Читать книгу The Incomparable Countess - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 6

1817

Frances, Countess of Corringham, paintbrush in hand, looked up from her easel at her sitter. Lady Willoughby was extremely fat; she had innumerable double chins, made more obvious by a heavy necklace of diamonds, and her small eyes were sunk in folds of pink flesh. Her ginger hair peeped from the edges of a huge pink satin turban which sported a sweeping feather fastened with a diamond pin.

The picture on the canvas bore little resemblance to reality, for Frances knew that she must flatter her sitter if she was ever going to be paid for her work, and though she had caught the eyes and the shape of brows and nose, the flesh had been toned down, there were fewer wrinkles and only the merest suggestion of a double chin. But it was still undeniably a portrait of Lady Willoughby.

One day, she mused, one day she would paint what she saw and never mind the consequences. Now she had done enough for one day. She was just picking up a cloth to wipe her brush, when her ladyship spoke. ‘I heard the Duke of Loscoe was come to town and intending to stay for the Season,’ she said with a note that sounded uncommonly like triumph.

Not by a single flicker of an eyelid did Frances reveal any sign of agitation, though it took all her considerable self-control. ‘Is that so?’ She cleaned the brush with more than usual care.

‘Yes, I had it from my son, Benedict, who was told by the Marquis of Risley, the Duke’s son, so it came from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Benedict is at school with the Marquis, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t know,’ Frances murmured, wishing she could add that she didn’t care either.

‘Oh, yes, Benedict, being seventeen, is two years older, but they are great friends.’

‘You don’t say!’

‘Yes and Lady Lavinia will soon be making her come-out, though what the ton will make of her I cannot imagine.’

‘Lady Lavinia?’ Frances was determined to feign ignorance of the progeny of Marcus Stanmore, third Duke of Loscoe, though she was perfectly aware of the undercurrents in Lady Willoughby’s words. She did not want that old scandal dragged up again. Oh, it did not hurt now; widowed and approaching her thirty-fifth birthday, she considered herself mature enough to let the gabble-grinders have their say and not mind, but she could not deny a twinge of something that might have been regret. Or was it anger? Could she still be angry?

‘Oh, you know very well Lady Lavinia Stanmore is the Duke’s daughter and by all accounts thoroughly spoiled by her father, especially since the Duchess died. I have heard she rides astride and drives a curricle all over the Derbyshire estate without so much as a groom beside her. And her father lets her meddle in estate business and allows her to dine with his friends and say whatever she likes to them and her not yet seventeen.’

‘I am sure the Duke knows what he is doing.’ Frances stood up and began gathering together her easel, canvas and paints, prior to leaving.

‘Give me leave to doubt it, Countess. What that girl needs is a mother, someone to show her how to go on or she will never take. I heard that was why he had come to town—he’s looking for a new wife.’

This time Frances did give a small start which she disguised as annoyance that a smudge of paint had got on to her blue jaconet gown, while her informant carried on blithely adding salt to a wound which should have healed long before. ‘He is all of forty, but well preserved and still very handsome. I do believe he will be the catch of the Season.’

‘I am glad my stepdaughter is already happily married,’ Frances said as she packed her painting accoutrements into a large case made for the purpose. ‘And I can watch events from the sidelines. Now, I must be off. The portrait will be finished in a couple of days, I think.’

‘Good. Bring it round on Thursday, when Lord Willoughby will be at home, though I am sure he will approve. You have an incomparable reputation for excellence or he would never have engaged you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I am having a few friends in for tea. Please do join us.’

Frances thanked her again and took her leave. A servant conducted her to the front door where another servant restored her pelisse and gloves to her and yet another carried her painting things out to her carriage and put them on the seat before letting down the step so that she could take her seat. John Harker, her groom and driver, set the beautifully matched horses to a steady trot, along Upper Brook Street, before turning into Duke Street and pulling up at the front door of Corringham House.

‘I shan’t need you any more today, John,’ she told the groom, as a footman came out of the tall mansion and took her case, canvas and easel from the carriage and carried it indoors.

‘Yes, my lady.’ He drove away to the mews and she followed the footman into the house, where she took off her hat, a scrap of straw with a small brim and a large feather, and handed it to Rose, her maid, before following the footman up to the studio. He leaned the easel against the wall and put the case on a table in the middle of the room.

‘Thank you, Creeley,’ she said. ‘Please tell Cook I will have my dinner in half an hour.’

‘Very well, my lady.’

