A Frame Of Dreams E-Book

Barbara Cartland

• Herausgeber: Barbara Cartland Ebooks Ltd
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Eternal Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 286

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The impoverished daughter of a renowned artist, Vanessa was making ends meet by restoring the delicate miniatures that her father was so famous for. Whilst travelling to a commission she is saved from the clutches of the odious Sir Julius Stone by the dashing, but confirmed batchelor, the Marquis of Ruckford. Ruckford is quite taken by Vanessas exquisite beauty and resolves to help and protect her in any way he can as he said, "lovely women often quite unconsciously court danger". As his words come true and Vanessa foils a Napoleonic plot, he realises his protection has turned into something more. But the Marquis has no plans for marriage. Torn between love and a shameful proposal Vanessa must make a choice. What she chooses and how this changes both their lives, are told in this beautifully visual story, set in Georgian London.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

A FRAME OF DREAMS

©1975

Author’s Note

The details of the miniaturists are correct and Peter Paul Lens (1714-1750), son of Bernard Lens (1682-1740), was, as I have described, obliged to leave Ireland hurriedly in 1738, having been censured for his activities in a Hellfire Club by the Irish House of Lords.

Little is known of his subsequent life in England and he died when he was thirty-six. I have therefore given him a son – Cornelius Lens – in this story. Peter Paul Lens has a profile of his father and a very appealing miniature of a ‘Ragged Little Boy’ in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

The descriptions of Carlton House and Vauxhall Gardens are completely accurate and Monsieur André Jacques Garnerin was the inventor of the first practical parachute.

CHAPTER ONE 1804

The Marquis of Ruckford permitted his valet to assist him out of his evening coat. It was exquisitely cut by Weston and fitted without a wrinkle. At the same time, because the Marquis disliked feeling confined, it was slightly looser than those the same tailor cut for the Prince of Wales.

The bedchamber, being the best in the posting inn, was large, and despite its low ceilings, exceedingly comfortable. Although it was now early May, there was a fire burning brightly in the grate and His Lordship noted with satisfaction that the oak four-poster bed was wide and its deep mattress should ensure his comfort.

There was however a slight frown on the Marquis’s handsome face, as in the distance there could be heard the noise of voices and laughter, a sound that had continued all through the evening and had been louder still in the private parlour where he had eaten his dinner.

“I have never known the place so noisy,” the Marquis remarked to his valet. “Perhaps we would have been better advised to stay with Lord Lincoln.”

“It is unfortunate, My Lord,” the valet replied, “that there should have been a mill taking place in the vicinity on the very day of our arrival. ’Tis said the purse exceeded two thousand guineas and a large amount of money was laid on the local man.”

“Did he win?” the Marquis asked somewhat indifferently.

An amateur boxer himself of some distinction, he found it a bore to watch a mill unless the very finest champions had been matched. There were, in his opinion, far too many over-boosted fights in country areas, which were usually organised by local innkeepers to bring money into the vicinity.

“I believe, My Lord,” the valet replied, “that the fight was in fact disappointing. Despite the much-vaunted qualities of the local man’s opponent, he was floored in under half an hour and with such ease that the majority of the spectators are complaining they had come a long way for nothing.”

“That is what I expected,” the Marquis remarked laconically. “At the same time there are too many guests in the inn and they are far too loud-mouthed for my comfort.”

“They’re drinking themselves under the table, My Lord,” the valet replied. “The landlord’s never had such a harvest!”

The Marquis did not reply. He did not like gossiping with his servants, and anyway he was tired, having travelled since early in the morning from Lord Hargrave’s castle in Huntingdonshire.

As his valet assisted him to remove the rest of his garments and he washed in the warm water to which a few drops of eau-de-cologne had been added, he thought that the Prince of Wales should be grateful that he had undertaken this journey on his behalf. It had in fact given the Marquis an opportunity for trying out his new team of perfectly matched chestnuts, which he had purchased two months before at Tattersalls and which he had not previously taken further than Hyde Park. But the whole trip had taken a lot of planning.

