An easel sat in the far interior corner of the library, where direct sunlight could not reach the painting. Vera approached, prepared to make complimentary noises about some old master’s use of light and perspective and whatever.
She stopped six feet away from the abomination propped on the easel.
“I never posed for that,” she said, heart hammering against her ribs. “I would never… Where did you get this?”
The woman depicted in the painting was Vera, right down to the exact shade of her hair and the exact curve of her jaw. She wore nothing, not even a quilt draped over one ankle, as she sprawled amid pillows and sheets. She held a golden goblet in her left hand and stroked her own breast with her right. Her eyes were half closed, her expression rapturous.
A pipe sat in a dish on the table beside the bed, a thin stream of white smoke drifting heavenward. Vera did not have Oak’s eye for artistic details, but this painting looked very like Dirk’s other nudes.
Very, very like them. It felt exactly like a Dirk Channing.
“Magnificent,” Longacre said, taking the place at Vera’s side. He stood too close, but she did not give him the satisfaction of moving away. “Utterly captivating and worth a very great deal.”
“I did not pose for that painting.”
“Oh, perhaps not, but your husband doubtless had both opportunity and imagination sufficient to create the likeness anyway. How I do envy him those privileges. There’s a French comte, a fellow who somehow managed to salvage a fortune from all the madness, and he is particularly fond of red hair.”
“You cannot sell that, and Dirk did not give it to you.” Vera’s voice betrayed her with a tremor, as she realized the signature was either Dirk’s or an exact copy.
“Believe what you like, Vera Channing. I will sell that painting unless you pose in a similarly uninhibited manner for the artist of my choice.”
Vera again felt like that lightning-struck tree, but the emotion that consumed her was rage. “I will do no such thing. Go ahead and sell that… that nonsense to your wealthy French friend.”
Longacre drew a finger along her jaw. “Dirk said you have hidden reserves of determination. He loved that about you, while I don’t find that quality at all attractive in a woman. Allow me to present you with a bit more context. You either model as I please to have you model, or I will ruin Oak Dorning. I had enough eyes and ears at Merlin Hall to know you’ve grown quite fond of our mutual friend.”
Longacre stepped closer to the painting and took a quizzing glass from his pocket. He examined the area of the painting devoted to the woman’s most intimate parts, then glanced assessingly at Vera’s hair.
“You cannot ruin Oak Dorning,” she said. “He is both honorable and talented and has committed no transgression that Society would censure him for. He has already taken his first paying commission, and many more are likely to follow.”
Even as Vera’s rage blended with a gnawing fear, she could also sense a puzzle. Why was Longacre doing this? Many women were willing to take coin to serve as nude models. What drove Longacre to violate her dignity this way?
“I can ruin anybody,” Longacre said, offering her a pleasant smile. “Did you know Mr. Dorning has already slept with the woman who offered him his first commission? She hasn’t complained about his prowess in bed, but she’s none too impressed with his artistic skills. I doubt she’ll pay him for either.”
Oak would never, ever, not in a million, starving years…
“Mr. Longacre, do you truly mean to imply that in the history of portraiture, no artist has slept with a patron or subject? Not once? That this happens in only the most debauched situations?”
Longacre’s smile disappeared. “Dorning can swive his way from here to Carlton House for all I care, and you’re right—a good-looking young man like that, taking what’s on offer, might not be remarked. But if I put it about that his work is inferior, that he has a particular disease so far gone that it affects his mind, that he cannot control his drinking… then his dream is over before it begins, and that would be a pity. He will never paint professionally unless you do as I say.”
“Why?” Vera asked, turning her back on the easel. “You will ruin me or ruin Oak Dorning, and neither one of us has harmed you in any fashion.”
Longacre gave her another flesh-crawling perusal. “Dirk Channing loved you. He bragged about your wifely devotion, but you were never more than a consolation to him. The woman he loved above all others, the one who made him an artist, was Anna Beaumont. For her devotion, he ruined her as thoroughly as I could ruin you—unless you pose for me like the harlot Anna became for Dirk.”