He went about his business and she was alone, alone in a room so full of memories, it was almost unbearable. But she had learned to bear them, even sometimes to welcome them. Her painting had become her life. It was not that she needed the income from it; her husband, the late Earl of Corringham, had left her well provided for, but a streak of independence, which had always stood her in good stead, had made her want to do something for herself. And besides, it kept her from brooding.

She wandered round the room, looking at the pictures she had produced over the last seventeen years. Her early efforts did not have the finesse of her more recent work, but they had a raw emotion and a realism she had since learned to suppress; ladies did not paint distasteful pictures. The tasteful ones, the ones she had been commissioned to do, were gracing the drawing rooms and boudoirs of half the ton; the ones in this room were those she would not sell.

She stopped to look at a painting of the Duke of Loscoe—the Marquis of Risley as he was then, for his father had still been alive—painted when he was twenty-three and she was in love with him. It was three-quarter length and showed him as a pugilist: bare-chested and wearing tight breeches. It revealed his animal strength in every line, his self-confidence, his masculinity, his handsome broad forehead and dark, copper-coloured curls, one of which hung over his forehead, as it would have done in the ring. Sparring at Jackson’s boxing emporium had been a pastime of his. ‘It keeps me on my toes,’ he had told her between kisses.

It was a good likeness, but it was not a picture she could ever put on display; genteel ladies would be horrified that he had posed before a lady in such a state of undress and their husbands would wonder just what sort of lady she was to allow it. Besides, the dark eyes and expressive mouth said too much of the relationship between artist and subject.

Impatient with herself, she took the picture down and stood it on the floor with its face to the wall, but it left a mark where it had been hung and she began sorting through other pictures stacked around the room to find a replacement. Not all could be called portraits and not all were fashionable; there were subjects taken from nature: flowers, birds and animals, bright and lifelike and, in the case of a fox hunted to death, very bloody. And there were landscapes and street scenes too, and some of those from districts High Society ladies would never have dreamed of entering.

Taking her life in her hands, she had taken her sketch pad to some of the less salubrious parts of the capital and drawn what she saw: the miserable tenements, the squalor, the ragged children and their poverty-stricken parents, just as they were. Surprisingly no harm had come to her, possibly because she paid the people handsomely for the privilege of drawing them. Afterwards, at home in her studio, she had converted the sketches to paintings. She knew they were good, but hardly drawing-room pictures. One day she would exhibit them and prick the conscience of the haut monde with what was going on under their noses and which they chose to ignore.

While sorting through them, she came upon another of the Duke, a hurried sketch done on the day they had gone picnicking at Richmond, not long before that final parting. He had taken his coat off and was lying on the grass with his arms behind his head, watching her work, a dreamy smile on his face and a softness in his amber eyes which betokened his love for her. Or did it? She had never been sure.

‘Drat him!’ she said aloud and hurriedly picked up a portrait she had done of the Prince of Wales in that ridiculous uniform he had devised for his own regiment and hung it on the wall. Then she left the room and went to her bedchamber, where her maid was waiting for her.

She was helped out of her paint-stained gown and stood in her shift while Rose poured hot water from the ewer into a bowl. There was a full-length mirror beside the washstand and she found herself looking into it, wondering what the Duke would make of her if he could see her now. She could not describe her figure as sylph-like, but she was certainly not fat and her dark hair was still thick and black as a raven’s wing. Her violet eyes were said to be her best feature; Marcus always said they were speaking eyes. Did they still give her away or had she since learned how to veil her innermost thoughts and feelings under a cloak of urbanity?

‘What will you wear, my lady?’ Rose asked.

The choice was vast; her wardrobe was extensive and tastefully fashionable, though she did not go in for some of the extremes that were the latest mode. She would not, for instance, be seen dead in that dreadful turban of Lady Willoughby’s, nor the scant muslin that even the mature ladies of the haut monde considered the height of fashion.

‘The pink silk with the bands of green and mauve, I think.’

‘But that’s old, my lady. The last time you wore it, you said—’

‘Oh, I know, Rose, but it is comfortable and I am not going out tonight and shall be dining alone and perhaps later I will finish the portrait of Lady Willoughby. I do not want to spoil a good gown.’

It was unusual for her to be alone. She had many friends of both sexes, led a very full social life, was never short of invitations and entertained widely. Her guests came from a variety of backgrounds and had a wide range of interests, including politics, music, art and science, and she had the happy knack of making them all deal well together. Tonight, she was glad to be alone; it suited her mood.