Lord Hargrave’s Castle was off the main roads, and twisting, dusty lanes did not make for pleasant driving. What was more, it meant that His Lordship had to spend two nights on the journey, one between London and the castle, and one on his return.

The two nights he had spent in the castle had been somewhat rewarding in that he had acquired an interesting find to show the Prince of Wales. He had also brought a picture back with him that he knew would delight His Royal Highness.

At the same time he had not been in the castle for more than half an hour before he understood Lord Hargrave’s disinclination to come to London. Also, his suggestion that the Marquis of Ruckford should be sent to inspect his treasures had been inspired by a very different motive from what had appeared in his well expressed letter to the Prince.

Lord Hargrave had produced his daughter with the air of a magician bringing an unexpected rabbit out of a hat. The Marquis, who was used to such wiles, was irritated to find himself once more in the uncomfortable position of making it absolutely clear that his interest was in paintings and not in marriage.

The Honourable Emily, aged nineteen, had a pleasing countenance. In fact the Marquis was sure that Lord Hargrave would find it quite easy to procure for her a husband of sufficient wealth and importance to match her dark-eyed attractions. At the same time he made it very clear that he was not available in the marriage market.

It was not surprising, as he would have been frank enough to admit to himself, that Lord Hargrave, in aspiring for the best for his daughter, should consider him as a suitable son-in-law. The Marquis had been pursued by every matchmaking father and mother in the length and breadth of Great Britain since the time he had left Eton. He was not only immensely wealthy and his house, like his estates, the finest in the land. He was also an extremely attractive man. So handsome that only with the greatest dexterity and a certain amount of disagreeableness had he prevented himself from being nicknamed ‘Beau Ruckford’.

He was also an outstanding sportsman and as such was almost unique in being admired and liked by his own sex as much as by the lovely ladies who sought his favours. A noted Corinthian and undoubtedly the finest whip in the ‘Four-in-Hand’ Club, he had made his mark as a duellist not only with swords but also with pistols and was undoubtedly one of the greatest amateur riders that ever carried his own horses past the winning post.

Besides all this he played his part in the House of Lords, and Statesmen valued his opinion and support.

The Prince of Wales not only called the Marquis his friend with an undeniable sincerity, but he also found him an invaluable source of information and discrimination where works of art were concerned. The Prince’s predilection for paintings, furniture and everything else that added to the glory of Carlton House supplied the cartoonists with an endless stream of ammunition against him.

He had incurred debts, which had infuriated the people and Parliament, but the treasures on which he spent such vast sums were in fact the envy of every connoisseur.

There was no doubt that Carlton House was magnificent! It had been granted to the Prince by the King as his London residence, provided that he did not give away any of the land and took upon himself “all the repairs, taxes, and the keeping up of the gardens”.

The house, which had been built at the beginning of the eighteenth century and had formerly been inhabited by the Dowager Princess of Wales, the Prince’s grandmother, was unremarkable. But the Prince employed Holland, the architect of Brook’s Club, and by 1783 he had moved into Carlton House to live there as the work went on around him.

It was a delight to the Prince to be able to exercise his excellent taste in decorating the rooms and collecting the furniture. The objets d’art, pictures, looking-glasses, bronzes, Sèvres china, Gobelin tapestries and countless other treasures that enriched this ‘Palace’ were to stand comparison with Versailles and even the Palace of St. Petersburg. He himself scoured the salerooms and dealers’ shops of London, buying objects week after week, which he carefully arranged in the various rooms of Carlton House.

Although there was a difference of twelve years in their ages, the Prince counted the Marquis as one of his closest friends, and that he should both encourage and assist him was a continual delight. The Prince found the majority of his friends were uninterested in his expensive but rewarding hobby, or pretended to appreciate what they did not understand.

The two men were opposites in most other regards. Both were outstandingly handsome, but while the Prince was growing fatter every year from over-indulgence, the Marquis became, if anything, slightly slimmer.

