Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke Page 19

  Still determined to find the forger, Vince wondered if the showing of Zach’s portrait could be delayed until Smythe’s return from Paris, but quickly dismissed the notion. Nia was anxious for her Grandfather to return to the peace and familiarity of Ireland just as soon as the portrait was completed and exhibition of his landscapes had been arranged. It was his understanding that they would take themselves off to Ireland and return in the winter only to attend the exhibition. Vince could see the sense in that arrangement, but most emphatically did not wish for Nia to go.

  He fell asleep, resolving to think of another way to undercover the identity of the forger, and recover the drawings of Sophia Ash before whoever stole them could profit from his crime.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I am absolutely delighted with Grandpapa’s progress.” Nia spoke in an undertone so as not to disturb the artist or his subject. “It has been a week since he started the portrait and the commission appears to have given him a new lease of life. I have never seen him quite so inspired.”

  “I am delighted,” Frankie replied. “Have there been any eccentric moments?”

  The friends were seated in an alcove adjacent to the atrium. Nia had a clear view of her Grandfather, in case he should have need of her, but they were far enough away not to be a distraction.

  “Barely a one.” She widened her smile. “It is almost as though someone has turned back the clock. I can’t explain it, precisely. His last attempt at portraiture was disastrous. I can only surmise that something about being here at the Park inspires his creativity.”

  “Well, it is hardly a hovel,” Frankie said, glancing around at the opulent splendour of the small part of the building they occupied.

  “Grandpapa has inhabited many splendid buildings in his time, so I don’t think that explains it.”

  “Perhaps it is the duke himself?”

  Nia giggled. “Well, he is not exactly hard on the eye.”

  “But will he be pleased with the results? I am aware your grandfather does not flatter his subjects, preferring to paint what he sees. The duke has never struck me as being the vain, but who knows how he sees himself?” Frankie’s tone was pensive. “I would deny saying it if you repeat these words to anyone, but as you yourself just mentioned, no one can accuse Zach Sheridan of being disagreeable to look at.”

  “Which can’t be easy for him. I feel almost sorry for him.”

  “Good heavens.” Frankie elevated both brows. “Why?”

  “He is a duke. A young, single and wealthy duke. That alone guarantees he will be besieged wherever he goes by members of both sexes. The single ladies hope to attract his attention with a view to matrimony. The gentlemen require his patronage, his good opinion, or simply want to be a part of his set.” Nia’s soft heart momentarily filled with empathy for the duke’s situation. “It must be hard for him to separate the genuine people from the opportunists. Add his pleasing appearance and it complicates everything.”

  “I do understand, but I doubt whether the duke would welcome your sympathy. He seems to cope well enough.”

  “Yes, but I can sympathise because I know how it was for so many years for Grandpapa.” She thought of Mr. Drake and Miss Tilling, of the forger, and pursed her lips. “How it still is for him. Their situations are not so dissimilar in that respect. I would imagine it was a very different story for Grandpapa when he was young and struggling to make a name for himself in the art world. No one wanted to know him then.”

  “Such is the price of fame, my dear.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Nia expelled an elongated sigh. “Ignore me, Frankie. Watching Grandpapa work gives me too much time to think, and puts me in a philosophical mood.” She turned away from the duke and gave Frankie her full attention. “I know you are curious to see the result of Grandpapa’s efforts and I can promise you, the wait will be worthwhile. I worried that he might not be able to capture the duke’s mystique.” Nia grinned. “I should not have doubted Grandpapa. He has excelled himself.”

  “I am so very glad.”

  “I am on tenterhooks the whole time since I have no idea how long his creativity will last, or if it will be overtaken by the angry, destructive mood that caused him to destroy a lot of his good work in the recent past.” She paused. “It would be a travesty if frustration caused him to damage his portrait of the duke. In my view, it is the best thing he has ever done.” Nia shrugged. “Who would have thought it?”

  “I would. I am aware of Patrick’s genius. Just because his mind wanders, it does not mean his talent wanders with it. I’ve heard it said that people who, excuse me, Nia, hover on the edge of sanity are better able to focus their talent because they have nothing else cluttering their minds.”

  “I have heard that too, and now I have reason to believe it.”

  Frankie covered Nia’s hand with one of her own. “You have not had an easy time of it recently, but this commission, and the sale of the landscapes, which is bound to be a success, will see you set for life.”

  Nia nodded decisively. “And with Sean managing Grandpapa’s finances, I believe we shall finally remain that way.”

  “Did I see Sean in the grounds here when I drove up?”

  “Very likely. To their absolute delight, the twins were invited by Lord Amos to spend the morning with the horses, and Sean is here with them.” Nia grinned. “Between you and me, Sean was almost as keen as his sons to accept the invitation.”

  Frankie nodded. “I can easily believe it. Male fascination with horseflesh transcends generations.”

  “Apparently so.” Nia rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I am very much obliged to Lord Amos since the twins have been badgering me endlessly, wanting to know when they could visit again. They have quite convinced themselves that Lord Amos cannot manage without them, and now it is Lord Amos who will be going demented.” Nia smiled in spite of herself. “It seems a sorry way to repay his lordship’s kindness.”