Sitting over a light meal of chicken, ham and fresh vegetables bought in Covent Garden that morning, she reviewed her life. It had not been so bad after all, though when, at the age of seventeen, her hopes and dreams had been shattered by Marcus’s betrayal, she had thought it at an end. How could he? she had cried into her pillow night after night, how could he say he loved her and then marry someone else, just because his father told him to? She had accused him of having no backbone, of playing with her, leading her on with kisses and protestations of love which were as false and ephemeral as snow in summer. And she would certainly not entertain the idea of being his chère amie if that was what he had in mind.

She had told him she hated him, never wanted to see him again, and he had gone from her life to marry his Scottish heiress, whose dowry included a Highland castle. What had he wanted a castle for? He had been heir to a vast estate in Derbyshire, a London mansion, a house in Bath, as well as a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. It was all his now, of course, and he was one of the richest men in the kingdom. Not that she had ever considered his prospects; it was the man she had loved.

It had been her come-out year and she had wasted it sighing after a rake-shame. Most of the other young eligibles that year had found their partners and in any case could not be compared with the man she had lost. Her mother, who had spent a vast amount bringing her out, had been furious with her. ‘Money wasted,’ she had said. ‘You are far too particular, Fanny, and without reason too. Oh, I know you have looks, but what is that to the point when you have no fortune? I cannot afford to bring you to London again next year. It has to be this year or never.’

‘Mama, I cannot help it if no one has offered for me.’

‘Nor will they when you have allowed yourself to be monopolised by Risley. Talk of the ton that has been and mortifying enough without the added humiliation of going back to the country without the sniff of a betrothal.’

To please her mother Frances had accepted the Earl of Corringham. His wife had died the previous year, leaving him with a son of seven and a half and a daughter of six to bring up, and he was looking for a new mother for them. The wedding had taken place quietly just two weeks before Marcus Stanmore had married Margaret Connaught.

There had been no love, nor even any pretence of it, but she had been comfortable with him and had learned to please him and love his children, especially when it became apparent that she would have none of her own. He had been philosophical about that. ‘I have my heir,’ he had said. ‘And we deal well together, do we not? What do we want more brats for?’

She had been married ten years when a heart seizure had carried George off and since then she had made a secure life for herself. She did exactly as she pleased, went out and about, drove her carriage, rode in the park, attended concerts and the theatre, kept abreast of the times by reading newspapers and the latest books, and gambled in moderation but never more than she could afford to lose. She used the talents she had been given and taught young ladies to draw and paint, and was gratified when they did well. And, most important of all, she had her charitable work, the extent of which only John Harker and her banker were privy to. All in all it was a satisfying kind of life and she did not welcome anything that threatened to disturb it.

While George had been alive, she had spent most of her time at Twelvetrees, the family estate in Essex, and, on those rare occasions when she had visited the capital for a few days, she had not come across Marcus. He had rarely come to London, preferring to divide his time between his country estate and his Scottish castle. Since his wife’s death two years before, so rumour had it, he had been something of a recluse. And now he was in Town. Thank goodness she had more sense than to fall in a quake about that!

She finished her meal, then went up to her studio and completed the portrait of Lady Willoughby before retiring. She was going riding with Sir Percival Ponsonby the following morning and they planned to make an early start.

Percy was a lifelong bachelor who rubbed along doing nothing in particular, but managed to be an amusing and undemanding companion and, in spite of the ennui he affected, was also wise and discreet. They had long ago come to an amicable arrangement to be friends and to ignore the matchmaking tattlers who did not see why they should be allowed to enjoy their lives unencumbered when everyone knows that a man with no wife and a widow with a small fortune must surely be looking for partners.

The April morning was blustery but mild. The buds were showing on the chestnut trees and there were daffodils and gillyflowers nodding their heads in the gardens, though these would soon be replaced by the flowers of summer, the roses and delphiniums, and by then the Season would be at its height. Frances wore a blue grosgrain habit with silver frogging and had secured her riding hat with a spider-gauze scarf tied under her chin. According to Percy, she looked very fetching.

They had been riding for perhaps an hour when she spotted the man she had known as Marcus Stanmore, Marquis of Risley, driving a park phaeton down the carriageway. Sitting beside him was a young lady with gleaming copper curls and a proud carriage.

‘Bless me, if it ain’t Loscoe,’ Percy said, putting up his quizzing glass. ‘And looking quite the thing too. I ain’t seen him these many moons. And who’s the filly, I wonder?’

