nature.”
Casriel approached, appropriated Valerian’s glass, took a sip, and handed it back. “What if she’s the bitter sort, a pinchpenny cheeseparer who will never write Oak a decent character? She’ll instead malign his best efforts and set him back rather than advance his cause. We know nothing about her except that she haggled over terms and demanded he abandon all of his loved ones for a summer in blasted Hampshire.”
“We know Oak,” Valerian replied, passing Casriel the last of his drink. “We know he haggled right back, that he’s merely on the other side of the New Forest rather than off to darkest Peru. We know that meddling in his affairs shows disrespect toward him. We also know that I am newly married and have much better things to do than pester our brother about the first artistic post he’s ever landed.”
“But you’ll be nipping up to London from time to time, won’t you?” Casriel asked, ever so casually. “I understand Emily’s papa has business responsibilities in Town that yet require attention.”
“You want me to spy on Oak?”
“Either you pay a passing call, or I’ve no doubt Sycamore will drop in on Oak when Cam next makes a raid on Dorning Hall. Ash could probably be persuaded to abandon Town in summer’s heat, but one doesn’t like to impose on Ash.”
“One doesn’t hesitate to impose on me, though? Emily and I are in our honey month, Casriel. Have you no shame?”
“Think about it,” Casriel said, appearing quite pleased with his latest scheme. “Oak hasn’t any allies in Hampshire, and I’m not suggesting you depart at first light.”
No, but Monday would probably suit the earl’s plans splendidly. Valerian rose from his window seat, escape having become imperative.
“Do you know something about Mrs. Channing, Casriel? Something you’re not telling me?”
Casriel studied his drink—Valerian’s drink. “Beatitude can’t be sure, but she has former in-laws in Hampshire, and she recalls some mention from them about unpleasant doings at Merlin Hall. Nothing recent, nothing detailed, but a bad taste. Whispers and innuendo.”
“I am not about to abandon my new wife for the sake of old whispers and innuendo, Casriel. Write to Oak and ask him how he’s going on. Brothers do, you know. Write to each other.”
Valerian bowed, intent on extricating himself from Casriel’s plotting, but whispers and innuendo surrounding a rural widow were not good. Not good at all.
A smart man, upon hearing heartbroken feminine sobbing, would execute a silent about-face and go back up the path without intruding. Such a retreat would bear no shame, but rather, be an exercise in gentlemanly consideration—or so Oak’s father had once declared.
The damsel venting her tears was not in distress, she was in high dudgeon. How Oak knew that likely had to do with his sisters, and with his late mother’s penchant for dramatic displays. This female had also not quite attained damsel status. She was more a maiden of tender years.
Oak cleared his throat, which occasioned a pause in the lachrymosity.
“Go away, sir. You’re on Merlin Hall land, and you are not welcome.”
“You must be Miss Catherine.” She was also blotchy-faced, and her nose was an unbecoming shade of pink. If looks could kill, Oak would be greeting Saint Peter at any moment.
Oak passed her his handkerchief and appropriated a place about two feet from her on the fallen log where she was staging her tragedy.
“You are not to menace me,” she said, blowing her nose on his linen. “The stable boys will come running if I scream.”
“I would not dream of menacing a lady so clearly having a bad moment. I’m Oak Dorning. I’ve come to Merlin Hall to restore some paintings for Mrs. Channing.”
“I’m Catherine Channing.” She peered at the flowers stitched onto the corner of the handkerchief. “This is very fine embroidery. Please don’t show it to Miss Diggory, or I’ll be walled into the nursery until I can duplicate the pattern.”
“You may keep it,” Oak said. “Duplicate the needlework in your spare time and impress Miss Diggory with your ingenuity when you’ve completed the project. Bracken suggested I might enjoy sketching along this path.” He brandished his sketch pad and pencil and considered the setting.
The little copse lay about a quarter mile behind Merlin Hall, a former patch of hedgerow grown into a spinney. A stream meandered several yards away, the dark water suggesting drainage from a peat bog or fen. Ferns grew in abundance, giving the air a mossy scent.
Pretty, though well short of fascinating for a man who’d spent