Fortunately, no afternoon, no matter how tedious, could last forever. When they’d arrived home, he’d glanced across the square but did not see anybody outside of the duke’s house. Was she home already? Or was she still out gallivanting with that count?
He’d sent an invitation to his party to that foreign fellow. Sending a portrait of him to Cornwall was the only way he could think of todiscover if he were the man looking for him and the sloop.
Of course, if it were confirmed, he was not certain what to do about it. He imagined the most sensible course was to inform Cadwalder of it and let the navy decide what ought to be done. It would be a delicate matter, though. Di Compressio was not some lowly person slipping in and trying to spy unnoticed. He was a count with deep ties to England. Weston supposed they might just quietly deport him to his home country to avoid any embarrassment on either side. He imagined the Crown would reason that he had not positively done anything other than poke around Cornwall. People did not get convicted of what they might have planned on doing.
He’d be satisfied with the count’s deportation as it would take the count far from Lady Valor.
His musings were interrupted by Lady Letitia. She’d got out of her carriage. Why? She was meant to stay in it, keep going, and return home. She could not possibly wish to come inside. He’d had enough of her company. How could he keep her out?
Then he saw a man he did not recognize next to her. The fellow had not been in view as he’d been standing on the other side of the carriage.
“Tramondeley,” Lady Letitia said, “this man has come to interview with your butler about a party. You did not say you were having a party! He says he sketches portraits, how original!”
Weston inwardly groaned and wracked his mind for what to say about it that would not involve inviting her.
Lady Letitia held up her hand as if she would stop the words he had not yet found. “Say nothing about it! I understand it all! It is to be a surprise and I would not dream of ruining it. Lady Monroe and I will simply patiently wait for the invitation to arrive and then be delighted over it. What day, though?”
With a sigh that was unfortunately audible, he said, “Tuesday next.”
Lady Letitia poked her head inside the carriage. “Did you hear, Lady Monroe? There is to be a party on Tuesday next. But we are to know nothing about it until we are surprised by the invitation.”
Weston could not hear Lady Monroe’s response to this communication, but it appeared the lady had in the meantime done him a different service. Lady Letitia pulled her head back out. She said, “Tramondeley, as much as we would adore coming in for tea just now, nothing more we’d long for, Lady Monroe reminds me that we have an appointment with a dressmaker. A waiting dressmaker is a cross dressmaker. They can be very uppity, you know. We very sorrowfully must bid you adieu.”
“Of course,” Weston said, though he could not claim his tone was particularly sorrowful to hear it. He only felt sorry for the dressmaker as that person was bound to be directed to construct something bursting with ruffles and entirely tasteless.
Lady Letitia was positively diabolical. She was the real mosquito—as much as one swatted, she did not go away. He was all but certain she would press her portrait from his party on him so he might admire it when she was not in view.
He wondered if she’d ever find out if he burned it. He would not like her to find it out, but he’d very much like to burn it if she were to leave it behind. He did not suppose it would be ungentlemanly to burn it. It would only be ungentlemanly if she found out he’d burned it.
It gave him a certain sense of comfort to imagine her face going up in flames. A gentleman could never say or do anything ungentlemanly, but his thoughts were free to roam where they would.
*
Valor’s thoughts feltvery muddled at the moment. She’d come into the season with such firm ideas. They were sensible ideas, too. She understood her own temperament and if she were to put herself ina gentleman’s power, which was what a marriage was, she must be confident that it was a man who would be suitable for her temperament.
She found herself wishing she was some bold lady, full of derring-do and devil-may-care. If she were, she might laugh off Lord Tramondeley’s forays into the dark sea to chase the French. She might even claim it was rather dashing and romantic.
It would be romantic, if it were in a book! If a story’s hero were getting up to such things he would be guaranteed to come through it. But for a real flesh and blood person to do such a thing…it was just frightening.
She was so attracted to Lord Tramondeley, but she knew she could not consider him if he would not give it up. She also knew that he would not give it up. He’d said it was a duty.
Then there was the count. If she were to review her requirements, he met them all. Peace and quiet and collecting art in the safety of landlocked Hertfordshire.
“I suppose you are excited to have received the invitation to Carlton House for the prince’s party,” Mrs. Right said, fussing over Valor’s hair. She was dressing for Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic, though it had been a challenge to pick a dress. The only advice from her sisters was to wear a light color, as the rooms were rather dim.
“Oh that, yes, I suppose so,” Valor said.
“You seem very pensive, Poppet,” Mrs. Right said, as she put the last pins in.
“Winny said something to me when I visited her in Torquay last year. She said she could not understand how her sisters had gone through so much trouble to get married, until she tried it herself. I did not put much stock in the idea, but now I think I do.”
Mrs. Right sighed and Valor did not really know what she thought about things. The housekeeper said, “I expect you’ll do what your sisters have all done. You’ll see where your heart takes you. I supposeif Lord Tramondeley could be convinced to give up his unfortunate sailing in the dark habit, that might give him a leg up.”
Valor nodded, as it certainly would do. She did not hold up much hope for it, though. The only other answer would be that she would gird herself and tolerate it. She would become brave. She did not hold up much hope for that either.
“Let us get you into your dress now,” Mrs. Right said.
Valor nodded and rose. She’d settled on a pale-yellow silk. It was a charming dress with embroidered daisies round the bodice and sleeves. She added a simple diamond choker from the collection her sisters had given her and was done. She faithfully followed Madame LaFray’s directive of knowing when to stop.