‘I believe it is his daughter,’ Frances murmured.

‘Daughter. My life, the years have flown. Wonder what he’s doing in Town?’

‘According to the latest on dit, looking for a second wife.’ In spite of herself, she was curious. Would he recognise her? After all, she was no longer the gauche girl of seventeen he had known. Nor was he the stripling of twenty-three he had been.

Although he was naturally heavier and his good looks had matured, the years had dealt very kindly with him. The faint lines around his eyes and mouth gave his face character which had not been there before. His jaw was stronger than she remembered it and jutted out a little belligerently as if he did not suffer fools gladly, but he was still excessively handsome.

Percy looked sideways at her. ‘Would you prefer to avoid him? It ain’t too late to turn off the ride.’

‘Goodness, no,’ she laughed. Too many summers had passed, too many winters following one upon the other, for her still to bear a grudge. ‘That would look too much like the cut direct. And I have no reason to cut him.’

‘Water under bridges, eh?’

‘Yes.’ They were almost abreast of the phaeton and she knew etiquette dictated it was up to her to acknowledge him first. She reined in and favoured him with one of her famous smiles, a smile which lit up her whole face and had most of the male population of London in thrall. ‘Your Grace.’ She gave him a small bow from the waist.

‘My lady.’ He pulled his phaeton to a stop and doffed his tall hat. His extraordinary hair was as thick and vibrant as ever, she noticed. She also noticed his smile did not seem to reach his amber eyes and his mouth had a slightly cynical twist, which she was sure had not been there when he was young. ‘How do you do?’

‘I do very well, thank you. You are acquainted with Sir Percival, are you not?’

‘Yes, indeed. Good day to you, Ponsonby.’

‘And you,’ Percy answered. ‘What brings you to the village? It must be years since you were here last.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ He turned back to Frances. ‘Countess, may I present my daughter, Lavinia? Lavinia, the Countess of Corringham.’ His tone was cool and impersonal; there was nothing to suggest he remembered that hot summer when they had been everything to each other. Everything or nothing? ‘And this is Sir Percival Ponsonby.’

‘Lady Lavinia, how nice to meet you,’ Frances said, as Percy bowed in the saddle. ‘I do hope you enjoy your visit to London.’

The only answer the girl managed was a mutter and a scowl which spoiled her prettiness and earned her a telling look from her father.

Frances was startled but, having acknowledged her, turned her attention to the Duke. ‘Do you stay long in town, your Grace?’

‘I think I shall be here for the Season. I have business to attend to and Lavinia needs a little town bronze.’

Frances certainly agreed with that. The child was extraordinarily beautiful and would have all the young bloods at her feet, if only she could learn to smile and be polite. Instead of attending to the conversation she was watching the horses riding past, as if the last thing she wanted to do was talk to her father’s acquaintances.

‘Then we shall perhaps see something of you in Society.’

‘Indeed, I plan to take Vinny to some of the less grand occasions, to give her a taste of what is to come when she makes her bow next year.’ He smiled suddenly and she felt the old tug at her heart and a flutter of nerves somewhere in the region of her lower abdomen and realised she was not as impervious to his charm as she had hoped. ‘Lady Willoughby has already invited us to take tea with her tomorrow afternoon.’

Frances cursed under her breath. Trust Emma Willoughby to be first in the fray. And to choose the very day when she had promised to deliver the portrait. She could take the portrait in the morning and cry off the tea party, but that would be tantamount to cowardice and she had never been a coward. Besides, she could not hope to avoid him the whole Season, so she might as well begin as she meant to go on. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you both there. Good day, Loscoe. Lady Lavinia.’

‘Countess,’ he answered, with an inclination of his head and picked up the reins to drive on. Frances and Percy turned to continue their ride. As a meeting it had been nothing out of the ordinary; simply a greeting exchanged by acquaintances. Had she expected anything else? Fireworks, perhaps? She smiled at her nonsensical thoughts and turned to her escort who should, after all, have her undivided attention.

It was only then, that she remembered what he had said before the encounter. ‘What did you mean, “water under bridges”?’ she asked.

‘I believe it indicates the passing of time, my dear.’

‘I know that. I meant, what was the context of the remark?’

‘Oh, Fanny, do not play the innocent. I know perfectly well there was almost a whole Season when everyone thought Stanmore was going to offer for you.’

