By the time Oak put down his sketch pad, well over an hour had passed. Vera would think ill of him for that. He thought ill of himself too.
He traversed the corridors swiftly, seeing not a soul. The night porter would doze in his nook near the front door, but Vera did not require a footman to remain on duty through the night as well.
Oak opened Vera’s door without knocking and found himself in a sitting room. The gracious formality of Merlin Hall was nowhere in evidence here. A green velvet upholstered sofa sat across from the hearth, a deeply cushioned reading chair angled at the end of the sofa. The walls held sketches, mostly of Catherine and Alexander, but also two of Dirk. One with each child.
The floor was covered by a green, white, and gold Turkey carpet, the draperies were also green. A maroon afghan lay draped along the back of the sofa. This room would flatter a redhead wonderfully, but where was the book, embroidery hoop, or pair of knitting needles that suggested Vera actually spent time here?
A landscape hung above the mantel, perhaps a rendering of the farm where Vera had been born. The opposite wall held more landscapes. They bore Dirk Channing’s signature brushwork, but none of the verve and daring of his wartime images and none of the complexity of his portraits.
Vera had chosen the calmest and least passionate of her husband’s works to keep in her private space. Why was that?
Oak crossed the room to the only other door and tapped quietly. “Vera?”
Nothing, not a peep. He pushed the door open and entered her bedroom, which was illuminated by only a banked fire. If there was art on the walls here, he’d have to inspect it on another occasion. The room was dominated by a four-poster bed, and the contour of the quilt suggested somebody was in that bed. The hangings were drawn back as was typical in summer.
“I lost track of the time,” Oak said, removing his jacket and draping it over the chest at the foot of the bed. “Started sketching away the remains of the day and fell into the puzzle of Bracken’s eyes. Alexander has Dirk’s chin.”
Vera remained unmoving and silent on the bed. Perhaps she was unhappy with a lover who’d made her wait.
“Vera?” Oak sat on the chest to pull off his boots, then shed his waistcoat and shirt and laid them over his jacket.
The lady was apparently asleep. Should he wake her, go back to his own room, leave a note—assuming he could find writing paper and a pencil?
In a few weeks, he’d be in London, and this opportunity to share something special with a lovely woman would be gone. He folded his breeches and stockings on top of his waistcoat, leaving his handkerchief on the bedside table. The steps were on Vera’s side of the bed, so Oak had to more or less hike himself onto the mattress.
Even the rocking of the bed did not awaken Oak’s sleeping beauty, suggesting the lady was exhausted.
Oak was not exactly bursting with energy himself. Perhaps a short nap was in order. One wanted to make an excellent first impression, complete with cuddling before and after, rather than a peck on the cheek and inconsiderate snoring.
He leaned over to kiss Vera’s brow, then sank into the sweet embrace of the clean sheets, soft pillows, and a comfortable mattress. Ye gods, was there any pleasure on earth to compare with that moment when a tired head met a welcoming pillow?
Well, yes, of course there were pleasures greater than that instant of bliss. Far greater. To distract himself from those pleasures, Oak mentally critiqued the painting he’d unveiled that afternoon. How had Dirk Channing handled the pillows in his portrait of Catherine’s mother? Pillows were usually covered in damnably white linen, meaning they had to appear white without being white. Dirk had managed that feat by imbuing the pillowcase with pink and gold undertones, to pick up on the candlelight and the purple velvet covers.
Contemplating the image of the woman naked and replete among the bedcovers added to the pleasant sense of arousal Vera’s proximity created, though in Oak’s imagination, the woman who had been so well pleasured that she smiled in sleep became Vera.
And then she became dreams of Vera, and then she became deep, much-needed sleep.
The foremost sculptor in London sat snoring by the fire in one of the club’s many comfortable reading chairs. Richard Longacre, who occupied another such comfy chair, knew the poor fellow craved the warmth of this cozy room because the rheumatism in his hands grew worse by the year.