“Pose for you?” Vera asked.
“Oh, no. For an artist whose skill far exceeds my own.”
A tap sounded on the library door. Longacre admitted a butler holding a card tray. “Mr. Oak Dorning come to call, sir. He’s in the guest parlor.”
Longacre took the card. “Thank you. Please tell Dorning I will be happy to receive him in a moment. I will see Mrs. Channing out first.”
So pleasant, so courteous, and so rotten.
The butler withdrew on a bow.
“I will see myself out,” Vera said.
“Of course.” Longacre also bowed to her politely. “Make your grand exit, shed a few tears because of the horrible imposition I’m making—though you bore Dirk a child, so you happily shed your clothes for him on countless occasions. Down a few glasses of cordial to soothe your nerves, then send me a note letting me know when you can sit for my artist. Take your time. I have much to do putting the finishing touches on Lady Montclair’s exhibition. I think you’ll approve of my choice of artist when you meet him, but don’t be surprised if I want to watch the genius at work. I do so enjoy creative talent on display.”
Vera stalked out, not even pausing in the foyer to gather up her hat and parasol.
Chapter Thirteen
Oak was sitting on the guest parlor’s piano bench, peering at a complicated Scarlatti sonata, when Richard Longacre joined him.
“Dorning, a very great pleasure to see you.”
The front door closed rather decisively as Oak rose and bowed. “Longacre, the pleasure is mine.”
From the corner of his eye, Oak saw Vera Channing marching down the walkway. He’d hoped to catch her here and take her for that ice at Gunter’s. The pace she set suggested she was late for her next appointment, but something else was wrong. She had neither bonnet nor parasol, which made no sense.
“How are you finding the great metropolis?” Longacre asked, taking a seat in an ornate wing chair. The whole parlor was overstuffed with art, like an eccentric uncle’s attic, and the quality appeared to be of that caliber as well.
“I am pleased to be in London,” Oak said, taking the opposite wing chair, though he had not been invited to sit. “The change of scene is an adjustment, one I am happy to make. The Finchley portrait should be done in the next few days, and I thank you again for the commission.” Oak stopped short of the obvious question: Have you another commission for me? Or would the work disappear, as de Beauharnais had predicted?
Something passed over Longacre’s features, as if he’d detected an unpleasant odor and was too well bred to remark it. He rose from his chair, took a seat on the piano bench, and undid the bottom button of his waistcoat.
“Dorning, don’t take this the wrong way, but Mrs. Finchley has a surprisingly discerning eye, and she was not that impressed with what she saw of your work.” He began to play. The harpsichord was in good tune, suggesting somebody in the house used it regularly. “She was more complimentary of your amatory skills—appallingly complimentary, in fact.”
Oak was tempted to point out that Tolliver had accommodated the curiously insistent Mrs. Finchley. Instinct warned him to take a different approach.
“What were her specific criticisms of the portrait?” Oak asked.
Longacre’s fingers flew over the keys, filling the parlor with blazingly fast notes. “She sa
id you made the girls look too much alike.”
Oak had specifically insisted they dress differently, adopt different postures, and occupy their hands with different objects.
“What else?”
“From the mother of twins, that’s criticism enough. She might well consider the liberties you took as compensation enough for the work you’ve done. This is not a good first impression to make on London Society, Dorning.”
Nor was it an accurate impression. “Did you convey the details of my faux pas to Mrs. Channing? She apparently left here in something of a temper.”
Longacre indulged in a cadenza of ascending parallel sixths, a barrage of arpeggios, a waterfall of parallel thirds, then a grand pause.
“I might have mentioned the situation in general terms,” Longacre said. “Nothing more.” He went off into another display of pointless bravura, then brought the piece to a crashing conclusion. “Come along, Dorning. I have something you will want to see.”
