A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  “If she knew what a tease you are—Tamsin, come back here. You can’t leave me in this state.”

  “Alexander has returned from the village,” Miss Diggory said. “I saw the cart being led around to the carriage house. You’d best get back to the schoolroom and put your mind on dusty old battles until your breeches aren’t fitting so snugly.”

  The sound of a smacking kiss followed, then soft footsteps retreated down the corridor. A door opened and closed, probably Jeremy seeking to steal a few moments of privacy.

  Did Vera know her governess and her tutor were canoodling in the corridors? Should Oak tell her? Why or why not? Oak begrudged no pair of consenting adults their diversions, but what if Catherine should come across the couple in an amorous mood? For that matter, what if Catherine should come across her mother kissing a penniless artist in the attics?

  Such questions were as complicated as the conundrum of the color that best depicted a nightingale’s song, though much more vexing.

  Oak stopped by his room to comb his hair, retie his cravat, and trade his riding jacket for the lighter-weight attire suitable for the indoors. If he hadn’t been prompted to locate the dog whelk seashell in the bottom of his valise—seashells made good rudimentary sketching projects—he’d not have noticed.

  But he did retrieve his papa’s lucky shell, and thus he did notice. Though nothing was stolen, somebody had once again gone through his things, and that, he most assuredly ought to discuss with the lady of the house.

  “You missed dinner,” Vera said, setting the tray on a deal table and closing the door. “This will be your studio?”

  Oak had chosen to establish himself in a room on the northern side of the house, a former game room was Vera’s best guess, for the space came with a wide balcony such as gentlemen might use for a late-night cigar.

  “I’ll do most of my work here,” Oak said, wiping his hands on a rag. “I need the ventilation if I’m to properly clean the older works, and a northern exposure means the sun doesn’t create shifting shadows throughout the day.”

  His space was orderly, compared to the studios Dirk had used. A half-dozen unframed canvases from the attics leaned against the wall beneath the deal table. A midsize worktable sat against another interior wall, while a pair of worn reading chairs had been arranged on a rug beside the hearth. An easel stood near the French doors, and the windowsill was lined with brushes and tools in glass jars.

  “This room has no art of its own,” Vera said.

  “The better to help me focus on my work. Will you keep me company while I eat?”

  She had missed him at dinner and been aware that Catherine had missed him too. Jeremy Forester lacked the will, or possibly the ability, to sustain a polite conversation at a table of females.

  “I ought to abandon you to your art,” Vera said, “as you abandoned me to Catherine’s sighs and Miss Diggory’s long-suffering smiles.”

  Oak fetched the tray and set it on the low table between the pair of chairs facing the empty hearth. “Did Mr. Forester abandon you as well?”

  “No, more’s the pity. I’ve come to realize that his version of conversation is a series of quips.” Vera sank into a chair. “That’s your fault. Until you showed up, I found him witty, if a trifle sarcastic.”

  “You brought me lemonade.” Oak took the other chair and sipped from the tall glass Cook had sent along with the food. “I hadn’t realized how thirsty I am.”

  “Wine seemed presumptuous for a plate of sandwiches. I should let you get back to your tasks.”

  “You should stay and bear me a few minutes company, or I will happily labor through the night and be of no use to anybody tomorrow.” He bit into a sandwich, and Vera took a moment to study the details of his temporary studio.

  The little painting of the mother and children had been removed from its frame. The canvas sat on the worktable, propped against a tall glass jar.

  “That’s a pleasant scene,” Vera said. “Not without charm, for all you pronounce it inadequate. The mama clearly dotes on her offspring.”

  “Did you want more children?”

  Not a question anybody had been brave enough to ask Vera before. “I have five brothers. That Catherine and Alexander are so far apart in age, no siblings between them, isn’t what I had planned, but then, I hadn’t planned on becoming a widow before I turned thirty.”

  “You can remarry,” Oak said as he reached for the second half of a fat ham-and-cheddar sandwich.

  That Oak would remark, between the lemonade and the sandwich, on Vera’s ability to remarry was disappointing. Perhaps a friend would make that observation, but coming from a prospective lover, it implied a disinterest at odds with shared intimacy.

