A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,42

to time. Oak Dorning was a countryman born and bred.

Dirk would have either ignored a tutor importuning a governess, or made a great drama out of it, depending on his mood. Oak Dorning considered that matter a problem best handled through a quiet aside between the fellows, and Vera’s relief to have a man take responsibility for resolving a masculine sort of household issue was inordinate.

“The more you criticize this little scene,” Vera said, peering over his shoulder, “the more I like it.”

“I will put her back in her frame by noon tomorrow, but have a look here.” He held up the painting, which was now a canvas stretched across a rectangle of wooden supports. “It’s as I thought. There’s another canvas under this one.”

By virtue of prying gently at tacks in a pattern that made little sense to Vera, Oak soon had the canvases free of the wood framing. He carefully peeled the French lady from the painting beneath, then laid the second work on the table.

“That is beautiful,” he said, moving the branch of candles closer. “That is exquisite. My brother Sycamore would likely bankrupt himself for the pleasure of owning this painting.”

“That,” Vera said, her belly doing an uncomfortable flip, “is Catherine’s mother, and because she hasn’t a stitch on, nobody must see this painting. Not ever.”

The painting was lovely. A woman lay sleeping amid a tangle of ruby and violet quilts, candlelight playing over her bare breasts and exquisitely curved flank. One foot dangled from the bed, one hand was flung back against the pillow. A half-full bottle of wine on the bedside table and a dark form behind her suggested a lover slept at her side.

So daringly low were the covers that even the curls between her legs had been alluded to with shadows and brushwork.

“Everything about this work is masterfully done,” Oak said, taking up a magnifying glass. “The composition, the palette, the lighting. Notice the contrast between her pale skin and the jewel tones of the covers. Look at how the light reflecting off the wineglass and the candle against the mirrored sconce balance each other. This is a side to Dirk Channing nobody has seen before, and it might well be his best work.”

“She’s smiling,” Vera said, reluctantly fascinated. “Having a lovely dream.”

“She is a lovely dream, and thank all the benign powers, Dirk signed this.” Oak straightened and set aside the quizzing glass. “Catherine’s mother will bring a fine sum, Vera, and if the rest of the gallery holds work of similar quality, then you have found Dirk’s treasures.”

The wine in the bottle had the garnet hue of Merlot, Dirk’s favorite for a bedside glass.

Vera leaned close enough to the painting to verify that the signature was, indeed, Dirk’s.

“I cannot sell or display this painting. Catherine is already laboring under the stigma of irregular antecedents. Imagine she’s at a house party over in Surrey a few years from now. Dirk has friends there who’d extend such a courtesy to her. In walks some Town swell who has seen this painting in your brother’s gambling hell. Being somewhat connected with the artistic set, Mr. Town Dandy recognizes the connection between Catherine Channing and the woman who served as Dirk’s model. Anna Beaumont was Dirk’s hostess for years and, at least among the gentlemen, was accepted as such.”

Oak was no longer studying the painting, he was studying Vera. “This painting is not some sordid bit of rhyparography. This could well be the making of Dirk Channing’s legacy, and the financial security you seek.”

“I believe you,” Vera said, gaze again on the painting. “She is in love, that woman, and the man who painted her loved her back, but this is not art for public consumption. Maybe in thirty years, but not… not now.” And why had Dirk kept these works hidden until after he no longer had to answer to the truth of them, no longer had to face the fact that he’d rendered the love of his life in shocking verisimilitude to her role at Merlin Hall?

Oak scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I applaud your protectiveness toward Catherine, but I am exasperated that so beautiful a work, so perfect a work, should be hidden away.”

So valuable a work. He didn’t need to emphasize the point. “The painting is exceptional, which is all the more reason London’s artistic sophisticates will demean it. I’ve seen how they behave, and the results are neither kind nor honorable. By all means, find whatever else is