Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

" W hy, Chauncy, you said it was extreme vanity to have your portrait painted, and now you have succumbed!" Catherine, Lady Saunders smiled coyly from her seat in the Blue Drawing Room, before turning to her husband. "Saunders, why did you not tell me before that Chauncy was looking for a portrait painter?" she asked, patting his knee as if she and he were a couple who enjoyed great harmony.

"A likeness, not a portrait." Angus Conway, Duke of Chauncy corrected her with a distant smile.

He'd not expected his old friend, Saunders, to have brought his wife to dinner tonight when he thought he'd made it quite clear that the invitation was on account of a matter of diplomatic delicacy.

But now Catherine had sunk her sharp little teeth into the idea that Chauncy wanted a portrait of himself—a lie he'd been forced to come up with on the spot because he hadn't thought of an excuse as to why he wanted the expertise of someone who could render a rapid likeness under duress.

He hadn't, in fact, even yet secured someone with such particular talents which was why he'd invited Saunders to dinner: to discuss this troubling security issue involving the Prince Regent that needed an artist of speed and accuracy to identify three potential plotters.

Of course, it was not a matter he could discuss in front of Catherine, a woman not known for her discretion. So, the evening had been something of a tedious waste of time.

Catherine, however, seemed happily oblivious to the mood in the room. She'd also appeared exceedingly pleased to see Chauncy, despite her tears and words of recrimination when he'd given her her congé three months earlier.

Now, it appeared, all had been forgiven. Perhaps she thought he'd invited her with an idea to rekindling the affair. If she had, she must certainly have been disabused by his lack of response to her warm looks.

He sighed and forced a smile. The dinner had been excellent, the table-talk mundane, and now he and Saunders had joined Catherine in the drawing room to conclude the evening with a glass of sherry. Chancy couldn't wait to see them on their way.

Catherine was like a little terrier: insistent and merciless when she wanted entertainment.

"What a shame the very excellent Mr George Romney is no longer with us to render your likeness, Chauncy," Catherine went on. "Now there was a man born with a paint brush in his hand. How I'd have loved to have watched him paint you as he painted Emma, Lady Hamilton, your dear friend Lord Nelson's paramour."

Was she suggesting there was a correlation between Lord Nelson's mistress, Lady Hamilton, and herself with regard to Chauncy?

Lord, what had Chauncy been thinking when he'd succumbed to her lures the previous year? It was all Saunders' doing. He'd pushed his wife into Chauncy's path having formed an interest in an opera dancer. And Chauncy, at the time had been unattached and bored.

He still was.

He took a sip of the amber liquid and reflected gloomily on the current state of affairs. Affairs of the heart should be the last thing on his mind with matters of State as troubling as they were.

"I'm not having my portrait painted," Chauncy muttered. "You should know I haven't the patience to stand about for hours on end. No, I'm looking for someone who is quick to render a likeness. Speed and accuracy are his most important requirements."

"A likeness?" Catherine put her beautiful head on one side and regarded him with sudden speculation. "Why, you're not contemplating marriage, are you, Chauncy? Is that what you meant, earlier? Some deserving little innocent? No, it must be someone who hasn't seen you? A marriage of convenience?" There was a barbed edge to her words that did not escape Chauncy.

"Yes, a marriage of convenience, Catherine," Chauncy agreed because it was easier.

"Yes, well, I'm sure a marriage of convenience would suit you, Chauncy, being someone who's so unable to settle," Catherine said, tartly, "though there was a time I suspected you had a particular fondness for your cousin, Beth, the way you did talk about her."

"Beth keeps house for me and I've known her since we were children. Of course I talk about her," Chauncy said more sharply than he'd intended.

"Well now, back to this artist you need to secure," said Saunders diplomatically. "Perhaps, Catherine, someone springs to mind?"

"As long as it's not that Sir Edward Boothe who's making a name for himself," said Catherine, crinkling her nose. "People say his abilities are extraordinary. But his wife is mad. Locked up for five years, you know. Beautiful and blue-blooded but a millstone around his neck. You wouldn't want her to burn the house down, would you?" She sighed. "Like that cousin of yours, Beth's sister, didn't you once tell me?"

"I did not, on any occasion, say Gwyneth was mad and nor did she ever come close to burning the house down," Chauncy said with a sudden fuelling of ire. "I was exceedingly fond of Cousin Gwyneth whose keen intellect and free spirit did not accord with the fashion of keeping women in their place."

"It sounds like you'd like to keep me in my place," said Catherine, clearly offended as she put down her sherry and turned to her husband.

"Now, now, Catherine, I'm sure Chauncy didn't mean it like that." Saunders put up his hands and appealed to his old friend.

"Forgive me. I'm tired and I really do need to settle upon a painter." Chauncy leaned back and closed his eyes. "Or, rather, a sketcher. Some kind of artist who can render a good likeness, quickly. This is not for a portrait."

"And the lady? Your intended? You havent' said." Catherine tried to smile. Chauncy always knew what was real and what was not, and right now her mouth was stretched in a tight line, marring her lovely features. Catherine was never at her best when she was displeased.

"Miss Harriet Blenkinthorpe," Chauncy said, struggling for a name that might serve him.

"Never heard of her," said Saunders.

"Though I haven't seen her for ten years, we knew one another as children. Her father owns the estate alongside ours near the Scottish border. She dislikes leaving the country."

"Then you'll be coming to London often on your own," said Catherine sounding pleased; as if she truly thought she and Chauncy might rekindle the embers of their doomed and, really, quite unsatisfactory affair.

"And now this artist you mentioned. Sir Edward Boothe," Chauncy said, ignoring her. "What can you tell me of him?"

"Some lowly baronet's seventh son. He married Miss Anna Dixon," said Saunders. "That's all I know."

"A dull fellow who was entranced by the mad woman's beauty but soon rued the day."

"Dull?" Saunders quizzed her. "How would you know he's dull if you've never met him?"

"Gossip," said Catherine. "My sister was telling me about him just recently and a commission he did for Lord Glendenning who was mightily satisfied with the likeness. He told Caroline he'd never come across an artist of such speed and ability." She fixed Chauncy with another of her self-satisfied little smiles.

"There's not much your sister doesn't know about what's going on, is there?" Chauncy had never taken to Catherine's sister, however Mrs Piggott was married to Saunders' other great friend, Rear Admiral Rowley so he'd had to suffer her company through a great many dinners over the years.

"Between us there isn't anything going on that we don't know," Catherine agreed. "So be careful what you get up to, Chauncy." She wagged a finger playfully at him and he smiled weakly.

He just had to hope Catherine didn't get wind of the real reason he needed that likeness.