Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke Read online

  “Quite right,” Amos agreed. “If Zach told his adoring public that the king was really sane, no one would doubt it.”

  “You two overestimate my powers,” Zach replied indolently.

  Vince and Amos continued to discuss the possibility of Zach’s likeness being captured on canvas. The subject of that discussion leaned casually back in his chair, feet still on the desk as he idly fiddled with a paperweight.

  “Do I have any say in the matter?” he asked.

  “No,” his brothers replied in unison.

  “The travails of being a duke, Zach,” Vince said cheerfully. “Do your duty and stop complaining.”

  “Did I complain?”

  “Trafford could paint you with the dogs,” Amos suggested, nodding to Phineas and Phantom, dozing in front of the fire. “They are your shadows anyway and you would then have a permanent record of them.”

  Zach nodded, seeming a little less reluctant. “Will Trafford do it though? Is he still capable?”

  “I shall speak with Miss Trafford at the earliest opportunity and seek her opinion,” Vince replied. “I am sure she will see sense in the suggestion. You will not be that inconvenienced, Zach, and will have a valuable work of art to show for it. More valuable than most Trafford portraits because it will most likely be his last.”

  “Always thinking of the family’s fortune, Vince,” Zach replied drolly.

  “I live to serve, big brother.”

  “This might be a convenient way to even the score between the villagers,” Amos suggested thoughtfully.

  Zach finally appeared interested in the conversation, as evidenced when he sat upright and his feet hit the floor. “Trafford having connections to Compton, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Vince said before Amos could answer. “But Miss Trafford is trying to keep that under wraps for fear of her grandfather being inconvenienced by unwanted callers.”

  “The villagers will leave them alone if I make it clear I expect them to.” Zach shrugged. “As to the rest of the world, they need not learn of Trafford’s presence here until he has quit the area.”

  “True,” Vince said, nodding.

  “Will they come to dinner, do you suppose?” Amos asked. “I have to say, I was surprised mother invited them, knowing who Trafford’s paramour is.”

  “You do our mother a disservice if you think she is unwilling to be in the same room as a courtesan,” Zach replied. “She is nothing if not open-minded. She took a liking to Miss Trafford, as did we all. She felt sorry for her situation and decided to take her under her wing.”

  “Very likely,” Amos agreed. “Look how obliging she was over Crista.”

  Zach nodded. “Quite, and I can assure you Sophia Ash will not be an embarrassment.”

  “You are acquainted with her?” both brothers asked together, sending accusing glances in Zach’s direction.

  “You might have said something earlier,” Vince added alone.

  “Our paths crossed at the opera in Paris some years ago. We were not introduced but someone told me who she was and pointed Trafford out.” Zach chuckled. “She was past her prime at that point but still stood out in a crowd.”

  “Lady St. John seems to like her as well,” Vince said. “Which is typical of her liberal attitude. I don’t suppose too many other ladies would share that view.”

  “That is why Lady St. John is such an engaging neighbour,” Amos added.

  Vince glanced at Zach. Whenever Lady St. John’s name was mentioned he affected an attitude of complete indifference. A little too indifferent? Vince chased the thought away. He should be supporting his oldest brother’s decision not to marry, at least not yet, rather than following his mother’s example and trying to make his choice for him.

  “What is it, Vince?” Zach asked. “You seem distracted. Your head is full of the charming Miss Trafford, I suppose.”

  “I was thinking about Miss Trafford, but not about her charms. Rather more about her problems.” He shook his head, struggling to articulate his thoughts. “That the family is short of money is not in question. I would give much to know how they ran through it all so quickly, but that is really none of my business. What does concern me is that Miss Trafford has other pressing problems, and I wish I knew what they were. She says her brother is away organising her grandfather’s exhibition, but I can’t help feeling there is more to it than that. She mentioned several times that she was anxious for his return, and that when he did come back, things would be a lot clearer. She would not say what things, though.”

