Chapter 14
The previous night
Eamon had learned discreet ways out of every sort of house, thanks to his father, who’d had an uncanny sense of when he’d worn out his welcome. Once Eamon convinced himself to rise from his place of refuge, he quietly slipped out of the chamber and down the stairs.
A coin to the cool footman still lingering in the foyer had his hat and coat fetched.
Eamon handed the lad another half-crown and walked out of the prince’s house through a side passageway to the mews, turning up his collar against the damp.
Wolfe and McCormick would tax him with his disappearance, but he’d put up with them to keep speculation away from Caro.
He had many things to do, in any case. Eamon left Portman Square behind and sought a hackney. He paid more coins to the rain-soaked driver to take him, not to his nearby lodgings in Oxford Street, but to the Strand.
From there he walked north to Maiden Lane, near Covent Garden, and ducked into a tavern. The locals glanced up as he entered, assessing him to decide whether he was a threat or someone they could cheat out of whatever money he carried.
In the very depths of the tavern was a narrow inglenook that other patrons avoided. A table had been placed in front of one of the benches surrounding the stone fireplace, and it was this table Eamon made for, halting at the foot of it.
The man seated on the bench observed him without a word. He was on the small side but solidly built, with dark hair and light brown eyes. He sported a cauliflower ear from his days as a prize fighter but was otherwise whole.
The man pinned Eamon with a shrewd gaze while the others in the tavern stilled to watch, holding their collective breaths. Well they might. Sam Noble was a dangerous man.
Sam continued to give Eamon his stare until he abruptly broke into a wide grin.
“Stone!” he bellowed. “Me old china. How are you?”
He pushed himself off the bench, wrung Eamon’s hand, and clapped him on the back with a force that could have pushed down a wall. Eamon manfully kept to his feet and tried to match Sam’s strong grip.
“I am doing well,” Eamon told him. “Can I stand you an ale?”
“Make it brandy. The ale here is horse piss.”
The landlord, who’d been heading over to ingratiate himself to a friend of Sam Noble, scowled.
“Brandy it is,” Eamon said congenially to the landlord. “And one for yourself, good sir.” He handed over several coins.
The landlord’s sour expression cleared, and he beetled off to fetch a small cask from behind his counter.
Eamon rubbed his hand once Sam released it. “Brandy is also more expensive, my friend. You could fleece the greatest miser.”
Sam stood a head shorter than Eamon, though his barrel chest was wider. Eamon remembered looking up at Sam as a boy, gaping in wonder at the seeming giant.
“’Tis a talent,” Sam said modestly. “Sit down and gab with me, lad. Never think of saying no.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Eamon waited for Sam to take his seat at the back of the inglenook, nearest the fire—not only the warmest place in the room, but from whose vantage point Sam could survey the entire tavern.
Eamon sat next to him and nodded at the landlord when the man brought them goblets of brandy. The landlord hovered, as though hoping Eamon would order some other item of expense, then drifted away when Eamon only smiled at him.
Eamon lifted his goblet. The brandy inside was potent, its odor alone making his eyes water. “Your health,” he said to Sam.
“Thank ye very much.” Sam raised his glass, and both men drank deeply.
Eamon bit back a cough at the strong liqueur. “An interesting vintage,” he wheezed.
“The best that can be smuggled to the Norfolk coast. But trust me, lad. ’Tis better than the ale.”
“I will take you at your word.”
They drank in companionable silence for a few moments, while the other patrons went back to their drinks, games, or low-voiced conversations. More than one man shot a glance at them, clearly wondering why the villainous Sam Noble had suddenly turned so friendly.
The answer was a long tale concerning Eamon’s father, Eamon’s quick thinking that had taken both Sam and Sir Benedict out of a situation where the Runners would have nabbed them both, and Sam’s fascinated interest in a boy who could out-cajole even his father.
After that adventure, Sam had declared himself Eamon’s lifelong mate. Sam hadn’t felt the same kindness toward Sir Benedict, who he’d labeled a right bastard and a terrible father.
“Where have ye been keeping yourself, lad?” Sam asked Eamon. “Haven’t seen ye since ye donned a red uniform and ran off to Spain.”
“Mucking about, here and there,” Eamon answered. “Trying to paint pretty pictures and failing at it. I’m no good unless I’m copying someone great.”
“Aye, you’d have made a grand forger, me lad. A grand one.” Sam took a long sip of brandy in regret.
“Sadly, I am too honest to deceive,” Eamon said good-humoredly.
