Chapter Fifteen
Damiano had slipped away from the sketch artist under cover of Lady Letitia’s attracting everybody’s attention with her loud directives. She must have said four times that Tramondeley would never allow her likeness to leave the premises, that lord must long to keep it for himself.
Better Tramondeley than him was his only thought about it.
He could hear the chatter coming from the drawing room but did not go there. He was far more interested in having a look around the library. If there were any letters or documents connecting Tramondeley to a network of spies, that was the likely location.
He found the right room, slipped in, and closed the door behind him. There was a pile of papers stacked on the desk and Damiano moved silently there and flipped through them.
Most were invitations. It seemed everybody in Town wished to know the gentleman who would someday be a duke. Damiano presumed half of them had unmarried daughters they’d like to pawn off.
Then he came to a bill. It was for docking fees for a sloop. From Bournemouth. He’d have to look on a map to see its location, but that was clearly where Tramondeley had moved the sloop and why he could not find it when he traveled to Cornwall.
Damiano did not suppose it mattered much now.
He was already convinced that Tramondeley was the Mosquito and that harrying of the French frigates had ceased.
He would send a man to Bournemouth to confirm and perhaps disable the boat if there was an opportunity.
That was not the real question, though. The real question was had it been Tramondeley who had discovered that Monsieur Bernard was in his father’s villa.
Had it been Tramondeley who’d placed that bit in the newspapers.
Did Tramondeley have those sorts of connections, which would be dangerous to the marquis.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the handle on the door lower. He put the paper back, turned, and pulled out a book.
The door opened and Lord Tramondeley strode through it.
So, the lord had been keeping track of his location. Further evidence that Tramondeley was more than what he seemed.
“Count,” Tramondeley said, “are you looking for anything in particular?”
“No, no, just browsing. I like to see what other people keep in their library. The marquis has one of the finest libraries in Europe, but we are always seeking to expand the collection.”
“I see, well, you’d best come and talk to Lord Ledderbey, he reads everything under the sun.”
“Yes, of course, that would be very helpful,” Damiano said. Of course, it would not be particularly helpful, he did not have any involvement with managing his father’s library nor acquiring books for it. Nevertheless, he must pretend to be interested.
He followed Tramondeley out of the library and to the drawing room.
“Lord Ledderbey,” Lord Tramondeley said, “the count is interested in hearing from you what books the marquis might acquire for his library.”
“Oh I see,” Lord Ledderbey said, looking very pleased to hear it. “You are in luck, Count, there have been so many worthy books to have been published in the past year. Come and sit by me and I will list them all for you.”
Tramondeley smiled and Damiano got the idea he was being pawned off.
“I will go and see how things proceed in the ballroom,” Tramondeley said.
Now Damiano knew he was being pawned off. Tramondeley would head straight to Lady Valor. It was exasperating. He’d discovered nothing of note and now he was to be captured by Lord Ledderbey and his various opinions of the books he’d read.
*
Valor had quite the amusing conversation with Mr. Wiggins, the artist who was doing her sketch.
It happened that he was forever harassed by family and friends for free portraits, as if he could eat chalk and paint for dinner.
Worse, some of the ladies in particular saw something else entirely in their own looking glass than he saw with his two working eyes.
Mrs. Ledbetter was entirely unaware that she was very fat.
She was. Margaret Paley was convinced her teeth were not bad.
They were. Mrs. Weller even went so far as to claim she did not have a long nose. She very much did.
According to Mr. Wiggins, it was a thankless job. Once a lady was apprised that she was not in fact Helen of Troy, the fault of it was all to be laid at his door.
This information, while amusing, did give Valor pause. After all, she could be just as delusional about her looks as the ladies Mr. Wiggins described. Who would ever tell her the truth of it? Mrs. Right would not. Her sisters would not. They would not hurt her feelings for the world.
Lord Tramondeley approached from behind and had a peek at Mr. Wiggins’ work. “Ah, a very good likeness,” he said.
Valor gulped. Whatever she was to view, good or bad, it was an accurate portrayal.
Mr. Wiggins picked up the sketch and turned it around.