  “He is the boys’ father. If he is here, that takes one responsibility from Miss Trafford’s shoulders,” Amos pointed out. “Two lively, inquisitive young boys are enough to run ragged those responsible for their care.”

  “Yes, but I got the impression there was more to it than that.”

  The luncheon gong sounded and the three brothers headed together towards the dining room.

  “I imagine you plan to call on your Miss Trafford tomorrow,” Zach said, slapping Vince’s shoulder. “Perhaps you will learn something then.”

  “Perhaps. And I have your permission to suggest the portrait?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Zach rolled his eyes. “The sacrifices I make for my family.”

  ***

  Upon return to Stoneleigh Manor, Nia had no further opportunity to dwell upon her rather extraordinary morning. In some respects she decided that was probably just as well. Mr. Drake was wandering about the overgrown grounds, reciting his poetry aloud, clearly waiting for her return. Miss Tilling was also hovering, but she took a perverse pleasure in not answering any of their questions about Winchester Park. It was time to emphasise the fact that they were not members of her family, and never would be. The boys eased the tension by chattering away about horses. Ruff added to the chaos by tearing about in circles, almost tripping Nia over because he was so pleased to see her again.

  “Anyone would think I had left you for days, not hours,” she said, scooping the little dog into her arms and scratching his ears.

  Nia headed for the house to see if Hannah needed help with luncheon, but was detained by Mr. Drake’s hand on her arm.

  “A word, if you please, Miss Trafford.”

  He was the last person she wished to speak with but good manners prevented her from brushing him aside. Annoyingly, the boys had taken themselves off somewhere and she found herself alone with their resident poet. “What is it, Mr. Drake?”

  “Perhaps we could sit down.”

  He indicated a bench but Nia had no intention of sitting with the tiresome man. He was quite capable of conducting two sides of a conversation simultaneously given the slightest encouragement and could hold her up for hours.

  “Please, Mr. Drake. Whatever you have to say, just say it.”

  “Well, I hope you do not think I speak out of turn, but the fact of the matter is that you require protection.”

  Nia elevated both brows, surprised and angered by what, even by Mr. Drake’s standards, was an exceptionally inappropriate statement of supposed fact. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, a hint of sarcasm shaping the arch of her brow.

  “You do too much.” Yes, and why is that? “People take shameful advantage of your good nature.”

  That was too much, and Nia laughed aloud, mindless of how rude it made her seem. “That is certainly true,” she managed to say. Surely he was not so obtuse that he failed to appreciate he was a prime offender?

  “I do not like the way Lord Vincent is manipulating you.”

  Enough! “It is no business of yours, Mr. Drake, how I spend my time, or with whom.”

  “But I would like it to be, if you will allow it. I have had the honour of forming part of your establishment for some time now, and I know your grandfather looks to me to take care of you.” Oh, for goodness sake! “You must be aware how much I admire you, and I would consider myself the most fortunate of men if you would consent to become my wife.”

  Suddenly Nia was in urgent need
of that bench, but somehow managed to remain on her feet. “Are you proposing to me?” she spluttered.

  “Yes, you are shocked, I can see that. You are too modest to assume a man of my stature would admire you, but I most certainly do. I have a great future in front of me and I would like you to be a part of it.”

  Against all the odds, Nia felt an overwhelming desire to laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from doing so. She disliked Mr. Drake and his arrogant assumption that she would be flattered by his self-serving attentions. Even so, he did not deserve to be laughed at.

  “A great future how precisely, Mr. Drake?”

  “Dear lady, my poetry. Surely you have not forgotten?”

  As if she could. “Thank you, Mr. Drake. I appreciate the compliment of your proposal but we would not suit.”

  “Don’t be coy, Miss Trafford. It does not become you.”

  Really, the man was insufferable. “I am not being coy, as you so charmingly put it, merely honest. I have absolutely no desire to marry you, or anyone else. Besides, even if I did, how would you support us until your opus finds a publisher?”

