1: The Portraitist
MOUNT STREET, LONDON: NOVEMBER
Lance Chamberlain made a minute adjustment to the small emerald pin embedded in his neckcloth, and stood back to admire the effect in the looking glass. The pin was an affectation, for in general he followed Mr Brummell’s principles of restraint in gentlemen’s dress, but it was a signal to the world that although he was only the younger son of a baronet, he was not an insignificant nobody. Besides, the colour matched his eyes.
“You look very fine, sir,” Denny said.
“Oh, I am‘sir’today, am I?”
“It is an auspicious occasion, worthy of a little respect, even from me,” Denny said.
Lance smiled. “Auspicious occasion? Today, my friend, is the pinnacle of my existence. I have achieved professional esteem as a portraitist, I have made my fortune and today I shall beengaged to the daughter of a marquess. I have nothing further to wish for.”
“If only it might be so,” murmured Denny, making Lance laugh. Well, he could afford to laugh, today.
Downstairs, Mama and Papa were loitering in the hall, eyes shining with excitement.
“All ready, son?” Papa said.
“As ready as I have ever been.”
“We are so proud of you,” Mama said, as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek.
Breakfast was an odd sort of meal. Lance was used to being alone in the Mount Street house at this time of year, or perhaps one or other of his brothers might make a quick dive for the metropolis, but usually they all stayed safely in Surrey, where nothing much ever happened and they were well out of the unpredictable currents of society life. But today, they were all there — his three stolid brothers and their round-faced wives, his sisters all running to fat with their rustic spouses. And so many clerics! What was it about the Chamberlains that drew them so powerfully to the church? Yet not a bishop amongst them. Not one of them had an ounce of ambition in him.
Except for Lance. He loved his family dearly, but they were not like him. Perhaps it came from being the youngest, the baby of the family, but he had always been different. He had ambition enough for all of them, and today all his carefully nurtured hopes would reach fruition.
He had ordered the carriage for half past eleven, but the day was so fine that at the last minute he sent for his curricle instead. It would strike the right note for Grosvenor Square, he felt.
“Do you want me to come with you, or one of the grooms?” Denny said.
“You, of course. Best livery, my friend.”
The whole family gathered in the tiny hall to see him off. Lance squeezed past their solid frames, waved to the servants lined up on the stairs, then out to the street where Denny waited, with one of the grooms holding the head of the greys. He paused to savour the moment — they were a fine pair, and had cost him a lot of money, but worth every last penny.
Several of their neighbours, aware of the significance of the occasion, were out on the street or hanging out of upper windows to watch his departure. With a jaunty wave, he leapt into the seat, picked up the reins and whip, Denny sprang up beside him and with a final cheery lift of the hand to his audience, he was away.
He was early, so he tooled about the streets for a few minutes, to run the friskiness out of his team and to settle what nerves he might have. There were few of those. He did not come from a noble family, nor from great wealth, and his family’s estate was only modest, but society did not care about that. His talent for painting, and a certain eye for enhancing the features of a subject without outright falsehood had brought him an initial standing in the art world. His own brazenness had done the rest, in offering to paint the Princess Amelia without charge, a portrait which had cemented his reputation. He was a success, and thus worthy to aspire to the hand of a noble lady.
Grosvenor Square was quiet, the maids scrubbing steps long since vanished indoors, and the great and the good who dwelt within these hallowed portals not yet venturing outside. He was expected, however, so a groom materialised as soon as he halted. The Marquess of Pentavon’s house was one of the largest on the square, as might be expected, with an elegant little portico sheltering the front door.
Lance raised his hand to knock but he had been watched for. The door opened soundlessly before him, and the butler bowed him in.
“Good morning, Mr Chamberlain,” he said in the lugubrious tones that seemed to come naturally to butlers, as a minion relieved Lance of his hat, coat and gloves. “His lordship is expecting you. Please follow me.”
With a final admiring glance around the hall, slightly larger than the Mount Street dining room, Lance followed him past the stairs and into a rear room overlooking a pleasant garden, with the coach house beyond it. How wonderful it would be to own such a place! Or to be married into the family and invited to stay there.
The marquess rose to greet him, and hobbled over to the door, leaning heavily on his stick, as Lance made his carefully judged bow. Not too obsequiously low, but not the light nod that might be expected from a family member. He was not that yet.
“Come in, Chamberlain, do. How are you?”
“Well, my lord, as always. How is the gout?”
“Hmpf. Same as ever. Bassett, pour Mr Chamberlain something. What will you have — Madeira? I have a very pleasant brandy, if it is not too early in the day for that.”
“It is a little, my lord,” Lance said. “Madeira would suit me very well.”
The butler poured two glasses, offered them on a silver tray, and then withdrew.
