Chapter 19
Eamon arrived at the Grosvenor Street house exactly on time. He’d debated turning up early, as McCormick suggested, to appear reliable, but Wolfe told McCormick he was an idiot. Eamon should arrive late, so as not to seem too keen.
Eamon claimed they were both idiots and knocked on the front door at the stroke of eight.
Singleton answered it after letting him sweat for half a minute, peering down his bulbous nose at Eamon when he opened the door.
“Is it to be the blue reception room?” Eamon asked as he stepped into the silent house. The hall was dark, though the sun lingered in the late May sky. Being sentenced to the blue reception room would confirm that he’d angered Caro irretrievably.
“The gold dining room, sir.” Singleton’s tones were chilly. “Third floor.”
“Ah, the third floor.” Eamon hid his relief.
“I haven’t ventured there.” He’d had so much to do in the gallery that he hadn’t made a start on the two floors above that.
His plan had been to go through the house room by room, methodically, to discover if the dukes had stashed away anything that Clive had missed, but the gallery alone would take months.
“Second room off the landing, sir,” Singleton offered.
“I will endeavor to find it. Thank you, Singleton.”
The man bowed frostily. Eamon doubted Caro had confided the tale of his ill-chosen words and her embarrassment afterward, but the man would have noted Eamon’s absence and concluded that any rift was Eamon’s fault.
Eamon ran lightly up the stairs on his own—Singleton was apparently not going to bother announcing him.
He tried not to stare at the place on the first landing where Caro had fallen onto him in a silken armful, tried to banish his memory of each passionate kiss they’d shared afterward. Eamon’s heart had been full, nothing existing in the world at that moment but himself and Caro.
He’d forgotten to ask how she felt before blurting out his spontaneous confession.
Caro’s absolute shock had lanced through him, reminding Eamon that he had no business falling in love with a lofty duchess.
He’d been hired to catalog the artwork, and not on a quest to conquer the beautiful lady in the tower.
The house grew darker as he ascended, and Eamon had the sudden sense of being led into a snare.
Singleton could have directed him to an unused room, which would shut like a trap, imprisoning him for being so disrespectful to the duchess.
His friends would wonder for a time what had happened to the annoying Eamon and then gradually forget about him.
When Eamon reached the third floor, he heard no sound at all. He could barely see to find the second door along, having to grope for the handle when he reached it.
Eamon drew a breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed the door inward.
Light poured out at him. The room was a tall square, the first half of the walls filled with windows and glittering wall sconces, the top register covered in paintings.
Eamon didn’t immediately scan the pictures for any that might be of value, because his attention was taken with the dining table and its occupants.
Every candle in the house must have been brought out for the occasion.
The chandelier, the wall sconces, and three candelabras down the table’s length were filled with tall, lit candles.
Their warm glow danced on the porcelain service laid out on a tapestry runner and crystal goblets, already full of pale wine.
The dowager duchess reposed in state at the foot of the table. She wore a sumptuous velvet gown from the end of the last century, her gray hair surmounted by a tasteful diamond tiara. Eamon’s trained eye noted that the stones were paste, but they sparkled richly all the same.
Leo’s chair was at the head of the table, where he was propped up by cushions. He wore a cashmere suit that was more up to date than the dowager’s ensemble but appeared to be uncomfortable for the lad.
Between them, on the table’s far side, was Caro. Eamon wondered a moment what was different about her then realized she’d donned a golden-colored gown with a daring neckline that rode low on her shoulders.
As at the ball, she’d filled in the space that would expose her flesh with a gauzy fichu, but the opaque fabric only made her more enticing. Eamon imagined himself peeling away the fichu while he kissed her warm skin, Caro sighing with contentment beneath him.
Eamon jerked his thoughts from such enticements, reminding himself that those pleasures were not for him.
Caro rose in a stately motion, and Leo leapt to his feet, scattering cushions. The dowager remained seated but gave Eamon a sedate nod.
Eamon made his most formal bow. “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said to the dowager. “And my liege.” This to Leo. “Your Grace,” another nod to Caro, who regarded him without expression.
Was she pleased to see him? Dismayed he’d actually turned up? Deciding to pretend she barely knew him?
Leo, on the other hand, was unabashedly delighted.
“I knew you’d come,” he sang out. “I’ve been going through all the books, like you said, but I haven’t found anything yet.”
Eamon didn’t like how he warmed at the boy’s eagerness. “There are very many books,” he said. “One of them is bound to be worth something.”
“I’ll keep looking,” Leo said with confidence and trotted back to his chair.
Eamon waited until Caro resumed her seat, then he restored the cushions for Leo, made sure the boy was settled, and took the place that had obviously been laid for him opposite Caro.
As soon as Eamon’s backside touched the chair, Singleton appeared through the door to a connected room, bearing a soup tureen. Singleton carried the large porcelain vessel solemnly to the dowager’s side and ladled two substantial portions into her bowl before turning to Eamon, the guest.
Eamon stopped him after one ladleful, noting there was only a small amount of liquid left in the tureen. He noted that Caro took very little as well, so that Singleton could give the rest to Leo.
This needed to cease, Eamon thought angrily as he lifted his spoon. Caro should not have to starve herself for the sake of her son and her mother-in-law. As Eamon was here tonight, he was probably taking much of Caro’s share.
He silently cursed Mr. Clive for robbing the dukes, and the dukes for not noticing. The pack of fools had left two women and a child to eke out an existence in genteel poverty.
“Do you not like it?” Leo asked worriedly as Eamon glared into his bowl.
“Of course I do.” Eamon hastened to reassure him. He spooned up a large slurp—it would be churlish to waste what little comestibles they had. The soup was creamy with the barest hint of fish and vegetables but managed to be tasty. “Your cook is quite talented,” he said to the dowager.