  “I am content as I am,” she said, “and finding a husband is problematic. What of you, do you intend to marry?”

  The question caught him with his lemonade halfway to his mouth. He studied Vera over the rim of his glass, expression unreadable.

  “I must establish myself professionally before I contemplate matrimonial ambitions. I had a drawing lesson with Catherine today.”

  What sort of answer was that? “She mentioned her lesson at supper. In detail. Mr. Dorning this, and Mr. Dorning that. I believe her recitation put Mr. Forester off his feed, which amused Miss Diggory, and that bothered Mr. Forester all the more.”

  Oak dusted his hands over the empty plate. “Our Mr. Forester has undertaken a flirtation with Miss Diggory.”

  “A moment, please.” Vera rose and fetched a lamp from the sconce in the corridor. Upon her return, she closed the studio door—flirtation was under discussion, after all—and used the lamp to light a branch of candles on the mantel and another on the worktable. “Tell me about this flirtation.”

  “I nearly came upon them in the corridor. Forester was trying to persuade the lady to grant him intimate liberties. I believe kisses were exchanged. He sought more.”

  “Was Miss Diggory upset? She was her usual cheerful self at dinner.”

  “Miss Diggory had the situation in hand. She seemed amused more than anything else, but I was not in a position to assess her expression. I heard this exchange, I did not see it.”

  “I am unhappy with Jeremy for accosting Tamsin where anybody could happen upon them. To the wrong sort of observer, that behavior compromises the lady’s good name.” Without being able to say why, Vera knew that Oak would never be so cavalier. He’d do his exchanging of kisses behind closed and locked doors and away from large windows.

  “I was intent on using the servants’ stairs,” Oak said. “I would not have come upon them otherwise.”

  “My servants gossip, for which I don’t blame them.” Vera set the lamp on the deal table. “A footman who came upon that scene would mention it to his brothers or cousins over darts. A maid would tell her aunt in the churchyard. The news would spread to other households, and by this time next month, Miss Diggory could be enduring untoward remarks from louts on market day.”

  And Vera did not want Tamsin, a decent and pleasant young woman, to suffer such a fate. Neither did Vera look forward to scolding Jeremy, a grown man who ought to know better.

  “I can say something to Forester.” Oak rose and crossed to the worktable. “I’ll tell him he was observed and that another lapse in discretion could cost him his post—which it should. If I am ever that indiscreet, you should sack me too. Come have a look at our mystery painting.”

  “You wouldn’t mind having a pointed word with Jeremy?” Vera asked, joining Oak at the worktable. “I could not raise the topic without blushing furiously, while you can probably make a casual comment and convey an entire lecture.”

  “Consider it done. If Forester takes me into dislike for offering a friendly warning, no matter. I’ll be gone in a few weeks.”

  Why must he remind Vera of that? Why did she need reminding?

  Oak withdrew a folding knife from his boot and turned the canvas over. Vera moved the candles closer.

  “You won
’t hurt them, will you? The young mother and her children?”

  He smiled, a crooked, piratical smile. “She’s safe, as are the children.” He opened the knife, a casual gesture that spoke of familiarity and skill.

  Oak Dorning was not Dirk, and Vera liked the differences she’d seen so far. Dirk would never have carried a knife in his boot, but then, Dirk had been an artist dwelling in the country from time to time. Oak Dorning was a countryman born and bred.

  Dirk would have either ignored a tutor importuning a governess, or made a great drama out of it, depending on his mood. Oak Dorning considered that matter a problem best handled through a quiet aside between the fellows, and Vera’s relief to have a man take responsibility for resolving a masculine sort of household issue was inordinate.

  “The more you criticize this little scene,” Vera said, peering over his shoulder, “the more I like it.”

  “I will put her back in her frame by noon tomorrow, but have a look here.” He held up the painting, which was now a canvas stretched across a rectangle of wooden supports. “It’s as I thought. There’s another canvas under this one.”

