Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke (23 page)

Perdition, was it her or was it too warm in here?

All things considered, she thought it rather bad-mannered of Lord Vincent not to pay his respects, even if she had…well, lost his respect.

“Vince delayed his departure in the hope of seeing you this morning, Miss Trafford,” the duke remarked, as though guessing at the nature of her thoughts.

She willed herself not to blush; but was conscious of doing so anyway. “His departure?” she asked with as much composure as she could muster.

“He has gone up to town for a few days.”

“Oh, I see.”

“He has decided to do some sleuthing of his own, to see what he can discover about the person we referred to yesterday.”

Nia flashed a warning glare at the duke. Her grandfather did not know about the forgeries, and she had no wish to burden his fragile mind with that knowledge. Fortunately, he was busy arranging his pencils and charcoals and did not seem to be paying attention to Nia’s conversation with the duke. The duke appeared to realise what he had said and flashed an apologetic glance at Nia.

“Right, Trafford,” he said. “Where would you like me and the hounds?”

“If you would be so kind as to sit on the end of the daybed, Your Grace. Do you suppose the dogs would oblige by sitting at your feet?”

“Most likely.”

The duke gave them a hand signal and they did precisely that. Nia made a mental note to ask him how he achieved such instant obedience. It was not as though dogs understood ducal authority, surely? If there was a trick, perhaps she could use it on Ruff. Such an optimistic possibility made her smile.

“Would it inconvenience you to lean your forearms on your thighs, Your Grace, and try to look as casual as possible?”

“There,” he replied, doing as Grandpapa had asked. “Will that do?”

“Admirably, would you not say, Nia?”

“I think it might work very well,” Nia replied, quietly moving to take a seat behind her grandfather, making sure to keep out of his light and not allow her shadow to fall over his easel.

***

Vince reached London as darkness fell and headed directly for Sheridan House. Pausing only to change out of his travelling clothes and eat a hasty supper, he ventured out again, bound for Whites. But his thoughts remained in Winchester. Having decided it would be safer to put distance between himself and his growing interest in Nia Trafford, he found reasons to linger in expectation of her arrival until the last possible moment. But no matter how frequently he looked down the drive from the privacy of his chamber, there was no sign of Ned plodding along it, hauling Nia’s rickety gig. He had to leave eventually or he would not have made the journey to London in one day.

Now that he had arrived, he was unsure quite what he expected to achieve. White’s was sparsely attended at this time of year. Even so, he saw several people known to him and acknowledged their greetings without being drawn into their company. Settled beside the fire, a drink on the table beside him, he was content to peruse the newspapers and bide his time, fairly confident that Smythe would put in an appearance before the night was out.

He did so an hour later and accepted Vince’s invitation to join him.

“What brings you up to town at this time of year, Sheridan?” Smythe enquired.

“A few bits of family business, and the need for a change of scenery.”

Smythe chuckled. “Some country chit got you in her sights?”

You have no idea
. “Not precisely.”

“It’s a good time to be in London for a man in your position. Not too crowded, and no match-making mamas on the prowl.”

Vince smiled. “There is that.” He paused to take a sip of burgundy. “Have you never thought of taking a country estate, Smythe?”

“Heavens, no. I’m a city man through and through. The country bores me rigid. Besides, I enjoy the arts. Plenty of galleries and dealers in town to keep me abreast of anything interesting that comes on the market. It helps to be on hand and snap them up, you know.”

“Are yes, I had forgotten about your precious collection.” Vince stretched and pretended boredom. “Any new acquisitions recently?”

Smythe hesitated, opened his mouth as though about to speak and then closed it again, concentrating upon his wine instead. Vince waited him out in silence.

“I picked up a Trafford portrait the other day, as a matter of fact,” Smythe replied with casual modesty. “One of his early, lesser-known works.”

“Really.” Vince flexed his brows. “Of whom is the portrait?”

“Some young girl. She isn’t named but there’s no question it’s a Trafford, albeit not done with the flair he demonstrated in his later works.”

“Zach is interested in Traffords. He had not heard any had come on the market.”

Symthe chuckled. “My point precisely. Now perhaps you understand my reason for being here, in the hub of things.”