Vera had mentioned that Longacre had wanted to show her a painting. Oak rose and followed his host down the hall to a garish caricature of a high baroque library. More gods and goddesses cavorted on the ceiling than in the combined pantheons of Greece, Rome and Persia.
“My little portrait is one of Dirk Channing’s best, I think,” Longacre said, closing the library door. “Over here.”
Oak expected a battle scene, more of Dirk’s screaming horses, expiring heroes, horrified drummer boys, and brave—spotless—commanding officers shouting orders from the saddle, while smoke and sunlight created an otherworldly sky.
This was not a battle scene.
“What do you think?” Longacre asked. “A bit shocking, but brilliant nonetheless. He did a matching version using Anna Beaumont as his model. They are different, but equally magnificent.”
The painting purported to be a portrait of Vera in a moment either anticipating or following sexual repletion. Her splendid form lay exposed to the spectator’s eye in intimate detail and her fingers trailed over a taut rosy-pink nipple.
Either Dirk Channing had got the color of his own wife’s nipples wrong, or…
Oak stepped closer and was immediately assailed by the scent of linseed oil. He peered at the painting, noting a certain flatness to the white of the sheets and even to the undersides of Vera’s breasts.
“Dirk gave this to you?” Oak asked, examining the signature.
“He did, perhaps as an apology for ruining my Anna. She and I were to marry, you know. The agreements had been signed.”
“I did not know that.” Did Vera know that? “It’s an impressive work.” For a forgery. “But why show it to me?”
“Because you will paint a few others just like it for me. She has already agreed to model for you.”
Oak pretended confusion. “I do not aspire to paint nudes of decent widows, Longacre, no matter how lovely or willing the model.” Before an artist took up that challenge, he had to establish himself with more mundane subjects.
Longacre clapped him on the shoulder, and Oak nearly reacted with a fist to Longacre’s gut. “She’s very pretty,” Longacre said, “and while she might have played the proper widow in Hampshire, we in London know her to be quite willing to… Well, she’s quite willing. Dirk was absorbed with his art, and Vera amused herself as best she could.”
Oak studied the painting again, lest his disgust show on his face. The forgery was good, but especially in the shadows, the brushwork was a shade too flamboyant to be that of a man who’d come of age artistically in the shadow of Gainsborough and Reynolds.
“Did Mrs. Channing amuse herself with you?” Oak asked.
Longacre examined a showy gold ring on his smallest finger. “One doesn’t frolic and tell, Dorning. You mustn’t be jealous. Vera and I are friends of long standing. If you do a good job with the series I have in mind, she might permit you an occasional interlude. I’m not possessive, and she’s no longer quite as dewy as I prefer my women.”
I will kill you, and you will die a eunuch. Oak shifted his gaze to the hunt scene on the library ceiling.
“Have you any other of Channing’s nudes? I was under the impression he preferred landscapes and battles scenes.”
“He sent me one other, of Anna Beaumont. As I said, it matches this portrait of Vera. Some artists do that, paint the same study over and over, changing only a detail or two. In this case, Dirk changed models. He liked to paint in series, and I have wondered how many odalisques he might have secreted away at Merlin Hall.”
“May I see the other one?”
This occasioned pursed lips and a slight frown. “If you’re to paint Vera for me, then I suppose studying another Channing can only stand you in good stead.” He opened a drawer beneath the reading table near the window and lifted out an unframed canvas similar in size to the painting that purported to be of Vera. “Have a look.”
Oak had a thorough, close look. “And what will you do with the series you’re commissioning from me? The paintings of Mrs. Channing?”
Longacre put the painting away. “You are refreshingly naïve, Dorning. I am not commissioning anything from you. You will paint a half-dozen nudes of Vera Channing, mimicking as closely as possible the style of Dirk Channing. I will do with them as I see fit. She is an exquisite subject without her clothes, and the continental market isn’t nearly as puritanical as the English market.”
