Chapter 23 #2
“Even so, whenever he found a buyer for the originals, he should have given you the lion’s share of the profit.
” Eamon’s gaze was firm. “He cheated your son and grandson out of a fortune. I will return to his warehouse and search it, though I will guess he’s already sold most of the others for a hefty sum to buyers who didn’t question him. ”
“I’ve told you, this is none of your business,” the dowager said, her haughty self once more. “I agreed to let Caro hire you, because I never thought you’d find the damned paintings I sold and bring one home. Did you steal this from Clive? Or threaten him to make him hand it over?”
“I purchased it,” Eamon said calmly. “For more than Clive paid you for it, though I talked him down from the price he originally stated.”
“You bought it?” Caro blurted. “Why? How?”
The corners of Eamon’s eyes crinkled. “I have my resources. As for why.” He tipped the canvas toward Caro. “To give it to you.”
Caro gaped at Rembrandt, who gazed staunchly back at her. “You cannot give it to me. Maman sold it, and you purchased it. That means it is yours.”
“Yes,” Eamon agreed. “And, as it belongs to me, I can do with it what I wish. I wish to make it a gift to you. Or, if you refuse to accept it for yourself, I will give it to Leo.”
“Do not quibble, Caro,” the dowager broke in. “I am not happy with Mr. Stone, but the damage has been done. Now, he is bestowing a valuable painting on you so that you might sell it again for some much-needed cash.”
Her mother-in-law’s frank speeches about money always left Caro breathless, but that did not mean she was wrong.
“I’m not certain I will sell it,” Caro began. Leopold had been fond of the painting, even if the one he’d proudly showed Caro had been a fake.
“Nonsense,” was the dowager’s assessment. “Of course you should sell it.”
“I do have an interested buyer,” Eamon said. “One you would approve of. He is willing to pay twenty-five hundred guineas for it.”
Caro grasped the back of a chair for support. “Twenty-five hundred …”
“That would pay some of the more egregious bills,” the dowager said without a flinch. “And allow you to hold your head up again when you go back into society, Caro. With enough left over for a decent frock. You truly need a few.”
The dowager wore gowns from the late 1790s, simple affairs that had come into fashion after the high hair and wide panniers had fallen from favor.
They were comfortable, she claimed, and she saw no reason to trade the style for any other.
She’d always been rather critical of Caro’s clothes, however, believing her daughter-in-law ought to dress in the first stare of fashion.
“I will think on it,” Caro managed.
Twenty-five hundred guineas would stave off the nastiest of the dunners, the ones who cared nothing for a duke’s rank.
Once the deepest debts were paid, and some of the accounts who’d been more patient brought up to date, then Leo’s family would be considered creditworthy again. Whispers that Caro had been the cause of the duke’s being a bankrupt might cease.
There would be more whispers about where the money had come from, but Caro would know—as would anyone who bothered to find out—that the source was legitimate, a painting inherited by her mother-in-law and bestowed upon Caro and Leo.
“I suppose you’ll take your commission,” the dowager said to Eamon with her usual cynicism.
Eamon shook his head. “Not at all. I will broker it as a favor to you and your daughter-in-law, and my liege, Leo.”
The dowager’s brows rose. “Then I will revise my opinion of you, Stone. You are nothing like your father.”
Something flickered in Eamon’s eyes. “I believe that is the best compliment I’ve ever received, Your Grace. Thank you.”
“Now, then, none of your beguiling. Caro, will you sell it?”
Caro pondered a moment longer, then drew a deep breath, and nodded. “I think so.”
“Good girl.” The dowager gave her a cool nod and made her slow way back to her chair. “Singleton, bring me a fresh pot of chocolate, if you please. This one’s gone cold.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Singleton bowed, his smooth self. “Shall I take the picture down to the gallery?” he asked Caro.
“Please, Singleton. Thank you.”
“Take good care of it,” Eamon said as he relinquished the painting to Singleton’s slim, gloved hands. “I worked very hard for that.”
“Of course, sir.” Singleton looked down his nose, affronted, and slid out of the room, making certain the painting didn’t brush the doorframe.
The dowager picked up the letter she’d been perusing, proceeding to ignore Caro and Eamon, though Caro saw the paper tremble.
Caro seized Eamon’s arm and half dragged him into the hall, closing the door behind them.
“You can’t mean not to take a commission,” she said in a near whisper when she faced him. “It cost you much to obtain that, did it not? Maman believes everyone ought to cater to us out of respect, but that is not the way of the world.”
Eamon quirked a smile. “Never worry. The buyer has offered to clear my expenses, but the twenty-five hundred for the painting is all yours. Also, this is a private sale, so Cheswell will not swoop in for his cut, either.”
“You will not tell me who this buyer is?”
“Not yet.” Eamon brushed a lock of hair from Caro’s face, his smile deepening.
Caro shivered under his touch. “You do like to tease.”
“Only when it makes your eyes sparkle.”
Caro’s heart was full. Though she stood in a hallway where her mother-in-law, son, or Singleton could spring upon her at any moment, she wound her arms around Eamon and pulled him to her for a long and heartfelt kiss.