A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  “You’ve apologized,” Oak said, gesturing at the fresh canvas, “and you created this. I could never have accomplished what you did with the Stoltzfus portrait, particularly not in so little time.”

  “I am good, aren’t I?” De Beauharnais fished a sleeve button from his pocket and began fumbling with his cuff. “What a notion.”

  “You are not merely good, de Beauharnais, you are brilliant. That you doubt yourself is exactly why Longacre must be banished from the Academy. He sent you enough minor commissions to keep you dependent on him and kept you from more ambitious and visible work. You are not the only person he’s abused like that.”

  De Beauharnais seemed to be having trouble with his sleeve button.

  “Let me do that,” Oak said, taking the little gold clasp from him. Oak fitted the sleeve button through the buttonhole of the cuff, then did the second one. When he would have stepped back, de Beauharnais caught him by the hand.

  “I wasn’t bound for home,” he said, his grasp desperately tight. “I told you I was leaving Town, but that’s not… I wasn’t.”

  Foreboding gathered low in Oak’s belly. “Andy?”

  “You go at night,” de Beauharnais said, gaze on the carpet, “to London Bridge. You tie your boots together at the ankle—tie them tightly with a complicated knot, so tightly you can’t pull your feet out if you lose your courage. Sew your pockets full of rocks. I’m told it helps if you’re drunk. A wool cloak is best, because it becomes heavy in the water. You put a coin in a little bag around your neck—for the watermen or the mud larks, whoever finds you—and then you jump. A few minutes later, all your troubles are over. Tolly’s cousin went that way.”

  “No,” Oak said, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. “No, you do not. Not ever.”

  De Beauharnais eased away and turned his back, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “My uncle said I wouldn’t last a fortnight in London. I lasted six weeks before Longacre started… started in on me. That was nearly a year ago. I couldn’t see a way… Well, I saw one way.”

  Oak allowed de Beauharnais a measure of privacy—and himself as well, because as bad as Longacre’s behavior toward Vera had been, this was worse.

  “Longacre came after me when I’d been in Town less than a week,” Oak said. “I suspect that was because you had pulled free of his clutches. As long as he had you to do his bidding, other newcomers were safe. You had enough talent for whatever Longacre got up to.”

  “I did four paintings for him,” de Beauharnais said, facing Oak, “in addition to whatever commissions he sent me. I will write to the buyers of the forgeries and claim there has been confusion regarding the works they possess. That will likely land me in prison—one of the patrons is quite wealthy.”

  “No,” Oak said, “it will not. I have a different suggestion. We will sort out Longacre, and he will take responsibility for any confusion he involved you in. And I assure you, before you came to Town, some other talented prey stumbled into Longacre’s snares, and some others before that.”

  “We’re not the only ones?” De Beauharnais wandered over to the Dirk Channing nude and ran a careful finger over the lady’s pale flank. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Positive. I am equally certain we will be the last. Now tell me about the four forgeries.”

  In the days leading up to the Montclair reception, Vera watched how a family with one foot in the countryside and one foot in the capital mobilized its resources. Sycamore’s traveling coach made another lightning dash from Town to retrieve Trenton, Earl of Wilton, whom Oak knew as a connection through his sister Jacaranda’s husband, Worth Kettering.

  Kettering himself returned to Town, contending that his lady wife would disown him if he allowed a Dorning scheme to unfold without his supervision.

  Other august parties were quietly recruited, including a marquess once thought dead on the battlefields of Spain—another of Worth Kettering’s clients, as it happened—an enormously tall earl who counted among Willow Dorning’s in-laws, and a half-dozen courtesy titles connected to the Dornings through the vast labyrinth of polite society.

  Not a one of them had any claim to artistic expertise, but they had come when Oak needed them.

  “I begin to see,” Vera said, “that the world I thought so broad and sophisticated was really just Dirk’s little corner of a littler corner.”

  “Little corners can be complicated,” Oak replied, “and you look splendid.”

  Vera had dressed for the Montclair reception in a creation of burgundy silk, one she and Sissy Banks had spent endless hours stitching. Her shawl was deep lavender, as were her gloves, and the ensemble honestly made her feel more than a little self-conscious.

