Chapter 8
Eamon followed Rudyard closely down the stairs as the man scurried behind Caro.
He knew it was none of his business why Caro’s husband’s nephew had come to call on her. Eamon was, as Rudyard had pointed out, the hired help, not a member of the family or even a trusted friend.
But there was no way Eamon would allow Rudyard Berridge into a room alone with Caro.
He knew a devious bastard when he saw one, and Rudyard was a thorough louse. An especially dangerous one, because he thought himself clever. Like hell Eamon would decorously withdraw and let Rudyard have his tête-à-tête.
Caro glanced at Eamon in surprise as he entered the blue reception room in Rudyard’s wake, but she said nothing.
The room was as small and cold as Eamon remembered, with only enough seating for two. Eamon remained standing near the door as Rudyard waited for Caro to sit before taking the blue damask chair next to hers.
Rudyard noticed Eamon lingering and waved his hand. “Be off with you. This is a private affair.”
Caro’s agitation signaled that the last thing she wanted was to be alone in Rudyard’s presence. She wasn’t exactly afraid of the man, but she was extremely wary.
Eamon folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I’d be a churl to leave a lady unguarded. Speak your piece. If she says the word, I will see you out.”
Rudyard began to rise, but at Eamon’s hard stare, he sat back down with a thump. “I will ask again, who are you?”
Before Eamon could answer, Caro broke in. “He is Leo’s new art curator.”
Eamon warmed at his promotion but made no sign of surprise as he watched Rudyard digest the information.
“Oh.” Rudyard looked Eamon up and down. “Well, best you get on with it, man.”
Eamon settled in comfortably against the walnut doorframe. “It will keep.”
“Tell me why you’ve come,” Caro instructed Rudyard. She’d perched on the edge of the chair, her back ramrod straight.
Rudyard regarded Caro in a way Eamon did not like. “I’ll not pretend I’m here to inquire about your well-being, or any of that inanity. We both know where we stand with each other. I have come to talk to you about my cousin, Leo.”
“What about Leo?” Caro asked, her uneasiness rising. Eamon kept his stance casual but readied himself to haul Rudyard out of there the moment it was necessary.
“This cave of a house is no place for him,” Rudyard said. “He shouldn’t be in London at all. Leo ought to be in the sunshine, running and playing and riding, as a boy longs to.”
“This is Leo’s home,” Caro informed him coldly. “In June, we will return to Kent, to Mayfield Hall, where there is plenty of room for him to play outdoors.”
“And yet, that house is as ramshackle as this one. So many hazards for a boy of fragile health.”
Caro stiffened. “Leo’s health is far from fragile—”
Rudyard held up a hand. “You misunderstand me. I mean that it’s dangerous for so young a lad to dash about a farm that barely functions.
I, on the other hand, have a well-run country house with plenty of staff.
It would be to Leo’s advantage to move there, where he will be comfortably looked after. ”
Eamon had spent a lifetime learning to read people, sifting out the needs and desires they told no one, perhaps not even themselves. Studying at his father’s knee, Eamon had become skilled at understanding how people thought.
It would be obvious to anyone, though, that Rudyard was lying like fury.
The man’s fingers twitched on the arms of the chair, he shuffled his feet, and his gaze bored into Caro’s almost frantically.
Any honest man would be struggling not to look his fill of Caro’s lovely breasts and the cameo locket that rested between them.
“It is a kind offer, but Leo is happy here, with me,” Caro said stonily.
Rudyard lost his false geniality. “You are not one of us, Aunty. How can you know what it is to be a Berridge? From one of the highest families in the land? If Leo is to thrive, he must be removed from your care. At once.”
Caro was on her feet. Eamon came away from the wall, no longer bothering with nonchalance.
“My husband named me as guardian of my son,” Caro declared, the words ringing in the small chamber. “Leo remains here, where he belongs.”
“Guardian?” Rudyard rose with disdain. “A woman, who is not even of noble birth? You did your duty pushing Leo out, but after that, you need have no connection to him, ev— gah—.”
His words choked off as Eamon wrapped his arm around Rudyard’s throat from behind and jerked him backward, pressing on his windpipe.
“I believe you should apologize to the lady,” Eamon said quietly into his ear.
Rudyard made a few gasping noises, his feet scrabbling. He didn’t have the air to speak, let alone apologize, but Eamon was beyond caring.
Caro stood over Rudyard like a goddess of vengeance. “Never return to this house,” she commanded. “You are no longer welcome here.”
Rudyard’s face went puce, and not only because Eamon held him fast. He sputtered a few insensible words, clawing at Eamon’s arm, to no avail.
Eamon dragged Rudyard out of the small room into the large front hall. He half-pushed, half-hauled the unwelcome guest into the foyer, where Singleton, who’d appeared from nowhere, calmly opened the front door.
Rudyard struggled, but his soft living had made him no match for Eamon. Singleton held the door open, his stance haughty.
The doorstep was a few feet from the street, where passers-by trudged and carts rumbled. Eamon lifted Rudyard high on his toes, shoved his well-shod feet out from under him, and pushed him from the house.
Rudyard flailed wildly, managing to catch himself by flinging one arm around a stone pillar that held up the portico.
Plenty of people witnessed his undignified exit—servants on errands for their Mayfair lords and ladies, fops in phaetons on their way from Hyde Park, and matrons in landaus who gaped as Rudyard struggled to gain his feet.
Eamon made a show of dusting off his hands. Singleton, as cool as ever, waited until Eamon had retreated into the house before he closed the door, utterly ignoring Rudyard’s shouted invective.
Eamon laughed for the joy of it. He’d have slapped Singleton on the back if Singleton would bear the indignity, but Eamon did offer his hand to shake. Singleton clasped it politely without a word, then turned and glided away as though nothing very dramatic had happened.
Caro emerged from the reception room, her anguish crying out to Eamon.
“He will do it,” she said in a rush. “Rudyard has many friends and connections, and he is right that I am powerless.”
Eamon caught her hands, finding them too cold. “You are the Duchess of Aylesmore. An important woman.”
Caro shook her head, ringlets trembling.
“I am only the mother of the duke. I ceased to be important in the eyes of the world when his father passed on. And by the quaint laws of England, a mother is not related to her own child. Rudyard is related to him. He can take Leo away from me.” Her words ended in a half sob.
Eamon tightened his grip. “Caro, trust me—I will never let that happen.”
Caro’s eyes flicked to him in shock, and Eamon realized he’d addressed her by her given name.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, releasing her. “Duchess.”
Caro continued to stare at him, her lips parted. Before Eamon could offer another word of apology, she launched herself at him.
Caro’s arms went around his shoulders, her warm body crushed against his, and she kissed him frantically on the mouth.