The dowager duchess sent him a haughty glare. “She’ll do.”
Eamon hid a grin. The dowager must be the sort of aristocrat reluctant to praise her staff too highly to others. One never knew when her rivals would pinch her best servants.
Eamon caught Caro’s gaze and found humor in it—she knew exactly how to read her mother-in-law. Eamon smiled in return. Caro flushed and immediately returned her attention to her soup.
As soon as Leo had scraped his bowl dry, the dowager laid down her spoon.
The door opened immediately to admit Singleton, who deftly removed the bowls from the plates they’d rested in.
He disappeared into the next room for a moment then returned with a covered tray.
He deposited the cover on the sideboard and circled the table with the platter, dispensing slabs of poached fish, likely more of what had been in the soup.
The dowager took a large filet, Eamon asked for the smallest on the tray, Caro took the next smallest, and the rest went to Leo.
The lad didn’t notice that his elders gave him and his grandmother the lion’s share of the food, and Eamon would never tell him.
Let the boy live in blissful ignorance for a few more years.
He’d be sent off to school soon—if the duke had been wise enough to secure him a place with fees paid well in advance—and Leo would face plenty of austerity there.
Caro noticed, however. She frowned at Eamon as though annoyed with him as she daintily cut up her fish.
Singleton came around with a butter sauce, and Eamon allowed him to ladle a large spoonful onto his fish. They seemed to have a lot of butter, which was probably from one of the duke’s farms.
No one spoke as they consumed the course, Leo eating happily, swinging his dangling legs.
The lad seemed unconstrained, indicating that being invited to the large dining table must not be a rare occurrence.
Eamon had always liked that Caro didn’t shut her child in the nursery and pretend he existed only on special occasions.
Again, as soon as Leo finished, the dowager, who’d consumed her fish quickly, laid down her fork.
Singleton did his ritual once more, removing the plates and carrying around a platter of roast chicken with accompanying vegetables. Eamon asked for a small amount, eyeing Caro defiantly as he did so.
Halfway through this dish—which was quite good in its simplicity—the dowager broke the silence in which they’d been consuming the main course.
“You left your notebooks behind last week, Mr. Stone,” she said crisply. “Does that mean you are returning to continue your work? Or that we’ve seen the last of you?”
Eamon cleared his throat. “I am very busy elsewhere, Your Grace. I have asked Mr. Cheswell to send you a replacement. I apologize that he has not yet complied.”
The dowager stared at him during this speech while Caro studied her plate.
“You have a silver tongue,” the dowager stated. “Just like your father. Has our company grated on you? I see no reason you should not continue what you’ve started. Cheswell can send his other assistants to do whatever he has foisted upon you. I shall write to him and tell him so.”
Having said her piece, she lifted her fork and focused her attention on eating.
Caro raised her head, her eyes holding both amusement at her mother-in-law’s imperiousness and a hint of triumph.
Why triumph? What was she up to? Eamon’s heartbeat sped in anticipation of whatever it might be.
“Do come back, Mr. Stone,” Leo said. Could he make his plea any more heart-wrenching? “No one will understand us like you do, and I know they won’t let me help.”
Caro watched Eamon closely, as though daring him to disappoint her son.
Eamon regarded the pair in dismay, torn between joy that they wanted him and worry that he’d make things worse by returning.
He lifted his hands in surrender, uncertain if he was reluctant or glad. “Very well. I will explain things to Mr. Cheswell, but I must leave the decision to him.”
“Nonsense,” the dowager said. “Cheswell will do what I wish. I expect to find you here tomorrow morning. I have given up the notion that you’ll discover anything, but we ought to have everything cataloged correctly.”
She returned once more to her dinner, as though the matter was concluded.
Singleton stalked into the chamber as soon as the dowager finished, removed the plates, and returned with bowls of bright strawberries for the sweet. The season for them had begun, so they’d be cheap and plentiful.
Once they’d made short work of the berries, Singleton decanted a bottle of dark wine, the second wine serving of the night. The pale wine that had awaited them in the glasses had been thinned with water, but what Singleton now poured into a small goblet for Eamon was thick and blood red.
Port. From the bits of dust clinging to the bottle on the sideboard, it had been reposing in the cellar for quite some time.
As soon as the port finished trickling into the glass, the dowager rose from her seat.
“Caroline, shall we leave the gentlemen to it?”
This might have been a formal supper for twenty the way the dowager intoned the command. Caro instantly came to her feet, as had Eamon and Leo when the dowager stood.
Singleton retreated to become a statue next to the sideboard as the dowager moved to the door in a swish of silk and musky perfume.
Caro went to Leo and kissed the top of her son’s head. “Singleton will take you up soon, darling, and I will come and say good night. Do not talk Mr. Stone’s leg off.”
Leo spluttered with laughter at the metaphor and hugged his mother. Caro released him and brushed by Eamon to follow in the dowager’s wake.
“Thank you for coming,” she murmured to Eamon, then she was out the door.
Eamon resumed his seat, closing his palm over the paper Caro had slipped him as she’d passed. He slid the note into his pocket and waited while Singleton served Leo tea in place of port.
Singleton departed, leaving the decanter within Eamon’s reach.
Some gentlemen might be offended by being left alone with a child as though expected to entertain him after such a strange supper, but Eamon was glad of the chance. He’d missed the lad more than he’d thought possible.
At Eamon’s encouragement, Leo launched into a tale of what he’d done for every minute since Eamon had left the house the week before. As he rattled on, Eamon palmed the paper from his pocket and held it under the table to read.
On a scrap carefully torn from a larger page, Caro had written, Fifth floor chamber, in the rear of the house.
Eamon studied the note, possibilities dancing through his head. His hand shook as he folded the scrap and returned it to his pocket.