Chapter Fifteen #2
But even if they were, he was an heir presumptive to a duke, just now living in London.
Lord Tramondeley was not one of them. He had entry into every good house in London.
One might think he’d bring some elegance with him when he relocated to Town.
He could not possibly think this shambles passed for a sophisticated London party…
Perhaps he did not. Perhaps he had reason to arrange this nonsense.
Perhaps he wished to see if Damiano would attempt to poke around. Perhaps it was a trap. The idea of a trap swirled around in his mind. He’d been dismissive of the idea, as he did not think Tramondeley would try anything dangerous with Lady Valor present.
And then, what he had not seen, he suddenly saw. What a fool he was. The sketch artists were not there for entertainment. Tramondeley had reason to gather a sketch of him.
Tramondeley had all but forced him to sit for a sketch. How could he have been so stupid?
He leapt up. “Lord Ledderbey, you have given me more recommendations than I could possibly accomplish. I will go to Lackington & Allen on the morrow and see what I can collect for my father. My many thanks, my lord.”
“Oh but there are a few others—”
Damiano hurried away, not allowing Lord Ledderbey to launch into what the “few others” might be.
He must get that sketch back. He’d use some excuse.
He did not favor it perhaps. If it came to it, he’d rip it from the artist’s hands and shred it.
Damiano did not know what Tramondeley wanted a likeness of him for, but it could not be anything favorable to himself.
It would not surprise him if the lord were to distribute it to his network of spies and one fine day the Count di Compressio would find himself dragged into a dark alley, never to be seen again.
He passed Lord Tramondeley, Lady Valor, and Lady Letitia in the corridor, all looking annoyingly jolly.
“Count, you are finished with your conversation with Lord Ledderbey?” Lord Tramondeley asked, feigning innocence.
“Quite,” Damiano said, hurrying past them.
He raced into the ballroom and stopped short.
The chair the sketch artist had been sitting in was empty.
He walked over, attempting to seem casual, as Lady Marchfield was still overseeing Lord Marchfield’s sketch.
From what he could see, Lady Marchfield was determined to capture Lord Marchfield smiling but it was proving difficult.
His own sketch was nowhere to be found. Wherever that fellow had gone, he taken his papers and his graphite and charcoals with him. He approached the nearest artist. “Where has your friend gone? The one who sat right there?”
The artist shrugged. “Lord Tramondeley said something to him and then he was up sticks and gone.”
“Up sticks?”
“You know, gone.”
Damiano presumed the sticks in question were the graphite and charcoals, and that phrase was particular to artists. He turned on his heel and made his way back to the drawing room, determined to locate that artist and his sticks. He must get that sketch back.
He had expected he would find what he’d left—people milling around aimlessly. Rather, they seemed to be playing some stupid game.
“We’re playing Lookabout, Count,” Lady Letitia said.
Damiano all but ignored her. The English were famous for running around like idiots and calling it a game. Just now, several people were seated while the others walked around peering at everything.
“It’s a letter opener we seek,” Lady Felicity said. “The duke hid it for us.”
“Hah,” the duke said, “they tried to convince me to sit for a sketch, so I had to think fast and suggest a game.”
Lady Valor suddenly sat down, so he presumed that was what was done when one located the letter opener. He made his way to Tramondeley, who was still looking.
“Lord Tramondeley, I went to the ballroom to find my sketch artist, as I have decided I do not prefer what he has composed, but he is not there.”
“Oh yes, him. He was taken ill and left. I suppose he’ll still want to be paid.”
“But where is the sketch?”
“The sketch? Well if he did not leave it behind, he must have taken it.”
“Taken it where?” Damiano said.
“To wherever he lives, I suppose. We used an agency to hire the artists, so I really have no idea.”
“I see,” Damiano said. He did not press further, as he did not wish to give away his hand.
“In any case, the sketch will come back to you after it’s framed and then you can do what you like with it. Throw it into a fire if you don’t care for it.”
Damiano would like to throw Tramondeley into a fire. As it was, there was not much he could do about it. He was certain he would get a framed sketch. What he was not certain about was whether Tramondeley would have any copies of the portrait made and, if he did, what he would use them for.
He was really beginning to think that the safest course would be to put an end to Tramondeley. He had wavered when it had just been the question of whether or not he was the Mosquito. The risk had not seemed equal to the benefit.
Now, however, it did.
Tramondeley was making strides with Lady Valor. Tramondeley was likely running a dangerous network of spies. Tramondeley had arranged to capture his likeness.
Tramondeley suddenly gone from the world would solve a whole host of problems. He would just have to plan it carefully.
It could not be anywhere near this house, as Damiano had not been fooled by the men attempting to casually mill around out of doors.
They were clearly hired guards, which gave further credence to the idea that Tramondeley was a deeper character than he seemed.
