Chapter 10
Eamon read the invitation several times over, but the information remained the same.
The Prince of Osagard, for some reason, wished Eamon to attend a gathering in his home tomorrow night.
Eamon sank to the chair at his desk, mystified.
Did the prince want to consult Eamon about art? Had he heard that Eamon was looking through Aylesmore’s collection and decided that Eamon would do? But, in that case, why not write to Cheswell’s and request his services?
A more sinister thought occurred to him. This might be a ploy of annoying Cousin Rudyard in his adamance to gain control over Leo. Perhaps he’d decided to entice Eamon to a society ball and corner him there. To do what? Threaten him with violence, or more likely, legal action?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
Eamon found a clean scrap of paper, dipped his pen into ink, and wrote out his acceptance to the supper ball.
When Eamon entered Cheswell’s auction rooms in Regent Street the next morning, Cheswell himself intercepted him.
“You must hie to Bedford Square, my boy,” the man said in his breathy voice. “Immediately. A gentleman at number 7 has a Guido Reni he wishes to sell. He’s waffling between using Cheswell’s or Christie’s, and we must win him over. The commission on a rare Reni is nothing to sneeze at.”
If the request had come a few weeks ago, Eamon would have rushed to Bedford Square without question. Today, he couldn’t be less interested. The anticipation of seeing Caro every morning made him wake with excitement in his heart and stride through London with lightness in his step.
He wanted to tell Caro about his invitation from the Prince of Osagard and speculate with her about what it might mean. He’d stand close to her while he did so and perhaps entice another kiss from her while Singleton was occupied elsewhere.
“The duchess will be expecting me,” Eamon said, striving keep his voice calm.
“I will send word to the duchess.” Cheswell bodily turned Eamon around. “This gent in Bedford Square is a stubborn one, and you are the only man who can convince him. Ingratiate yourself and get us that Reni. Make haste, dear boy, make haste.” He all but shoved Eamon out the door.
Eamon resumed his hat with stiff fingers as he stepped into the street.
He could resist Cheswell’s instructions, but Cheswell would want to know why.
He’d argue, rightly so, that Eamon had found nothing in Caro’s house that was of interest so far, and that the Reni was an opportunity not to be missed.
He could also resign his post instead of obeying but for two things—Eamon needed the salary Cheswell paid him, and he’d not have an excuse to hurry to Caro’s home every day if he gave his notice.
He found himself turning his steps to Bedford Square, grumbling under his breath.
Eamon spent the entire day in a cramped and dusty townhouse filled with intriguing artworks owned by a white-haired gentleman with a sour disposition.
In the course of their multiple conversations, the gentleman changed his mind a dozen times about sending his Reni painting to Cheswell’s.
He might not sell it at all, he declared more than once.
Eamon brought forth all his powers of persuasion even as he inwardly cursed the man. He would much rather be entertaining Leo, keeping an eye out for treacherous Cousin Rudyard, and scheming to be in a situation where he could kiss Caro again.
She was worth kissing. And touching …
Simply being near her made Eamon feel more alive than he had in years.
By the time Eamon departed Bedford Square, with the Reni and several other paintings packed in a cart that he accompanied to Cheswell’s, it was far too late to call at Grosvenor Square. The streets were already dark, and by the time he reached the gallery, Cheswell was ready to shut up shop.
Cheswell was delighted that Eamon had acquired not only the Reni but the few smaller paintings that would bring in a fine commission. Cheswell locked away the paintings, shook Eamon’s hand, and sent him home.
Mrs. Temple opened the door of the boarding house before Eamon reached the front step. “Good heavens, Mr. Stone, you scarcely have time to put on your finest clothes. You will be late, and what will His Highness think of you?”
Mrs. Temple had wheedled the contents of the prince’s invitation out of Eamon when he’d paused for breakfast this morning. She’d been greatly delighted and honored that a guest in her house had been asked to a prince’s supper ball.
“It is fashionable to be late, Mrs. Temple,” Eamon reassured her. In truth, he was agitated about the meeting with the prince and feeling the need to hurry.
“For the nobility, yes.” Mrs. Temple shooed him up the stairs. “But for the likes of you and I, we must attend when we are called.”
How damnably true that was.
Eamon ran upstairs with a pace that won Mrs. Temple’s approval and stuffed himself into the fine suit he’d robbed his savings to purchase upon his return to London last year.
