Chapter 23
At breakfast the next morning, Caro waded through her correspondence, which had increased since she and Louise had discussed what to do about Rudyard.
Jo was proving particularly helpful, as she and her family were acquainted with so many residents of London.
Those acquaintances had servants who knew more about the goings-on of the haut ton than anyone, as well as men of business and solicitors with gossipy clerks, chatty footmen, or concierges in St. James’s clubs.
The letters Caro had collected over the past few days allowed her to piece together a picture of Rudyard and his true motivations.
Even so, she strove to keep her hopes in check. Though Rudyard might be revealed as a brutal thug who’d lock Leo in a dungeon, courts tended to favor male petitions over those of ladies. Caro needed a clever man of law on her side as well as a sympathetic judge.
On the other hand, the actions of those in polite society weren’t always dependent on the courts.
Opinions of the Upper Ten Thousand held much sway, and if Rudyard’s misdeeds came to light, he might be convinced to withdraw his petition for guardianship.
Already he’d garnered much disapproval, if the letters Caro read were any indication.
Singleton entered and made a deferential cough. The dowager, on the opposite side of the table, glanced up from her own correspondence.
“Yes, what is it, Singleton?” the dowager demanded. “Or are you coming down with a cold?”
“Mr. Stone has arrived, Your Grace.” Singleton addressed the dowager then turned to Caro. “He is asking to ascend to this floor. He says he has something to show you.”
“What does he have?” the dowager asked irritably. She hated when people were cryptic.
“I do not know, Your Grace. He has brought a rather large parcel.”
“Send him up, please,” Caro said before the dowager could argue. Caro could see that her mother-in-law was curious, but the woman believed it never did to betray eagerness.
Singleton bowed and glided out.
Caro’s hands went to her hair, self-consciously smoothing it before she gathered her scattered letters and stacked them neatly. The dowager bathed Caro in a stare before returning to her cup of chocolate and the letter in her hand.
Eamon must have already been climbing the stairs, because less than a minute elapsed before Singleton showed him in. Eamon entered in sidesteps, the large square wrapped in brown paper he toted not letting him move any other way.
“Good morning, Your Graces,” Eamon said breezily. “Forgive me if I set this down.” He rested the parcel’s end on the carpet with a thump and a gasp of breath. “It grows heavy after four flights.”
“I did offer to carry it, sir,” Singleton told him disapprovingly.
“You did, but I did not want to let it out of my hands until it was safely in this room.” Eamon grinned at Caro, who’d risen from her chair, trying not to let her heart flutter.
Did he always have to be so handsome? Climbing stairs with a heavy package hadn’t dampened Eamon’s energy one whit. His dark hair was a trifle mussed, but Caro didn’t mind that. She could straighten it later, which might lead to more mussing and hot kisses that melted her.
Eamon’s blue eyes sparkled, as though he read her thoughts.
“Tell us what it is,” she cajoled him, flustered. “Don’t tease.”
Eamon’s smile widened. “Very well. Singleton, will you assist?”
Eamon removed a knife from his pocket, cut the twine that bound the package, and then carefully began tearing at the paper. Singleton joined him, and the two men peeled off the wrappings from top to bottom.
A canvas slowly came into view, one in a thin wooden frame that Caro could tell had been hastily nailed together. The front of the canvas faced Eamon, hiding whatever was on it from the Caro and the dowager.
Caro waited with some impatience as Eamon and Singleton finished unwrapping, then had to wait longer while Singleton gathered up the papers and carried them out.
Eamon lifted the painting and turned it around.
The dusky background at the painting’s top edge surrounded a darker gray and brown beret that was perched over a man’s pale and slightly wrinkled forehead.
Large tufts of graying, curly hair poked out on either side of the hat.
The man had a bulbous nose, which went with his craggy face and intense dark eyes.
A collar cradled the lower part of the man’s face then blended into his brown coat, with a hint of russet at the coat’s opening.
Caro regarded it in stunned surprise. She understood now why Eamon had instantly known that the painting in their gallery had been false. This one glowed with truth, as though the artist had only now laid down his brush.
Before Caro could utter a word, she heard a strangled noise behind her. She turned swiftly to see the dowager half-risen from her chair, her hand at her throat.
“Maman?” Caro hurried to the dowager’s side. “Are you unwell?”
