A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  Oak had made mistakes, plural, for he’d not even acknowledged Ash’s question about marriage.

  “Vera has bad memories of London,” Oak said. “Channing’s friends were less than respectful toward her. She was a rural innocent, and they were artists orbiting her worldly husband. His previous relationship was irregular.”

  Actually, Oak’s mistakes were up to three, because he ought not to have referred to his employer as Vera.

  “Hence the lovely Miss Catherine,” Cam said. “She has all the makings of an original. I like her too.”

  “That’s your problem,” Oak said. “You like everybody, but about whom do you truly care, little brother?”

  Ash ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “Got you there, Cam.”

  “I care about you,” Cam replied, rising. “Though heaven alone knows why. You look at Mrs. Channing the way Casriel looked at the fair Beatitude when he was being all muttonheaded about marrying money. Doomed love is not an attractive accessory to any man’s turnout. At least Ash has channeled his unrequited passion into a becoming touch of weltschmerz, as the Germans say. That reminds me. I know the Forester fellow. We had the same German tutor during my ill-fated terms at Oxford.”

  Ash’s smile faded, and he took another sip of his brandy.

  “You know Jeremy Forester?” Oak asked.

  “In my brief penance as a university scholar, my path crossed with his. He was sent down more than once and was heartily disliked by the tavern maids. He tried to take by force and guile what he could not purchase with coin.”

  This description, unfortunately, fit all too well with what Oak knew of Forester. “And yet, he lectures a six-year-old about gentlemanly deportment. What about Forester’s academics? Did he apply himself there?”

  Cam picked up his drink. “Hardly. His nickname was Slow Top. He lacked the artistic ability to follow in his uncle’s footsteps and lacked the discipline to become any sort of scholar. I pity the little fellow shut up in a schoolroom all day with Forester for a tutor.”

  Slow Top. “Who is his uncle?”

  Cam sauntered toward the door. “Your patron saint, Mr. Richard Longacre, RA. What a coincidence. Make my excuses to the ladies, please. I need my rest if I’m to be on my most charming behavior at the breakfast table.”

  He blew Oak a kiss and went on his way.

  “He’s worse in Town,” Ash said, getting up to close the door. “More flamboyant, more reckless. The club is a stage for him, and he seldom misses a performance, though all that London savoir faire takes a toll on a mere lad from Dorset.”

  “The club is thriving?”

  “Handsomely.”

  Oak finished his drink, for he did not intend to make his excuses to the ladies. “So why does Sycamore seem as restless and unsettled as ever? Has he a lady friend?”

  “Our baby brother has many lady friends. A different one each week, and they all adore him regardless of his fickle ways.”

  “I adore Verity Channing.”

  Ash returned to the table and saluted with his drink. “An understatement, I’m guessing, and she appears to hold you in high regard as well. So, like the dunderheaded Dorning that you are, you will turn your back on her and spend the rest of your life regretting the decision.”

  This was progress of a sort, because Ash seldom commented on his own situation. “Have you mended fences with Lady Della?”

  The whole family had been certain Ash would offer for Lady Della Haddonfield, perhaps Lady Della had been similarly persuaded. Ash had apparently been of a different mind.

  He peered into his brandy. “Her ladyship and I have reached a truce. She avoids Town, and when she must be in Town, I avoid her. Like you, I have had little to offer a woman in material terms—she’s an earl’s daughter—and she deserves a man who can…” He set his glass down, still half-full. “You will excuse me. Not that Cam is a good example, but I, too, will seek my bed rather than inflict my tired company on the ladies.”

  “Does Longacre ever come to the club?” Oak had no idea what prompted that question.

  “Attendance is supposed to be held in confidence,” Ash said, “but yes, he does. All of fashionable Society waltzes through the doors of The Coventry, and most of them are lighter in the pocket when they waltz out. Longacre spends his time where the rich and reckless spend theirs, the better to curry commissions from them for his protégés.”

  “You don’t like Longacre?”

  “At The Coventry, we like everybody, Oak, provided they pay their debts and can hold their liquor. I’m for bed.”