Nor as familiar with Dirk’s works. “Am I to understand that I’m painting forgeries for you?”
Longacre came around the table and patted Oak’s arm. “You country fellows are always so direct. You are painting études for me, exercises in the style of Dirk Channing. If your conscience troubles you, don’t append a signature to them.”
Because even Longacre had sufficient skill to replicate a signature. “Why would I do this?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure everybody Dirk knew recalls just what a strumpet Vera Channing was, and I will similarly mention what a mediocre talent you are, Dorning.” He ambled over to the painting in the corner and tilted his head. “I daresay you could use some practice, and what artist worth his salt wouldn’t want a chance to paint more of this?”
Longacre had many allies in the art world; Oak had few. Longacre was powerful; Oak was all but a charity case. Longacre had been poisoning the well of Vera’s reputation for years; Oak had known—and loved—the lady for a handful of weeks.
Before he pounded Longacre to dust, he’d discuss this situation with Vera. “This is not what I had planned for my first major London project,” Oak said. “You will allow me some time to consider the matter.”
“Consider away,” Longacre replied, facing Oak and waving a hand toward the door. “I will be too busy to arrange the sittings until after Lady Montclair’s reception. Run along, Dorning, though you really should be thanking me. Not every young man gets to spend hours in the same room with a naked woman as beautiful as Vera Channing.”
Oak turned to leave, but stopped short of the door. “Why involve me in this? Why not paint her yourself if she’s so willing?” He knew the answer well enough: Because once the paintings were done, Longacre would threaten blackmail, and if Oak refused to do the paintings, his fate would be artistic and social ruin.
“You ask why I don’t take on this delectable project myself,” Longacre said. “I would love to paint again, but”—he held up his hands—“rheumatism, young Dorning. My hands grew too soon old, but my eye is as sharp as ever, so don’t think to do a poor job on these paintings.”
Oak bowed, barely. “I will see you at Lady Montclair’s reception.”
“Bring Mrs. Channing,” Longacre said. “Tell her to wear something pretty.”
Oak withdrew, pausing only long enough to snatch up Vera’s hat and parasol before showing himself out.
Vera had reached a place after Dirk’s death where crying was pointless. Grief became a leaden weight on the soul, a burden that had to simply be borne as she explained to Alexander—again—that his
papa would not come back from heaven.
Ever.
The grief she experienced as she took down her favorite shawl was different. This sorrow was angry, and potentially destructive. She began packing by folding the shawl into the bottom of the trunk she’d unpacked only a week past.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Sissy Banks stood in the doorway. “You have a caller.”
Vera was not in the mood to put up with Sycamore Dorning’s banter or Ash Dorning’s faultless politesse, but she needed to thank both men before she left London once and for all.
“I’ll be down in a moment, and we won’t need a tray.”
Sissy bobbed a curtsey and withdrew, her expression dubious.
Vera took a moment to assess her appearance in the cheval mirror. The woman gazing back at her was pretty enough, if a bit pale, but she was brittle. Hard. Determined. London had once again taken a toll on her, and she would be glad to be quit of the place.
She would not be glad to be quit of Oak Dorning, but that could not be helped. She tried for a smile, and the result was a grimace. No false good cheer, then. She marched into the parlor prepared to dispense brisk thanks to a Dorning brother and came to an abrupt halt when Oak turned to face her.
“You have my hat and parasol.”
“I thought to catch you at Longacre’s and take you for an ice.”
Leaving London would be easy, an enormous relief, in fact, but leaving Oak Dorning… His gaze suggested he knew that Vera had started packing. Or, worse, he knew what Longacre had been about.
“And how did you find Mr. Longacre?” she asked.
“I found him pusillanimous and much in need of a good pummeling. What did he say to you, Vera?”
“That doesn’t concern you, but I’ll be leaving for Hampshire this afternoon. There’s a coach departing from—”
He took a step closer. “I saw the painting, the one he claims is a Dirk Channing nude portrait of you.”
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