Near the door to the reading room, a brilliant and handsome young portraitist stood, conversing with his companion. The gifted Mr. Endymion de Beauharnais was rumored to have connections to the late French empress, though in fact he’d been born Andrew Hackett, in the hamlet—a generous characterization—of Hogtrot. He and his friend—neither as attractive nor as talented as de Beauharnais, but of an exceptionally charming demeanor—pretended they were off to find deeper play at the tables around the corner on St. James’s Street.
Artists, no matter how talented, handsome, or charming, could not afford deep play.
De Beauharnais—Diamond to his familiars—was, in fact, escorting his cheerful associate to a discreet set of rooms on a quiet street in Bloomsbury, where the pair would spend the rest of the night in each other’s arms.
The charmer waved to Richard, probably thinking himself daring and naughty. The portraitist made no such friendly display. To Richard, their attempts at discretion were laughable, almost touching. Half the club’s membership indulged in sexual adventures, if not outright orgies. The other half had done so in their youth. If being an artist wasn’t to make a man wealthy—and all too often, it did not—then the artistic lifestyle ought to at least afford him some wanton pleasure.
Or so the usual self-absolving reasoning went.
“You’re here a bit late, aren’t you, Longacre?” Stebbins Holmes sank into the seat opposite Richard’s. “Kitchener maundered on for three bottles of port about the pathetic state of art and the demise of discipline in the Academy apprentices.”
Stebby, unlike some of the club’s other senior members, had not let himself go to pot. He was trim, dapper, and his white hair was always tidily queued back, an old-fashioned affectation a sought-after children’s portraitist could carry off.
“If Kitchener doesn’t moderate his appetites,” Richard replied, “he will soon be swilling port in Saint Peter’s company.”
“Even if he does moderate his appetites, he won’t last much longer. Old boy never had any discipline, of all the ironies.”
What the old boy likely did have was a progressive case of a very nasty disease. He’d soon step down as head of the Academy’s admissions committee. Holmes was the logical successor, though when did logic and artistic organizations ever accommodate each other?
“I’ve done something you should know about,” Richard said.
“Regarding?”
“Channing’s widow.”
“Ah.” A single quiet syllable. Holmes had been one of Dirk Channing’s many mentors, then his advocate and his friend. He had seen Dirk’s potential as a young man, had seen both the talent and the ambition that would keep that talent safe from a fate such as old Kitchener faced. Dirk had frittered away neither his time nor his health, and he’d been generous in his encouragement of younger artists.
A bloody bedamned paragon, except for his long-term liaison with the formerly respectable Anna Beaumont, for which his peers hadn’t censured him.
Ancient history. Not relevant to the present conversation. “Mrs. Channing wrote to me asking if I knew of anybody willing to travel out to Hampshire to restore some older works. Not Channing’s paintings, but works he collected.”
Holmes crossed his legs at the knee, another Continental affectation. “So Dirk left the pretty widow without means, did he? Not very sporting of him. Why hasn’t she remarried? Many a man would pay well to gaze upon that much beauty across the breakfast table each morning.”
Verity Channing wasn’t simply pretty, she was lovely. The outer woman and the inner woman resonated in a way few artists could have cap
tured on canvas. Dirk had taken all that loveliness to wife little more than a year after Anna Beaumont’s death.
“The boy inherited the property,” Richard said. “Mrs. Channing isn’t homeless, and I doubt Dirk left her in dire difficulties. As long as she avoids Town extravagances, she’s doubtless managing adequately.”
Holmes remained silent until a waiter had finished collecting dirty glasses from around the room. The fellow then malingered by adjusting the wicks on the lamps on the wall sconces, until he ran out of excuses and had to take his tray and leave.
“Why is Verity Channing bothering with a lot of second-rate portraits?” Stebby mused. “And why now? Are you soon to leave for Hampshire?”
“Of course not. I have too many committee obligations to leave Town, and restoring castoffs is work for somebody who needs the money.”