  “I expect he looks upon it as being good practise for fatherhood.”

  “Possibly,” Nia replied without much conviction in her tone.

  “I wonder how the duke makes his dogs sit so still,” Frankie remarked after a short pause.

  Nia followed the direction of her gaze. They were seated in a place that gave them an uninterrupted view of the duke’s profile, but he could not look at them without turning his head. Since he was posing, moving was, of course, forbidden and Nia got the feeling that Frankie was taking advantage of the situation to look at him for as long as she wished.

  “It might be more germane to wonder how the duke can remain still for so long. I have observed many subjects sit for Grandpapa but seldom one as obliging as His Grace. I am surprised that a man so used to being active, to giving rather than obeying orders, has the patience.”

  “I think there is little the duke cannot do, if he puts his mind to it,” Frankie replied in a speculative tone, her gaze still fastened upon his features. “He is quite remarkable, but I would much prefer it if he did not know I had said so. He gets more than enough false flattery as it is.”

  Nia chuckled. “Your secret is perfectly safe with me.”

  “It is no secret; merely an observation.”

  “Oh yes, quite so.” Nia made a valiant effort to keep her lips straight, but failed dismally.

  “I am an aging widow, Nia. Even if I had designs upon the duke, which I most emphatically do not, I am not duchess material.”

  “Good heavens!” Nia arched her brow. “What a strange thing to say. I should have thought, with your background, you would make an ideal duchess. The dowager certainly appears to approve of you.”

  “She and I are firm friends, but if she thought I had designs upon her precious son, she would chase me away with a stick.”

  Nia did not believe that Frankie was indifferent towards the duke, and had long wished to question her on the matter. Now that she had raised the subject herself, it frustrated Nia not to be able to do so. The duke might not be able to look the
ir way, but even though they were speaking quietly, he might still overhear them.

  “Hardly,” Nia contented herself with saying.

  “Talking of the Sheridan males, what news of Lord Vincent?”

  Nia was furious when she felt herself blush. “Why ask me?”

  Frankie flashed a knowing smile. “Who better to consult?”

  “You are far better acquainted with Lord Vincent than me. I have met him precisely four times.”

  “He went to considerable trouble to have your grandfather paint the duke’s portrait.”

  “He was most accommodating in that respect, but you should not read anything into his desire to be helpful. Once he made the arrangements, he lost no time in taking himself off to town to indulge himself in whatever debauchery it is that young men of fortune and consequence indulge themselves in.”

  “The duchess told me his intention is to discover the identity of the forger.”

  Or to avoid my society. “He could hardly admit his true purpose to his mama.”

  “Nia! He is trying to do you a service.”

  “Then I am very much obliged to him,” Nia replied so stiffly that Frankie burst out laughing, causing the duke’s head to jerk in her direction.

  “Now see what you have done,” Frankie scolded. “The duke moved, probably at a vital moment, and I shall be blamed for it.”

  “And so you should be.” Nia shook a finger at her friend. “Now, what were we talking about, and I do not mean Lord Vincent? I have nothing more to say about that individual.”

  “You really are determined to bury yourself away in Ireland when this is all over?”

  “Absolutely.” Nia shook her head. “Grandpapa seems rejuvenated over this project with the duke, but I am not foolish enough to believe his recovery is absolute—”

  “You would discourage him from pursuing his art for fear of his being ridiculed?”

  “You know me better than that. I shall encourage him to paint as much as possible; but in private. It would be better that way.”

  “Your devotion to your grandfather is humbling, Nia, but what of your own aspirations? You deserve a life of your own. Do you not desire a husband’s love, children?”

  “I have no need of a husband, and I imbue the twins with all my motherly affections.”

  “It is hardly the same thing.”

  “Pots and kettles spring to mind, Lady St. John.”

  “Our situations are not at all the same.”

  “Excuse me if I disagree with you.”

  “One good thing has come out of this commission,” Frankie said in what was clearly a deliberate change of subject. “You look much fresher. I assume this project is exhausting Patrick and he no longer feels the need to paint his landscapes in the middle of the night.”

  “No, thankfully he has abandoned that habit, for now at least.”

  “Well, I am very glad for your sake because it means you have been getting uninterrupted sleep. Has he completed enough landscapes for his exhibition?”

  “Yes, more than enough.”

  “Well then, you can relax.”

  Their conversation came to an end when Grandpapa excused the duke, who strolled across to join Nia and Frankie. Nia excused herself, went up to her grandfather and looked over his shoulder at the quite remarkable portrait rapidly taking shape on the canvas.

  “It is a masterpiece, Grandpapa,” she said, hugging him.

  “Hmm, I have not got the angle of that dog’s ears quite right.”

  To Nia, it looked as though the dog was alive and might actually get up and walk off the canvas. But if her grandfather had decided his ears were not right, he would not leave the Park today until he was satisfied that they were. Aware that difficulty would keep him happily occupied for at least another hour, Nia decided to check on Sean and the boys.

  “I shall be back directly, Grandpapa,” she said.