Somewhere crowded and chaotic might be ideal. If Tramondeley went to the pleasure gardens it could be done. A sharp knife in a crowd, hitting just the right spot in the back, would take care of everything.
Damiano rubbed his chin. The prince’s party would be the most crowded event of the season.
Nobody would ever expect something to happen there.
It would be dark and crowded in the gardens.
As long as he was not disinvited over that item in the newspaper, it could be done.
Even if he was, it might be done. There was nothing better than thousands of people to hide what one was doing.
*
Valor was delighted with the Cornwall party.
Lord Tramondeley had set up such an interesting way to spend an evening.
First the sketches, and then the Lookabout game.
As well, his cook was really very good, she had adored the small pastry shells filled with strawberry cream.
She had even imagined that Lord Tramondeley might have had them specially for her.
She’d mentioned once that she adored strawberries and then when they’d made an appearance he’d motioned the footman holding the tray over to her.
What she had most adored, though, was that Lord Tramondeley had rarely left her side.
He did not leave her side even now, insisting that he would walk her to her door. Her father had snorted over it, but he had not forbidden it.
They had left Lady Letitia waving from her carriage and the count looking very sullen on his horse. Lord Tramondeley gave her his arm while the duke and Mrs. Right followed behind.
As they made their way across the dark square, Lord Tramondeley said, “Will you attend the Carlton House fête on Wednesday?”
“My father says it is to be a terrible crush,” Valor said.
“It is,” the duke said behind them.
“But we must go,” Valor went on, “as we received an invitation for the conservatory where the prince will dine. It would be noticed if we did not attend.”
“The burden of being a duke,” the duke said.
“Ah, I did not get that special invitation, just a regular one. Lord Ledderbey and I will be under the tents with a thousand other people.”
“But I understand there is to be dancing, and then fireworks,” Valor said, “before everybody must retreat to their assigned places for dinner.”
“Yes, and you have taught me to dance.”
“You taught yourself, which you know very well.”
“Point is,” the duke said, “he can dance.”
Lord Tramondeley smiled over her father’s comment. “Perhaps we ought to go in one carriage,” he said. “It is bound to be a crush.”
“Come round for us then,” the duke said. “But don’t bring your carriage. There will be no point to it as the roads will be littered with carriages trying to get through. It’s not too far, we can easily walk.”
Lord Tramondeley nodded. “Excellent idea.”
They had come to the door and Valor almost invited Lord Tramondeley in, but Mrs. Right had her by the arm. “Goodnight to you, Lord Tramondeley,” the housekeeper said, marching her inside.
The duke laughed behind them. “See that, Tramondeley, you’ve been dismissed by my housekeeper. We will see you on Wednesday. Or sooner if you like, our door is always open to my heir.”
“Your Grace.”
The door shut behind them and Valor ran to the drawing room and peeked out. She saw Lord Tramondeley smile and turn on his heel. She watched him until he disappeared into the darkness, and then again as he emerged from it and went inside his house.
“Well now, my girl, has a sketch and a game of Lookabout solidified the thing?” the duke asked, coming in behind her.
“I’m sure I do not know what you are talking about, Papa,” Valor said, though of course she was sure.
“No matter,” the duke said, “I’m sure you’ll fill me in eventually.”
Valor supposed her father meant that he would be informed if Lord Tramondeley asked. Would he ask? If he would, when?
Gracious, when she looked back on all the things she’d done to avoid being in just this position. She’d even pretended to be consumptive!
And yet, here she was, waiting to be asked.
It did fill her with a sort of terror. But then, an equal terror came over her when she considered the possibility that he would not ask. It was all so scary. Wonderful, but scary.
“I suppose we might have a brandy, Mrs. Right?” the duke said. “I also suppose I’ll have to get it myself, as there is no sign of Mr. Huberville.”
“I’ll take Valor upstairs and then I’ll fetch it,” Mrs. Right said. “Mr. Huberville will be long abed. A day of nerves and breaking things wears him out, you see.”
“Good grief,” the duke said.
Valor kissed the top of his head and flitted up the stairs.
In her bedchamber, she peeked out the window to Lord Tramondeley’s house.
She was surprised to see the sketch artist who’d done the count’s portrait coming out of the house.
Lord Tramondeley had told the count the fellow had come down with an illness and left.
Why would he have said so if it were not true? For that matter, why had the count seemed so aggravated that he could not get the sketch back to destroy it? She could understand one not caring for the likeness, but there was no reason to make such a fuss about it. It had bordered on rude.
And where was that sketch? The artist had nothing in his hands that Valor could see.
It was all very odd.
“Come love,” Mrs. Right said, “let us get you into your nightclothes and to bed with you. It’s not seemly to be peering out the windows.”
Valor laughed and dropped the curtains. No, it was not seemly at all, not that she cared. She was becoming rather daring, she thought. At least, more daring than she ever had been. It might not be another lady’s idea of daring, but it felt daring for her.