  Also pretty and daring. “You chose the colors,” she said, turning before the mirror in the foyer. “I would never have been this bold.”

  Oak had chosen a waistcoat of the same shade of burgundy as Vera’s dress, and his boutonniere was a tiny lavender bouquet designed to match Vera’s wrist corsage. Without saying a word, he proclaimed himself to be coupled with her, and splendidly proud of it.

  “Are you nervous?” Oak asked as a coach clattered to a halt beyond the front door.

  “Yes. Are you?”

  He kissed her. “I am determined. Shall we?”

  He winged his arm, and Vera’s nerves settled. Oak knew exactly what he was doing, and more than that, he knew exactly what his honor and his art demanded of him. At Lady Montclair’s reception, his air was cordial and good-humored, even as Vera sensed him reconnoitering the crowd.

  “He’s here,” Oak murmured thirty minutes after they’d arrived. “Came alone, and there’s Mr. Tolliver with Mrs. Finchley on his arm. Longacre looks surprised to see her.”

  And Oak sounded very pleased.

  “Is Worth Kettering here yet?” Vera asked. Kettering was a solicitor. He had the ear of the Regent and invested the funds of some of the realm’s wealthiest families—including his own.

  “Kettering is busily flirting with the Marchioness of Hesketh, while that lady’s husband looks amused. His lordship must be a client of long standing. And there’s Jonathan Tresham.”

  Vera had had only one glass of punch, but already, her head was spinning. “I forget who he is.”

  “Tresham is a friend of Ash and Sycamore’s. He’s selling them The Coventry, and more to the point, he’s one of the Academy’s most generous patrons—oh, and also the heir to a dukedom. He’s conferring with Her Grace of Walden, another generous benefactor of the arts. Let’s give Longacre another five minutes to enjoy himself, and then we will put an end to his games. Shall we say hello to Stebbins Holmes?”

  “Let’s not,” Vera said, setting down her empty glass. “I’m angry with him on my own behalf and on Anna Beaumont’s.”

  And why hadn’t Dirk noticed that Longacre was such a snake? But then, Vera knew why. The same art that made Oak such a keen observer had made Dirk oblivious to what was in front of his face. Made him all but complicit in his friends’ mistreatment of Dirk’s own wife.

  The hum of conversation rose, while Oak introduced Vera to more titled and wealthy people until, by some silent signal, Sycamore and Ash appeared at Vera’s side.

  “Time to catch a rat?” Cam inquired pleasantly.

  “Indeed it is,” Oak replied. “I will fetch Longacre. You gentlemen please escort Mrs. Channing to the appointed gathering place.” He kissed Vera’s cheek, which raised a few eyebrows. “For courage.”

  “Oak was never this dashing in Dorset,” Cam muttered, taking Vera by the wrist. “Come along, for I don’t want to miss a minute of the drama. I will pay you an enormous sum for the Stoltzfus odalisque. Ash and I agree that it would look splendid behind the bar at The Coventry.”

  “Oak says it’s one of a pair,” Ash added, “and the matching portrait could hang in the game room. Our clientele would likely try to buy both of them off of us the first night they’re displayed. We could hold a little auction.”

  �
�Stop it,” Vera said. “You are trying to distract me, because you believe I am nervous about confronting Longacre. My only concern is that I will do him a grievous injury.”

  Ash, a notably reserved man, treated her to a dazzling smile. “Violence can be art too. Cam, we are in the presence of a lady who understands pugilism. I am smitten.”

  “Not fair,” Cam said, holding open the door to Lady Montclair’s library. “I was smitten first, and Mrs. Channing likes me better.”

  She preceded them into the library, surprised to find that her nerves had indeed dissipated, replaced by anticipation.

  “I like you both quite well,” she said, “though I like Oak best of all, and the pair of you are ridiculous. My heavens, Mr. de Beauharnais has done a splendid job, has he not?”

  One of the Stoltzfus nudes was propped on an easel, and beside it was an unsigned work that presented the same subject in the same setting—a forgery, in other words. A very good forgery.

  And how ironic was it that a forgery would be the means of exposing the truth?