Despite his broad shoulders, his hips were narrow and, as his tailor often told him, there was not a spare ounce of flesh on his whole body. This accentuated the bone structure of his face and threw into prominence his high cheekbones and the sharpness of his jaw.

The Prince in his youth had been what was called a “pretty boy”, while the Marquis was clear-cut with a jauntiness – or perhaps the right word was raffishness – about him that was very different. He had, as more than one woman had told him, the face of a buccaneer, and his behaviour, where women were concerned, warranted this description.

But while the Prince drifted through life indulging his fancies, being at times outrageously uncontrolled, the Marquis was not only well organised but also had a very clear idea of what he desired both now and, in the future.

On one point he was completely determined, and that was he did not intend to marry until it suited him. He was well aware that with his historic name, his great possessions and a social position that was second to none, he must eventually beget an heir to carry on the family. He had in fact, although he had not mentioned it to anyone, already selected his bride, the daughter of the Duke of Tealby, whose lands marched with his.

Lady Adelaide Wilmott was exactly the type of wife that the Marquis visualised at the top of his table. She was quiet, well mannered and, while not a striking beauty, had undoubtedly a pleasing face. With her aristocratic features, her straight nose and proudly held head, which showed good breeding, the Marquis was aware that she would carry the fabulous Ruckford jewels with an air of distinction.

Lady Adelaide was at present a Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen, and the Marquis felt that such an appointment would give her an insight and a training for the life she would live when she became his wife. The fact that she was already over twenty-four years of age did not perturb him. He found young girls a bore, and he was certain that because Lady Adelaide had remained unmarried for longer than most of her contemporaries, they would have more interests in common.

In the meantime the Marquis enjoyed himself, but unlike the Prince he was quiet and discreet in his love affairs, and this made him an even more desirable lover in the eyes of the ladies of the social world.

It was one thing for a famous hostess, an acknowledged beauty, the wife of a distinguished nobleman to fall in love – quite another should she lose her good name irretrievably in doing so. As Lady Melbourne, the great Whig hostess, had said,

“Anyone who braves the opinion of the world sooner or later feels the consequences of it.”

Her own reputation was far from spotless. In fact she had taken a number of lovers, among them Lord Coleraine, the Duke of Bedford, and the most important Lord Egremont. But she never flaunted her conquests in public.

There were a great many suspicions as to where and when the Marquis loved, but it was difficult for those suspicions to be confirmed. While inevitably he was gossiped about in every club and in every Drawing Room of the Beau Monde, what was said was mostly speculation and could very seldom be verified.

Apart from amatory adventures with women of his own class, the Marquis, as was the fashion, had a kept mistress. It was to be expected he would choose her with the same care and forethought he expended on anything which concerned his own comfort.

Mariabelle Kerrin had been an outstanding success as Polly Peachum in a revival of The Beggar’s Opera, The Marquis had watched her and been interested. He had visited her in her dressing room after the performance and been captivated.

Mariabelle proved herself to be entrancingly experienced in bed and had a roguish wit that amused the Marquis. She was at first, as he had expected, insatiably avaricious, but lately her demands had not been so insistent and he had the uneasy feeling she was growing too fond of him.

The moment a woman became possessive or clinging he felt constrained and found himself impelled to cut any cords that bound him, to be free. It was an inevitable development in his love affairs and the Marquis often found himself wondering if the day would ever come when he would be the seeker, not the sought – the hunter, not the hunted.

It appeared, on the face of it, to be a very unlikely prospect.

Having finished washing, the Marquis put on his nightshirt of Chinese silk, which had been specially made for him in Bond Street, and over it a robe of rich brocade that reached the floor. He tied around his narrow waist a silk sash with wide fringes, then dismissed his valet.

“Is there something else you require, My Lord?

“Nothing, thank you, Jarvis,” the Marquis replied. “Call me at eight o’clock. I wish to reach London as early as possible.”

“If the traffic isn’t too bad, My Lord, I’m sure Your Lordship’ll set up a new record,” the valet said admiringly.