‘So?’ she demanded, unexpectedly irritated. ‘The tattlers are sometimes wrong, you know.’

‘Yes, but I wondered how disappointed you had been.’

‘Not at all,’ she lied. ‘I knew we should not suit.’

‘And so you married Corringham.’

‘I was very fond of George, Percy. Now, let us forget this conversation. It is of no import whatever.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Unless you wish it, I will never refer to it again.’

‘Thank you. And I would be obliged, if you hear others mentioning water under bridges or anything of that nature, you put them right.’

‘Certainly, I will, though I doubt it will be at the top of the gabble-grinders’ list; it was all a long time ago.’

‘You remembered it.’

‘To be sure, but I am different.’

‘Why different?’

‘Oh, long memory and nothing else to fill it,’ he said vaguely. ‘Now, do we go home, or shall we have a canter across the grass?’

She laughed. ‘A gallop, I think.’

It was not considered the thing for ladies to gallop; indeed, they should do no more than walk or trot along the ride, the whole point of the exercise being to see and be seen, but Frances had never slavishly obeyed the rules and, because she was popular with everyone and considered quite beyond the marriage mart, no one took any notice when she veered off across the grass towards the middle of the park and spurred her horse into a gallop.

Sir Percival followed and half an hour later, exhilarated and free of the cobwebs in her mind which had plagued her overnight, they turned for home.

And that afternoon, just to prove her independence, she took her sketch pad and crayons and asked John Harker to drive her to the East End, where she positioned her stool and easel on one of the docks and drew a tea schooner being unloaded. Its spars and rigging were something of a challenge and totally absorbed her until it was time to return home. Marcus Stanmore, Duke of Loscoe, was banished from her mind and he did not return to it until the following afternoon.

She had taken the portrait to the Willoughby mansion and watched as her ladyship instructed a footman hold it up in one place after another in the main drawing room, undecided where it would look to best advantage. The obvious place was the wall over the Adam fireplace, but that already held a heavy gilt mirror; the fireplace recess was not light enough and the wall opposite the window too light; the sun shining upon it would spoil its colours.

‘Perhaps it should go in another room,’ Frances suggested when the footman had moved it for the fourth time and was looking decidedly bored with the task.

‘Oh, no, it must be in here. I want all my callers to see it. Perhaps I should have the mirror taken down…’

‘I think the heat from the chimney might crack the canvas in time, my lady.’

It was at this point Lord Willoughby arrived and, being asked his opinion, stroked his chin contemplatively and pointed to an empty space to one side of the room, well away from the fire. ‘Leave it on its easel and put it there.’

‘Not hang it?’ her ladyship queried. ‘Will it not look unfinished?’

‘No, why should it?’ He laughed. ‘You can move it about as the fancy takes you. You might even start a fashion for displaying pictures on easels.’

Her ladyship clapped her hands in delight. ‘So I shall.’ She turned to Frances. ‘Dear Countess, can I prevail upon you to let me borrow your easel until we can procure one?’

‘Oh, you do not need to borrow it,’ Frances said, thinking about the fat fee she had only a few minutes before put into her reticule. ‘Have it with my compliments.’

‘I think I will cover it until everyone is here,’ Lady Willoughby said happily. ‘Then I can unveil it with a flourish. It is so good and will enhance your reputation even further, my dear Countess. How you manage to produce something so exactly to life I shall never know, for I was never any good at drawing when I was young.’

Frances stifled a chuckle; the picture was undoubtedly of Lady Willoughby, but a much slimmer Lady Willoughby than the one who faced her in the flesh—mounds of it. And the good lady could not see the difference. But surely her husband could and so would everyone else. Frances began to wonder, and not for the first time, if she was prostituting her art and ought to have more self-respect, when a footman announced the first of her ladyship’s guests.

They came in one by one, were greeted, asked to sit and plied with tea and little almond cakes. The easel stood covered by a tablecloth. Frances wished she could make her escape before the unveiling. She had never been happy publicising herself and her work, thinking it smacked of conceit. She was on the point of taking her leave when the Duke of Loscoe and Lady Lavinia were announced. She had been half out of her seat, but now sank back into it, feeling trapped.

He came into the room, entirely at ease even knowing that everyone was looking at him. He was dressed in a dark blue superfine coat with black buttons and a high collar. His cravat, in which glittered a diamond pin, testified to the attentions of a very good valet and his hair had obviously been cut by one of the haut monde’s best hairdressers. His long muscular legs were encased in pale blue pantaloons and tasselled Hessians. A concerted sigh escaped all the ladies except Frances, who refused to follow the pack.