And too proud, he added to himself. He’d prefer to be known for his own paintings.
If Eamon sold his copies of Canalettos or Caravaggios as genuine, he could never have the recognition for what he’d done.
The forgers he’d met did not care—they were happy to take the money and be pleased they’d fooled their marks. Eamon’s vanity would give him away.
He did not admit to Sam that he’d started making original sketches again. When he opened his notebook in the evenings, his pencil drew lines of a woman’s face, untamed locks of hair wisping across her cheeks. Diamonds glittered on her bosom, and her smile could melt the hardest heart.
“Strange you are so honest, recalling who your father was.” Sam broke into Eamon’s thoughts. “A blessing that he fell off his perch, I will tell you the truth. He’d have had you churning out your drawings and daubs to sell off to gullible punters by the bucketful.”
Eamon knew this to be true. Even as a boy, he’d realized that Sir Benedict had exploited Eamon’s winsome manner, small stature, and agility to help him swindle his way into comfortable situations. He’d have done more and more as Eamon grew, until Eamon would have had to battle his way free.
Eamon sipped more bad brandy, willing the past to remain in the past. He had more important issues to face here and now.
“I didn’t only come to have a gossip with you, Sam,” Eamon began.
“Didn’t fink ye did.” Sam nodded. “You need good old Sam Noble’s expertise. What are we stealing?”
“Nothing. Yet.” Eamon liked that Sam turned his full attention on him.
Sam had been one of the few of his father’s colleagues to take Eamon seriously.
“Do you know of a bloke called Clive? Styles himself a curator of paintings. Had a post with the Duke of Aylesmore before said duke gave up the ghost.”
Sam’s brows knit. “You mean Hieronymus Clive?”
“Is that his name?” Eamon asked in surprise. “Like Bosch who did all those bizarre paintings in the 1500s? Allegories and such.”
“Wouldn’t know about that. But yes, if it’s the Clive you’re thinking of, he has that moniker. Don’t trust the man.” Sam squinted at him. “What are you asking me for? You’re a perfectly fine judge of a bloke. What do you make of him?”
“I’ve never clapped eyes on him. Only seen his ledgers and heard his name. The Duchess of Aylesmore doesn’t know much about him. Her husband worked with Clive—I imagine neither man found any reason to discuss their business with a woman.” More fool they.
“He’s a fence,” Sam said without hesitation. “Takes pieces of art, silver, gold plate, bits and bobs, and asks no questions. Sells them on without a qualm.”
“A receiver?” Eamon sat back, disconcerted. “He was turned loose in that house in Grosvenor Square, where he might have found treasures unimaginable.”
“He probably imagined them just fine. But he’s no thief.
Won’t soil his precious hands. If he has any treasure from Aylesmore’s hoard, they were handed to him.
Don’t mean he wouldn’t take something home for cleaning or appraisal, with the owner’s permission.
But what he brings back won’t necessarily be the same thing he took away. ”
“He’d replace them with forgeries.” Eamon turned his glass on the table. “Does he make the forgeries himself?”
“You’d have heard about him before this if he did. No, he hires them, same as he hires a thief to steal to order for him or his clients. As I say, he won’t soil his own hands.”
Eamon glared at the blackened brick wall opposite him. “How the devil did he get hired on by Aylesmore? Surely the duke, or his man of business, would have asked for references?”
“Clive would have them,” Sam answered. “From what I hear put about, the Duke of Aylesmore was several planks thick. Most of these aristos are. Their heads are messed about by breeding too close to the bloodline. Happens in horses too.”
“Bloody idiot.” Eamon refrained from hurling his glass against the wall to hear the satisfying crash. It wouldn’t be wise to burst out with sudden violence in this place.
“Aye,” Sam agreed.
“Thank heaven Clive quit the place as soon as the late duke was laid to rest,” Eamon said. “Probably had picked it clean by then. I hate to think of a man like that roaming the house, and Caro there without protection.”
Sam’s brows climbed his broad forehead. “Caro, is it? Is that the duchess you’re meaning? Lad, run far from such things, before ye find yourself too deep. What did I just tell ye about aristos?”
“She isn’t an aristo,” Eamon said impatiently. “Not in that sense. She was born a plain Miss, a gentleman’s daughter. Her family were on the same footing as mine.” Sir Benedict, though he’d finagled his way into his knighthood, had at least been gentry born.
“Even so, she’s one of them now. Not for the likes of you and me, I’m thinking.”