  By virtue of prying gently at tacks in a pattern that made little sense to Vera, Oak soon had the canvases free of the wood framing. He carefully peeled the French lady from the painting beneath, then laid the second work on the table.

  “That is beautiful,” he said, moving the branch of candles closer. “That is exquisite. My brother Sycamore would likely bankrupt himself for the pleasure of owning this painting.”

  “That,” Vera said, her belly doing an uncomfortable flip, “is Catherine’s mother, and because she hasn’t a stitch on, nobody must see this painting. Not ever.”

  The painting was lovely. A woman lay sleeping amid a tangle of ruby and violet quilts, candlelight playing over her bare breasts and exquisitely curved flank. One foot dangled from the bed, one hand was flung back against the pillow. A half-full bottle of wine on the bedside table and a dark form behind her suggested a lover slept at her side.

  So daringly low were the covers that even the curls between her legs had been alluded to with shadows and brushwork.

  “Everything about this work is masterfully done,” Oak said, taking up a magnifying glass. “The composition, the palette, the lighting. Notice the contrast between her pale skin and the jewel tones of the covers. Look at how the light reflecting off the wineglass and the candle against the mirrored sconce balance each other. This is a side to Dirk Channing nobody has seen before, and it might well be his best work.”

  “She’s smiling,” Vera said, reluctantly fascinated. “Having a lovely dream.”

  “She is a lovely dream, and thank all the benign powers, Dirk signed this.” Oak straightened and set aside the quizzing glass. “Catherine’s mother will bring a fine sum, Vera, and if the rest of the gallery holds work of similar quality, then you have found Dirk’s treasures.”

  The wine in the bottle had the garnet hue of Merlot, Dirk’s favorite for a bedside glass.

  Vera leaned close enough to the painting to verify that the signature was, indeed, Dirk’s.

  “I cannot sell or display this painting. Catherine is already laboring under the stigma of irregular antecedents. Imagine she’s at a house party over in Surrey a few years from now. Dirk has friends there who’d extend such a courtesy to her. In walks some Town swell who has seen this painting in your brother’s gambling hell. Being somewhat connected with the artistic set, Mr. Town Dandy recognizes the connection between Catherine Channing and the woman who served as Dirk’s model. Anna Beaumont was Dirk’s hostess for years and, at least among the gentlemen, was accepted as such.”

  Oak was no longer studying the painting, he was studying Vera. “This painting is not some sordid bit of rhyparography. This could well be the making of Dirk Channing’s legacy, and the financial security you seek.”

  “I believe you,” Vera said, gaze again on the painting. “She is in love, that woman, and the man who painted her loved her back, but this is not art for public consumption. Maybe in thirty years, but not… not now.” And why had Dirk kept these works hidden until after he no longer had to answer to the truth of them, no longer had to face the fact that he’d rendered the love of his life in shocking verisimilitude to her role at Merlin Hall?

  Oak scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I applaud your protectiveness toward Catherine, but I am exasperated that so beautiful a work, so perfect a work, should be hidden away.”

  So valuable a work. He didn’t need to emphasize the point. “The painting is exceptional, which is all the more reason London’s artistic sophisticates will demean it. I’ve seen how they behave, and the results are neither kind nor honorable. By all means, find whatever else is lurking in Dirk’s gallery, but speak of this to no one.”

  Oak moved the candles away from the painting. “Are you jealous of her, Vera?”

  “Envious, maybe.” Even in shadow, the woman’s dreaming, utterly pleasured smile was the central message of the painting. “She is well loved, in all senses. If Dirk ever did a portrait of me, he’d have caught me adding needlework to some seat cushion or tallying my ledgers.”

  “I beg leave to doubt that assessment.” Oak took Vera in his arms, the embrace having nothing of desire about it. “Though a woman can be lovely and tempting even when she’s working at her ledgers.”

  Vera allowed herself the pleasure of his embrace, the comfort of it. She’d gone years without the simple bodily joy of adult affection, and that Oak could offer her a hug—no innuendo or arousal in evidence—raised him further in her esteem.