He was a man who had served the Marquis since he was a boy, and there was no doubt of the adulation in his eyes as he looked at his master.

“That would undoubtedly be a satisfaction,” the Marquis admitted. “Lord Derwent has been boasting for years that he holds the record on this particular road.”

“I’m sure, My Lord, that he’ll not be able to claim such an achievement in the future,” Jarvis replied.

He glanced around the bedchamber to see that everything was in place, the bed made up with the Marquis’s own fine linen, lambswool blankets, and goose-feather pillows. The mat embroidered with His Lordship’s monogram was laid on the floor and a bottle of the water that came from a mineral spring on his estate and which had been known to the Romans, stood on a table with an engraved crystal cut glass beside it.

Carrying the Marquis’s discarded clothes over his arm, the valet opened the door, bowed his head respectfully and then went out into the passage, closing the door behind him.

The Marquis picked up the Morning Post and walked towards a winged arm-chair on the hearth rug. He was just about to sit down when he was conscious of a strong draught coming from the window, which was undoubtedly chill against his bare ankles.

There had been a cold wind blowing all day, while the sun had appeared fitfully in and out of the clouds so that the Marquis had expected rain. The high wind had, however, prevented this, but towards evening it had grown unmistakably chill.

Now putting down the newspaper on the chair, the Marquis walked across the room to where rose-patterned chintz curtains concealed a bow-window, which overlooked the garden at the back of the inn. The Marquis stepped through the curtains to find, as he had expected, that one of the diamond-paned casements was wide open. He closed it, setting the catch in place, and thought that before he went to bed he would open it again.

Outside the clouds had cleared away and the sky was full of stars. The trees surrounding the inn were bending in the wind and the Marquis told himself it would be another blustery day tomorrow, which might reduce his speed towards London.

Down below him the uncurtained windows threw golden lights into the garden. Shadows moved across them and again he could hear the noise of those revelling below. He hoped it would not disturb his sleep and, turning from the window, he opened the curtains, to return to the fireside. As he did so, he saw on the other side of the room, the door onto the passage open and a small figure in white came through it.

It was a woman!

As the Marquis stood staring in surprise she closed the bedroom door behind her and quickly turned the key in the lock. Then she stood looking at the door and the Marquis had the impression she was listening. Resolutely he walked forward.

“I have a feeling, Madam,” he said coldly, “that you have come to the wrong room.”

The woman started and then with an exclamation turned round to face him. He saw that she was very young and very pretty. She had an oval face with large grey-green eyes and her hair, which fell to well below her shoulders, was pale gold with touches of red in it.

She stared at the Marquis as he advanced towards her, then as if she found her voice with difficulty she said hesitatingly,

“I-I looked in and thought the room was ... empty.”

The Marquis was just about to reply when suddenly there was the sound of footsteps outside the door followed by a loud knock. The girl started again and the Marquis saw an expression of terror in her face as two hands went out towards him and she touched his arm.

“Please, please,” she whispered, so low that he only just heard the words. “Hide me! I will explain, but please hide me!”

The Marquis hesitated.

He had no desire to be caught up in some romantic drama and he realised that the girl beside him was wearing only her nightgown with a white shawl covering it. He was about to say that much to his regret he could have no part in what must be a private matter between her and whoever was outside the door, but the terror in her face combined with her pleading for help made him hesitate.

There was no doubt that the girl was very young, and as the knock came again, loud, peremptory, and to the Marquis, impertinent, he made up his mind. He pointed to the curtains from which he had just emerged, and moving swiftly and silently she ran across the room to disappear from view.

Slowly and without haste the Marquis unlocked the door. Outside stood a man he recognised as Sir Julius Stone, whom he had always disliked. The two men stared at each other for a moment.

“Ruckford!” Sir Julius exclaimed. “I was not expecting to find you here.”

“I am on the point of retiring,” the Marquis replied icily.

Sir Julius’s eyes went past him into the room.