Richard needed money, and he liked money. His duties for the Academy brought in no coin, directly. Even more than money, though, he liked having information in his grasp that let him control others and predict their behaviors better than they could themselves. Collecting that information was best done in Town.
“So what is this thing you’ve done?” Holmes asked. “I am too old to stand as anybody’s second on the field of honor, but I’m quite good with a eulogy or a funerary toast.”
“Have you crossed paths with a fellow named Oak Dorning?”
“Of course. He’s an earl’s son, has taken classes at the Academy, gets along with most everybody, and—lest we neglect the details—wields a paintbrush with no little skill. He has family in Town—a pair of brothers running The Coventry Club—while the earl prefers to rusticate. Lord Casriel married a widow, I believe, though I can’t recall who, which suggests she was neither merry nor wealthy. Has a biblical name. Oak Dorning is exactly the sort we ought to admit to the Academy, once he’s exhibited a few noteworthy works or taken some prominent commissions.”
Richard was not the only club member who liked to collect information. “Mr. Dorning would probably agree with you, but for now he’s consigned to Verity Channing’s attics, where he will grow bored to flinders dusting off old works in preparation for sale. When his assignment is finished, he will remove to Town.”
Holmes was quiet for a time. He presented himself as a spry, dapper old gent, still young at heart, but he was venerable enough to nod off late in the evening.
“Richard,” he said quietly, “what are you about?”
“I am trying to do two people a favor. Mrs. Channing needed skilled labor, Dorning needed paying work. The association will be mutually beneficial.”
“I know you,” Holmes said. “I’m not always sure I like you, but I know you, and you are ever motivated by self-interest and the interests of the Academy, which you would like to turn into your private fiefdom, of course. Perhaps insanity runs in your family. In any case, you are up to something where Mrs. Channing is concerned.”
And Holmes would eventually figure out exactly what, hence this little tête-à-tête before the dying fire. Holmes liked to air his speculations before a younger audience, and such was his influence that the younger audience often listened to him.
Ergo, the need to avoid the near occasion of Holmes’s speculations.
“If Dorning should come across anything odd in the Channing collection,” Richard said, “if he sees a previously unknown work of Channing’s hanging in the servants’ hall, he’ll bring that news to me before he tells anybody else.”
“So you’re spying. I thought you were attracted to Verity Channing. If I were twenty years younger—even ten—I’d be attracted to her in more than an artistic sense. You might consider asking her if Dirk’s drunken mutterings were based on reality or on his endless supply of grandiose dreams.”
“Verity Channing is quite attractive, I’ll grant you, but she is utterly safe from my romantic advances.” And that was the absolute truth.
Holmes rose and stretched. “She’s safe from your advances, but is she safe from you?”
He sauntered on his way, an old fellow who could view the intrigues and follies of life at a benign distance. The sculptor snored by the fire, his mouth slightly open. Richard remained in his comfortable chair, mentally composing a chatty, slightly gossipy note to Dorning.
A well-bred young man who sought to curry favor with Academy members would answer in the same vein, reiterating his thanks for the post, of course. Another such exchange while Dorning bided in the country, a few subtle suggestions, and Dorning would become Richard’s spy in truth.
Chapter Seven
For a year after Dirk’s death, Vera had endured the waking ritual of drowsing in bed, knowing the day must be begun, and knowing that leaving her bed meant confronting some great sadness. A sanguine intention to rise and see to the tasks at hand was sent toppling into the ditch of grief as she faced the realization again—and again and again—that Dirk was gone forever.
Vera had loved her husband, she hadn’t always liked him. He had doubtless held her in dubious regard from time to time as well, but particularly after Alexander’s birth, they had learned to rub along in charity with each other. Dirk’s intimate demands on her had slowed considerably after the first year of marriage, while his affectionate displays had become more frequent.
And Vera had missed that, missed the cuddling and talking, the walking hand in hand, the friendly good-morning and good-night kisses. She missed the smiles and casual familiarities that she and her husband had shared.