He made his bow to his hostess. ‘My lady, your obedient.’

‘We are indeed honoured that you could attend our little gathering, your Grace,’ her ladyship simpered. ‘And this must be Lady Lavinia.’

‘It is indeed.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Make your curtsy, Vinny.’

Lavinia did as she was told and even managed a smile as she murmured, ‘My lady.’

‘Now let me introduce you to everyone,’ Lady Willoughby said, and proceeded to conduct him round the room. He bowed to everyone, murmured polite nothings and moved on, followed by his daughter, whose smile was so fixed, Frances wondered what dire threat Marcus had made to produce it.

‘The Countess of Corringham,’ her ladyship said, suddenly looming large in Frances’s vision. ‘But I believe you are acquainted.’

‘Indeed.’ He bowed. ‘How do you do, Countess?’

She managed a smile, wondering if it looked as fixed as Lavinia’s. ‘I am very well, your Grace.’

‘The Countess is the reason for our little gathering,’ Lady Willoughby went on. ‘The guest of honour, you might say, excepting your good self, of course.’

‘Indeed?’ he said again, lifting a well-arched eyebrow at Frances, a gleam of humour lighting his dark eyes. It totally bewildered her. Had he forgotten? Or was he, like her, pretending nothing had ever happened between them? ‘I am sure it is well deserved.’

Lady Willoughby appeared not to notice as she turned away and clapped her hands for attention. ‘My friends,’ she said. ‘This is not a formal occasion, so there will be no speeches, but I particularly wanted you to be the first to see this.’ And with that, she tugged the cover off the portrait. ‘It is the most recent work of the Countess of Corringham.’

There was silence for about two seconds, two seconds in which Frances wished the floor would open up and swallow her, and then there was a burst of applause which was soon taken up by everyone, followed by a babble of conversation. ‘She has caught you to the life, Emma.’

‘The flesh tones are superb.’

‘You can pick out every individual hair.’

‘The hands are good too. Not everyone can portray hands.’

‘I am flattered,’ Frances said, rising to receive the plaudits. It brought her standing uncomfortably close to the Duke.

‘Flattered?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Methinks it is you who do the flattering.’

‘Why not? It does no harm,’ she whispered back, trying to ignore the frisson of something she refused to identify that coursed through her at his nearness. Seventeen years fled away as if they had never been. Mentally she shook herself, reminding herself that water never flowed backwards.

‘I believe it harms you.’

‘Fustian!’ Just in time she stopped herself adding, ‘And what does it matter to you what I do?’ The last thing she wanted was a personal altercation with him.

‘Are you so in need of funds that you must produce insipid stuff like this?’ He nodded towards the portrait.

‘Lady Willoughby is delighted with it. And that means others…’

‘Will want to fling money at you too.’

‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘No, but I thought you had more spirit.’ He smiled at their hostess, who was bearing down upon them.

‘Lord Loscoe,’ she gushed. ‘What do you think? Is it not an excellent likeness?’

He bowed. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said, ignoring Frances’s splutter of laughter at his duplicity. ‘Lady Corringham is indeed very talented.’

‘Have you ever sat for your portrait, my lord?’ her ladyship asked.

‘Not for very many years,’ he answered carefully. ‘It can be a very tedious business, and I have so little time for it.’

‘Ah, but now you are in town, you must surely have some leisure. I can thoroughly recommend her ladyship.’

‘Oh, please, Lady Willoughby,’ Frances put in. ‘You are putting me to the blush.’

‘Oh, you are far too old to be blushing,’ the woman said tactlessly, a statement which made the Duke chuckle. Frances felt colour flood her face, which only proved how wrong her ladyship was. ‘Now, my lord, you must come and talk to my other guests. And Felicity is dying to make the acquaintance of Lady Lavinia.’

He bowed to Frances. ‘My lady, your obedient.’ And then he was gone, followed by his daughter.

Frances watched his tall straight back moving away from her and then her attention was taken by other people who wanted to talk to her about having their portraits painted. She was kept busy for several minutes, making appointments to meet them again to talk about their requirements, and she did not see the Duke and his daughter leave. A few minutes later she left herself.

As a business exercise, the afternoon had been a great success, though she was left wondering why her ladyship was so enthusiastically promoting her. Did she think she needed the money? But she did, didn’t she? Every penny.