  Which meant, no, Ash did not like Longacre. Oak walked with his brother to the foot of the main staircase. “Why didn’t Casriel send his traveling coach?” he asked.

  “He was cryptic, saying only that we were to take our time delivering you Cam’s coach. Cam wasn’t having any of that, and so here we are, very likely exactly as Casriel intended we be. It is good to see you, Oak, and you look as if the fresh air of Hampshire is agreeing with you.”

  “It is.”

  Ash, who was notably reserved, wrapped Oak in a gentle hug. “Then perhaps you should stay here. Good night.” He ascended the steps without looking back.

  Oak was tempted to sit on the stairs and ponder his brother’s behavior—had Ash been trying to console him?—but Vera waited in the family parlor. Once he had her alone in her own bedroom, he’d again ask her to come with him to London.

  And this time, he’d ask as sweetly and persuasively as he possibly could.

  To Vera’s relief, Miss Diggory escorted Catherine up to bed almost as soon as Oak joined the ladies in the parlor. He made excuses for his brothers, and that, too, was a relief.

  “I know not who was more smitten with whom,” Vera said, pouring Oak a cup of tea. “Catherine or Miss Diggory, with Sycamore or Ash. Mr. Forester was quite subdued at supper.”

  Oak took the wing chair angled at the end of the sofa where Vera presided over the tea tray. “Sycamore knew Forester—or knew of him—at university. Did you know Forester is related to Richard Longacre?”

  What had that to do with anything? “Tamsin is as well, a niece or great-niece, maybe a cousin once removed. Jeremy and Tamsin have no blood relation, but are connected by family. Longacre mentioned that when he recommended her.”

  The tea had gone tepid, and the parlor was acquiring a chill. Summer nights could be like this—not cold enough for a fire, not warm enough to be comfortable.

  “You’re cold,” Oak said, rising to unfold an afghan from the back of his wing chair. “You need not stay up to keep me company.” He draped the wool around Vera’s shoulders and resumed his seat.

  “Is that a way to tell me that because your brothers are here, you’ll keep to your own rooms tonight?” Vera sounded testy to her own ears.

  Oak swirled his cold tea. “I apologize for the ambush, Vera. My brothers should have sent a note. They should have sent the coach without coming on an inspection tour themselves. This is part of the reason I wanted so desperately to go to London.”

  Vera was heartily sick of hearing about London. “I admit I am somewhat nonplussed to have uninvited houseguests. That is ungracious of me.”

  Oak shifted to sit beside her on the sofa. “That is human of you. Some of my siblings are polite, in the usual sense, but they all have ways of prying. And a pair of London bachelors would not be your first pick for houseguests.”

  “True enough.”

  The parlor door was open, but Bracken had already come around to dim the lamps in the corridor. Except for Oak and Vera, the household was abed.

  “You seek distance from your family by going to London,” Vera said. “But you have two brothers and a sister there, don’t you?”

  “Just the brothers. Jacaranda and her family are in the country for the summer.” He set down his tea cup without having taken a sip. “I won’t lodge with my brothers in London, and they will be busy with their club. We might meet in the park for a hack some morning, or shar
e a meal at the club, but they won’t be in my pocket, nor I in theirs. At Dorning Hall, I saw family at every meal. I would take my sketch pad and pencil with me on long hikes just so I had an excuse to find some solitude.”

  Vera had not envisioned Oak as having to seek solitude from his own family, though memories of her step-mother’s hovering presence made the concept understandable.

  “You love your family,” she said, “and they clearly love you.”

  “I love them to distraction, and damnation to any who speaks ill of my siblings. There are a lot of them, though, and they are loud.”

  London is loud. To say that would be needlessly combative. Oak had been to London, he knew the difference between a city’s noise and the relentless bustle of a full house.

  “I will miss you.” The words came out without Vera planning to say them. That feeling—of missing Oak—had already started in her heart. “I watched you bantering with your brothers over dinner, telling stories on each other, and I realized how little I know of you and how much I like what I know.”