  He bore the faint scents of linseed and turpentine, good smells to Vera. His rangy frame and muscular build were novel, a contradiction to the cliché of the artist as a fussy, pale, excitable creature given to flights, inebriation, and sulks. Oak was wonderfully solid and delightfully male, and his embrace was a haven at the end of a trying day.

  “Will you come to bed with me?” Vera asked, stepping back.

  He took her hands in his. “Nothing would please me more. Just give me another half hour here to—”

  A tap sounded on the door.

  “Who could that be?” Vera asked, putting two yards between herself and the man she intended to spend the night with. For good measure, she picked up the empty tray.

  Oak opened the door. “Come in,” he said, his tone pleasant.

  Bracken remained in the corridor. “Excuse me, madam, Mr. Dorning.” He held a tray complete with a porcelain teapot. “I thought Mr. Dorning might be hungry, having missed his supper.”

  “Very thoughtful of you,” Oak said, “and never let it be said food went to waste when a Dorning was in the room, but Mrs. Channing kindly provided me a snack.”

  “I’ll leave this with you nonetheless,” Bracken said, setting the tray on the worktable. “Madam, I can take that down to the kitchen for you.”

  Vera passed over the empty tray. “Thank you, Bracken. Are we locked up for the night?”

  “Of course, madam. I bid you good evening.” Bracken bowed slightly and withdrew.

  “Bless the fellow, he brought a meat pie,” Oak said, closing the door and surveying the offerings. “A pint of summer ale and what looks like an apple torte.”

  “Oak, he brought a warning.”

  Oak left off inspecting the tray. “A delectable one, if so. For whom is this warning intended?”

  “I don’t know, but as soon as he asked the kitchen to prepare a tray for you, somebody probably told him I had asked for one not thirty minutes earlier. Bracken came up here to interrupt whatever we were about.”

  Oak braced his hips against the worktable. “All Bracken interrupted was a conversation. Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t know. On the one hand, Bracken is the self-appointed guardian of Merlin Hall, and I would never question his loyalty.”

  By candlelight, Oak looked tired, worn, and a little rumpled—abundantly kissable, in other words. The studio, however, afforded no chai
se, no cot, no place to accommodate a couple’s frolics. Perhaps that was by design?

  “I am not at all offended that Bracken has an eye on your safety, Vera, but I chose this room for more than its northern exposure and windows.”

  “You did?”

  “The door locks.” Oak brandished a key from an inner coat pocket. “The only other key is on your set, according to the housekeeper. Catherine’s mother will be safe from discovery and so, in a passionate moment, would we be safe from discovery. While I enjoy a quick tup against the wall, that’s hardly the sort of first impression as a lover I want to make on you.”

  “Give me an hour,” Vera said. “You do know where my rooms are?”

  “I do. The next hour will be the longest of my adult life.”

  Vera left him in his studio, smiling and looking devilish. She went straight to her room and prepared for bed, though all the while, she was plagued by a question.

  What on earth was a tup against the wall?

  Oak finished the food Bracken had brought and locked the studio. He returned to his room in a state of semi-distraction. On the one hand, his body anticipated a tryst. His mind, however, was caught up in the conundrum of Dirk Channing’s treasures.

  What if another spectacular nude hid beneath every mediocre painting in the gallery? Vera refused to sell them, for reasons Oak understood, but then what was to become of Channing’s best work? The problem wasn’t one Oak could confide to anybody at the Academy, save perhaps to Richard Longacre.

  Longacre had been a friend to Channing and had recommended Oak for Vera’s restoration work. Writing to him would not do, for letters could fall into the wrong hands, but a jaunt into London might present an opportunity to discuss the matter in person.

  Oak took particular care with his ablutions and still had another half hour before he could join Vera. He sat down to sketch, a habit he’d found more satisfying than making a written entry in some journal at the end of the day.

  He sketched Alexander holding the ribbons, the boy for once smiling and energetic. He sketched Bracken, exploring why vigilance on such a man took the appearance of unrelenting disapproval. Something in his eyes, something about the way his mouth suggested clenched teeth…