Chapter 15 #2
Inside, Eamon found printed pages, which was a pity, because hand copied books were far more valuable than those churned out by a printing press.
It was a book of hours, in Latin. The title page held a picture of the Virgin and child in an embellished oval, with the name of the Italian publisher beneath it. The date was listed as MDCCLX.
“Very nice,” Eamon said. “The condition isn’t bad. Published in 1760, so about fifty or so years old. I’m not an expert on books, but I am guessing this would fetch about twenty-five quid to the right collector.”
“Is that a lot?” Leo asked in hope.
“It would buy more candles, that’s for certain.” Eamon snuffed out the extra two with his fingers to save Singleton apoplexy. “Well done, Leo. This is the sort of thing we need.”
The book wasn’t worth very much in comparison to what the duke’s collection should have brought in, but Eamon wasn’t going to sadden the boy by telling him so. And anyway, it was a start.
Leo drew himself up proudly. “I’ll keep on looking. There’s bound to be more.”
Without waiting for Eamon to answer, he ran for the bookcases and swarmed up the steps. Eamon enjoyed watching him solemnly pull out a tome, examine it, shake his head and replace it, then move to the next one.
Eamon balanced the small volume in his hand.
If this had been a medieval illuminated book of hours—for keeping track of saints’ days and daily, weekly, and yearly prayers—it would be worth a fortune.
This one had been churned out by printers by the hundreds to sell to the faithful about fifty years ago.
The binding and good condition of the paper inside made it sellable, but only if someone wished to purchase it.
Otherwise, it could be torn apart and used for fuel.
Damn it, there had to be something.
Eamon gazed upon the rows of copied paintings, some of them better than others, and up at the full bookcases, anger rising.
He was furious at Caro’s husband for not noticing that his collection was worth damn all, and at her father-in-law, or whoever it had been, for selling off the Rembrandt and probably more of the best paintings and then squandering the money.
Both dukes had left their wives, not to mention their heirs, in near poverty, while the world expected them to keep up grand houses and move among the loftiest of society.
Eamon thought of Caro in the borrowed and altered frock, wearing diamonds lent by her friend the princess.
Caro had graced both gown and jewels with her natural elegance, but she should be in silks, with diamonds dripping from her.
The rest of the ton ought to be bathing in the glow of her greatness instead of pitying her or mocking her.
Now their idiot relation, Rudyard, was trying to control the young duke, to keep himself the sole heir or maybe speeding himself into the dukedom.
Eamon would stop him. He leaned against the long table, one eye on Leo, who was nimble on the ladder. Eamon wasn’t certain exactly how he would best Cousin Rudyard, who had money and position behind him. Plus, unfortunately, the law that said he was a more important relation to Leo than Caro.
But he would think of something. Eamon hadn’t grown up surrounded by confidence tricksters without learning a thing or two from them. Not that he’d do anything fraudulent to keep Leo at home—the solution would have to be honest and legal, so none could reverse it.
Rudyard might have money and be the heir to a dukedom, but Eamon had friends and connections all over London, many of them lofty, some of them, like Sam Noble, from a shadowy world. He knew they’d back him, especially when they saw what was at stake.
Eamon would keep Leo with Caro no matter what he had to do, even if it meant bowing out and never seeing her again.
That would put a hole in his life he’d never fill, but if that was what it took for Leo and Caro to remain safely together, he’d do it.
If Eamon told himself this often enough, he might even believe himself capable of the sacrifice.
“A Mr. McCormick has come to call, Your Grace.” Singleton’s stiffness as he announced this in the drawing room signaled his vast disapproval. “I believe he is Scottish.”
Caro turned from the desk where she’d been writing an indignant letter to her husband’s—now Leo’s—man of business, telling him he must help her deal with Rudyard’s demands.
The trouble was, Caro had the feeling the duke’s man of business might take Rudyard’s side. Mr. Forsythe preferred to deal with gentlemen, not mothers, and he might agree that Leo was better off with a male relative.
It was frustrating and frightening.
“He is from Shetland,” Caro told Singleton. Mr. McCormick felt it important to make the distinction, so Caro would oblige him. “He is a friend to Mr. Stone. I believe Mr. Stone is consulting him about some of the books. You should show him to the gallery.”
“He said he wishes to speak to you, Your Grace,” Singleton continued with hauteur.
“Oh.” Caro had to wonder why, unless he was here to ask to be Leo’s tutor, as Eamon had mentioned. She’d have to turn him down, citing lack of funds. “Second-floor drawing room, then.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Poor Singleton. Ever since Eamon’s arrival, he’d been beleaguered by the sudden shifts of protocol.
Caro slid her letter into the drawer of her small writing table and followed Singleton out and down the stairs. She rehearsed in her head a gentle way of explaining that she couldn’t possibly hire Mr. McCormick.
Mr. McCormick had been left in the lower hall while Singleton consulted Caro. The tall man was pacing there but halted and gazed up the stairs when he spied Caro descending. He bowed to her, his red hair bright in the dim light.
“Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace. I happened to be passing.”
Before Caro could answer, or Singleton could admonish him for speaking, someone banged on the front door, then pushed it open.
A footman had done the heavy knocking, but the young woman who skirted past him and into the house was no servant.
She wore a light blue frock with a fetching darker blue spencer that matched her bonnet, from which golden ringlets peeped.
Jo always looked as though she’d stepped out of a fashion plate, bless her.
“Good afternoon, Singleton,” Jo chirped in her friendly way. “Tell Caro I’ve come to call. Oh, there you are, darling.”
She sped toward the stairs, and because her eyes were on Caro, she never noted the red-haired gentleman in her way, until she ran straight into him with an ungainly thump.