  Oak tucked an arm around her shoulders. “You like me?”

  “I rather do.”

  “I like you very much, Verity Channing. Have you decided what to do with the Stoltzfus paintings?”

  I like you very much. Was Oak being polite? Trying to spare Vera’s feelings? His arm around her shoulders spoke of affection, his abrupt change of subject shifted the conversation to their impending separation.

  “I am inclined to keep those paintings here where they can’t get into any trouble.”

  “But?”

  “But I need the money, Oak. Even if I have only five years to invest the proceeds for Catherine, that’s some interest on the principal. As it is…”

  Oak rearranged the afghan more snugly around her. “As it is…?”

  “Merlin Hall is solvent. We’ve had good harvests, and I have good tenants, but that is not a plan for my old age, that is not a plan for the bad years, and every shire has bad years. I don’t want those paintings, and selling unused assets makes sense.”

  “You’re selling the paintings I restored. They will bring something.”

  “Not much, not compared to what Dirk’s nudes could bring. Catherine cannot be presented at court, but she can learn to move in London society. That will take significant investment and enormous luck, but I feel I owe her the attempt.”

  “And Tom Treeble?”

  Vera would miss much about Oak—his patience with the children, his presence at meals, his presence in Vera’s bed—but she’d also miss his pure companionship. He had an ability to talk through problems with her, to offer insights that never quite rose to the weight of sermonizing. He’d become the friend he’d offered to be, and that was…

  That was exactly what Vera had needed without even knowing it.

  “Tom Treeble might well be her choice, but, Oak, I want her to have a choice. Dirk came along, the first man to more than smile at me, and I leaped at the chance to get away from my step-mother’s household. Catherine knows Merlin Hall belongs to her brother, and she might well be desperate to get away from me too.”

  Oak took Vera’s hand, his grip warm. “Come to London with me and bring the children. Use the trip as an excuse to send Forester and Miss Diggory packing. Sycamore has offered you free lodgings at one of his houses—he believes real estate is a sound investment, given how London is growing—and yet, he can’t rent the better properties this time of year.”

  “I don’t care for London, Oak. You know that.” Though Vera had been hoping he’d renew his request.

  He kissed her knuckles. “Polite society is long gone from Town, and soon what few families remain will head for the grouse moors and house parties. You’ll be safe, and I’ll be on hand to escort you and Catherine to the shops, if that’s where you’d like to go. She and Alexander should see the museums, too, and have an ice at Gunter’s.”

  Every child should have that experience on a pleasant summer day. “Gunter’s is well worth a visit. I went there myself more than once.”

  “And you prefer vanilla ices,” Oak said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because vanilla is exotic and rich and suits you. It’s my favorite as well.”

  He painted a different picture of London than Vera had seen, one devoid of dinner parties that ran too late, free of half-drunken men leering at her as if she were a streetwalker.

  “Richard Longacre has been after me to come to London for years. I don’t think he’ll cease importuning me until I make the journey.”

  Oak leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes. “Is he sweet on you?”

  Vera’s first inclination was to laugh, but Oak saw what others missed. “I don’t know. He and Dirk had a friendship punctuated by frequent loud quarrels. Longacre was some relation to Anna, and I gather that was a source of unspoken tension. I never pried, lest I find myself in the midst of an explosion of temper.”

  “Longacre sent me to you, and he sent you Miss Diggory and Forester. He writes to you fairly often, and I expect he’s mentioned his plans to you any time he’ll be traveling in the area.”

  Vera thought back to various polite letters, seeing a pattern she hadn’t noticed before. “He does. He travels through Winchester when he’s bound for Lyme Regis. Was I supposed to invite him to the Hall for a visit?”

  “Not as long as you were in mourning, you weren’t.”

  “I’ve been out of first mourning for two years.”

  “So come to London with me. Bring the children. We’ll see the sights and rid you of the staff that isn’t working out. You can interview replacements from the London agencies in person and be on hand to negotiate prices for your paintings.”