In his late thirties, Julius Stone was, in the Marquis’s estimation, one of the less reputable and certainly more unpleasant Bucks who frequented the gambling clubs of St. James’s. He came from an aristocratic family and there was nothing wrong with his antecedents, but he had made his name a byword for licentiousness, brawling and rowdiness, which had been characteristic of quite a number of the young bloods at the end of the century.

There were a great many unsavoury stories currently about Sir Julius, but they did not interest the Marquis and he was not concerned with the Baronet’s morals, good or bad. He only knew that he had nothing in common with such a man, and although they met occasionally at Carlton House and encountered each other at White’s or Watier’s, they were no more than nodding acquaintances.

There was a pause and then, as if Sir Julius was choosing his words, he said,

“I saw someone enter this room a few moments ago – a woman!”

The Marquis raised his eyebrows.

“The lighting in the passage is obviously misleading. I imagine that you saw my valet. Goodnight, Stone.”

He would have shut the door but Sir Julius put his shoulder against it.

“One minute, Ruckford,” he said. “I am not in the habit of questioning the sight of my own eyes. I saw a woman come in here and she is mine.”

“Are you doubting my word?” the Marquis asked.

Although he did not raise his voice, something in the tone of it and the expression in his eyes made Sir Julius step back.

“I was sure – completely sure!” he muttered.

“Goodnight, Stone,” the Marquis said again and, closing the door, locked it. He waited where he was and was aware a few seconds later that the curtains had parted and the girl who had been hiding behind them was coming towards him.

He looked at her and put his finger to his lips. She stood still, motionless in the centre of the room and waited. Several seconds passed and at last the Marquis heard Sir Julius Stone’s footsteps moving reluctantly down the corridor. Only when he could hear them no longer did he move.

“He has gone?” a soft voice asked.

“I think so,” the Marquis answered, “but he could come back. You will have to be careful.”

“Thank you, thank you – more than I can express,” the girl said in a breathless little voice.

“Come nearer to the fire,” the Marquis suggested. “If you do not wish to encounter your importunate admirer again, I suggest you wait awhile before you return to your bedroom.”

“I cannot do that,” the girl said.

Once again the Marquis was aware of the terror in her face.

With a gesture of his hands he indicated a chair opposite to the one he intended to occupy and she sat down on the very edge of it, folding her shawl nervously across her breasts as if she suddenly realised how little she was wearing. She looked very young and defenceless as she raised her eyes to the Marquis, and he smiled at her in a manner that unnumbered women had found beguiling and said quietly,

“Would you like to tell me why you are in this predicament?”

“I wish I knew that myself,” she answered.

He seated himself opposite her, and as he was obviously waiting for her to go on, she began to explain,

“I arrived here this evening with my maid on the stagecoach. It had been arranged that the passengers should stay the night and we were given a meal all together in the main dining room.”

The Marquis knew this was usual where an overnight stop was necessary. He was not particularly interested in what the girl was saying but more in to the soft, musical tones of her voice.

He realised as he continued to look at her that she was even lovelier than he had at first thought. In the light from the fire the colour of her hair reminded him of pictures by early Renaissance painters and he thought he had never seen a woman with such large eyes in a perfect oval face. She had a small, straight nose and her lips were exquisitely curved and were the soft pink of a blush-rose.

“What is your name?” he asked abruptly, breaking in on what she was about to say.

“Vanessa Lens,” she replied.

“I am the Marquis of Ruckford. Now we are introduced!”

He thought her eyes widened a little in surprise and he said,

“You have perhaps heard of me?”

“Yes, I have heard that you own some very fine paintings.”

It was certainly not the answer the Marquis had expected.

“Do paintings interest you?” he asked.

“My father is a miniaturist,” she replied.

The Marquis thought for a moment.

“I have heard of Bernard Lens,” he said, “but he lived much too long ago to be your father.”

“Bernard Lens was my great-grandfather.”

“That is very interesting!” the Marquis exclaimed. “I believe I am right in saying that he was the first English artist to paint on ivory.”

Vanessa’s face lit up.