That evening she attended a concert arranged by Mrs Georgiana Butterworth in aid of the war orphans, one of her favourite charities, and enjoyed the music immensely. She had not given the Duke of Loscoe another thought and was taken aback to see him during the interval talking animatedly to one of the guests. He was wearing an evening suit of black cloth and a pristine white cravat, simple clothes, but superbly cut, she admitted to herself, while wondering if he was truly interested in war orphans or was simply doing the rounds in search of his new wife, though the company could hardly be classed as the haut monde and not one of the worthy ladies present seemed to qualify. They were either married, too old, or not from the upper echelons of Society and he would never marry so far beneath him, as he had proved seventeen years before.

It was some moments before he saw her and then his eyebrows rose in surprise as if she was the last person he had expected to see. He excused himself from the matron who was engaging him in conversation and made his way over to her.

‘Countess, I had not anticipated seeing you again so soon.’

‘Nor I you. It is not a gathering I would have thought would interest you.’

‘Why not?’ he asked sharply. ‘The plight of children orphaned by war is a worthy cause and you must think so, too, or you would not be here.’

‘Indeed, I do.’

‘Then we have a mutual interest,’ he said.

She did not reply, and he looked quizzically at her. ‘Do you find that unacceptable, my lady?’ he asked softly.

‘What?’

‘That we are both interested in the orphans and wish to improve their lives.’

‘Not at all.’ She forced herself to ignore the swift beating of her heart. She was behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl and her thirty-five years old in a few weeks! ‘The more help they have the better. Some of them are in dire straits.’

‘Good. I should not like to think my presence in any way deterred you from your good work.’

‘Now why in heaven’s name should it?’ she retorted, her voice rising a fraction. She immediately dropped her tone to add in a hoarse whisper, ‘You are insufferably conceited, if you think that your presence or otherwise makes the slightest difference to me.’

‘Then I beg your pardon for my presumption.’

Mrs Butterworth joined them before she could answer. ‘I see you have made the acquaintance of the Duke,’ she said to Frances.

‘Oh, we are old sparring partners,’ Marcus said, a remark which sent Frances’s thoughts flying back to her studio and the painting of the pugilist. ‘We have not met these many years and were enjoying a coze about old times.’

‘How delightful! You must be gratified, my lady, that the Duke has joined our little band of subscribers. His name on the list will encourage others, do you not think?’

‘I am sure it will,’ she murmured.

‘We are looking for a good property to give some of them a temporary home until we can find new permanent homes for them,’ the lady told him, while Frances surreptitiously studied his face for signs of boredom and found none. But then he was always good at pretending. ‘At present they are housed in a dilapidated tenement in Monmouth Street, but the lease is running out, so we must find something more substantial and comfortable very soon.’

‘Then you may count on me for a donation, Mrs Butterworth,’ he said with a smile which totally captivated the good lady. Little did Mrs Butterworth know, Frances mused, that his smile hid a heart as cold and rigid as stone.

‘Oh, thank you, sir. This concert has been such a success that we are thinking of holding a ball to raise more funds. May we count on you to purchase a ticket?’

‘If I am not engaged on the evening in question, then I shall be happy to do so,’ he said with a smile.

The orchestra began tuning up their instruments and everyone was moving back to their seats for the second half of the programme. Marcus gave Frances a thin smile and inclined his head. ‘My lady.’

‘Your Grace.’

Frances returned to her seat, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Was her every move to be dogged by the Duke of Loscoe? Was he to be everywhere she went? She had never dreamed she would come across him at this unfashionable gathering. It had been a severe shock, more than the shock of meeting him in the park, or the encounter at Lady Willoughby’s. Was nowhere safe from his odious presence? But she could not hide herself away at home, could she? She had told him his presence made no difference and she must school herself to make that true.

It had to be true. If he had not been so long absent from London, if he had always been in the forefront of Society these last seventeen years, she would have become inured, she told herself; it was his sudden reappearance that was causing the upheaval and reminding her of that summer in 1800. One summer. One summer could not possibly be important now. She was making a mountain out of a molehill. And there was far more to life than dwelling on the past.

It was when they were all taking their leave that she saw him again. She had just taken her pelisse from Mrs Butterworth’s footman, when she felt a hand helping her on with it. She turned to thank whoever it was, only to find herself looking into the amber eyes of the Duke of Loscoe, and like amber they seemed to have a light and depth of their own, as they surveyed her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said coolly.

‘You seem to be without an escort, my lady—may I offer my services?’

