Page 24 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘You will find three Reynolds upon these walls,’ Mr Reeves said serenely, giving no indication of his own opinion on the subject, ‘if you can spot them …’

Mr Reynolds, perhaps the most famous portraitist for several centuries, a household name in every house of quality.

‘Who is that?’ Lydia asked Ashford, with an innocent widening of her eyes – for why not throw a little of Stage Three (foolishness) into the ring now?

‘Ah – an artist,’ he explained. ‘The first president of the Royal Academy?’

‘I have never visited,’ Lydia lied. ‘Can’t stand such stuff.’

‘Oh, I love it,’ Miss Hesse breathed.

‘I as well,’ Mr Brandon said at once. ‘I wager I can find the Reynolds before you, Miss Hesse.’

They scampered off, as merry as schoolchildren, Brutus trotting behind, while Ashford set a more sedate pace. It was the most alone they had been since their engagement. Lydia stole an evaluating glance at Ashford. He did not seem the sort who would try to steal an arm around her waist, but one never knew, and they were engaged … On the pretence of adjusting her cuffs, she felt for the reassuring shape of the sharp pin hiding in the cloth there. Her grandmother had gifted it to her on her sixteenth birthday, with stern instructions that she must wield it liberally against lecherous gentlemen.

Ashford paused in front of a rather sensual depiction of a previous Lady Cavendish – Sir Waldo had purchased Hawkscroft’s art collection along with the house – arranged suggestively on a chaise longue. She had plainly been as beautiful as she was full figured. ‘What extraordinary brushwork,’ Ashford observed.

Lydia released her pin. She was not going to need it.

‘Are these all ancestors of the previous owner?’ Lydia asked, with an expansive wave of her arm. ‘Or are there any members of Sir Waldo and Lady Phoebe’s family included, too?’

Ashford paused before the next painting. ‘This is mine and Phoebe’s great-great grandfather.’

Lydia took in the portrait. He was a stout man, and what could be seen of his expression – through the wiry hair that appeared to cover every inch of his neck, face and ears – was dour and dissatisfied. Long in the tooth both figuratively and quite literally, for his incisors protruded at an alarming angle from his mouth. He was, perhaps, the ugliest man Lydia had ever seen.

‘I can perceive the family resemblance,’ she said. ‘Uncanny.’

There was a pause, during which Lydia worked to keep her face quite still.

‘Resemblance to … me?’ Ashford said.

Lydia nodded. ‘I have a discerning eye for these things,’ she said. ‘I imagine it will not be above a few years before you could pass for twins.’

‘How old do you think I—’ Ashford began, then broke off with an irritable shake of his head, stepping onto the next portrait.

‘And this is Charles Jenkinson, a relative to Waldo and grandfather, of course, to Robert,’ he said.

Oh, how perfect.

‘Grandfather to whom?’ Lydia repeated, as innocently as she was able.

‘Ah – our Prime Minister,’ Ashford said.

‘Another one?’ Lydia said. ‘Gosh, it does make it difficult to keep track, doesn’t it – the way they constantly keep swapping new ones in.’

‘Every four years, usually,’ Ashford said, voice very, very neutral.

‘Jenkinson …’ Lydia said, tapping her finger upon her chin in thought. ‘The name does sound familiar.’

‘Perhaps you might have read about him in the papers?’ Ashford suggested hopefully.

‘No, that’s not it,’ Lydia said. ‘Is he the one who was found in a state of undress with Lady Massey?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Then I give up,’ Lydia said. ‘Politics is so impossible to follow! I have enough issues remembering everyone’s names and titles here.’

‘Yes, I have noticed, that on occasion you can mix them up,’ Ashford said. ‘Very understandable, of course, but – ah – you may ask me, if you are ever in doubt.’