Chapter Fourteen #2
Behind her, she heard a voice she knew all too well. Her papa had been mistaken, the count had come after all. She turned and noticed Mrs. Right staring at the count intently.
“Lord Tramondeley, Lady Valor,” he said. “Lady Tallifer sends her regrets, she was struck down with a violent headache this afternoon.”
“Oh dear,” Valor said, “I hope she does not suffer from it long.” It was the right thing to say, but her feelings were such that she would have been more satisfied if it had been the count struck down with a headache. Why had he come?
“It is a distress of feelings that has brought it on,” the count said. “She is a cousin and has known my marquis long. Naturally she is devastated over this scurrilous report in the newspapers.”
Goodness, Valor had not expected the count to mention it. Or if he would mention it, not so soon and directly.
“I presume you deny all knowledge of the French installing themselves in your father’s villa, then?” Lord Tramondeley said.
“I hardly need to deny any knowledge as if they are there and I did not know it. They are not there. My father is powerful, as those French devils well know. They would not dare to approach his gates. Napoleon is already under immense pressure on account of imprisoning the pope, he will not complicate matters further by trying it with an influential marquis.”
He said it so forcefully that Valor must assume it was true. It sounded true. In any case, the count’s family had an estate in England. If their loyalty was to fall anywhere, it must be with the English.
“Then it seems our newspapers have devolved into more useless gossip than news,” Lord Tramondeley said.
“Just so,” the count said. “Now, I understand we are to have sketches done? Lady Valor, may I escort you to their location?”
“You will have your portrait taken too, Count?” Lord Tramondeley asked.
“Me? No, I have no need of it.”
“But you are my guest at a Cornwall party,” Lord Tramondeley said with brows wrinkled.
He very much gave off the impression that sitting for a sketch was expected at a Cornwall party, though Valor already knew that the people of Cornwall were not in the habit of hiring sketch artists.
“Ah, I see,” the count said, “I had not understood it was expected. Very well, then.”
Valor very much got the idea that Lord Tramondeley was pretending it was expected in order to tease the count.
“Come, I will lead you to the ballroom,” Lord Tramondeley said. He put his arm out and Valor laid her hand upon it, even though the count frowned over it.
As they passed by the duke and Mrs. Right, who were both helping themselves to the trays of small bites coming round, the duke said, “The newspapers got you, eh Count? I thought you might do a runner.”
The count did not answer, though his eyes widened.
The ballroom’s chandeliers were lit and there was a table with a candelabra next to each artist to give them sufficient light for their work.
There were four of them and they each had their own corner of the ballroom.
Lady Letitia sat on the nearest side and Lord Marchfield was looking uncomfortable having his portrait taken on the far side of the room.
Lady Marchfield stood behind the artist, no doubt giving him direction regarding her lord’s portrait.
That left one free artist on each side of the room.
“There you are, Count,” Lord Tramondeley said, “sit with that fellow over there. Lady Valor, I will escort you to the other side of the room. Everyone is to know that I will keep all the sketches to have them properly framed and then delivered to you, as is the Cornwall tradition.”
The count was left with little choice on where to place himself. He found himself within shouting distance of Lady Letitia, who did not pass up the opportunity to shout to him.
“Count,” she called, “I’m wondering, should I ask this fine fellow to make two likenesses? Tramondeley will demand one of them, that’s a given. Were someone else to be devastated…well I could not bear it.”
As the count gave some polite answer about being gratified, Lord Tramondeley leaned over her and said softly, “If she makes me keep it, I’m going to put it right over the fireplace. It will be a shame when it falls down into the fire.”
“I should say you are unconscionably rude,” Valor said, “but on the other hand, you are very hard pressed.”
They reached the artist, a middle-aged man who looked kindly upon her.
“Mr. Wiggins,” Lord Tramondeley said, “Lady Valor is the daughter of the Duke of Pelham and a guest of honor of this party so do take your time with it.”
“Yes, your lordship,” Mr. Wiggins said.
“I will circulate and see to the other guests and then return to see how you get on.”
“I think I am the lucky artist this evening,” Mr. Wiggins said, looking at the situation of his fellow artists. “Pretty as a picture, this will be no trouble at all.”
“You are very kind,” Valor said. She’d not had a portrait done of her other than when she was very young.
Their father had always had an artist come and do a proper portrait when they were somewhere around five years old.
He said that age was very suited to a portrait, as well as being able to sit for longer periods.
