“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 with 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.”
“Say yes,” Worth Kettering suggested, “and we won’t have to involve the gentlemen from Bow Street.”
“Write out an apology to Mrs. Channing,” Oak added, “and then we don’t involve the gentlemen from Bow Street—until your remove to the Continent.”
“I like that better,” Kettering allowed. “Has a bit more menace to it—more justice.”
Ash took