False Impression [antikvár]

Victoria Wentworth sat alone at the table where Wellington had dined with sixteen of his field officers the night before he set out for Waterloo. General Sir Harry Wentworth sat at the right hand of the Iron Duke that night, and was commanding his left flank when a defeated Napoleon rode off the battlefield and into exile. A grateful monarch bestowed on the general the tide Earl of Wentworth, which the family had home proudly since 1815. These thoughts were running through Victoria's mind as she read Dr Petreseu's report for a second time. When she tumed the last page, she let out a sigh of rehef. A solution to all her problems had been found, quite literally at the eleventh hour. The dining-room door opened noiselessly and Andrews, who from second footman to butler had served three generations of Wentworths, deftly removed her ladyship's dessert plate. Thank you,' Victoria said, and waited untfl he had reached the door before she added, 'and has everything been arranged for the removal of the painting?' She couldn't bring herself to mention the artist's name. 'Yes, m'lady,' Andrews replied, turning back to face his mistress. 'The picture have been dispatched before you come down for breakfast.' 'And has everything been prepared for Dr Petreseu's visit?'