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He would not bring his daughter himself, she decided; he would send her in the carriage with her governess and a footman, so she would not have to meet him, except every now and again to report progress and she could keep those meetings strictly businesslike. ‘You think I need the money?’
‘Don’t you?’ he asked mildly.
‘Yes, but not for the reason you suppose, your Grace. And it is only that which inclines me to agree, but I would have to meet and talk to Lady Lavinia before I finally make up my mind. We may not deal well together…’
‘That is understood. Let us arrange a day and time.’
‘Bring her here, tomorrow, at two in the afternoon.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’
She rang the bell for a footman to conduct him to the door, bringing the interview to an end.
He picked up his hat from the floor at his side and got to his feet. ‘My lady, your obedient,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow.’
As soon as he had gone, she sank back into her seat and shut her eyes. The encounter had exhausted her. She thought she had got over him, had learned not to care, and to remain cool in a crisis, so why was she shaking? Why had she been such a fool as to agree? Did she really want to spend hours in the company of his daughter, who could so easily have been her daughter too, if her early hopes and dreams had been realised? No one expected her to pay the whole cost of that orphanage, nor even the major part of it, she did not need to put herself through torment just for that. She could easily find other commissions which would not be anything like as stressful.
She stood up and poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter on a side table and sat down again to give herself a good scold. She was too old to let a middle-aged roué upset her. It was business, he had said so, and business was all it was, and she really ought to thank Lady Willoughby for recommending her so highly. Incomparable! She laughed suddenly and the wine spilled over her hand. She downed the rest before she could spill any more.
She spent the afternoon teaching a class of half a dozen young ladies about line and perspective and in the evening she went to a soirée given by Lady Holland. Her ladyship was sharp and imperious, and some people made fun of her, but she was still a great Society hostess and Frances knew she would enjoy the conversation of her guests, which was usually well-informed and witty and ranged from the financial troubles that the end of the war had brought with it to poking fun at the Regent. Frances returned home in a happy frame of mind, ready to take on the world.
She was not so sure about that the next afternoon when the Duke of Loscoe was shown into her drawing room, bringing with him a reluctant Lady Lavinia, but she did not let that show as she rose to greet them.
He was dressed in a dark blue superfine coat, white pantaloons tucked into tasselled hessians which would have done duty as mirrors they were so polished. His cravat of white lawn was tied in an intricate knot which undoubtedly had a fancy name but which eluded her.
‘Countess, your obedient.’ He swept her an elegant bow, which she suspected was more for his daughter’s benefit than hers and she answered in like manner by dropping a deep curtsy.
‘Your Grace.’ She did not wait for him to raise her before standing up and turning to the servant who hovered in the doorway and ordering refreshments. If he wanted his daughter to be shown how things were done, then she would do her best, though this stiff formality was not to her taste. She turned to the girl. ‘Lady Lavinia, what a pleasure it is to see you again.’
Her father nudged her and she curtsied and mumbled, ‘My lady.’
Frances indicated the two sofas which faced each other on either side of the screened fireplace. ‘Please be seated.’
Father and daughter sat side by side, so that Frances, sitting opposite, was able to assess how alike they were in looks. Both had amber eyes and thick lashes and though Lavinia’s hair was lighter than the Duke’s and fastened back with two glittering combs, she could detect a streak of chestnut in the gold ringlets. Both had lean faces with strong cheek bones and the finely arched brows of all the Stanmores. Lady Lavinia’s mouth was thinner than her father’s, more sulky, and her chin a little less prominent, though she could undoubtedly be stubborn, Frances decided.
Looking at the silent girl who seemed to be studying the toe of her shoe peeping from the hem of a pale green muslin gown, Frances was not at all sure of being able to succeed in teaching her; there was nothing worse than an unwilling pupil. But she was reminded of herself when young; she had had the same wayward streak and tendency to rebel. In her it had been squashed by a domineering mother and a broken heart and later she had channelled her energies into something more acceptable, bringing up her stepchildren, her good works and her painting.
The maid brought in the refreshments and a few minutes were occupied in pouring tea and offering sweetmeats, during which the conversation, conducted entirely between the Countess and the Duke, revolved around the weather.
‘Now, Lady Lavinia,’ Frances said, at last. ‘I believe you are to come to me for drawing lessons.’
‘So Papa says.’
‘You do not like the idea yourself?’
Lavinia shrugged. ‘I am hopeless at it.’