“How did you hear of this gem? Through an agent, presumably.”

“Actually, I was approached by someone I didn’t know.” Smythe shrugged. “It happens all the time, once you become a recognised collector. Nine times out of ten the advances are bogus.”

“But not this time? The portrait had provenance?”

“Well no, not precisely.” Smythe seemed reluctant to make the admission. “But I’m no greenhorn. I know an original Trafford when I see one.”

“Which makes me wonder why it was not offered for auction.”

“You’re too suspicious, Sheridan. The vendor had his reasons.”

“I dare say.” Vince shrugged. “Who was the chap who sold it to you? Do you have his direction? He might have access to others.”

“Name of Griffiths. He’s from Paris, which is where I am bound next week for a lengthy stay. There are several auctions coming up and I’m keen to see the works before deciding if I want to bid for any of them.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.”

Smythe looked surprised. “Didn’t know you took such a keen interest in my activities.”

“Well, there’s a reason for that. Strictly between you and me, it is a bit of a coincidence that you mentioned Trafford’s name because it just so happens that he’s now in this country, living on our doorstep, no less.”

“The devil he is!” Smythe sat bolt upright. “I’d heard rumours about him being…er, a trifle distracted, shall we say?”

“Exaggerated.” Vince stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. “He’s a little frail, so his granddaughter doesn’t want it made public that he’s back on these shores just yet. He will never be left alone if that happens.”

“Is he working?” Smythe asked expectantly.

“Actually, he’s accepted a commission to paint Zach’s portrait.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Most likely,” Vince replied without hesitation.

“I heard he had moved on to landscapes, which I thought would add to the value of my portrait. Damned if Griffiths didn’t deceive me about that.”

Vince flashed a wry smile. “Glad to hear you rejoice in Trafford’s recovery.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. Still, you just wait until I catch up with Griffiths in Paris.” Smythe drained his glass and signalled to the servant for a refill. “Well, serves me right. I ought to have known better than buy from someone I’m not acquainted with. I always said I wouldn’t do it and scorned the greed of those that did.”

“We shall be having a small gathering to show off Zach’s portrait and some of Trafford’s landscapes. If you are interested, I’d be happy to send you an invitation.”

“If I’m interested?” Smythe’s eyes flared with anticipation. “I’d walk over hot coals to meet the great man. When is it likely to be?”

“As soon as the portrait is finished. Trafford works fast, I understand. It could be a matter of weeks.”
If he keeps his wits about him
.

Smythe groaned. “I shall be in Paris.”

“You might want to delay your departure if you have a mind to get over your dislike of the country and meet Trafford.”

“I would if I could; never doubt it. But my wife has made a whole series of engagements which she will never permit me to renege upon.” Smythe flashed a hopeful smile. “Sure I can’t persuade you to give me a private introduction to Trafford?”

Vince shook his head. “Sorry, not possible, I’m afraid.”

“Damnation!”

“What did Griffiths look like?” Vince asked after a short pause.

“Why?” Smythe blinked, his affable expression giving way to one of suspicion. “What does his appearance matter to you? He had every right to sell me that portrait. I made damned sure of that.”

“Idle curiosity, nothing more.”

“Nothing remarkable about him. Average in every way. Had a Welsh accent, so he did.”

With a name like Griffiths, Vince supposed that was to be expected. He was about to ask further questions when, to his intense frustration, other members joined them and the opportunity was lost.

Tired from his long day’s ride, Vince declined to participate in the game of cards that Smythe joined. Instead he returned to Sheridan House early and retired. Smythe was the key to his plan to uncover the identity of the forger, or his agent, but if he was to be in Paris at the time Zach’s portrait was unveiled, he would be of no help whatsoever. What he had managed to learn about the man Smythe had dealt with was next to useless. Griffiths was almost certainly and alias, as was the Welsh accent. His lack of progress was disheartening.

Smythe had promised to keep Trafford’s presence in Winchester a secret. He had probably promised to keep the particulars of his new portrait secret too, but had not been able to resist boasting about it. If Winchester was inundated with art collectors keen to make Trafford’s acquaintance, Vince would know who to blame for revealing his whereabouts.

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.

“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.”