Hers was of her standing by Tulip, who had been a young horse at the time.
She sat very still but let her eyes drift to watch Lord Tramondeley. He stopped at the other artists’ stations and then left the room seeming satisfied.
She was rather satisfied too.
*
Weston had maneuvered everybody to where he wanted them.
Lady Valor would sit for a portrait and he probably would take Lord Ledderbey’s advice to have a copy made.
Though especially, the count was sitting for a sketch.
That was the real goal and the goal had become more important than ever.
The count had tried to resist it, but Weston had made clear it was some sort of Cornwall tradition or expectation.
Of course, Lady Valor knew very well it was not, so she might wonder why he was so eager for the count to sit for a sketch.
Hopefully she’d imagine that he all but forced the count to sit for a portrait just to irritate the fellow.
He would not like her to think of anything more dangerous than that.
He went back to the drawing room, where Lord Ledderbey was managing things. Weston found the duke and Mrs. Right with a bottle between them. He had arranged for the waiters to take round the bottles and he assumed the duke had commandeered it from one of them.
Lady Valor’s sisters and assorted lords were found in various attitudes around the room while the violinist played softly from a corner. Weston thought that it was a rather odd party and hoped none of them ever went to Cornwall and described it to anybody.
He stopped for a brief conversation with Lord Wembly and Lady Verity. Lord Ledderbey had just now separated himself from the party and examined the books on a small shelf in the corner of the room. Weston presumed this was to give him the opportunity to speak privately.
He walked over and said, “He sits for a sketch.”
“Excellent, my boy. Your plan unfolds. I do think, though, that you must be careful. It is one thing to be investigating who was in Cornwall, poking around for the Mosquito. It is another thing to, well what I say is, if that newspaper report is true, he might be a very dangerous fellow. It just struck me, seeing him in this house, that he might be a hornet’s nest.”
“Which makes it even more important to unravel what he’s doing here. If someone in Napoleon’s circle is in his father’s house, then I will guess he’s been sent for some purpose.”
“Just be careful. Do not forget you have a lady to secure at the end of this. There is life to live past all this skullduggery and Napoleon will not always be a thorn in everybody’s side. Live to see the day, is what I hint at.”
Weston nodded. “For now, I will return to the ballroom and see how things get on.”
He and Lord Ledderbey parted as if just ending a natural conversation that was to be had at a party and Weston headed back to the ballroom.
He was near assaulted by Lady Letitia waving a paper in his face. “Tramondeley, you must tell me if this is a good likeness. I do not see it myself.”
Behind Lady Letitia, the poor artist who’d been forced to sketch her glared at her back. Weston glanced down at it and it was in fact a very good likeness. Not particularly complimentary, but accurate.
“What disturbs you about it?” Weston asked.
“Well look here, my eyes look a bit bulgy when I’ve been repeatedly told they are my best feature and my face seems rather long.”
Weston did not bother to point out that her eyes were bulgy and her face was long. “I’m sure Mr. Kendall will be happy to make adjustments,” Weston said. He was not at all sure about that, as Mr. Kendall looked highly annoyed, but it might send her on her way.
“Good thought, yes, excellent, I’ll simply point out the deficiencies,” Lady Letitia said, hurrying back to that poor man’s side.
Glad to be rid of her, Weston glanced at Lady Valor, who seemed to be having a jolly conversation with Mr. Wiggins. Then he looked to see where the count was in the process.
His artist was still there and still working, but the count was not there. He hurried over. “Where is the count?” he asked, peering over the artist’s shoulder.
“Ran out of patience, men often do. It’s no matter, my lord, I can finish it off by memory. He’s got very angular features, they’re easy to replicate.”
“Excellent,” Weston said distractedly. “When it’s finished, on no account let it out of your hands.
In fact, take it upstairs and finish it there.
Then make me three copies. All the rooms are unoccupied but for the two closest to the stairs.
I’ll pay you double if you make the copies and stay out of sight for the rest of the evening. ”
“Very good, your lordship,” the artist said hopping from his chair with alacrity.
Where had di Compressio gone? Did he figure out why Weston wanted a likeness? Or had he just become bored?
If he’d just become bored, though, Weston would have guessed he’d have made a beeline to Lady Valor’s side, which he had not.
Had it been anybody else, Weston would assume they’d excused themselves to visit the water closet. Maybe that’s where the count had gone, but he would like to be certain.
He turned on his heel and strode out.