  He grandfather waved absently, totally absorbed with what he was doing, and probably didn’t even hear what she said. Frankie and the duke had fallen into animated conversation, leaving Nia at leisure to slip out a side door into bright sunshine and fresh, clean country air.

  ***

  Vince’s week in London had achieved precisely nothing. He was no nearer to learning the identity of the forger, or the whereabouts of the stolen sketches, than he had been when he left the Park. Smythe could not positively identify the cove who had sold him the forgery, and became increasingly defensive on the successive occasions when Vince questioned him on the matter. Neither of the other men who had bought supposed Traffords from the forger were known to Vince. That would not have prevented him seeking them out, but both of them lived in the north of England.

  Belling, in his elegant gallery in Bond Street, couldn’t add anything to what he had already told Sean Trafford. He was delighted when Vince told him that Trafford was painting Zach’s portrait. He clearly did not appreciate the full extent of Trafford’s mental incapacity and obviously thought this was the resurrection of his most distinguished client’s career. Vince did not set him straight; instead extracting a promise from Belling to attend the unveiling and watch the other attendees closely for anything suspicious.

  Belling was horrified to hear about the theft of the sketches of Sophia.

  “I am one of the few people who has had the privilege of seeing them,” he told Vince. “Trafford vowed never to sell them, and now this.” He shook his head; solemn, shocked. “How could this have happened, Lord Vincent?”

  Vince had no answer to provide.

  “Whoever has them will not offer them to me to resell; that is for sure. No respectable dealer will touch them, and so they will have to be sold on the black market. But all is not lost. I have eyes and ears in all areas of the art world and will keep my own ear to the ground. News of such valuable works becoming available is bound to leak out sooner or later.”

  Vince left London accepting that not only had his investigations been a massive waste of time, but had also not provided the diversion he was hoping for to diminish his interest in Nia Trafford. Distancing himself from her had not cooled his ardour and he wanted her every bit as much as he had before he left Winchester.

  More so.

  She fascinated him on a level over which he appeared to have no control. He had spent his time in London seeking every available distraction, but she still occupied the majority of his thoughts. While he applauded her dedication to her grandfather, burying herself in the wilds of Ireland for his sake seemed extreme. It was none of his business, of course. He had no right to interfere in her affairs, no means of preventing her from sacrificing her youth in order to do what she thought was right. But that did not mean he was obliged to be happy about it.

  His growing obsession with Nia was as perplexing as it was inconvenient. Lady Marshall had somehow discovered he was in London and invited him to a family dinner. Vince knew why, and accepted against his better judgement. He had on one occasion danced twice with Miss Marshall the previous season, creating much speculation about his intentions. He had been briefly tempted by Cecelia Marshall. She was delicately beautiful, biddable, brought up to know what to expect from matrimony—perfect wife material for a man in need of a partner who would give him as little trouble as possible. Half an hour in Miss Marshall’s undemanding company and Vince was already missing Nia Trafford’s lively, irreverent attitude.

  He did not intend to marry her, and even if his thoughts did turn in that direction, he doubted whether she would accept him. Her determination to dedicate herself to her grandfather’s service was no ruse. It seemed he had developed a fixation upon one of the few females in England who had no desire to marry into the influential Sheridan clan. The irony of the situation was not lost on Vince. In spite of it, his desire to be of service to her had not diminished one iota.

  All these thoughts percolated through his head as he turned Forrester from the Winchester Road directly onto the Park’s driveway. He had broken his journey halfway the
previous day, thus ensuring his arrival home late in the morning. He told himself that decision had nothing to do with the fact that Trafford and Nia would be at the Park during the morning, always supposing Trafford had not had a relapse, or abandoned the commission altogether. Vince assumed, if that that had been the case, Zach would have sent word.

  Any fears in that respect were eradicated when Vince took a turn in the path that skirted the stud. Leo and Art were in the paddock, lunging a young stallion under their father and Amos’s watchful gazes. He waved, but did not stop, anxious for clean attire before he went in search of Nia, which his return gave him a legitimate excuse to do. Zach would have told her his purpose in visiting town and she would naturally be anxious to know what progress he had made.

  He was obliged to amend his plans when he noticed Nia walking briskly away from the house in the direction of the stud, presumably to check upon the twins. She appeared preoccupied and only noticed him when she was almost upon him.

  “Lord Vincent,” she said, looking up at him and blinking as though she was about to ask him why he was there.

  Vince dismounted. “Nia.” He smiled at her, noticing that she look fresher, more rested, than he was accustomed to seeing her. “How are you?”

  “Perfectly well, I thank you. I was about to check on the boys.”

  “Your brother and mine have them under control. I just now observed them and they are behaving themselves impeccably.”

  She smiled. “That I find hard to believe.”

  “Horses are involved,” Vince reminded her.

  “Yes, I suppose if anything could persuade them to good behaviour.” She shrugged. “They are not bad boys; just mischievous and, because they are twins, apt to egg one another on.”

  “You have nothing to apologise for. They are a credit to you.”

  “Hardly that. Besides, they are not mine.”

  He turned in the direction of the mews. “Walk with me and tell me how the portrait is progressing.”