Chapter Fourteen
Weston had seen the report in the newspaper hinting that di Compressio’s family colluded with Napoleon.
He did not doubt it. Though, he did wonder who was responsible for the report.
There was some sort of game afoot that was opaque and could not be understood.
Somehow, the report emanated from Sardinia and made its way to England.
How else could it be known what went on in the marquis’ villa? It hinted at a large operation.
Who was at the head of it? What would the count do in response? He’d not thought he could be of any use in the war effort if he were not on the coast. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
In the meantime, everything had been prepared for the Cornwall party.
A violinist was in the corner of the room and had already begun to play soft music.
The sketch artists had arrived and were placed with their easels in the four corners of the ballroom.
The servers, who were in fact skilled fighters on the off chance they were needed, were in the kitchens with the cook.
Malberry had orchestrated it all. He was a supremely competent butler and his worth had only been highlighted by the comparison to the bumbling butler the duke employed.
Since Weston’s misstep with the marigolds, he and Lord Ledderbey had conducted a conference on what else he might have missed in his education. They had not come up with much, but for one thing. Lord Ledderbey explained that it was customary, should one propose marriage, to give the lady a token.
Weston had at first wondered if this was to be more flowers. It was not. It was to be jewelry of some sort. They’d made inquiries and discovered that Rundell & Bridge was the most likely place to purchase such a thing.
Weston had gone there and while he did not have vast experience regarding jewelry, he was able to describe what he’d seen Lady Valor wear so far.
A tiara was ruled out, though he was not clear why.
Mr. Rundell had said something about it being too big for a pocket.
A sapphire necklace that was simple in its form was settled on.
Was he going to ask her? He thought he must be, as he kept doing things in that direction. But first, he must ensure she would be safe. She was worried about his night sailing, but that had become the least of it.
“Do you think he will come?” Lord Ledderbey said. They both sat in the drawing room, waiting for the first guests to arrive. The “he” in question was most certainly Count di Compressio.
“If he does, I imagine he will come with a story about how outrageous the report in the newspaper is and how he’s going to track down the culprit.”
“Put a good face on it,” Lord Ledderbey said.
“Yes, that is what I think he will do too. The count does not strike me as a gentleman who would wish to run away, thereby admitting guilt. He dare not. If it is believed that he conspires with the French, he would assuredly lose his estate in Hertfordshire and never be welcomed on these shores again.”
Weston nodded. “Whatever is to occur tonight, the one thing that must happen is to get a sketch of the count. Then we will have a better idea of where we stand. If we can confirm it was him poking around Cornwall for the sloop and its owner, then it is much more likely that the report in the newspaper is true.”
They heard a carriage roll to a stop outside the house. Weston pulled the curtain back. “Lord and Lady Marchfield. I am certain she comes early to check on us.”
Lord Ledderbey laughed. “The lady is deeply suspicious of our abilities and does not understand how we get on without a mistress of the house.”
They rose and Lady Marchfield was led in, followed by Lord Marchfield. The lady’s discerning eye roved round the drawing room.
“The sketch artists are in the ballroom, Lady Marchfield, and the trays should be coming around shortly.”
“Very fine idea, Tramondeley,” Lord Marchfield said. “Very original.”
“Perhaps, my lord,” Lady Marchfield said to Lord Marchfield, “we ought to try out the artists’ skills before it becomes crowded.”
“My dear, I understood it to be a small party?” Lord Marchfield said hopefully.
“You promised you would not attempt to weasel out of it,” Lady Marchfield said.
“Ah yes, so I did,” Lord Marchfield said dejectedly. “I said I would not weasel out of the easel when I was feeling more jolly about it this morning.”
“Indeed you did,” Lady Marchfield said, “and I always do count upon your word.” To Lord Ledderbey, she said, “I ask him these things after he’s had his toast and coffee, he’s always in a good frame of mind at that hour.”
“Very sensible, I imagine,” Lord Ledderbey said, appearing a little befuddled.
Their first guests made their way down the corridor as more carriages began to arrive.
Weston peered out the window and saw Lady Felicity and Stratton disembark, followed by Lady Verity and Wembly.
Past the carriages, he saw Lady Valor crossing the square and escorted by the duke, Mrs. Right, and Lord and Lady Thorpe.