Valor breathed a sigh of relief. Her sketch looked very close to what she’d always viewed in the mirror.
She might not be Helen of Troy, but her looks were quite respectable.
There was nothing particular that could be pointed to as horrible and she was very satisfied with that state of affairs.
Lord Tramondeley took the sketch and handed it to a waiting footman. “I will have it framed and delivered, Lady Valor.”
“That really is considerate. Now, do you suppose we could talk my father into sitting?”
“I have no idea,” the lord said with a laugh. “We can try. Prepare yourself, Mr. Wiggins. If the duke sits down for you, he might threaten to set the curtains on fire. And then he might do it.”
Unlike most people, Mr. Wiggins did not look at all perturbed to be in receipt of this information. “Dukes,” he said, “where would they be without their eccentricities?”
Lord Tramondeley nodded approvingly, then held and arm out. He and Valor strolled across the ballroom.
Lady Letitia was still over the shoulder of her artist, directing him on what to correct. “We’ve almost got it, Tramondeley,” she said, “have a look if you will.”
Though Valor would rather not have a look, there was nothing for it.
She peered at the artist’s sketch and then worked very hard to put an approving expression on her face.
The likeness was nothing like the lady. Lady Letitia was tall and thin with angular features.
Her eyes were large and round, sticking out more than most. The sketch was of a lady with soft rounded cheeks and smaller eyes that were not round and bulgy.
Even the hair was wrong, there was much more of it than she had in actuality.
The artist had his arms folded, clearly wishing to communicate that he took no responsibility for this alarming transformation.
“Finally,” Lady Letitia said, “we have got it right.”
Valor stole a look at Lord Tramondeley. There was an incredulous look that appeared and then was quickly covered. “Yes, excellent,” he said.
Lady Letitia grabbed the sketch from the artist and shoved it into Lord Tramondeley’s hand. “No, my lord, I will not make you beg for it,” she said. “Some coquettish ladies might do so, but I have a softer heart than that.”
“I see, yes, I will put it with the others for framing.” He handed the sketch to the footman. “Everyone will receive their sketches framed.”
Lady Letitia whipped her fan threateningly at Lord Tramondeley. “Do you hear him? Pretending he will return it to me when he will do no such thing?”
“Well now,” Lord Tramondeley said, looking vastly uncomfortable, “we are determined to see the duke and find out if he will agree to sit for a sketch.”
“Very well, I will accompany you,” Lady Letitia said. “My work here is quite done. Goodness, never have I had to direct an artist so closely!”
The artist in question looked as if he would shortly have steam coming from his ears. Lord Tramondeley gave him a sympathetic nod.
Valor did not wish to think very dark thoughts about Lady Letitia, but at the moment, her thoughts were rather dark. She really wished the lady would stop flirting with Lord Tramondeley in such a manner. It was really beginning to put her back up.
*
Damiano had rarely been as bored as he was at this moment.
Precisely how many books had Lord Ledderbey read that he considered “well worth the time.” From the Theory of the Four Movements, which was in French and published anonymously though Lord Ledderbey detected Monsieur Fourier’s hand in it, to Scott’s Marmion, and everything in between.
As the old man droned on, Damiano found himself discomfited over this party.
He’d not spent any time at all with Lady Valor, but for arriving and claiming his innocence.
And then, what kind of party was this? Could anything be more tedious?
People milled round the drawing room, being expected to eat small things arriving on trays.
Could Tramondeley not even manage a dinner?
Perhaps he would convince Lady Tallifer to have a dinner and then Tramondeley could see how it was done.
Or at least, how it was done in England.
There was no hope of hosting the sort of elegant dinner he was accustomed to at home with these stodgy English cooks on hand.
Nevertheless, something far superior to this party could be accomplished.
And then this nonsense in the ballroom, where guests were expected to sit for sketches. It was absurd. How was a guest to be forced into an activity they did not care for? What sort of tradition was that? It confirmed in his mind his already low opinion of Cornwall people.
Was any of this expected to impress Lady Valor? Why would Tramondeley host such a party? Were Cornwall people really so backwards? Of those he’d met when he was in that location, he thought they must be so.