‘I have my carriage, thank you.’

‘Then I will say goodnight.’ He took his hat from the footman and clamped it on his head before striding down the path to the road where his own coach waited. ‘Take the carriage home, Brown,’ he told his driver. ‘I will walk back.’

It was a good walk, more than two miles through some of the less fashionable areas of London, but he felt in need of the exercise. Since coming to London he had missed the long walks and exhilarating gallops he enjoyed at his Derbyshire home; he was becoming a sloth and putting on weight. Perhaps he should take up sparring again. Was he too old for that now? It might be interesting to find out if he had retained any of his old skill.

Thinking of sparring made his thoughts turn to Fanny Randall—Lady Frances Corringham, he corrected himself with a wry smile. She had painted a picture of him stripped for a bout. He had been amazed at her skill and wanted it for himself, but she would not give it to him. ‘I did it for our eyes only,’ she had told him. ‘I will never part with it.’

But that was before… He shrugged his shoulders as he skirted the notorious Seven Dials district towards Covent Garden. Had she kept it or had his perfidy made her hate him and the painting along with it? He had behaved badly towards her, but how was he to know she was expecting an offer? He had been in no position to make one; the match between him and Margaret Connaught had already been negotiated by their respective fathers and there was nothing he could do about it.

He should never have sought her company so assiduously that summer, should never, never have told her he loved her, however true it was. But he had been a green twenty-three and not yet clever enough to hide his feelings, nor think of the consequences. He wanted to be with her, often compromised her by taking every opportunity to be alone with her, to hold her hand and smother her in kisses while declaring he could not live without her. And her eager responses had flattered him. He had even managed to take her on a picnic to Richmond, driving her in his curricle which had no room for anyone but the two of them, so they went without so much as a maid or a groom for a chaperon.

He had not given a thought to what he was doing to her until the whole Connaught family descended on London from their home near Edinburgh and he found himself having to escort his intended for the rest of the Season and escaping to see Fanny became almost impossible. And when at last he did, at one of the Duchess of Devonshire’s balls, they had quarrelled.

He had tried, after partnering her in a country dance, to explain about Margaret, telling her that it was an arranged marriage and did not in any way alter his feelings for her, but she would not listen. ‘If you think that I am such a bufflehead as to allow myself to become your chére amie—that is the term, is it not?—then you are glaringly abroad, my lord,’ she had hissed angrily.

He had been shocked at her language and tried to deny that such a thing had ever entered his head, but afterwards, in the cold light of the following day, with his head aching from the wine and brandy he had consumed, he realised that she had been right. There was no way he could marry Margaret and continue to enjoy the company and kisses of Frances, except to take her as his mistress. But one did not make light o’ loves of seventeen-year-old girls only lately out of school. He wrote apologising for his behaviour and that was the end of the affair.

Had she forgotten it? He did not think so, but she had certainly made a quick recovery because she had married Corringham almost immediately, making him wonder if the Earl had been waiting in the wings all along. And now they were both free again.

It did not make any difference; they had grown up, matured, their characters had been forged on the anvil of life; they had become different people, strangers. He smiled, as he strode past the back of Carlton House towards St James’s Street and home—the latest on dit was that he was looking for another wife, but that was far from his intention. He was enjoying being single and was in no hurry to be leg-shackled again.

If it had not been for pressing business, he would not even have come to Town, certainly not in the Season, but because he had to come and because his daughter was sixteen and behaved like a boy of twelve and it was about time she was taken in hand, he had brought her with him. He was even now awaiting the arrival of his sister from Ireland, whom he had asked to come over and give her some polish. Charlotte had been delayed by her children having measles and here he was alone in London with a far from acquiescent daughter. And he had not the faintest idea what to do with her!

What he needed was someone like Frances Corringham. Fanny was cool and urbane, in the thick of everything, known by everyone. She was fashionably attired, knew how to conduct herself. She also had a prodigious talent. He laughed aloud, making one or two people nearby look sharply at him. They probably thought he was foxed, he did not care; it had come to him in a flash of inspiration, a way of keeping Lavinia occupied. He would ask the Countess of Corringham to paint her portrait and give her drawing and painting lessons.

He need not be present and it would leave him free to go about the business which had brought him to London. But would she do it? Was she still angry enough to turn him down? But she did not seem particular about whom she painted and was prepared to flatter her sitters for a fat fee, so why should she treat him any differently, if money was all she cared about? Tomorrow he would call on her.