Free Lady Windermere's Lover by Miranda Neville Page B

worked so hard. “Perhaps last year’s tenants damaged the hangings. Can they not be mended?”
    “You’re very good, my lady, but I know moth when I see it. If we are lucky we’ll be able to replace sections only, if we can match the cloth.”
    A lengthy discussion of the problem led to the decision that the proprietress of Bow’s Silk Warehouse should be asked to assemble samples of velvet in different shades of red. The interview had barely concluded when the footman announced that Mr. Oliver Bream had come to call.
    “Oliver!” Cynthia cried. “Thank goodness you are here. You must come to dinner tonight.”
    The cherub-faced artist shook his mop of curly hair and grinned. “Glad you asked, Cynthia. Saves me having to angle for an invitation. I came as soon as I heard you were back in town.”
    “Why else would you be here if not to find a meal?”
    Oliver pretended to look offended. “To see you, of course.” His eyes roamed around the parlor. “Did you breakfast already?”
    Cynthia rolled her eyes. Months ago, when they first met at Caro Townsend’s house, Oliver had fallen madly in love with her, just as Caro had predicted. His feelings had lasted all of a week before moving on to another object, and then another. His passion for his latest paramour always came second to his devotion to free meals, and a distant third to his true obsession, which was his art. In the view of Cynthia and his friends, he had real talent as a painter. Since this opinion was not shared by the rest of the world, he lived rent-free in Caro’s carriage house and cadged meals wherever he could.
    Having sent the servant for tea and cakes, she patted the sofa beside her. “It’s good to see you, Oliver. Tell me your news.”
    It was soothing to listen to him ramble on about the lamentable lack of skill in a couple of pupils who came to him for lessons in watercolors, the latest iniquity perpetrated by artists more successful than he, and the matchless beauty of Mrs. Langton, wife of a purveyor of canvas in High Holborn.
    “Does she return your regard? Will she run away with you?” Cynthia asked, knowing that Oliver chose the most unattainable objects of his pursuit and would be disconcerted if not appalled should he actually catch one.
    Oliver swallowed a mouthful of plum cake and shook his head. “Langton is a brute of a man. Very strong. She wouldn’t dare leave him. Besides, his canvas is the best in town and I shouldn’t like to upset him. He might refuse to extend me credit. I wish she had a different husband.”
    “You will be able to judge mine this evening.”
    “Windermere is in London?”
    “He arrived at Windermere House yesterday. And he invited Julian to dinner.”
    “Really?” Oliver said with mild surprise. “I thought they disliked each other.” As a longtime intimate of Caro and her set, he was well acquainted with the history. But Oliver was never overly concerned with matters that weren’t of personal or artistic interest. It made him a safe confidant. Anything she said would likely be forgotten by tomorrow.
    “Windermere and Denford haven’t spoken in years.”
    “Oh right. I remember now.” He frowned. “What was the row about?”
    “Caro said she could never get the truth out of Robert, and Julian shuts up like an oyster whenever I ask him. I’ve always guessed his attentions to me have been largely an effort to annoy my husband.”
    “I thought you liked Julian?”
    “Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean I entirely trust him.”
    “That’s very cynical, Cynthia. Not like you.”
    “Am I not cynical? Perhaps you are right. But neither am I naïve. I used to be, but not any longer. Why would a woman of my very modest attractions have inspired instant admiration in a man as worldly and jaded as Denford? Yet the very first time we met, he treated me as though I were a fascinating beauty.”
    She noticed with amusement that Oliver didn’t contradict her assessment of her charms.