Chapter Ten #2
Of course, if it were confirmed, he was not certain what to do about it.
He imagined the most sensible course was to inform Cadwalder of it and let the navy decide what ought to be done.
It would be a delicate matter, though. Di Compressio was not some lowly person slipping in and trying to spy unnoticed.
He was a count with deep ties to England.
Weston supposed they might just quietly deport him to his home country to avoid any embarrassment on either side.
He imagined the Crown would reason that he had not positively done anything other than poke around Cornwall.
People did not get convicted of what they might have planned on doing.
He’d be satisfied with the count’s deportation as it would take the count far from Lady Valor.
His musings were interrupted by Lady Letitia. She’d got out of her carriage. Why? She was meant to stay in it, keep going, and return home. She could not possibly wish to come inside. He’d had enough of her company. How could he keep her out?
Then he saw a man he did not recognize next to her. The fellow had not been in view as he’d been standing on the other side of the carriage.
“Tramondeley,” Lady Letitia said, “this man has come to interview with your butler about a party. You did not say you were having a party! He says he sketches portraits, how original!”
Weston inwardly groaned and wracked his mind for what to say about it that would not involve inviting her.
Lady Letitia held up her hand as if she would stop the words he had not yet found.
“Say nothing about it! I understand it all! It is to be a surprise and I would not dream of ruining it. Lady Monroe and I will simply patiently wait for the invitation to arrive and then be delighted over it. What day, though?”
With a sigh that was unfortunately audible, he said, “Tuesday next.”
Lady Letitia poked her head inside the carriage. “Did you hear, Lady Monroe? There is to be a party on Tuesday next. But we are to know nothing about it until we are surprised by the invitation.”
Weston could not hear Lady Monroe’s response to this communication, but it appeared the lady had in the meantime done him a different service.
Lady Letitia pulled her head back out. She said, “Tramondeley, as much as we would adore coming in for tea just now, nothing more we’d long for, Lady Monroe reminds me that we have an appointment with a dressmaker.
A waiting dressmaker is a cross dressmaker.
They can be very uppity, you know. We very sorrowfully must bid you adieu. ”
“Of course,” Weston said, though he could not claim his tone was particularly sorrowful to hear it. He only felt sorry for the dressmaker as that person was bound to be directed to construct something bursting with ruffles and entirely tasteless.
Lady Letitia was positively diabolical. She was the real mosquito—as much as one swatted, she did not go away. He was all but certain she would press her portrait from his party on him so he might admire it when she was not in view.
He wondered if she’d ever find out if he burned it. He would not like her to find it out, but he’d very much like to burn it if she were to leave it behind. He did not suppose it would be ungentlemanly to burn it. It would only be ungentlemanly if she found out he’d burned it.
It gave him a certain sense of comfort to imagine her face going up in flames. A gentleman could never say or do anything ungentlemanly, but his thoughts were free to roam where they would.
*
Valor’s thoughts felt very muddled at the moment.
She’d come into the season with such firm ideas.
They were sensible ideas, too. She understood her own temperament and if she were to put herself in a gentleman’s power, which was what a marriage was, she must be confident that it was a man who would be suitable for her temperament.
She found herself wishing she was some bold lady, full of derring-do and devil-may-care. If she were, she might laugh off Lord Tramondeley’s forays into the dark sea to chase the French. She might even claim it was rather dashing and romantic.
It would be romantic, if it were in a book! If a story’s hero were getting up to such things he would be guaranteed to come through it. But for a real flesh and blood person to do such a thing…it was just frightening.
She was so attracted to Lord Tramondeley, but she knew she could not consider him if he would not give it up. She also knew that he would not give it up. He’d said it was a duty.
Then there was the count. If she were to review her requirements, he met them all. Peace and quiet and collecting art in the safety of landlocked Hertfordshire.
“I suppose you are excited to have received the invitation to Carlton House for the prince’s party,” Mrs. Right said, fussing over Valor’s hair.
She was dressing for Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic, though it had been a challenge to pick a dress.
The only advice from her sisters was to wear a light color, as the rooms were rather dim.
“Oh that, yes, I suppose so,” Valor said.
“You seem very pensive, Poppet,” Mrs. Right said, as she put the last pins in.
“Winny said something to me when I visited her in Torquay last year. She said she could not understand how her sisters had gone through so much trouble to get married, until she tried it herself. I did not put much stock in the idea, but now I think I do.”
Mrs. Right sighed and Valor did not really know what she thought about things.
