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 said 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