To awaken in a man’s embrace was thus lovely, a fragile dream to be cherished until cruel reality once again intruded. Birdsong pierced the predawn chill beyond the window, but under the covers, all was marvelously cozy and content.
Very cozy, in fact.
Exceedingly cozy.
Vera’s waking mind registered the fact that she truly was in a man’s embrace. She lay on her side, facing the window. Her companion was ranged along her back like a heated blanket, his arm draped around her waist.
He was not Dirk. This fellow was appreciably taller and leaner. He smelled of lavender soap rather than the Continental fragrances Dirk had favored. He apparently slept without a nightshirt, and without being able to say why, Vera was pleased to find him in her bed.
The mists of sleep thinned the last increment, and Vera recalled inviting Oak Dorning to join her in bed.
“You’re awake,” he said, making no move to shift away.
“As are you.” An understatement, given the length of hard male flesh pressed against Vera’s bum. “Have we become lovers?”
“We have not.” Soft lips pressed against the side of Vera’s neck. “Not yet. You were far gone in sleep when I joined you. I was tired, and here we are.”
“I can’t remember when I’ve slept so well.” Vera recalled many occasions when Dirk had roused her from deep slumber, not a word spoken between them for the duration of the coupling. She’d accommodated him, sometimes without entirely waking, and regarded that variety of lovemaking as a wifely obligation easily dispatched.
“I slept soundly too,” Oak said, lacing his fingers with hers. “I dreamed of you. You were tangled in green and purple quilts, trying to thrash loose but exhausted. I so wanted to peel the covers away and reveal the bare glory of you as the Creator fashioned you. I wanted to let you sleep, too, though, to rest.”
“Green and purple quilts? That feels good.” His hand trailed over Vera’s hip and around her bottom in a slow, kneading caress. She abruptly wished to be free of her nightgown and in the next instant wished that sunrise was hours away.
“Shall we make love, Vera?” Oak asked, nuzzling her ear. “Shall we begin our day with mutual pleasuring?”
He was as hard as an andiron, and yet, he asked for her participation. That question solved a riddle in Vera’s mind relating to those silent couplings she’d shared with her husband. She liked lovemaking, liked the closeness of it.
Dirk’s husbandly presumption had undermined any true intimacy, though, and left a
vague residue of annoyance where only affection ought to have been.
“We can make love,” Vera said. “The household will soon be stirring, though. We’d best hurry.”
She wanted to use her toothpowder and halfway had to use the chamber pot. When Dirk had indulged in morning copulation, his goal had been quick satisfaction, not languid lovemaking.
Oak Dorning, given the chance, would be a very different sort of lover.
His touch on her flank disappeared. “Is a hurried moment how we’re to begin?” He eased her cotton nightgown aside and kissed her nape. “The sun isn’t even up yet, and I locked the bedroom door before joining you under the covers, Vera.”
Thank goodness for that bit of caution. “A sip of water would be appreciated,” Vera said, struggling to sit up.
Oak sat up as well and passed her the glass of water he’d apparently poured for himself before climbing into bed.
“Having second thoughts, Vera?”
She was thirsty, as it happened, and draining half the glass gave her a moment to consider Oak’s question. He sounded amused, and sitting with his back against the pillows, his dark hair tousled, he looked delectable.
So why wasn’t she devouring him? “I thought I was ready for this. Ready to be the self-possessed widow indulging in a discreet liaison.”
He took the glass, had a sip, and set it aside. “But?”
“But I have stretch marks. I want to use my toothpowder before I kiss you. I loved sleeping with you, but all I can think now is what if you’re seen leaving my rooms? An astute maid might find a short dark hair on my pillows, and then—”
He scratched his chest, which was dusted with those short dark hairs. “And then?”
“And then I’m somehow less loyal to my husband’s memory? I don’t know what comes and then. I wasn’t raised to frolic with handsome fellows passing through on the way to London, and I didn’t expect to be widowed seven years after I spoke my vows.”
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