Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke (17 page)

“With good reason, to date,” Nia pointed out gloomily.

“Fear not. His arrogance will prove to be his downfall,” Lord Vincent replied calmly. “I have been meaning to ask, what servants do you have and how long have they been with you?”

“You suspect our servants?” Sean asked, elevating one brow.

Lord Vincent smiled. “I have a suspicious nature.”

“We have Hannah, who was Sean’s nursemaid, then mine, so has been with us forever and her loyalty is beyond question,” Nia said. “I could not manage without her. Apart from her, we have just two maids-of-all-work, Annie and Beth.”

Lord Vincent looked surprised, as well he might. It was hardly the army of servants he was accustomed to. “How long have they been with you?”

“We acquired their services in Belgium,” Sean replied. “Sir Edward Fairstock died in an accident and his widow, Arabella Fairstock, discovered he had not left her well provided for. At least, that’s what we assume must have happened since she dismissed everyone except her personal maid, closed up the house her husband had rented and disappeared, leaving a string of unpaid debts behind her.”

“It was too bad of her, really,” Sophia said, taking up the story. “Annie and Beth are English and travelled to Belgium with her and Sir Edward, making the Fairstocks responsible for their welfare. They had no means of getting back on their own and were stuck in a foreign country where they did not speak the language. Fortunately we heard about their plight, were in need of discreet servants, and so counted ourselves fortunate to procure their services.”

Lord Vincent nodded. “But they also have reason to be grateful to you and so don’t sound as though they would be a threat.”

“No, I agree,” Nia replied.

Lord Vincent stood up and smiled at her. “Can I tell my mother she will have the pleasure of your company at dinner tomorrow so we can discuss the matter of the portrait, and this other business, at our leisure? You are, of course, included in the invitation, Trafford, as are you, Lady St. John.”

“For my part, I accept with pleasure,” Frankie replied.

“As do we all,” Sean added without bothering to consult Nia. “Thank you, Lord Vincent. We are very much obliged to you for your help.”

Lord Vincent took his leave of them. Instead of ringing the bell, which probably didn’t work and even if it did Nia would not inconvenience Hannah, she walked to the door with Lord Vincent herself.

“You need to move your horse,” he remarked, looking out at the garden. “He has made a very efficient job of that area of grass and is probably anxious to move on to the next.”

“So he has. I shall see to it.”

“No, allow me.”

Before she could protest, Lord Vincent bounded down the crumbling steps, pulled up the stake to which Ned was tethered and move it and him to a fresh patch of grass.

“Thank you,” Nia said, as she walked towards their ramshackle stable together to retrieve Lord Vincent’s stallion. “You have been remarkably kind.”

“It is entirely my pleasure.”

He reached out and grasped her chin between his gloved fingers. All of Nia’s recently formed resolve to resist his advances evaporated. She froze to the spot as she gazed up into eyes burning with unfathomable emotion. He lowered his head and brushed her lips with his own for the merest fraction of a second. So swiftly she might almost have imagined the gesture, except her lips burned from the contact, so she knew she had not.

“Don’t imagine I have forgotten what we were doing before your brother found us,” he said, a dangerous light in his eye that caused her to shiver with anticipation as he released her chin, swung up into his saddle and raised a hand in farewell. “Until tomorrow night,” he said.

Vince was the first of the brothers to enter the drawing room the following evening. Of his mother and sister there was, as yet, no sign. He helped himself to whisky and stood with his back to the fire, enjoying a moment’s solitude as he pondered upon the events of the previous day. He had been doing a great deal of pondering since becoming acquainted with the Traffords, and most of his mental perambulations had been centred upon one particular member of that rather unorthodox family.

Niamh Trafford both compelled and intrigued him, but he was unable to decide why. Her fierce loyalty towards her grandfather, and determination to protect him from the ugly side of human nature in his declining years, had won his admiration. Except he had been drawn to her before he knew any of that. His fixation upon her was totally baffling, especially since there was nothing remarkable about her.

Everything about her was extraordinary.