“It is nice to think you have heard of him. His work was very fine – and so is my father’s.”

“I hope that I shall have the pleasure of seeing some of it,” the Marquis said.

“I hope so,” Vanessa replied.

As if their exchange of conversation made her more vividly aware of the unconventional situation in which she found herself, she added nervously,

“Do you think it would be safe for me to go now?”

“I thought you said you could not go back to your bedchamber,” the Marquis answered.

“Not to the room I was in, but I could go upstairs to Dorcas, my maid. I would be safe with her until the morning – at least, I think so.”

The doubt in her voice made the Marquis say,

“You have not yet finished telling me your story. Will you continue?”

“Yes, of course,” Vanessa replied, “and then perhaps you will understand what has happened.”

She drew in her breath, held her shawl a little tighter around her and went on,

“I noticed the gentleman you called Stone come into the dining room when we had nearly finished our meal. He was angry because the landlord could not give him a private parlour, but finally he sat down in the dining room and ordered what he required with a bad grace. His table was opposite where I was sitting.”

Vanessa’s eyes were very expressive as she went on in a low voice,

“He kept staring at me. It was very embarrassing, and then I saw him call a waiter.”

She paused and the Marquis asked,

“What happened?”

“The waiter came to my side and asked if I would take a glass of wine with the gentleman. I refused, and Dorcas and I rose immediately to go upstairs to our rooms.”

There was a little tremor in Vanessa’s voice as she said,

“As we crossed the dining room the gentleman also rose to his feet and stood in front of us.

“‘I think we have met before,’ he said, ‘and I shall be very hurt and distressed if you will not accept my hospitality.’

“‘I am tired and wish to retire to bed, Sir,’ I replied.

“‘How can you be so ungracious?’ he persisted. ‘Just a glass of wine! I have many things I wish to say to you.’

“‘Please, let me pass,’ I said formally. ‘I have already given you my answer.’

“‘You are far too pretty to be so severe and puritanical,’ he protested.

“As he was right in my path I did not know what to do,” Vanessa went on, “and then fortunately some of the other passengers in our party wished to leave and he was forced to stand aside.”

“So you managed to avoid him,” the Marquis said.

“Dorcas and I hurried upstairs,” Vanessa went on. “We had been given two tiny attic rooms at the very top of the inn. All the people on the stagecoach were housed up there.”

“I am afraid that is their usual position,” the Marquis smiled, “especially when the inn is full.”

“We felt that the landlord had little use for us when there were so many of the gentry to cater for,” Vanessa said.

“Go on!” the Marquis ordered. “What happened next?”

“Dorcas was not feeling very well and I helped her into bed before I went to my own room,” Vanessa continued. “She is old and she had no wish to come on the journey with me, but there was no one else and I could not go alone.”

“No, of course not,” the Marquis agreed.

He thought how lovely she was in the firelight and found it not surprising her looks should invite insults from men like Stone.

“I had gone to my own room and was just about to undress when there was a knock on the door,” Vanessa went on. “I had naturally locked myself in and I asked who was there. To my surprise, it was the landlord!”

The Marquis raised his eyebrows but he did not speak.

“I asked him what he wanted. He was extremely apologetic and told me that my particular room had been booked by someone else long before the stagecoach arrived. He had taken a chance on the gentleman who had reserved it not turning up, but now he had done so, and it was very unfortunate, but I would have to change rooms.”

Vanessa looked at the Marquis in consternation and added,

“It seems very foolish of me now, but at the time I did not know what to do or what to say! While I was hesitating, the landlord picked up my valise and the clothes I had unpacked and started to walk down the stairs. There seemed to be nothing I could do but follow him.”

“Where did he take you?” the Marquis asked.

“To a room on this floor,” Vanessa answered. “It was well furnished and obviously a much better room than the one I had just left. He put my things down and while I was still wondering what was happening he said, ‘There will be no extra charge, Ma’am, and you will find this bedchamber much more comfortable.’

