“The pleasure is entirely mine, sir,” I replied. “You are very good to receive us on so little notice, and we are sensible of the charge upon your time.”

“The notice of the Comtesse de Feuillide — forgive me, of Mrs. Henry Austen — is hardly little,” he assured me with becoming grace. “She is one of the few women of fashion who retains both her understanding and her heart — and is thus to be prized as the rarest porcelain.”

“I see you value her as I do.”

He inclined his head, and gestured towards two of the formidable chairs. “My deepest sympathies, Lord Harold, at your nephew’s present misfortunes. Shocking how little the authorities are to be trusted in a matter of this kind! But, however, all earthly authority must give way to a Higher Power in a very little time, as I have presumed to instruct His Royal Highness. All mortal concerns are fleeting, when the world is near its end.”

Lord Harold glanced enquiringly at me, then bowed to the painter and seated himself without a word.

“The Comtesse suggests, Miss Austen, that you are desirous of having your likeness taken in miniature; and knowing that such is my primary avocation, you have sought my talents and advice.”

“Indeed, sir, I fear that she has imposed upon you,” I said hastily. “It is not the matter of my own portrait, but another’s, on which we have come.”

One eyebrow was suffered to rise, and the great man settled himself upon an ottoman, his splendid coattails arranged behind. I observed he had chosen his seat with care, to accommodate his short legs; for they should have dangled from the height of the chair upon which I perched.

“Pray tell me how I may be of service.”

Lord Harold withdrew the small paper parcel from his coat and set it on a table close at hand. “We had hoped, Mr. Cosway, that you might recognise this piece — or perhaps, its subject.”

The slight foolishness of expression instantly fled. It was replaced by an appearance of the most intense interest. Cosway undid the paper, and drawing forth a quizzing glass, examined its contents minutely.

“Yes,” he mused, “a lovely thing, to be sure. Probably a woman’s eye — you will remark the delicacy of the brow, the excessive length of the lashes, and the provocative glance. I should think it is a French piece.”

“French?”

“Observe the hazing around the portrait’s edge — the suggestion of the eye’s suspension in a cloud of mist. It might almost seem to float, like an image in a dream. I devised the style when I painted Mrs. Fitzherbert’s eye for His Royal Highness, of course; but it has long since been abandoned among English painters for a more realistic representation. It is usual, now, to frame the eye in a curl of hair, or to suggest the bridge of the nose.”

“Might not it be an older portrait?” Lord Harold enquired. “Executed in the ‘eighties or ‘nineties, perhaps?”

“Such things were not quite the fashion then,” Mr. Cosway mused, “for I only painted Mrs. Fitzherbert’s eye in 1790. Had the portrait dated from so early a period, I should have recognised it instantly as one of my own. Engleheart adopted the practice, of course, and turned it almost from art to commerce—anyone might have an Engleheart eye for the asking — but he is often given to working in enamel, and this is clearly done in watercolours, and painted on ivory. Besides, Engleheart paints in a far more realistic style, and signs the obverse with the initials G.E.”

“So enquiry in that quarter would avail us nothing,” I said in some disappointment.

The painter shook his head. “May I enquire, my lord, how you came by the item?”

“Upon the death of its owner,” Lord Harold replied, without a blush; and indeed, his words were not very far from the truth. “I thought it possible that the lady whose eye is here represented would wish to know of the gentleman’s demise; and that in returning it to its subject I might attempt to perform some final service on behalf of my friend. Miss Austen was so kind as to suggest an appeal to yourself, who must be acclaimed the acknowledged expert in such things.”

“And this friend conveyed to you nothing of the portrait’s history before his death?”

“He did not. It came to me, as it were, in all the silence of the tomb.”

“A pity. We may suppose that the gentleman preferred to shroud the circumstances of the portrait’s commission in mystery. That is not uncommon, my lord, I may assure you, with miniatures of this sort. They were devised as tokens for illicit lovers, and many a possessor has gone to his grave with the name of the subject sealed upon his lips. Pray forgive me — I risk a gross impertinence — but why should you struggle to betray the grave’s confidence?”

“My friend died suddenly, in the flower of his youth, and I am certain that he would not have wished his beloved to go unremarked at his passing. A legacy, perhaps, conveyed anonymously — I feel it incumbent upon me to do something.”

“Though your nephew’s affairs are so sadly entangled at present?” Mr. Cosway’s protuberant eyes were fixed steadily upon Lord Harold’s face. “It is singular that so active a benevolence, on behalf of another wholly unconnected to your misfortunes, should possess you at such a time.”

“And now I believe, sir, that you do risk impertinence,” Lord Harold replied evenly.

“It is very probable. But I cannot think you approach me with any degree of frankness, my lord, and every kind of deceit is my abhorrence. Good day to you — and to you, Miss Austen. My compliments to the Comtesse.”

“Mr. Cosway—” I sprang up, a most beseeching expression upon my face. “Do permit me to speak a word, I beg. Lord Harold is perhaps too discreet. But I may inform you that a greater knowledge of the portrait’s particulars, might swifty avert his nephew’s misery.”

“I thought it possible,” Mr. Cosway replied, and smiled faintly. “But I cannot like the want of confidence his lordship betrays.”

“Your pardon, Mr. Cosway,” Lord Harold managed, with a quelling glance for myself; “I spoke perhaps too hastily.”

There was a lengthy pause, in which the painter took up the miniature once more and examined it narrowly. At length, however, he set it aside, and folded his hands upon his knee.

“I should like to propose a method of enquiry, my lord.”

“Pray do so at once.”

“My wife, Maria, of whom you may have heard—”

“And who has not? She is very nearly as celebrated an artist as yourself,” Lord Harold acknowledged.

Mr. Cosway bowed. “My wife, Maria, is presently resident in France — and acquainted with the principal painters of the Emperor’s circle. Though she makes her home in Lyons, I know that she is often in the capital, and might readily make enquiries regarding your portrait. She might first locate the hand that captured the likeness — and from him, the name of the subject.”

“I am afraid it is beyond my power to part with the pendant,” Lord Harold said, frowning. “Affairs are too delicate to risk its seizure, through some misadventure of war.”

“But you need not give it up for longer than the space of an hour,” Mr. Cosway cried. “I shall sketch the piece, front and back; shade the whole in watercolours — and we may have the sending of it by the next packet that serves!”

Lord Harold paused to reflect; but Mr. Cosway’s enthusiasm was at a considerable pitch. He hastened to support his first inspiration with another.

“You are intimate in Government circles, my lord. It is everywhere acknowledged among the fashionable of the ton that none may move heaven and earth so easily as Lord Harold Trowbridge — and the insertion of a letter in the mail pouch of a secret craft, such as plies the Channel in defiance of blockades and shot, should be the matter of a moment, for one of your influence!”[43]