She was aware of his family’s influence and standing in society, knew there were three single brothers within its ranks, and that the future of any lady marrying into it would be secured for life. But she appeared unintimidated by their wealth and consequence, and had no apparent interest in being admired by any of the Sheridan males. That was so unusual that it almost made Vince suspicious. Young ladies and their ambitious mothers never tired of inventing stratagems to beguile, trap and trick them into matrimony. Vince thought they were immune to them all. Could it be that Nia Trafford had found a creative new means to achieve that ambition?

Vince berated himself for his cynicism, not believing Nia capable of being so disingenuous. Her family had been in the district for over a fortnight and had made no attempt to bring themselves to the notice of the Sheridans. It was Vince who had inflicted himself upon them, thanks to the antics of Leo and Art. That chance meeting could not possibly have been contrived. Perhaps she really did intend to remain single and devote herself to her grandfather’s comfort during his declining years. Such single-minded devotion was as refreshing as it was admirable. It was also a timely lesson in humility. Vince chuckled. Perhaps he and his brothers were not so very irresistible after all.

He continued to smile as he recalled her appearance the previous day; her hair a hopeless tangle cascading over her shoulders and tumbling down her back. Leaves were caught up in the unruly mass of curls, the ribbon that was supposed to hold it back hopelessly inadequate. He wondered if he should have told her that she had smears of dirt on her face to compete with the freckles she probably despised. In the end, he had decided he preferred her just the way she was, imperfections notwithstanding.

She was a charismatic distraction who had come to his attention at a time when he was feeling unsettled, and uncharacteristically unfulfilled. That would account for the disproportionate amount of time he had spent thinking about her and his determination to help her with her problems. His life had become too settled, too predictable, and he was in the market for a new cause to champion. Miss Trafford’s appearance was opportune. It was for that, and no other, reason he planned to help her discover the identity of the forger. Patrick Trafford’s generosity should not be so shamelessly exploited. His reputation, hard-won and richly deserved, should not suffer at the hands of the ne’er-do-well taking advantage of his poor mental state.

Nia and her brother had been neglected by their parents, but cherished by their grandfather. He could well understand why Nia in particular returned that adoration tenfold. What was less clear to him was the burning desire he had felt to kiss her. A desire he would most definitely have acted upon, had her brother not interrupted them at the vital moment. That desire had not left him, even after half-an-hour’s conversation with her relatives and close friend.

Vince grinned when his mind briefly dwelt upon Sophia Ash. She must have been stunning in her younger years, and her beauty had not completely diminished. Nor had her flirtatious nature. Vince could understand why Nia was so taken with her. She did not have the hard, self-serving edge inherent to many in her profession, seemed genuinely attached to Patrick Trafford, and was a godsend to Nia. Vince flashed a wry smile. With Miss Ash forming part of tonight’s visiting party, they were assured of a memorable evening.

“What is so amusing?” Zach asked, entering the room with his dogs at his heels.

“I was thinking about Sophia Ash. Not many duchesses would agree to sit down to dinner with a courtesan, albeit a semi-retired one, but our mother appears rather enthusiastic about the prospect. She has asked me a lot of questions about Miss Ash.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Zach helped himself to whisky. “And you ought to know by now that our mother would take exception to being compared to most duchesses. She does not have a pretentious bone in her body and is comfortable with people from all walks of life.”

“True enough.” Vince moved aside to give the wolfhounds access to their favourite place directly in front of the fire. “Let us hope Patrick Trafford is in a lucid frame of mind tonight. None of his relations will be able to relax if he is not.”

“You are thinking of Miss Trafford?”

Far too much
. “Yes. She takes on too much responsibility. She reminds me of how Crista used to be when Amos first met her.” Zach’s brows disappeared beneath his hairline. “In Miss Trafford’s case,” Vince continued, feeling compelled to defend his position in the light of his brother’s reaction to it, “I am not planning upon quite such a dramatic rescue as Amos decided on with Crista. I intend to make myself useful to her family but don’t envisage becoming leg-shackled in the near, or distant, future. The comparison between her circumstances and Crista’s merely struck me as an odd coincidence, nothing more.”

“Of course it is.”

