means to an end. He had no interest in her other than for her usefulness to him as his inside source in Trafford’s household. The forger prided himself on his guile, aware that the Traffords thought they were fortunate to have secured the services of two such obliging maids as Annie and her friend Beth. They now knew about the forgeries, but suspicion would not fall upon their faithful maids-of-all-work. The forger had laid his plans well. He had left the Trafford household in Belgium when Annie and Beth found themselves out of work. He managed to have word of their plight leaked to Nia Trafford without her being aware that he had ensured they required work with a family whom they could return to England with. Naturally, he had assured himself of Annie’s abiding loyalty before he did so.

  For once, Annie was right. The sensible thing to do would be to withdraw from the fray. But the forger lived for the excitement he got from outwitting his supposed betters.

  He would not be withdrawing.

  “Have the duke and his family seen the portrait yet?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. It is not yet finished and you know how jealously Mr. Trafford guards his work until he is completely satisfied with it.”

  Indeed, the forger did know, and that fact could work to his advantage. No one, probably not even Nia Trafford, could have been sure her grandfather would complete this commission without becoming frustrated and damaging the finished painting, as he had done several times in the recent past with perfectly acceptable works. Unbeknown to Trafford, he was about to do the same thing again. Or at least, that is what would be assumed. Nia never left her grandfather alone when he was working, so a distraction, something urgent enough to persuade her to do so, would be necessary