A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,85
at the breakfast table.”
He blew Oak a kiss and went on his way.
“He’s worse in Town,” Ash said, getting up to close the door. “More flamboyant, more reckless. The club is a stage for him, and he seldom misses a performance, though all that London savoir faire takes a toll on a mere lad from Dorset.”
“The club is thriving?”
“Handsomely.”
Oak finished his drink, for he did not intend to make his excuses to the ladies. “So why does Sycamore seem as restless and unsettled as ever? Has he a lady friend?”
“Our baby brother has many lady friends. A different one each week, and they all adore him regardless of his fickle ways.”
“I adore Verity Channing.”
Ash returned to the table and saluted with his drink. “An understatement, I’m guessing, and she appears to hold you in high regard as well. So, like the dunderheaded Dorning that you are, you will turn your back on her and spend the rest of your life regretting the decision.”
This was progress of a sort, because Ash seldom commented on his own situation. “Have you mended fences with Lady Della?”
The whole family had been certain Ash would offer for Lady Della Haddonfield, perhaps Lady Della had been similarly persuaded. Ash had apparently been of a different mind.
He peered into his brandy. “Her ladyship and I have reached a truce. She avoids Town, and when she must be in Town, I avoid her. Like you, I have had little to offer a woman in material terms—she’s an earl’s daughter—and she deserves a man who can…” He set his glass down, still half-full. “You will excuse me. Not that Cam is a good example, but I, too, will seek my bed rather than inflict my tired company on the ladies.”
“Does Longacre ever come to the club?” Oak had no idea what prompted that question.
“Attendance is supposed to be held in confidence,” Ash said, “but yes, he does. All of fashionable Society waltzes through the doors of The Coventry, and most of them are lighter in the pocket when they waltz out. Longacre spends his time where the rich and reckless spend theirs, the better to curry commissions from them for his protégés.”
“You don’t like Longacre?”
“At The Coventry, we like everybody, Oak, provided they pay their debts and can hold their liquor. I’m for bed.”
Which meant, no, Ash did not like Longacre. Oak walked with his brother to the foot of the main staircase. “Why didn’t Casriel send his traveling coach?” he asked.
“He was cryptic, saying only that we were to take our time delivering you Cam’s coach. Cam wasn’t having any of that, and so here we are, very likely exactly as Casriel intended we be. It is good to see you, Oak, and you look as if the fresh air of Hampshire is agreeing with you.”
“It is.”
Ash, who was notably reserved, wrapped Oak in a gentle hug. “Then perhaps you should stay here. Good night.” He ascended the steps without looking back.
Oak was tempted to sit on the stairs and ponder his brother’s behavior—had Ash been trying to console him?—but Vera waited in the family parlor. Once he had her alone in her own bedroom, he’d again ask her to come with him to London.
And this time, he’d ask as sweetly and persuasively as he possibly could.
To Vera’s relief, Miss Diggory escorted Catherine up to bed almost as soon as Oak joined the ladies in the parlor. He made excuses for his brothers, and that, too, was a relief.
“I know not who was more smitten with whom,” Vera said, pouring Oak a cup of tea. “Catherine or Miss Diggory, with Sycamore or Ash. Mr. Forester was quite subdued at supper.”
Oak took the wing chair angled at the end of the sofa where Vera presided over the tea tray. “Sycamore knew Forester—or knew of him—at university. Did you know Forester is related to Richard Longacre?”
What had that to do with anything? “Tamsin is as well, a niece or great-niece, maybe a cousin once removed. Jeremy and Tamsin have no blood relation, but are connected by family. Longacre mentioned that when he recommended her.”
The tea had gone tepid, and the parlor was acquiring a chill. Summer nights could be like this—not cold enough for a fire, not warm enough to be comfortable.
“You’re cold,” Oak said, rising to unfold an afghan from the back of his wing chair. “You need not stay up to keep me company.” He draped the wool around Vera’s shoulders and resumed his seat.