‘Oh, dear. Who has told you that?’
‘Miss Hastings, my governess. She loses all patience with me—’
‘It is not to be wondered at,’ the Duke put in. ‘You do not even try.’
‘I cannot see the point in trying. What use is being able to draw to me? Or dancing? Or playing the harpsichord? Or mincing about learning to curtsy?’
He sighed. ‘We have been over this all before, Vinny. These are accomplishments all young ladies need in order to enter Society.’
‘Then I shall not enter it. It is all a terrible bore.’
‘Lavinia,’ he said sharply, ‘you will do as you are told. You know what we talked about only yesterday…’
‘That Mama would have wished it. Yes, yes, I know, but Mama is not here, is she?’
Oh, poor child, Frances thought. She misses her mama dreadfully and he cannot see that. ‘Lady Lavinia,’ she said gently. ‘Shall we have a trial, just to see how we deal together? If we cannot do so, there is no point in continuing; I cannot teach you if you do not wish to be taught.’
‘Do not forget, I have also commissioned a portrait,’ Marcus reminded her. ‘I insist she sits for that.’
‘We will deal with that later,’ Frances said, looking from the girl to the man, her brows drawn together in annoyance. How was she to get through to the child if he continually interrupted?
He glared at her, but fell silent under her withering glance.
‘Now, my lady,’ Frances went on. ‘Shall you come again tomorrow and we will talk some more? Perhaps you could come with your governess, so that your father may go about his business.’
‘I will bring her,’ Marcus snapped. ‘My daughter does not go about town without a proper escort. Her governess would be useless in a tight corner.’
‘Very well, your Grace,’ she said, wondering what sort of tight corner he had in mind. ‘I will expect you both at ten o’clock. I am afraid I cannot make it any later. I have a class at noon and an appointment for the afternoon.’
‘That will serve,’ he said, rising. ‘Come Vinny, we have other visits to make.’
All very cold and businesslike, she told herself after they had gone, and cold was the only word to describe him, cold and top-lofty. Was he like that with his daughter all the time? Did he ever show her any affection? Whether she would break through the girl’s petulance, she did not know but, for some reason she could not explain, even to herself, she wanted to try. Perhaps it was simply that she enjoyed a challenge.
She repeated that thought to Sir Percival when they were riding in Hyde Park the following morning. They had enjoyed a good gallop over the turf and had returned to walk their horses along the carriageway before returning home.
‘If you do not mind my saying so, Fanny, you are a ninny,’ he said, while bowing to an acquaintance in a phaeton. ‘You will only invite gossip.’
‘It was you who told me no one would remember the scandal, Percy.’
‘Yes, but you do not have to remind them of it.’
‘I am not, but if I had refused the Duke’s request, he would think I bear him a grudge and that I cannot have. The past is dead and gone and teaching Lady Lavinia will prove it.’
‘How?’
‘Why, because nothing will come of it. It is a business arrangement and when it comes to an end and he takes his daughter back to Derbyshire, everyone will see it is.’ She smiled and inclined her head in greeting towards Lady Jersey, sitting in a carriage with one of her bosom bows.
‘You should be careful you are not hoist on your own petard, my dear.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, I think you are well aware of my meaning.’
‘I have no interest in the Duke of Loscoe, except as a client,’ she said, turning back towards the Stanhope Gate. ‘He is paying me well.’
He laughed. ‘And you so poor you cannot afford to turn him down!’
‘No, I can’t. I put the money I earn to very good use.’
‘Now, I never had you down as a pinchcommons.’ He sighed. ‘It just shows how wrong a fellow can be.’
She laughed. ‘You know me better than anyone, Percy, and you know I am not at all interested in money for its own sake.’
‘Do I?’
‘Naturally, you do.’
‘But you know the latest on dit is that his Grace is looking for a second wife.’
‘So?’
‘Will he go back unmarried, I ask myself?’
‘What has that to do with me?’
‘He is rich as Golden Ball, if it is money you want. Not that you would have much of a bargain. The gabble-grinders have it that his marriage was far from content and the consensus of opinion seems to be that it was his fault. He is too stiff and overweening to make any woman happy and only his enormous wealth will make the ladies overlook his failings.’
‘Percy, I do believe you are a little jealous.’
‘Not at all.’ They passed through the gate into Park Lane. ‘But do not say I did not warn you.’
