Chapter 15
Eamon gazed at the picture for some time, while Rembrandt regarded him from under his drooping beret. Eamon didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his chest began to burn.
The copy Caro had shown him was almost identical. Barring the few gaffes that only an expert would notice, Caro’s painting was uncannily like what Eamon viewed now, except that this one glowed with the authenticity of its artist’s brush.
Forcing himself to breathe again, Eamon stepped back. “Provenance for this one?” He gestured at the Rembrandt, striving to sound immensely skeptical.
“And the duke sold it to you?” Eamon asked.
“Not directly.” Clive sounded smug. “It came into my possession.”
An answer as cryptic as his ledger entry.
Eamon decided to continue feigning ennui with the entire procedure. “I will give you five hundred for it.”
Clive sent him a look of amazement. “Five hundred? That is a paltry sum, even in guineas. My price is five thousand.”
Eamon languidly waved a gloved hand. “You are a madman. Seven hundred at most.”
“My lord, you insult me.”
“Not at all. What is to say that is not a copy?”
Now Clive became outraged. “I have told you. It has provenance, and it belonged to a duke.”
Eamon sniffed. “If you present me with these papers, and my man of business looks them over, I might be able to make you a better offer. If the painting proves to be genuine, that is.”
“I assure you, my lord, I would not have shown it to you if it was not.”
That was probably true. Clive had thought he’d at last met a discerning member of the nobility and was now protesting that this painting, at least, was real.
“Mm.” Eamon paused, as though considering. “Very well. See that the papers are sent to my man. He is Mr. Kennedy, in Lombard Street.” He named Wolfe’s man of business, who sometimes acted for Eamon.
“I will do that,” Clive assured him.
He seemed very confident. Either he truly did have the provenance or was certain that the forged paperwork would stand close scrutiny.
Eamon gave him a condescending nod. “I will take my leave, then.”
“Do the other paintings interest you?” Clive asked quickly. “If you do not want anything so large, I have a lovely miniature by Holbein. Also, some nice Roman bronzes.”
“No, no.” Eamon brushed the offers aside. “The Dutch fellow will do. I look forward to him regarding me from my mantlepiece.”
The elder Rembrandt, who’d seen much hardship in his life, studied Eamon as though he understood his struggles. Eamon gave the painting a friendly nod and a haughtier one to Clive before turning to depart.
Clive hastily bounded to the door ahead of him, opening it to lead him out. Clive steered Eamon resolutely toward the shop, which made Eamon wonder what else was stored back here that Clive didn’t want him to see.
The innocuous passageway ran a long enough way from the shop that Eamon suspected he’d been in the building behind the one on Cheapside. Clive might have rented more rooms in that building that held other treasures.
The youth in the shop bowed with more respect when Eamon emerged into it. The young man’s fingers twitched as Eamon passed him—no doubt hoping for a coin.
Eamon disappointed him. He settled his hat, bade the two a good morning, and swept out. Instead of seeking another hackney, he strode off along Cheapside, his head high. Wolfe was known to eschew carriages to walk, even with his injury.
The brisk wind dispersed clouds and chimney smoke, actually letting in a bit of sunshine. Eamon slowed his walk after passing St. Paul’s, tipping back his hat to enjoy it.
He looked forward to telling Caro what he’d found.
He was interested enough in what sort of papers Clive would produce that he’d not rush away to find a magistrate and report a stolen painting. Also, there was the possibility that Caro’s late husband—or his father—had actually sold Clive the bloody thing to make ends meet, without telling anyone.
If Eamon could pry that painting from Clive’s hands, even if he had to sell everything he owned and touch his friends for funds to do it, he’d return it to the Aylesmore family, and Caro could sell it on.
He’d make certain a reputable dealer gave her a good sum, which would help Caro and her family enormously. The thought cheered him very much.
Eamon sought a hackney when he reached the Strand, and rolled into Mayfair, lowering the window to bask in the tolerably good weather.
He rapped cheerily on the front door at Grosvenor Square. Singleton, within seconds, pulled it open.
One look at Singleton’s dour countenance made Eamon’s good spirits evaporate.
“What happened?” Eamon demanded.
Singleton’s expression remained grim. “Her Grace received bad news from His Grace’s cousin.”
Rudyard. Damn and blast the man. “Where is she?”
“The green morning room, sir. On the fourth floor, at the very top of the stairs.”
Caro and the dowager took breakfast there, Caro had told him, but Eamon had never seen the place. The only chamber he’d entered on the fourth floor had been the dowager’s drawing room.