“Of course, as soon as he had gone away I realised I should have asked him why he could not have put the gentleman who wanted my room in the one I was in now, but I was so slow-brained that I did not think of it until I was alone.”

“I can understand your difficulty,” the Marquis remarked.

“There was a fire in the new room and the bed was a large one,” Vanessa said. “I just could not understand why I should have been moved.”

“What did you do?” the Marquis asked.

“There seemed to be nothing I could do,” Vanessa replied, “so I locked the door and undressed. I was just about to get into bed when I realised there was another door in the room. I had not noticed it at first and then as I went towards it to make quite certain that it was locked, I heard a voice on the other side.”

She paused and the Marquis saw the fingers holding the shawl were trembling.

“I heard someone say, ‘Thank you very much, my man!’ and I knew who was speaking.”

“It was undoubtedly Sir Julius Stone!” the Marquis said.

“Yes,” Vanessa agreed, “and I was certain that he was responsible for having my room changed!”

She drew in her breath as if she remembered the terror of it and went on,

“I stood wondering what I should do. I looked at the communicating door and realised there was no key on my side! Then I heard the click in the lock as the key was turned.”

There was an echo of the fear the Marquis had seen in her eyes as Vanessa said,

“I realised then what was happening and running across the bedroom I opened the door onto the passage. As I went, I knew he was not far behind me. I saw a man coming out of this room and I thought it must be empty. I opened the door and looked inside – seeing no one I thought I could lock myself in.”

Vanessa’s voice was breathless as she finished speaking.

“I think you were very sensible,” the Marquis said quietly. “Only someone like Stone would behave in such a despicable manner to a girl travelling alone with only an old maidservant to accompany her.”

Vanessa did not speak and after a moment he said,

“You would be completely safe nine times out of ten, but there is always the tenth! Was your journey of such importance that there was no one more responsible to go with you?”

“No one,” she answered. “Lord Derwent had asked my father to bring him six miniatures he had recently restored. His Lordship also said he had some others in his house about which he would appreciate my father’s advice.”

“But your father could not do as Lord Derwent requested?” the Marquis questioned.

“It was impossible,” Vanessa said with a little gesture of one hand. “He has been ill – very ill. So I thought if I took the miniatures to Lord Derwent, I could also tell him which of the others in his collection were in need of attention.”

“You are an expert?” the Marquis asked with a faintly derisive smile.

“I have helped my father for a long time,” Vanessa replied with dignity.

“I apologise for suggesting you were not capable,” the Marquis said. “But you look very like a miniature yourself. It is hard to think of you working as an artist, or maybe that is my mistake – perhaps that sort of painting comes naturally to you.”

“I do not presume to call myself a miniaturist,” Vanessa said reprovingly, “but I am experienced enough to know what should be done to a miniature that has faded or has been affected by the temperature.”

The Marquis did not speak and after a moment she said, as if she challenged his knowledge of such matters,

“The whole difficulty with painting on ivory is that it may warp or produce a mildew, which can ruin the painting.”

“I am aware of that,” the Marquis replied. “So you were able to advise Lord Derwent?”

“I found there were four miniatures that needed restoration,” Vanessa answered.

“I hope His Lordship was grateful to you for bringing him the others at such a risk to yourself.”

“I do not think His Lordship thought about it! But if an owner receives a completed order personally, he normally pays the bill on the spot.”

She gave the Marquis a shy smile and added,

“That is something which is too often forgotten by those who do not have to work for their living.”

“That is true,” the Marquis agreed, thinking of the huge pile of debts accumulated by the Prince of Wales, many of which were owed to artists or dealers.

There was silence and then Vanessa said,

“Do you think it is ... safe now for me to go upstairs?”

The Marquis was watching her sensitive little face, and the mere idea of her being in close proximity to a man as depraved as Sir Julius Stone made him feel angry.

‘Why could the swine not keep his leching and whoring to London?’ he asked himself.

It was unfortunate that this inexperienced child should have met someone like him at a posting inn. The Marquis guessed that the reason for Sir Julius’s appearance was that he had attended the mill.