  “Well, I rather thought that we could…er—” He waved his arms around in a vague manner, making it evident precisely what he had thought; always supposing he had considered anything as practical as putting bread on the table.

  “Yes, that is what I imagined.” Nia turned towards the house. “We shall not speak of this again, Mr. Drake. I have refused your proposal and there is an end to the matter.”

  “You are making a grave mistake,” he said, his voice turning sour. “You may never receive a better offer, or any offer at all.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I am perfectly willing to take my chances.”

  Mr. Drake looked shocked. Pompous, irritating little man that he was, he thought too well of himself to have imagined his proposal would not find favour. “I do not say this unkindly, but you are not getting any younger. I shall not accept your refusal, since I am not persuaded you have considered your situation carefully enough. We shall speak again.”

  Nia did not trust herself to respond and swept past him into the house without bothering to excuse herself from his company.

  Mr. Drake brooded throughout luncheon, which at least spared them from the drone of his voice, and spent the entire meal sending Nia looks of unbridled reproach. Now that she had cooled down a little, she realised she had miscalculated in refusing him so uncivilly, even if his proposal had been made for his advancement and not hers. She now had no choice but to keep him here at Stoneleigh Manor, much as she wished to be rid of him. If she evicted him, he would forget all about the months he had lived for nothing in their household and would not hesitate to spread word of her grandfather’s condition, if only to assuage his wounded pride. Any lingering doubts in that respect had just been eradicated by her hasty dismissal of his proposal.

  Luncheon finally came to an end and Mr. Drake took himself off to compose more verse; probably focusing on unrequited love. Nia didn’t much care, providing she didn’t have to listen to it. Nia changed into an old gown and was working out her frustration on a flower border, attempting to rid it of its more intrusive weeds, when Sophia found her a short time later.

  “Your grandfather is resting,” she said. “What is wrong with Drake? He looks as though he has lost a guinea and found a farthing.”

  “He doesn’t have a guinea of his own to lose.”

  “True.”

  Nia sat back on her heels and sighed. “He asked me to marry him and can’t understand why I respectfully declined.”

  Sophia guffawed. “Ridiculous little man!”

  “I wouldn’t mind quite so much if I thought he actually felt affection for me. As it is, he seemed to think he was making a sacrifice and that I ought to be grateful to him.”

  “Hardly the best way to ingratiate himself.”

  “That is what I wanted to tell him, but I somehow managed to restrain myself.”

  Sophia sighed. “Now he will be even more dangerous, knowing what he does about this household and having his feelings hurt.”

  “Yes, the same thought had occurred to me.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.” Nia stood up and followed Sophia to the bench Mr. Drake had been so anxious to share with her. “Hopefully Sean will return with encouraging news.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high.”

  “We really are down to our last few pounds, you know.” Nia shook her head. “We shall have to do something, and soon.”

  “The sketches of me.” Sophia’s expression brightened. “We shall sell them at auction. It is that simple.”

  “Oh, Sophia, no!”

  “At least let me get them out. We can look at them together and decide which ones will fetch the best prices. We may not need to sell them all.”

  “Well, all right, get them out by all means.” Nia was beginning to accept that they really didn’t have any other choices. “I would like to see them again and admire your beauty. But I refuse to decide anything about them until Sean returns. It is not a decision I can take alone.”

  “Of course not.” Sophia smiled at Nia. “Now, tell me all about your morning. Is the house as splendid as we have been led to believe?”

  “You might soon be in a position to discover that for yourself.”

  “How so?”

  “Grandpapa, you and I have been invited to dine.”

  “Goodness, are you sure the invitation includes me?” Nia nodded. “Well, that is very gracious of the duchess, but obviously I cannot go. I would be an embarrassment.”