Singleton’s worry propelled Eamon up the stairs. He tapped on the door Singleton directed him to but heard no reply.
He pushed the door open and peered inside. Caro was there, alone, Leo and the dowager nowhere in sight.
The chamber’s Wedgewood green walls, so fashionable in the last century, held plaster reliefs of jars of trailing plants, silhouettes of women in Greek-style dress, and geometric designs.
The remains of breakfast lay on a square table with upholstered chairs drawn up to it, while other seats invited a person to relax with a cup of coffee, tea, or chocolate after the meal.
Caro paced in the midst of this elegance, fists clenched, tendrils of hair loose. She’d donned a white lace cap, but it had sagged to hang from the back of her head, its pins barely holding it on.
Eamon closed the door with a hard thump, and when that did not make Caro cease glaring at the carpet as she marched, he cleared his throat.
Caro swung around, and Eamon found himself facing Medusa in all her rage. Caro’s eyes were wild, her face flushed, her breathing ragged.
“Duchess?” Eamon addressed her gently as he approached. “What is it?”
Caro emitted a noise between a shout and a scream. She thrust a much-crumpled piece of paper at him.
Mystified, Eamon took the page, smoothed it and read.
The letter from Rudyard’s man of business was short and to the point. Eamon read it through twice, rage boiling inside him to match Caro’s own.
“Devious prick,” he stated.
Caro nodded, joy flaring in her eyes that Eamon shared her fury. “He will not have my son.”
“No, he will not.” Eamon dropped the letter to the breakfast table and took Caro’s clenched hands. “We will fight this, my love.”
Caro did not seem to notice the endearment. “That is what my mother-in-law said. She is busily writing letters to everyone she knows, including the queen.” She managed a faint smile. “I am certain the queen has more to concern her than my paltry troubles.”
“Separating a mother from her son is hardly paltry. Her Majesty will likely understand your anguish, as a mother herself, the Prince Regent notwithstanding. She has other sons she must love.”
“Do not try to make me laugh.” Caro jerked from his grasp. “I wish to be angry, because it will save me from despair.”
Eamon took her hands once more, this time soothing them open.
“There will be no need for despair.”
Caro’s eyes blazed, but she did not pull away. “No, because I will fight for Leo, no matter what I need to do.”
Determination flared from her like the halo of a smiting angel.
Cousin Rudyard likely thought Caro would easily give way to his threats, crumpling like gossamer, but if so, the man was a fool. What Rudyard didn’t understand was that gossamer was actually quite strong, and nothing was fiercer than a mother protecting her child.
“I will fight alongside you,” Eamon promised. He traced her cheek, and when Caro softened, leaned to her.
She pressed her hand flat against his chest. “No, please do not kiss me.”
“Oh.” That stung. Eamon lifted his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
“I mean no offense,” Caro said quickly. Her touch turned to a light caress. “When you kiss me, I can think of nothing else.”
Eamon’s ache eased. “Mm, I do like that explanation.”
“It is not amusing. I have been befuddled since the day you walked into this house.”
“I likewise have been befuddled, Duchess. That started as soon as I saw you.”
Caro’s gaze held heat that seared Eamon’s body. “Eamon, I—”
The door to the room burst open, and a small figure barreled in. “Mr. Stone! You’re back! I found something.”
Eamon turned from Caro, surprised at the delight that infused him. “There’s my lad. I mean, my liege.” He turned his impulsive reach for the boy into a courtly bow.
Leo grabbed Eamon’s hand, ignoring the play. “It’s in the gallery. Come with me.”
Eamon let himself be towed away. When he looked back, the smile Caro beamed on them made every hurt from his past life dissolve and flow away.
Leo eagerly dragged Eamon down the flights of stairs, not releasing him until they’d reached the gallery floor.
The boy raced through the long room, sliding to a halt at the table that held Vespasian. He seized a small book he’d left the Roman emperor to guard and slammed it into Eamon’s hands.
“It’s old,” Leo stated, dancing from foot to foot. “Smells like it too. Is it worth a lot of money?”
“Give me a chance to look at it, lad.”
It was always confounded dark in the gallery in spite of the tall windows, even on this fine day. Only one candle burned in the candelabra, and Eamon used it to light the other three. Singleton would swoon at the waste, but Eamon would risk his wrath.
The book was about seven inches by five with a leather-tooled binding, which must have been very nice when it was first purchased. The leather was cracking a bit, more so where it had been exposed to the air than where it had been squeezed between other books.