They rode on in silence while she mused on what he had said and arrived at Corringham House, just as the phaeton containing the Duke and his daughter turned into the road. This was beginning to become a habit, she thought, this meeting on the doorstep. She must remember that the Duke was a stickler for punctuality and not to be late in future. They stopped and Sir Percival sprang down to help her dismount as the carriage containing the Duke and his daughter came to a halt.
She was magnificent, Marcus decided, standing at her door in a green velvet habit that nipped her waist, and the most amazing riding hat, like a man’s top hat, but with a sweeping feather and a wisp of veil to make it more feminine. He jumped down and made his bow. ‘My lady.’
She inclined her head, almost haughty, except that her smile belied it. ‘Your Grace, am I late or are you early?’
‘I am punctual, my lady. It is the politeness of kings, so they say, and who am I to be less polite than a king?’
‘I will remember that, my lord. Will you please come in? Sir Percival, will you join us?’
‘No, don’t think so, m’dear,’ he murmured, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. ‘Things to do, don’t you know?’
‘Of course. Thank you for your escort.’
‘My pleasure, dear lady.’ He turned to the Duke. ‘Good day, Loscoe. Lady Lavinia.’ And with that he remounted and set off at a trot towards Brook Street.
‘I do not intend to stay long,’ Marcus said to the groom who came round from the side of the house to lead the horses away. ‘Just keep a watch on the horses for me.’
Relieved by that, Frances conducted them indoors and, once his Grace had been relieved of his hat and Lady Lavinia had been divested of her pelisse and bonnet, led the way up to her studio, where she left them to go and change out of her habit.
It took her no more than five minutes and she returned to find Lavinia standing at the window with her back to the room and the Duke prowling round looking at the pictures displayed on the wall. He had his hands clasped under the tail of his brown frockcoat.
‘These are good,’ he said. ‘A deal better than that fribble you did of Lady Willoughby.’
‘Thank you. They are the ones I have painted for my own pleasure.’
‘You should share that pleasure, not hide them away.’
‘They are not hidden,’ she said, thinking of those she had painted of him seventeen years before and was glad she had put them on the floor with their faces to the wall. She did not want him to know that she had kept them. ‘Anyone who comes into this room can see them.’
‘But you have not exhibited them?’
‘No, they are not fashionable.’
‘I can readily see that. There is too much stark realism, the brushstrokes are too bold but, in my humble opinion, the execution is top of the trees. I am sure a more discerning public would see their merit at once.’
She laughed. ‘You think someone would like to hang a picture of a dead fox on their drawing-room wall?’
‘No, perhaps not that one. Why did you do it?’
‘The barbarity appalled me.’
Lady Lavinia turned towards her. ‘You think so too, my lady? I hate it. Papa persuaded me to join in the hunt last autumn and, though I enjoyed the ride, it was awful when the dogs caught the fox. They cut off its brush and wiped my face with it. I was dreadfully sick. I’ll never go again.’ It was the longest speech Frances had heard her make.
‘I told you, Vinny,’ the Duke put in with a smile, ‘you only have to be blooded once. It will not happen again.’
‘I am sure that is a great comfort to the fox,’ she retorted. ‘It only has to die once. Well, I tell you this: when I marry, I shall not let my husband hunt.’
He grinned. ‘You think you will have the ordering of your husband, do you? Oh, Vinny, you have a great deal to learn if you believe that.’
‘I shall have it written in the marriage contract or there will be no marriage.’
He laughed aloud, which made the girl colour angrily and Frances decided to intervene. ‘You are evidently very fond of animals, Lady Lavinia.’
‘Yes. I have a menagerie at home at Loscoe Court, but of course I could not bring them with me. Tom, the stable boy, is looking after them for me.’
‘Have you tried to draw them?’
‘No. Why should I? They are there to be seen and touched—why would I want to commit them to paper?’
‘Now, there is an interesting question.’
‘What is?’
‘Why commit anything to paper or canvas? Or plaster and bronze, come to that? Shall we sit down and discuss it? We could do that while I make some preliminary sketches of you.’
‘I would rather be out of doors.’
‘Then let us go into the garden.’ She rose and collected up two sketchbooks and a few pieces of charcoal. Then she turned to Marcus. ‘You may safely leave Lady Lavinia with me, my lord. I am sure you have other calls on your time.’ It was as near a dismissal as she could make without being unpardonably rude. She wanted him to leave; his presence, even when he was not speaking, was unnerving. She needed to be calm and in control, if she were going to teach her pupil anything at all.