The tailor, who was Wolfe’s, had forgiven much of the price when Eamon pointed out that making a hard-up gent look like a rich one might persuade other such gentleman to use his services.
Now Eamon muttered about stiff collars and the lack of assistance to tie his cravat. He refused to imagine Caro doing it, her slim fingers brushing his chin as she fixed the knot, her smile one of encouraging fondness.
“Damn and blast,” Eamon whispered as he gave the cravat a final tug into place.
Rapidly enough to satisfy Mrs. Temple, he was out the front door and into a hackney, which he hoped would keep mud from his clothes the short distance to Portman Square.
Eamon descended a little way from the house and walked through the crush of carriages unloading the creme de la creme of London society at the prince’s front door. His invitation was scrutinized by a cool footman in a powdered wig who admitted Eamon without question.
A good landscape by Jan van Goyen hung in the foyer, and a Rubens held pride of place on the first staircase landing. The Rubens was nothing too dramatic and didn’t display much flesh, a tasteful painting one could display for guests.
Another impassive footman took Eamon’s greatcoat and directed him to the long row of connected ground-floor rooms, whose inner doors had been opened to create a ballroom and supper room beyond.
This house was not as large as Caro’s abode in Grosvenor Square, but its light and airy style made it seem grand.
The foyer and public rooms were filled with the most modern furnishings Eamon had ever seen gathered in one place, the enameled and gilded tables enhanced with objets d’art by Canova and Vulliamy.
Prince Rupert of Osagard and Princess Maude, his wife, greeted guests at the head of a long line that snaked through the ballroom.
No one was being announced, and groups stood chatting informally—everyone seemed to know one another.
Eamon recognized gentlemen and ladies he’d met in passing either through Cheswell’s, the war veteran’s club, or via introduction from Wolfe.
Some greeted Eamon with obvious surprise at his inclusion tonight, but they all remained polite.
Eamon was very well acquainted with the two men who stood uneasily near a pillar that held a priceless Ming vase. He dodged through the line and headed for them.
“Is this your doing?” Eamon asked Wolfe when he reached his friends.
Wolfe was resplendent in a black suit that emphasized his muscular handsomeness—not that the man would realize this. He had absolutely no vanity about his appearance.
He knit his brows at Eamon’s question. “I supposed it must be yours. You are good at insinuating yourself into such situations.”
McCormick, his shaggy red hair tamed into an old-fashioned queue, listened with interest. “You mean neither of you is responsible for our invitation? My curiosity rises.”
“I assumed I’d been invited to look at artwork,” Eamon said. “Or you might have had me come for some unfathomable reason, Wolfe.”
“We thought it was you.” McCormick pointed a thick gloved finger at him, his tall, broad body ill at ease in his tailored suit. “We couldn’t resist attending to find out what you meant by it.”
Eamon studied the filling ballroom. “Well, someone knew how to entice us out of our holes.”
“Ah.” Wolfe stilled, his gaze becoming fixed. “I believe I have discovered who.”
Eamon turned to see what had caught Wolfe’s attention, and froze.
Caro stood in a corner of the large room, framed by a garland of spring flowers draped over an arch. She was speaking animatedly to the two young women beside her, her face alight, eyes sparkling.
Her gown tonight was the color of rich cocoa, trimmed with lighter braids and ribbons.
Eamon kept himself cognizant of the latest fashions, and that gown could have been made yesterday.
Not for Caro—his trained eye observed where it had been modified here and there, and it was slightly too short, though only a keen eye would catch this.
He suspected the gown had been created to fit the slim, blond woman at Caro’s side and altered for Caro’s taller and more curved form. Skillfully altered. Eamon saw the work of a talented dressmaker in it.
A lady’s maid must have dressed Caro’s hair, which was coiled into a tight knot. As Caro’s hair wasn’t meant to be contained, the coiffure already drooped and locks dangled, intensified by the vigorous way Caro nodded when speaking to her friends.
So intent was Eamon with taking in her whole being that he almost missed the glittering diamonds that encircled her throat. The modest necklace lay subtly on her covered bosom, sparkling softly against the dark gown.
Even at this distance, Eamon suspected that either the diamonds weren’t real, or she’d borrowed them from the same friend who’d lent her the dress and lady’s maid. A family trying to sell off its paintings to clear debts had probably run through its jewels long ago.