Chapter Fifteen
Damiano had slippedaway 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 ofthe 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 quitethe 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?”