The dowager drew herself to her full height, recovering her dignity. “What is that?” she inquired in an imperious voice.
“That is a self-portrait of Rembrandt van Rijn, painted in about 1659,” Eamon answered.
“The genuine one. I cleaned it up a bit, because it had become very grimy, but do not worry. I am something of an expert at painting restoration. My landlady complained of the smell of my potions, but it was worth it.”
Caro agreed. The paint had the clarity it must have possessed a century and a half ago.
“Wherever did you find it?” Caro asked, her excitement building. If Eamon had located one painting, he might have found others as well.
“Mr. Clive’s secondhand shop in Cheapside.” Eamon’s voice went hard. “If his warehouse is searched, I’m certain it will reveal others. You might want to bring suit against him, Your Graces, because the entire time he worked in this house, he was slowly robbing you.”
Caro drew a breath to express indignation but broke off as the dowager moved with astonishing vigor to stand before the painting and Eamon.
“How dare you meddle in our affairs?” she demanded. “You stupid, stupid boy.”
“Maman,” Caro said, aghast.
Singleton, who had returned to the room, placed himself behind Eamon’s shoulder, as though ready to escort him out.
Eamon fixed a sharp gaze on the dowager. “Of course,” he said as though a puzzle had been solved. “It wasn’t your husband or your son selling the paintings, was it?”
The dowager looked neither surprised nor ashamed.
“Why not? They were mine to sell. My father brought the Rembrandts and the Canalettos with him when he fled France before the ancien régime was overthrown. Papa saw the way the wind was blowing and asked for refuge with us. He sold the paintings to my husband for a nominal fee, as compensation for taking him in. Upon both their deaths, the paintings were willed to me.”
She stated this with regal defiance.
“Why, Maman?” Caro asked in amazement. “And why did you never tell me?”
The dowager turned to Caro, her face stiff.
“I sold them before Leopold married you. He could never have afforded a wedding otherwise. And when Leo came along, I knew more would have to go. My husband was a spendthrift, and my son had no head for money at all, had no idea what the things in his collection were worth. Clive told me he knew copyists who’d replace them without Leopold knowing the difference. ”
Caro’s bewilderment turned to anger and remorse. Anger that the dowager had kept this to herself, not trusting Caro with the secret. Remorse that the woman had forced herself to part with her beloved father’s artworks so that Caro’s husband and son could live in some comfort.
It took courage to do what the dowager had done, Caro realized, and sacrifice. All the while the woman had been sipping chocolate and disparaging her acquaintances, she’d given up something dear to her heart so the family could keep fires burning in their chambers.
“Then why on earth did you let me hire Mr. Stone?” Caro asked her. “It was my idea to being in Cheswell’s, and you did nothing to stop me. You encouraged me, in fact.”
“Because I thought there might be paintings Clive had missed,” the dowager said heatedly. “Clive wasn’t the brightest of men. I thought I would continue my scheme with Stone here, but he turned out to be too damned clever for his own good.”
Caro swung to Eamon, who’d watched the exchange with a neutral expression.
“You said you thought the paintings had been copied years ago,” Caro reminded him. “That some of the pigments were no longer obtainable.”
“True.” Eamon nodded. “I will guess that Clive already had some of the forgeries in stock—he has a warehouse full of them—and leapt at the chance to make use of them. He might have had difficulty selling the fakes, especially if it was known the originals were in the duke’s collection.”
“My husband did like to show them off,” the dowager said with exasperation. “My son, however, never spotted the forgeries. Few visitors came to the house to look at them after the Fifth Duke died, in any case. Leopold preferred burying his nose in a book to speaking to people.”
“So Her Grace has mentioned.” Eamon shared a glance with Caro. “Out of interest, Your Grace, how much did Clive give you for this painting?”
“I scarcely remember,” the dowager said. “I’d say about three hundred guineas. Sometimes he’d go as high as five.”
Eamon’s face turned a faint shade of green, and Singleton winced.
“Clive can turn around and flog them for thousands,” Eamon informed her. “Since you sold the paintings to him legitimately, he actually does have the provenance he claimed. He swindled you, madame.”
The dowager shrugged. “I knew they were worth more, but Clive promised to be discreet. He said nothing to my son or Caro, so he did hold up his end of the bargain.”