It was dark so he could not see her clearly, but he recognized her charming outline. His stomach gave a bit of a lurch, which he supposed he could blame on his new condition of being struck by a lady.
She skipped ahead of her father. God, she was charming.
*
Valor had hurried her father and Mrs. Right out of the house. Tonight was Lord Tramondeley’s Cornwall party and she could not get there soon enough.
So many things had solidified in her mind.
She was all but convinced that Lord Tramondeley would give up his night sailing.
Perhaps he might give up Cornwall too. And then, in regards to the count, well, what she’d seen in the newspapers, coupled with the idea that the count would eventually force his bride to relocate to Sardinia.
Gracious, she began to wonder how she’d ever come to consider him.
It occurred to her that her natural cautiousness, or fear as some would call it, was meant to keep her safe.
Oddly, it seemed it would not always do so.
She’d considered the count out of fear and it might have landed her in a frightening situation.
Or as Mrs. Right would say, out of the frying pan and into the fire.
In any case, her father speculated that the count might not come tonight. He would likely be holed up in Lady Tallifer’s house, waiting for the talk to die down. Valor hoped that was right. She really did not have any interest at all in seeing him.
Just as they set off across the park, Serenity and Lord Thorpe caught up to them.
They were quite the party walking through the lighted paths and Valor was so gratified that Mrs. Right had been invited.
Her father approved of it too, and Mrs. Right was looking very smart in her best dress.
Really, if one did not know her and just saw her out and about somewhere, one would never guess she was the duke’s housekeeper. She was a lady like any other.
As those thoughts crossed her mind, the old idea she’d held very secret in her heart when she was younger resurfaced.
Long before she’d understood society, she’d harbored a hope that Mrs. Right would become her mother in name.
Why did not Papa marry her when they seemed so fond of one another?
She’d given it up when she got older and realized the difficulties, but looking at them walking side by side now… well they looked very natural together.
She had thought it as soon as she’d seen Mrs. Right dressed in her rather sophisticated blue silk dress and her hair done up more formally than it usually was. She was not alone in noticing the difference, Mr. Huberville had been bowled over by it.
Valor would give Mr. Huberville credit for one thing at least. When he’d become apprised that Mrs. Right was to go to the party with the duke and his daughter he’d cried, “Very well deserved, Mrs. Right, very well deserved indeed.” Then when he’d seen her in her best dress, he’d cried, “A proper lady!”
He was entirely useless as a butler, but everyone agreed he would not harm a fly. He harmed his fair share of crockery and crystal, but other than that he was a very kind sort of person.
They reached Lord Tramondeley’s house and she skipped up the steps. Lord Ledderbey’s grave butler led them in.
Lord Tramondeley was looking very well. He smiled at her. Yes, he was looking directly at her and nobody else. It was as if he did not even notice that anybody else had come in.
Lord Ledderbey had of course noticed everybody else and welcomed their guests.
“Lady Valor,” Lord Tramondeley said, “you look very well. The sketch artists will be delighted.”
Valor was certain she blushed up to the roots of her hair, but who cared really?
He fetched her a glass of hock. “You prefer it, I think?” he said.
She did prefer it. He was paying close attention to her preferences.
“Tramondeley!” a shrill voice shouted.
Valor sipped her wine to cover the frown coming over her on account of hearing Lady Letitia had arrived. Lord Tramondeley was not as successful at covering his less than enthusiastic expression.
“This evening could not arrive soon enough,” Lady Letitia said, “we have simply longed to be here.”
Why did Lady Letitia long for everything? It must be uncomfortable to be always longing about this thing or that thing.
“Where are the artists?” Lady Letitia asked. “We do not want to miss our opportunity!”
“They are in the ballroom, Lady Letitia,” Lord Tramondeley said.
Lady Letitia cried, “Do you hear that, Lady Monroe! I have longed to be sketched.” The lady hurried out of the room and Valor presumed she would throw somebody out of a chair if there were not one free.
Lady Monroe was led to a chair across the room by Lord Ledderbey.
“If she tries to press her portrait on me I’m going to burn it,” Lord Tramondeley said matter-of-factly. “I won’t tell her, though. That would be rude.”
“It certainly would be,” Valor said, laughing.