Chapter 4 #2
“Because I am a lowly creature not fit to be trodden on, I know.” Eamon grinned and lifted his glass. “To beautiful women met at the wrong place and time.”
That, Wolfe conceded to drink to.
“I will be cataloging her art collection for her,” Eamon said.
Wolfe coughed and quickly set down his goblet. “You’ll be what?”
“Cataloging her art. No, I do not intend to put any paintings under my arm and walk out with them,” he added in irritation at Wolfe’s suspicious gaze.
“She showed me two dodgy Rembrandts she thought were genuine. Someone deceived her—or the Aylesmores in general—and I have to wonder how sound the rest of the collection is. If I can find something that will bring her some much-needed cash, then I will.”
“You sound like an honest man. Wanting nothing more than to help a long-suffering widow.”
“Even a scoundrel can turn his hand to a good deed,” Eamon said easily. “Speaking of good deeds, where the devil has McCormick got to these days?”
“Tutoring.” Wolfe resumed his usual somber expression. “Maths. To youths who care nothing about it.”
“Poor fellow. Well, we must all make a living.”
Eamon waited for Wolfe to announce how he was keeping his own head above water, but the man drank and didn’t answer.
“I intend to win the wager, you know,” Eamon said quietly.
“Eh? What wager?”
“How soon he forgets. Have you erased your memory of that evening at Waterloo, when we were certain we wouldn’t make it back to our regiment alive? We vowed to marry and pool whatever moneys we gain to raise our families.”
“Ah, yes, that bit of foolishness.” Wolfe’s frown became a scowl. “You’ll never win it chasing a penniless duchess, Stone. If she’ll even speak to you again.”
“One never knows,” Eamon said. “One never knows.”
Wolfe huffed and downed the rest of his brandy, but Eamon sipped in thoughtful silence.
Hayden McCormick, at that moment, was exiting a house in Upper Brook Street in extreme disgust. “Bloody Sassenach ingrates,” he muttered under his breath.
He’d been asked to leave by the snobbish father of the household, whose two unruly boys refused to settle down and learn the numbers their father believed would put them at the top of their classes when they entered their prestigious school.
Those two would never be at the front of any class except to be ridiculed by the master, Hayden growled to himself.
If they calmed down and paid attention, they’d perhaps keep themselves from the bottom of the heap, but as it was, they had no chance.
The boys were dullards, like their father, with no intention of applying diligence to better their lot.
They’ll be running the nation in fifteen years, Hayden thought with a shudder.
Their enraged papa had refused to pay Hayden’s fee and advised him to return to Glasgow where he belonged.
Hayden decided it wasn’t worth it to explain that Shetland was nowhere near Glasgow and that its inhabitants had descended from an entirely different stock, namely Vikings who’d torn apart soft Englishmen like him.
He’d stomped away into the growing darkness, making for his club.
“You just missed Wolfe,” Stone told Hayden when Hayden reached the Twenty-Fifths and called for a large pint of their strongest ale.
“Damn him,” Hayden growled, then nodded reassuringly at the waiter who’d brought him the pint. “Not you, lad. Thank ye.” When the waiter left, he resumed. “I wanted to pull another recommendation from Wolfe. I’ve been sacked and need employment.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Stone answered as Hayden took a long swallow of ale. “Did you know we are not to admit we work for a living? We are supposed to exist in genteel poverty, as though it is a virtue to go hungry.”
“I wasn’t raised to believe it shameful to earn an honest crust,” Hayden said without offense. “Wolfe knows everyone in London and can persuade someone they need to hire a tutor.”
Stone regarded him in quiet sympathy. “You should be at a university, explaining to the three men who can understand you about higher maths and the whirling of the planets and so forth. Not grubbing with little boys who’d rather be running through the mud.”
Hayden took another fortifying gulp of ale.
“Universities hire men they know, who were usually students in that college themselves, not outsiders with no connections. I don’t mind teaching the lads, as long as they’re willing to learn.
Besides, fellows at the highest colleges are notoriously penniless. ”
Stone shrugged. “They give you a place to live. You can write papers for obscure journals and retain your dignity.”
Hayden relaxed into his chair, his fit of pique assuaged by the decent ale and the chance to vent his spleen. “Dignity doesn’t make one rich. I don’t need much but wouldn’t mind something to put by for my old age.”
“You are always maddeningly cheerful,” Stone said with a hint of a grin. “Leave it with me. I met a duchess today who has a small boy. He might need your skills. Although—” Stone pointed a stern finger at Hayden. “Confine your attentions to teaching. The duchess is not for you.”
“Oh, aye?” Hayden raised his brows, his attention caught. “She’s for you, is she? You intend to carry out the wager?”
Stone nodded and looked wise, but Hayden could pry no more information from him.
Interesting, Hayden mused to himself and succumbed to the comfortable chair to enjoy the rest of his ale.
It was ridiculous to fuss about one’s garments when one was simply going to greet Mr. Stone and then leave him to wander the gallery alone to make his notes.
Caro had changed her mind about avoiding him altogether, convincing herself it would be rude not to at least say good morning. After all, Mr. Stone was doing them a great favor, charging nothing to root around in the house’s vast and dusty gallery.