  “If Grandpapa goes, then you come too,” Nia replied firmly. “Frankie St. John has explained who you are and what…er, role you fulfil. If you imagine the duchess swooned at the knowledge then you have it all wrong. She is very modern in her views and I think she is fascinated at the thought of meeting you.”

  Sophia flashed a wicked smile. “Not many duchesses think that way, although I have known a number of dukes in my time who most definitely do.”

  “Oh, Sophia!”

  “What of Lord Vincent?”

  “What of him?”

  “Don’t be difficult, Nia. You know precisely what it is that I wish to know. Affairs of the heart are, after all, my business and your coy attitude does not deceive me.”

  “He invited the boys to ride, that is all. There is no affair of any kind involved, and nor will there ever be.”

  “But you like him?” Sophia covered Nia’s hand with her own. “There is a connection between you?”

  Nia laughed. “Now you are being unrealistic. I do like him, as a friend. We somehow got onto the subject of matrimony and I told him of my firm intention never to marry, which leaves us at leisure to be friends.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Stop laughing at me. You know I am serious. We have discussed the possibility of my marrying on enough occasions for you to be aware I intend to remain with Grandpapa, and you, if you don’t get tired of us. Lord Vincent now knows it too and has nothing to fear from me in the way that he probably does with most other unmarried ladies.”

  “That must be a great relief to him.”

  “Sophia, I’m warning you—”

  “Sorry, darling. It is not my fault if I want to see you enjoy yourself for once without putting the welfare of others ahead of your own. You are too young to be so serious all the time.”

  “And these weeds will not pull themselves,” Nia replied, crouching to return to her work.

  “You ought to have withheld your answer from Drake, pretended to consider his proposal, and set him to work in the meantime.” Sophia fell to her knees beside Nia and grabbed at the first weed she saw. “This is definitely men’s work.”

  Nia laughed. “I would rather weed a dozen gardens than give Mr. Drake the slightest encouragement.”

  Sophia grimaced. “I cannot blame you for that.”

  Chapter Eightr />
  The rest of Nia’s day passed in a blur of activity that kept her constantly occupied. For once she welcomed the unending demands on her time because they left her physically and mentally exhausted—too exhausted to think about Winchester Park, the Sheridan family, and one member of it in particular. She was not prepared to admit it to Sophia for fear of encouraging her unrealistic expectations, but Lord Vincent’s interest in her did appear to transcend the neighbourly. She wondered what it was that he wanted from her; why he was going to so much trouble to ingratiate himself with her and the boys. Presumably it was to do with her grandfather. As soon as people realised who she was, it was always to do with her grandfather.

  She spent several hours in the studio with her grandfather after everyone else had retired, pleased that he was in a productive frame of mind; lucid and creative. Even so, it was not safe to leave him unattended. She had once done so, just for a short period, and he managed to set the studio alight by moving a candle too close to the turpentine. Nia found him, blissfully painting away and breathing in the deadly fumes. She had rescued him, and saved his work, but it had taught her a timely lesson. It was not safe to leave Grandpapa to his own devices.

  Sophia had responsibility for him during the daylight hours, but was two decades older than Nia and needed her repose. Besides, Nia had duties in the studio that only she could perform. She had forgotten what it was like to have a full, uninterrupted night’s sleep and had learned to go without it. Only since meeting Lord Vincent did she bother to think how that must reflect upon her appearance. It vexed her that she had thought about it. She most emphatically did not care what Lord Vincent thought of her.

  When she had seen her grandfather safely to his bed and was at liberty to retire herself, sleep eluded her, even though she was exhausted. The events of this most extraordinary day—her visit to Winchester Park, the dinner invitation, Mr. Drake’s proposal, concerns about her brother’s return and what news he might bring with him—rattled around inside her tired brain as though on a continuous loop. But, annoyingly, the image of Lord Vincent’s smiling face, his intelligent eyes and handsome profile, remained at the forefront of her mind, preventing her from achieving the sleep she so badly needed.