  The reasons to go were piling up, obscuring the reasons Vera never wanted to set foot in Town again. Oak was too polite to note that she was unlikely to have free lodgings and a well-placed escort ever again. Longacre had offered to serve as host, but he hadn’t offered particulars, and he wasn’t an earl’s well-connected son. Then too, the children should see the capital, and a trip would make sacking Jeremy and Tamsin much easier.

  “For me to travel to London with you will solve nothing, Oak. I will still have to part from you, and I still dread that day.”

  He kissed her temple. “As do I, but I will treasure the memory of sharing a vanilla ice with you beneath the maples at Gunter’s.” He rose and began blowing out candles. “May I light you to your room?”

  He always found a way to ask permission to join her at the end of the day, however obliquely.

  “You may.”

  They walked through the darkened house arm in arm, and Vera’s sense of heartache crested higher. She wanted more nights like this, quiet conversation, affection, a sweet loving to end the evening, and the peace of shared slumber after that.

  Maybe London wasn’t so bad after all, and maybe it had changed in the years since she’d been utterly miserable there.

  Oak was tucking the last of the nudes behind its mundane disguise when somebody thumped loudly on his studio door.

  “Mr. Dorning, you have to let me in!” Alexander shouted that demand.

  Oak unlatched the door, and Alexander barreled into the room. “You must make Mama take us with her. You must. Catherine and me both. Please.”

  Oak closed the door. “Alexander, what is this about?”

  “I will not stay here with Mr. Forester. He’ll beat me and make me go without supper, and I will run away! I hate Latin and I hate the Bible and I hate sums.”

  A basically sweet little boy was moved to blasphemy. Oak locked the door, lest Forester join the discussion uninvited. “Let’s discuss this on the balcony, shall we?”

  “I don’t want to discuss anything. I want to go to London with M-Mama.”

  The look of horror that came over Alexander’s face at the quaver in his voice was the embodiment of misery. Shame, anger, fear… Oak took the boy by the hand and led him to the bal
cony.

  “Have a seat,” Oak said, folding himself onto one of a pair of wrought-iron chairs. “Who told you that your mother was traveling to London?”

  Alexander sniffed, his gaze on the parkland that rolled away from the Hall’s back garden. “She is leaving Merlin Hall, and it’s your fault.”

  “No, actually, it isn’t. Not entirely. Your mother has been receiving invitations to visit in the capital for some time. My brothers and I merely make handy escorts. What would be so terrible about biding at Merlin Hall in her absence?”

  A memory surfaced, of Alexander unable to sit on a log, unwilling to go for another hack on Charlie, though the boy loved to be in the saddle.

  “Mr. Forester. That’s what would be so terrible. Him and the bloody birch rod.”

  Blasphemy and profanity. “He birches you?”

  “Sometimes twice a day, and if I cry, I get extra stripes. I hate him.”

  I hate him too. “And he told you if you complained, he’d just pile on more stripes?”

  Alexander nodded. “A gentleman accepts his lot without complaining. I never wanted to be a gentleman, and if Mr. Forester is a gentleman, then I would rather be a highwayman instead.”

  Oak passed Alexander his handkerchief. “Blow.”

  Alexander honked and folded the linen neatly before offering it back to Oak, who set it aside.

  “I truly will run away, sir. I hate him and he’s mean and he says mean things about Mama and Catherine and Miss Digg. He even said mean things about Papa, and Papa’s dead. We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead.” Alexander made speak ill one word, though his ire conveyed clearly enough.

  “Running away is, on rare occasion, the sensible thing to do,” Oak said. “I am running away from the place where I grew up, if my actions are viewed from a certain perspective.”

  Alexander’s brows drew down. “Did somebody beat your arse too?”

  Do not smile when a small boy is desperate to be taken seriously. “Not recently, but I was lonely and needed to make my way in the world. I did not see a way to do that at Dorning Hall.” Oak had seen Grey and Beatitude awash in domestic bliss, Hawthorne married to the lovely widow, and Valerian falling for the prettiest heiress in the shire.