Caro surveyed the frocks she’d laid out on her bed. They were sadly few in number, every one of them out of fashion and many times mended. She hadn’t minded before this, because she went out so seldom these days and paid little attention to her appearance beyond being tidy.
Handsome Mr. Stone with his charming smile was the sort of man who’d effortlessly attract women to him like butterflies to a flower. And like butterflies, those ladies would be elegantly beautiful in stunning gowns and dripping with jewels.
Their hair likely stayed in place as well, Caro thought impatiently as she pushed back yet another strand. Sleek topknots, perfect ringlets.
Ah, well. Unless one had a devoted hairdresser, one had to make do.
Caro was becoming thoroughly tired of making do.
Why hadn’t she worried about the cut of her gown and state of her hair when Leopold had been alive?
Answer, because she’d been happy. There had been contentment in knowing that another person accepted her as she was.
Mr. Stone had already engendered completely different feelings inside her, and such emotions could not be good.
Caro sighed and lifted the best gown of the lot.
It had long sleeves and a matronly cut, but it was a pretty shade of dark green with lighter green flowers embroidered on the hem.
Several of the embroidery’s colorful threads had worked loose, but a few snips with her small scissors took them off.
She rubbed the rest of the threads to hide the gaps in the pattern.
The gown went over her shift and small stays. The ensemble wasn’t too dowdy, Caro decided, as a chance beam of sunlight caught the sheen of the broadcloth.
She donned her worn leather shoes, tucked in strands of hair once more, and sailed forth.
Mr. Stone was punctual. Cheswell’s gallery had replied to her letter accepting Mr. Stone’s offer to look over the collection, telling her to expect him Monday morning at ten o’clock. At one minute to ten, Mr. Stone tapped the knocker on the front door.
Singleton admitted him, and this time showed him straight to the gallery, where Caro pretended not to have been lingering for the last half hour, waiting for him.
Mr. Stone’s brilliant smile struck with force as Caro turned from studying a painting, as though she was surprised to see him.
“Good morning, Duchess.” Mr. Stone made a gallant bow, while Singleton glided haughtily back down the stairs.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I was told by a man who knows much about such things that I should not address you thus. I should say Your Grace. But then, you might not like that either. Which designation do you prefer?”
For one wild moment, Caro almost told him to use her given name, but that would be highly inappropriate, especially for the nobody miss who’d beguiled a duke.
“Duchess will do, Mr. Stone,” Caro said, striving to appear unruffled. “Your Grace is rather formal.”
“Ah, she blesses me with informality,” Mr. Stone said to the air around him. “I did not dare to hope. As we are barely acquainted, I must remain Mr. Stone, that dull stick. Though one day perhaps we will be such friends that I will be Eamon to you.”
“Eamon,” Caro repeated before she could stop herself. She liked the feel of the name on her tongue. “Is it Irish?”
Mr. Stone lifted broad shoulders. “My antecedents are rather obscure. I know of no other Eamons in the family, and my father was Benedict, which is very English, I believe. I’ve never been to Ireland.”
His gaze had touched her lips as she’d spoken the name, and in the tingling heat that consumed her, she missed most of his explanation.
Flustered, she turned away. “Would you like to begin with the paintings?”
“That will do.” He spoke calmly behind her, his footsteps measured as he followed.
“I dug out Mr. Clive’s books,” Caro babbled. “He was our curator. They were a bit puzzling.” She’d felt at sea when going over Mr. Clive’s crabbed handwriting. Caro did not consider herself ignorant, but his shorthand had left her bewildered.
“Catalogers often have their own codes.” Mr. Stone spoke without worry. “I’ll look them over and see what I can find.”
“I’ve left them here.” Caro diverged her course to a table against the wall, where a bust of a Roman emperor watched over a stack of leather-bound ledgers.
“Ah, Vespasian,” Mr. Stone said as they halted. “One of the few fortunate emperors to die in his bed.”
“My husband admired him for taking his duties so seriously.” Caro lapsed into an affectionate smile. “He often spoke to him when we passed.” She caught Mr. Stone’s amused expression. “My husband was whimsical, not mad.”
“I quite understand.” Mr. Stone gave Vespasian’s balding marble head a pat. “Art is marvelous for listening to our troubles.” He regarded the books. “I believe I will look at the paintings first and peruse the ledgers afterward. To see if I agree with your curator’s assessments.”
Caro scarcely heard him. She realized they were standing quite close, and they were very much alone in the gallery.
Mr. Stone wore a frock coat similar to that of his first visit, though this one was a deep blue.
It smelled faintly of warmth and rain, the outdoors, and something indefinable.
His hair was damp from the mist outside, droplets glistening in the light of the few candles in the sconces above them.
Caro had persuaded Singleton that Mr. Stone would need light to see the paintings, as the day was overcast, and not much sunlight penetrated the windows.
Mr. Stone fixed on her in a way that made Caro grip the table to keep her knees from buckling.
“Well.” She drew a breath, trying to clear her head. “Shall I leave you to it?”
“No.” The word was abrupt, almost sharp. As Caro stared, her heart thumping, he softened his tone. “No,” he repeated. “Stay.”