  Vera had never looked more luscious to Oak, so much so that the business with Longacre had become simply a task to expedite. Oak pasted a hesitant smile on his face and approached Longacre, waiting patiently until Longacre deigned to take notice of him.

  “Mr. Dorning. Pay attention to Lady Montclair’s display. You might learn a few things. If you’ll excuse me, I see Mrs. Finchley—”

  “If I could have a word in private,” Oak said, doing his best to look self-conscious and humble. “I need only a moment of your time.”

  Longacre wrinkled his nose, sighed gustily, and passed his drink to a waiter. “You might have simply called at the house, Dorning. You brash young fellows always come around eventually.”

  “I promise to be very brief,” Oak said, “and what I have to say is best kept private. Please, Longacre?”

  The begging note did the trick. “Very well, Dorning, but only a moment. Lady Montclair expects me to circulate, and there are patrons here to be fawned over.”

  “I really do appreciate it,” Oak said. “The library is right down the corridor. This way.” Longacre stopped twice during their progress across the room, once to bow over the hand of their hostess, who had been told exactly what was afoot, and once to try to ingratiate himself with Jonathan Tresham’s wife.

  A mistake, that.

  “In here,” Oak said, holding open the library door. “I’ve asked a few others to join us.”

  The few others included Vera, Ash, Cam, and de Beauharnais, of course. Also Worth Kettering—a legal perspective could prove helpful—Jonathan Tresham; Nicholas Haddonfield, Earl of Bellefonte; Trenton, Earl of Wilton; and a few of the other more influential patrons of The Coventry. Stebbins Holmes lurked beneath the overhang of the library’s mezzanine, though Oak had not apprised him of the gathering’s particulars.

  Cam and Ash, by design, stood before Vera so her presence was also obscured.

  “I have considered your proposal,” Oak said, drawing Longacre into the center of the group, “and found it wanting. You either forgot or did not care that Endymion de Beauharnais and I are sharing quarters, and that he and I are friends.”

  Longacre had by now noticed the two canvases. He withdrew a quizzing glass and bent to examine them.

  “These are the work of Dirk Channing,” he said. “We can discuss my little commissions later, Dorning. Wherever did you find these?”

  De Beauharnais sauntered forward through the crowd. “Don’t be coy, Longacre. The one on the left is the one you showed me, claiming Dirk gave it to you. The one on the right is the study you painted. When I returned to your town house to retrieve a forgotten walking stick, I happened to take a wrong turning and came upon the work in progress. It’s a very good attempt at a reproduction, but you have not appended your signature to it, suggesting it’s a forgery in the making.”

  Longacre straightened. “It’s a fine study, de Beauharnais, but I’ve never seen either of these. Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much punch again?”

  The spectators had gone silent and then remained quiet in the face of Longacre’s protestations.

  De Beauharnais was not given to overimbibing.

  “You claim this one,”—Oak gestured to the unsigned forgery—“is not by your hand?”

  “Of course it isn’t,” Longacre scoffed. “I recognize the model, but I considered Dirk a friend. I would never… Dorning, tell them. I cannot paint. Rheumatism plagues me terribly, especially in my hands. I haven’t painted for years. Ask anybody.”

  Vera began to make her way quietly through the crowd.

  “You say you cannot paint,” Oak mused, “but you can play a Scarlatti sonata at nothing less than a vivace tempo, complete with cadenza. You manage the buttons on your waistcoat easily, your penmanship remains elegant. When, exactly, does this rheumatism come upon you?”

  “Do tell,” de Beauharnais murmured. “I can’t seem to recall you having any difficulty with cutlery or a tea service either.”

  “But I cannot paint,” Longacre insisted. “The entire Academy knows I cannot paint.”

  “Perhaps they know you cannot paint well,” Oak said, “but copying another’s work is a different and more pedestrian talent than creating an original work. A Mrs. Ermentrude Danforth has provided a signed affidavit claiming you sent her a Shackleton portrait of her great-uncle. Shackleton was a court painter, his catalog is well documented, and he created no such portrait.”

  Jonathan Tresham, who excelled at imperiousness, crossed his arms. “What have you to say, Longacre?”

