Chapter 14 #2
Eamon fell silent, not intending to argue.
In this world, a person’s background and breeding counted for far more than how clever he was or even how wealthy he was.
Nabob’s daughters were sought for their father’s money but never really accepted by the old blood.
A self-made man was regarded with deep suspicion.
Eamon fell into no category he knew, but he’d comforted himself that he and Caro had arisen from much the same stock.
However, Sam was right. Caro was now the mother of one duke and the widow of another. Her mother-in-law was definitely aristocratic and guarded Caro fiercely. Caro’s friends, likewise, were lofty.
If any of them wanted Eamon out, he’d have no recourse.
Did that mean Eamon was giving up? Far from it. If he could do nothing but save Caro from a crafty swindler and the duke’s vindictive cousin, then save her he would. His reward would be watching her and Leo live a safe and happy life.
He repeated this to himself with vehemence.
“Where can I find Hieronymus Clive?” he asked Sam.
“Has a shop in Cheapside.” Sam huffed a laugh. “Pretends it’s a proper business, a secondhand place and a pawnbrokers. His real work he keeps hidden, probably in the back or a cellar, or in his attic. Somewhere the Runners and the bailiffs won’t work too hard to find.”
“Or he pays them to look the other way.”
“He could do.” Sam and Eamon shared a look of distaste, both more repelled by corrupt men of the Crown than outright thieves.
“I will call upon him,” Eamon said. “Ask why he’s not answered my letters.”
“Because he’s afraid you’ll find him out.” Sam saluted Eamon with his cup. “Which you will, lad. I have no doubt.”
“I’ll have a bloody good go at him,” Eamon promised.
And if Mr. Clive had been cheating Caro and her son out of Leo’s rightful inheritance, Eamon would make the man pay dearly.
“Good for you, lad,” Sam said. “If you need me help, you give me the nod. I’m here most nights.”
Sam had the reputation for making problems disappear—permanently. Not someone a sensible man would join forces with, but Sam had always been a loyal friend, no matter his reputation.
Eamon thanked him and they imbibed a while longer, Sam reminiscing about the adventures they’d had in the old days.
Eamon listened and tried not to think of Caro and her kisses, or picture her curled up in bed in her grand house, damp from sleep.
The visions would not depart, however, no matter how much brandy he drank.
In the morning, Eamon rose earlier than he’d had since his army days and took a hackney to Cheapside. His head was fuddled by the foul brandy, but he forced it to clear as he rode along in the rather smelly coach.
The eastern parts of London were already alive with activity. The markets began early, and every cook, chef, and provider knew that the best bits went to those who arrived first. Each market he passed was bustling as Oxford Street became Holborn and then Newgate Street.
Eamon turned his face away when the coach passed the grim wall of Newgate Prison. His father had never ended up there, thank the Lord, but he’d spent days in the Fleet, with five-year-old Eamon to keep him company. Not an experience Eamon ever wished to repeat.
Newgate Street took a jog near St. Paul’s, its great dome rising through the fog, and merged into Cheapside.
The shop Sam had indicated lay near the turning to Milk Street. Eamon instructed the coachman to pass it and let him down near Poultry, with its view of the great Bank of England and Mansion House. No sense rolling up in front of Clive’s door, giving the man a chance to flee out the back.
Eamon paid the hackney driver, then took his time strolling back toward Milk Street.
Businesses were already open, with owners displaying wares on the pavement. Eamon paused outside a secondhand bookshop to thumb through a few tomes. He selected a pocket-sized volume on medieval manuscripts, marveling that a printer could tuck so much information into such a tiny book.
The bookseller wanted to chat about the weather, the crowds on the street, and every other topic he could think of, but Eamon paid over a tuppence for his purchase and gently pried himself away.
Clive’s business was located a few doors down from the booksellers.
An unpretentious black painted door led Eamon into a small shop that held a jumble of secondhand goods displayed in a haphazard fashion.
Polished cups and plates of middling quality stood next to wicker sewing baskets, and pewter candlesticks mingled with vinaigrettes and brandy flasks.
The very thin young man who looked up from behind a walled counter when Eamon entered could not be Mr. Clive. He was fifteen at most.
The counter closed off shelves that displayed more expensive items: watches and fobs, thick gold rings, gold snuff boxes, cameos and lockets, and a few tiny pictures of painted single eyes, the sort exchanged between lovers.
Presumably those who pawned them could no longer bear to have their ladylove giving them a one-eyed stare, or else someone had inherited the trinkets and hadn’t known what to do with them.
