heard a soft rustling of fabric and quiet sigh.
“All I need is five minutes,” Jeremy Forester said. “I can pleasure you thoroughly, Tamsin. You know you want it.”
His voice held the half-wheedling, half-boasting tone of a man importuning a woman for favors she was reluctant to give—or perhaps unwilling to give so lightly.
“All you think about,” Miss Diggory replied, “is getting under somebody’s skirts. If Mrs. Channing knew what a strutting cock you are, she’d sack you in a moment.”
“If she knew what a tease you are—Tamsin, come back here. You can’t leave me in this state.”
“Alexander has returned from the village,” Miss Diggory said. “I saw the cart being led around to the carriage house. You’d best get back to the schoolroom and put your mind on dusty old battles until your breeches aren’t fitting so snugly.”
The sound of a smacking kiss followed, then soft footsteps retreated down the corridor. A door opened and closed, probably Jeremy seeking to steal a few moments of privacy.
Did Vera know her governess and her tutor were canoodling in the corridors? Should Oak tell her? Why or why not? Oak begrudged no pair of consenting adults their diversions, but what if Catherine should come across the couple in an amorous mood? For that matter, what if Catherine should come across her mother kissing a penniless artist in the attics?
Such questions were as complicated as the conundrum of the color that best depicted a nightingale’s song, though much more vexing.
Oak stopped by his room to comb his hair, retie his cravat, and trade his riding jacket for the lighter-weight attire suitable for the indoors. If he hadn’t been prompted to locate the dog whelk seashell in the bottom of his valise—seashells made good rudimentary sketching projects—he’d not have noticed.
But he did retrieve his papa’s lucky shell, and thus he did notice. Though nothing was stolen, somebody had once again gone through his things, and that, he most assuredly ought to discuss with the lady of the house.
“You missed dinner,” Vera said, setting the tray on a deal table and closing the door. “This will be your studio?”
Oak had chosen to establish himself in a room on the northern side of the house, a former game room was Vera’s best guess, for the space came with a wide balcony such as gentlemen might use for a late-night cigar.
“I’ll do most of my work here,” Oak said, wiping his hands on a rag. “I need the ventilation if I’m to properly clean the older works, and a northern exposure means the sun doesn’t create shifting shadows throughout the day.”
His space was orderly, compared to the studios Dirk had used. A half-dozen unframed canvases from the attics leaned against the wall beneath the deal table. A midsize worktable sat against another interior wall, while a pair of worn reading chairs had been arranged on a rug beside the hearth. An easel stood near the French doors, and the windowsill was lined with brushes and tools in glass jars.
“This room has no art of its own,” Vera said.
“The better to help me focus on my work. Will you keep me company while I eat?”
She had missed him at dinner and been aware that Catherine had missed him too. Jeremy Forester lacked the will, or possibly the ability, to sustain a polite conversation at a table of females.
“I ought to abandon you to your art,” Vera said, “as you abandoned me to Catherine’s sighs and Miss Diggory’s long-suffering smiles.”
Oak fetched the tray and set it on the low table between the pair of chairs facing the empty hearth. “Did Mr. Forester abandon you as well?”
“No, more’s the pity. I’ve come to realize that his version of conversation is a series of quips.” Vera sank into a chair. “That’s your fault. Until you showed up, I found him witty, if a trifle sarcastic.”
“You brought me lemonade.” Oak took the other chair and sipped from the tall glass Cook had sent along with the food. “I hadn’t realized how thirsty I am.”
“Wine seemed presumptuous for a plate of sandwiches. I should let you get back to your tasks.”
“You should stay and bear me a few minutes company, or I will happily labor through the night and be of no use to anybody tomorrow.” He bit into a sandwich, and Vera took a moment to study the details of his temporary studio.
The little painting of the mother and children had been removed from its frame. The canvas sat on the worktable, propped