  “De Beauharnais painted the general. Ask him.”

  “Now that is curious,” Oak said. “We never mentioned that Mrs. Danforth’s uncle was a general, did we? And Mrs. Danforth never mentioned dealing with de Beauharnais—she bought the painting from you, and paid dearly for it.”

  A murmur went through the crowd, and Longacre’s bravado faltered.

  “If I were to bring Mrs. Finchley in here,” Oak went on, “she would attest to having eight different portraits of her daughters hanging on her walls. Mr. Tolliver would corroborate that fact. Six of the artists were inveigled into the lady’s boudoir, then subsequently told their portraits were inferior and their advances forced on Mrs. Finchley. De Beauharnais and I had the good fortune to be spared her schemes, though in point of fact, those were your schemes, weren’t they, Longacre?”

  “Why would I bother involving myself in—?”

  “The artists were all very talented young men,” Oak said, “and they all became beholden to you as a result of your trap. Oddly enough, their careers have not prospered. One—Tolliver’s cousin—is no longer with us.”

  “And you think I—?”

  “I had an interesting conversation with Mrs. Finchley,” Oak said, “to which Worth Kettering was a witness. She paid you for the portraits. She also reports that you assured her your protégés would enjoy a bit of frolic with a friendly lady. Part of the artistic temperament, according to you, is an inability to exercise even a schoolboy’s self-restraint. Tell me, Longacre, do you approach anybody without a thought for how you can abuse their trust?”

  Vera had taken the place at Oak’s side. “I don’t believe he does, and I can tell you exactly how he got his hands on the painting of the blonde.”

  Longacre’s neck was turning the same shade of pink as a blooming carnation. “I never once, not ever—”

  Vera cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Dirk concealed a number of nude studies behind other works hanging in Merlin Hall’s gallery. They are all spectacular and quite daring. Last year, I sent you three of those lesser works without knowing what one of them concealed. I, in fact, sent you four paintings, but you returned only three, claiming none of the works had value. Mr. Dorning revealed the treasures hidden in my home. You stole from me, Longacre, and from Dirk’s children.”

  She advanced on Longacre, and he took a step back.

  “You stole,” she said wi
th lethal calm, “then you copied what you’d stolen to add to your collection of forgeries. I can only guess that you intended to sell the forgery on the Continent and then repeat your crime by selling another version to some unsuspecting American. You stole a Dirk Channing masterpiece. What have you to say for yourself?”

  Ash stood to one side of Longacre, Bellefonte—surely the largest peer ever to sit in the Lords—stood on the other.

  But Longacre wasn’t smart enough to attempt to bolt. He instead struck a contrapposto pose, chin up, chest out. He lacked only a helm, shield, and winged sandals to make the heroic farce complete.

  “Dirk Channing stole Anna Beaumont and ruined her good name.” His chin rose half an inch. “I was owed recompense.”

  Vera cracked him a good one across the cheek. “You ruined Anna Beaumont, with your lies and gossip, with the threat of a lawsuit for breach of promise. You and you alone are responsible for any damage done to her reputation. And yet, she and Dirk were happy, and that is something you will never understand.”

  And now his cheek also bore that carnation-pink hue. “Anna would have come back to me.”

  Vera retreated a step and gave Longacre the sort of perusal usually reserved for horse droppings.

  “Anna bore Dirk a child and remained by his side despite all your machinations. She would never have come back to you, for which she has my undying admiration.”

  Tresham, exuding disgust, sent Longacre a glare. “What’s to be done with him? The Academy’s reputation could be sorely damaged by yonder pustule.”

  Ash was flexing his fist. Cam had that particularly determined look in his eye.

  “Vera?” Oak said. “What say you?” He hadn’t discussed this aspect of the situation with her, but apparently he hadn’t needed to.

  “Richard Longacre,” Vera said, “you will sell your worldly goods, including the pathetic assemblage of tripe hanging on your walls, as well as your house, your coach, and your trumpery. You will remove yourself to the Continent, and the proceeds of your estate will be set aside to support aspiring artists new to London. You will return to me the painting you stole, and you will be gone within a fortnight.”