Chapter Ten
Damiano had quite the time controlling his feelings and appearing pleasant at the British Museum.
He had specifically wished to view the Townley collection to see personally what that knave had taken from the continent.
It was outrageous how these English people thought the world owed them their artifacts.
Why did they imagine they were so superior?
They must take things that were not their own.
And then, the majority of the population never even bothered to look at the things that were taken.
They just must have it to have it. Lady Valor, a duke’s daughter, would never have set foot in the museum if he had not proposed it. It really was distasteful.
As enraging as it was, he’d kept a neutral expression and worked to please and impress Lady Valor, which he thought he had done.
She was all but stupefied over the Caryatid, having never seen such a thing.
He understood very well that as a pursuing gentleman of a highly placed English lady he had an extra fence to jump.
He was Sardinian. A foreigner. He knew that was a superior state of affairs, but he also knew the English did not perceive it.
In particular, Lady Valor was not a particularly cosmopolitan specimen.
She wished to retire to the English countryside and watch the grass grow.
Therefore, she must be convinced that he wished for just the same.
Of course, he would not mind spending some months in Hertfordshire to meet his promises.
He might not even mind placing himself there until Napoleon had been satisfactorily dealt with.
Though, that would not be practicable as his father would have need of him.
Monsieur Bernard would not stay away from the villa forever and when he returned there, the marquis was likely to poison him over the first irritation.
A dead attaché was bound to cause very big trouble with the French.
They might even seize the villa in a fit of pique unless the household could invent a convincing story about what happened.
So, if his plan succeeded, he would go to Hertfordshire.
Then he would receive a missive from the marquis regarding some emergency.
He would pretend he did not like it, that he would rather stay in Hertfordshire and stare at cows.
But alas, he could not escape family duty.
Lady Valor might wish to stay behind, and he would point out that a lady living alone might be attacked at any moment.
She would be safer with him. In any case, his father, the marquis, longed to make her acquaintance.
If pressed, he would insist she accompany him.
Then off to the villa they would go. She’d be terrified of the journey, he could not imagine what he would deal with on the sea voyage.
However, once she got to the villa, she would appreciate the luxury and sunshine, the superior food and superior manners.
In the meantime, though, what was he to do about Tramondeley?
It seemed he might very well be the Mosquito.
He would not mind disposing of the fellow if it were not for the potential consequences.
Did he dare it? Had the Mosquito been some insignificant fellow, nobody would spend too much time attempting to determine what had happened to him.
His plan, though vague, had been to track down the Mosquito in Cornwall, murder him, dump him in the sea, and set the sloop adrift.
It would look as if his quarry had fallen overboard and drowned, which would seem very predictable for a person chasing French frigates at night.
A duke’s heir murdered in London, though? That was likely a different matter. How clever were these people? Could they work it out?
If Tramondeley was his quarry, then Lord Ledderbey worried Damiano the most. That fellow would know all about the nighttime excursions of the sloop.
As he did know it, if Tramondeley turned up dead, would he not connect the two?
If he connected it, would not somebody think to wonder about the foreigner who visited Cornwall and asked questions about the sloop?
He had not used his real name at the inns, but nevertheless it was a risk.
As he was pondering it, Lady Tallifer fluttered into the salon. “Count, this has just been delivered. I did not recognize the livery and there is no distinct seal so I could not say where it is from.”
He took the paper and unfolded it. It was from Tramondeley, of all people.
“It seems, Lady Tallifer, that we are invited to a traditional Cornwall party, put on by Lord Tramondeley and Lord Ledderbey. I cannot say I understand what it is, all it says here is that it will be a small party. He invites my hostess too.”
“Goodness, me,” Lady Tallifer said, fanning herself, “I hope it is not to be a troil. Those are always very rough affairs.”
“A troil?” Damiano asked, bracing himself for more English eccentricity.
“It takes place at the end of the pilchard fishing. I’ve not seen one myself, but my dear departed lord was from Cornwall.
He told me the fishermen and their families gather in dank basements to process the fish and make terrible noise dancing in wood shoes and singing.
” Lady Tallifer paused. “Though, it seems a strange party to have in Town, so perhaps not.”
Damiano was well aware that pilchard was used extensively in the dishes he was accustomed to at home.
He rather wished he’d not found out what the fish went through before arriving to his villa.
He could not guess if they were to experience a troil or some other bizarre custom.
What he did know was two things: One, Lady Valor would surely be there, and two, he’d not conceived he’d have an opportunity to penetrate Tramondeley’s house and look around for clues and yet here it was.
“Certainly we must go and discover what it is,” he said.
“Yes, of course, if you think so,” Lady Tallifer said, ever agreeable.
“If it is anything untoward or uncomfortable, I will escort you out of it, Lady Tallifer.”
“I can always depend upon you, my dear cousin, just as I always could the marquis. Yes, I place myself in your hands. Let us go and see what it is all about. Perhaps it will be charming, one never knows.”
With Lady Tallifer thus assured, Damiano wrote out his acceptance of the invitation.
In the meantime, he was determined to see Lady Valor at the improbably named candlelight picnic held by a certain Lady Jellerbey.
According to Lady Tallifer, it was one of the events of the season as only the best people were admitted.
According to Lady Valor, her sisters had all claimed it was great fun.
It sounded quite absurd, but he would attend with a smile on his face.
If Tramondeley were there, he would keep a close eye on him to see if he would somehow give himself away.
This visit to England was becoming more complicated than he’d imagined it would be. How he wished to be back in the arms of Mother Sardinia.
“Did I say, oh dear, I am not sure what you will think of it?” Lady Tallifer said, twisting her hands.
“Think of what, my dear madam,” Damiano said, swallowing a sigh. The lady was a great one for starting in the middle of a conversation.
“Well of course you would have heard of the prince throwing a fête,” Lady Tallifer said. “Rest assured, we are invited. The invitation came today. It is just, well it is just…that we do not sit at the prince’s table.”
Damiano perfectly understood why the lady thought he might be annoyed at the information.
If the marquis were here, he was certain they would be at the prince’s table.
It was both an affront and a relief of sorts.
It was an affront to his station, but on the other hand, he did not care for the prince.
He was a fat dolt and it would have been real work to feign admiration for the fool for an entire evening.
“Never mind it, Lady Tallifer. We do not need the regent to confirm for us who we are. We know who we are.”
What he really wondered about was whether Lady Valor would be at the prince’s table. Would Tramondeley be at the prince’s table? If they were there together, that would be far more irritating than discovering he was not wanted there.
*
Weston had never spent a more tedious afternoon in his life.
He’d been boxed into escorting Lady Monroe and Lady Letitia to the park.
His horse had got one look at the expanse of greenery and wished to gallop.
However, it could not be done. Lady Letitia insisted he accompanied them on the carriage road.
Every time he drifted anywhere away from her window, she called him back to it.
She was also insistent that all and sundry understand she was being escorted through the park by a gentleman.
She’d called out to no end of people. “Lady Richards, this is Tramondeley, the Duke of Pelham’s heir.
” Or perhaps it was, “Lord James, do you know Tramondeley? He’s new to Town, Duke of Pelham’s heir, you know. ”
While he was being subjected to all of that, Lady Valor was off with the count to poke around the museum. It was irritating backwards and forwards.
Fortunately, no afternoon, no matter how tedious, could last forever. When they’d arrived home, he’d glanced across the square but did not see anybody outside of the duke’s house. Was she home already? Or was she still out gallivanting with that count?
He’d sent an invitation to his party to that foreign fellow. Sending a portrait of him to Cornwall was the only way he could think of to discover if he were the man looking for him and the sloop.