Eamon put on the stuffy, blue-blooded accent he’d learned so well from his father and addressed the young man.
“A fine morning to you, sir. I hear this is where I can inquire about buying some pictures. Some good pictures, you understand.”
The lad grinned and leaned through the counter’s window. “French pictures, sir? Have those in the back.” He winked.
Eamon drew himself up. “Certainly not. What do you take me for?”
The youth immediately straightened, flushing. “Beg pardon, sir. We get all sorts in, don’t we? Wanting all manner of things.”
“Well, I am not all sorts. When I say good pictures, I mean those of quality. I have heard that Mr. Clive is one to provide them.”
“Right.” The young man hesitated, uncertain, before he bounded like a rabbit through a wooden door behind the counter, slamming it shut.
Eamon was left to meander about the shop, wondering if Clive would appear or if the youth had given him warning to escape.
He idly opened a jewelry box that held an assortment of necklaces and bracelets that must not be worth anything, or else they’d be locked behind the counter. Nor would Eamon have been left alone in the shop with them.
He had no intention of buying the cheap gewgaws, but they inspired an idea of finding a diamond necklace for Caro. She deserved something of her own instead of having to borrow from her friends.
Eamon let himself imagine standing behind her while he lowered the glittering necklace to her throat. Caro’s warm hair would brush his fingers as he affixed the clasp, and she’d turn and smile at him.
My duchess in diamonds, he’d whisper before kissing her cheek. As you should be.
The interior door banging open once more tore away these pleasant thoughts.
The man who stepped through the opening must be Mr. Clive. He was of middling height, with a paunch for a stomach and a head of thick, graying brown hair.
His face was broad but had strength, his dark eyes holding a flintiness he tried to hide behind a beaming smile as he came out from behind the counter.
“My dear sir. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting.” Clive had a loud voice, not deep, but one a person could hear across a crowded room. “What sort of artworks did you have in mind, Mr. …?”
“Wolfe,” Eamon extemporized. “Dominic Wolfe.”
He wasn’t certain why he’d invoked Wolfe’s name, but he’d learned to go with whatever popped into his head. Wolfe would understand. Eventually.
Clive’s eyes widened. “I am honored, my lord.”
The man must have memorized Debrett’s Peerage if he recognized Wolfe’s name, but it was clear he did not know what Wolfe looked like.
“Quite,” Eamon said gruffly. “I’m here to view paintings, not exchange pleasantries.” He imitated Wolfe’s arrogant bark well, he thought with some satisfaction.
“Yes, yes, of course. Would you care to follow me?”
Clive strode swiftly to the very back of the shop, beyond the tables of wares. Eamon passed an eight-foot-tall torchiere, wonderfully carved and gilded, ready to hold one of the silver candelabras locked behind the counter.
Mr. Clive led him through a door in the shop’s rear, which gave onto a small corridor ending in yet another door. Clive unlocked this and ushered Eamon into a warehouse of sorts.
Bookcases and shelves lined three walls of the vast room, each holding still more valuable things than those displayed behind the shop’s counter. The fourth wall was hung with a large collection of paintings—the floor below these were stacked with canvases five or six deep.
Clive swept his arm to encompass the hung artwork. “What strikes your fancy, my lord? I have many quality pieces here, both from the great masters and more recent artists who have started to be in demand.”
Most of the paintings were very good copies, Eamon could see. Rubens was prevalent, as the man had produced mountains of artwork in his long life. A few faux Titian paintings and Mantegna engravings hung among them, next to vague landscapes and still lifes that could have been painted by anybody.
There was true art among the dross. Eamon could feel it pulsating, calling out in distress.
He feigned a sneer. “Is this all?”
Clive blinked in surprise before he gave Eamon another once over. “Ah, I see you have discerning tastes, my lord. Perhaps this is more to your liking?”
Clive moved to the canvases on the floor and seized three from the middle of a stack. He removed the cloths that protected them, turned them around, and leaned them against a rare empty space of the wall.
One was a genuine Rubens, featuring a large, golden-haired woman in flapping draperies, another, Guercino’s almost serene depiction of Cleopatra’s death, a painting Eamon had last seen in a country estate in Yorkshire.
It was the third picture, however, that seized Eamon’s attention.
The aging face of Rembrandt van Rijn, his small eyes peering over his bulbous nose, regarded Eamon with frank interest from the canvas. The painting was an undisputed masterpiece, and an excellent copy of it now hung in the gallery in the Duke of Aylesmore’s home.