“Zach, mind your own damned business,” Vince said, irritated by his brother’s superior smirk. “Or else I shall start baiting you about your intentions towards Frankie St. John.”

“Unlike you with Miss Trafford, little brother, I have not shown Lady St. John the sort of attention that would justify intrusive questions.”

“Is that so?” It was Vince’s turn to exercise his brows. “Well, if you’re saying you have no lasting interest in her, it is probably just as well.” Vince paused, waiting for Zach to ask why that should be the case. Needless to say, he did not oblige and so Vince forged ahead. “I heard snippets of conversation yesterday between the ladies about her being pursued by some gentleman whenever she is in town. Lady St. John didn’t appear to find those attentions unwelcome.”

Zach’s only reaction was a miniscule crease of his brow and a fleeting expression of disapproval. “Did you happen to hear the man’s name?” he asked indolently.

“Sorry,” Vince replied, flashing a smug grin. “I didn’t bother to listen. Had I known it was so important to you, naturally I would have paid more attention.”

“Probably a fortune hunter, but Lady St. John must be used to such attentions and will be able to deal with him.”

Vince’s grin widened. “Most likely,” he agreed.

The rest of the family joined them at that point, and the brothers’ private discourse was brought to an end. They had not been together for more than five minutes before Lady St. John was announced. She entered the room wearing a magnificent evening gown of striped satin gauze in a cornflower blue that exactly matched the colour of her eyes. Always beautiful and immaculately attired, she had seldom looked lovelier. He couldn’t help wondering if she was getting tired of waiting for Zach to make up his mind about her and had decided to take matters into her own hands. Always supposing it was Zach she had set her cap at, of course. Vince had just assumed that to be the case because…well, because most women admired the eligible duke, and because whenever they were in the same room, sparks flew between them.

Perhaps Lady St. John thought along the same lines as Miss Trafford and had decided against matrimony. Now that Vince had learned there really were some ladies in this world who, like him, Zach and Nate, did not look upon matrimony as inevitable, he was forced to consider the possibility. Unlike Nia, Lady St. John had embraced the institution once, was now widowed and independently wealthy. Could it be she had no plans to alter that situation? He had seen her in society and observed just how much attention she received from gentlemen; none of whom appeared to hold her interest, with the notable exception of Zach.

But Zach was as obdurate as ever in his determination to remain single, leaving Amos, as his named heir, to produce the next generation of Sheridans. How frustrating Zach’s stance must be for Lady St. John. However, if she
had
fixed her interest upon Zach, she was as inventive and intelligent as she was beautiful, and Vince could not see her failing in her ambition to secure him. He glanced at his brother but, as always, his expression gave little away. Even so, Vince detected admiration, and perhaps something deeper, filter across his face as he took his turn to greet their first guest.

“I was just remarking upon how interested I shall be to meet Mr. Trafford,” the duchess said when Lady St. John took a seat beside her. “I confess to feeling rather intimidated at the thought of having someone so famous beneath this roof. Artistic types can be so unpredictable. What if he decides he does not like us?”

“Do not concern yourself on that score,” Lady St. John replied. “Patrick, if he is lucid, has all the charm of the Irish. He will have you in fits of laughter with his tall stories and irreverent attitude. And if he is not on song then Nia and Sophia between them will manage him well enough. And he would never be intentionally rude to anyone.”

The duchess shook her head. “His friends and relations have a lot of responsibility. It must be hard for them to manage.”

“If it is, I have never heard them complain.”

“I have hidden all of my sketches away,” Portia said, grimacing. “I should be ashamed for Mr. Trafford to see them.”

Vince, aware that his younger sister possessed some artistic talent that she tenaciously endeavoured to improve upon, smiled at her. “You shouldn’t have done that, Portia. The Traffords would not be ill-mannered enough to criticise your efforts, and I should think less of them if they did.”

“Your paintings aren’t half bad,” Nate added grudgingly.

“Which leaves me to suppose they are not half good, either.” Portia smiled good-naturedly at what, coming from Nate, was fulsome praise. “But thank you for trying to make me feel better about my lack of talent.”