The housekeeper said, “I expect you’ll do what your sisters have all done.
You’ll see where your heart takes you. I suppose if Lord Tramondeley could be convinced to give up his unfortunate sailing in the dark habit, that might give him a leg up. ”
Valor nodded, as it certainly would do. She did not hold up much hope for it, though. The only other answer would be that she would gird herself and tolerate it. She would become brave. She did not hold up much hope for that either.
“Let us get you into your dress now,” Mrs. Right said.
Valor nodded and rose. She’d settled on a pale-yellow silk.
It was a charming dress with embroidered daisies round the bodice and sleeves.
She added a simple diamond choker from the collection her sisters had given her and was done.
She faithfully followed Madame LaFray’s directive of knowing when to stop.
This evening, through the dim corridors of Lady Jellerbey’s house, she would see both Lord Tramondeley and the Count di Compressio. Perhaps her feelings would settle one way or the other.
From below, they heard a large crash.
“Lord help us,” Mrs. Right said. “There goes another one of the duke’s belongings, smashed courtesy of Mr. Huberville.”
In truth, the household was getting so used to hearing crashes and shatterings that they’d almost begun not to notice.
Then they heard Mr. Huberville shout, “It’s all right! It was silver, it is not broken!”
Valor glanced at Mrs. Right, as she must imagine the lady had some plan in the works to drive him from the house. Surprisingly, the housekeeper looked a bit downtrodden over it.
Valor had not been able to resist having a look across the square when she went out to the carriage. Lord Tramondeley’s carriage was out and she supposed he would set off for Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic near the same time she and the duke did.
They set off and she peered out the window to see Lord Tramondeley and Lord Ledderbey hurrying to their own carriage. Goodness, they would be right behind her.
Did she flatter herself that he had been waiting for her? She did not know, but the idea was thrilling.
As the carriage trundled along to Lady Jellerbey’s house, the duke said, “So Tramondeley hosts a traditional Cornwall party. I suppose we’ll get a look at what he’s been doing down there all these years.”
“Papa,” Valor said, determined to ask a question that had popped into her mind several times, “you seem so friendly to Lord Tramondeley these days. Why did you never contact him before now? Or even invite him to live with us? He is your heir, after all.”
The duke drummed his fingers on his knees as if he needed a moment to compose his answer.
“Lord Tramondeley thinks it was not just because you and his father did not get along. He thinks it was because you might remarry and have a direct heir.”
The duke laughed at the notion. “The very idea. I already had seven of you holding sway over my household. If I’d tried for more, I am confident I’d have ended with eight or nine girls. There must be something in the Dales’ water that does it.”
“Then why did you not ask him to come?”
“I’m tempted to give you some story about it, but I will not.
All along, I considered the fact that he was just two years older than you are.
I thought, ought I not see if anything might happen there?
Had he lived in the Dales with us, he would be like a brother and all possibilities ended.
So, I rolled the dice. I do not expect you to go for him out of family duty.
I just wished to leave the door open for it in case you did. ”
Valor was entirely taken aback. He’d never hinted at such a thing.
“Only consider him if you like him, Val. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t.”
“And what is your opinion on Count di Compressio?” she asked.
“Ah. The Sardinian. I have never stood in the way of one of my daughters’ choices, though I wondered about Stratton for a while. But a Sardinian count? Do you suppose you would be happy living there?”
“Oh no,” Valor said, waving her hands, “the count intends to settle on his estate in Hertfordshire.”
“For how long?”
“Forever?”
The duke shook his head. “That, I doubt. Sooner or later, he’ll wish to return to his real home.
I am sure of it. So, before you positively lean that direction, do consider that point.
You’d be very far away from all you know.
Your children would certainly be brought up in the marquis’s household and might never know us. ”
Those ideas struck a cold ice in Valor’s heart. She did not wish to live on the Continent and have her children’s first language be one she did not even know. She did not wish to go to a strange country.
The count had led her to believe that he preferred England and he wished for the peace of Hertfordshire. But then, her father could always be counted on for good advice. He was certain the count would eventually return to Sardinia…
And why would he not? Did not everybody long for their home?
Why could no gentleman manage to be safe? Where was the gentleman who posed no danger at all? She’d had in mind that baron who collected books. Did one even exist? Perhaps he did, but he was sitting at home, examining his books. She had certainly not seen him in London.
The duke patted her hand. “Just follow your heart, Val.”
She’d like to take that advice, if her heart knew at all what it was doing.