Chapter 27
Her Grace wishes to see you in the study, sir,” Singleton announced as he took Eamon’s wraps the morning after Eamon had escorted Rudyard to the docks.
Eamon had overslept, after sinking into his bed late the night before, full of whisky and relief. He’d won a battle for Caro, and it felt splendid.
There would be more battles to come, Eamon reminded himself. Other gentlemen might try to control Leo and his upbringing, hoping for influence over a future duke. Eamon would be there to help Caro defend Leo against them, whether she wished what they’d begun between them to blossom or not.
“The study,” Eamon repeated. He had no idea where that particular room was.
“Third floor, sir.” Singleton carefully folded Eamon’s coat over his arm. “In the back of the house.”
“I will attend at once.”
Eamon’s anticipation rose as he hastened up the stairs, wondering whether Caro was inviting him into another unused chamber for more of what they’d done the other day. She could be wickedly delightful, all the while beguiling him with her innocent smile.
The memory of holding her on that chair for some of the best lovemaking of his life quickened Eamon’s pace. They could celebrate the vanquishing of Rudyard with great enjoyment.
As soon as he opened the door, he realized that Caro, though she wore the diamond and gold necklace he’d given her, had nothing of the sort in mind.
The study was small and cluttered. Bookcases filled with old and worn tomes lined the walls, and smaller shelves held similar items. None of them worth much, Eamon decided with a calculating gaze, though he’d have to examine each to be certain.
The desk Caro reposed behind was piled with ledgers and old papers that begged an efficient secretary to put in order.
Caro had four ledgers spread open before her. When she glanced up at Eamon’s entrance, did she smile in welcome? Open her arms and beg him to come to her? Even thank him for sending Rudyard packing?
No, she regarded him with impatience, excitement in her eyes.
“I’ve been waiting ages for you,” she exclaimed. “Come and look at these. I believe they are the answer to everything, but I might be wrong. I don’t know antiquities as well as you do.”
Mystified, Eamon crossed to the desk and gazed down at what lay on the ledger Caro turned around to show him.
He ceased breathing.
Glowing up at him with heart-stopping colors and the gleam of gold, was a manuscript page.
Not just any manuscript page, but an illuminated gospel with a massive, decorated capital letter entwined with flowering vines and stylized serpents.
Gold-leafed interlace patterns lined the margins, hailing from the centuries before William of Normandy sailed over from France to try his luck at being king.
A few Latin letters flowed after the initial capital, reawakening the language in Eamon’s brain that had been drilled into him by relentless Hallbridge tutors.
In the beginning was the Word …
It was the only line on the page, fit in among the riot of decoration. Once upon a time, a monk in a cold monastery on an Ionian island had traced these letters and drawn these glorious pictures, the colors as vivid now as they had been the day the ink had first dried.
“Gah …” Eamon’s words lodged in his throat and wouldn’t come out.
“There are more.” Caro turned back the leaves of another ledger, and another, and another, revealing pages as pristine and beautiful as the first. Some papers held more writing—one bore only a glorious initial capital—each page a tumult of color and design.
Eamon found a chair beside the desk and collapsed into it, his eyes never leaving the beauty Caro had uncovered.
“The lost gospels of St. Columba,” he whispered.
“They are real, then?” Caro asked anxiously.
“Oh, they are real.” Eamon sat up, allowing himself to touch the beautiful, ancient, and smooth vellum.
“You can feel them, here.” He tapped his fist to his chest, right over his heart.
“This manuscript was created on Iona in a monastery set up by St. Columba. The monastery is a ruin now and many of the pages have been lost for centuries. And your husband had them stashed here in his study?”
Caro nodded. “He used them to bookmark pages in his ledgers.”
Eamon regarded her limply. “Used them to bookmark pages …”
“They were very important pages,” Caro said, her eyes wide.
Eamon fell back into his chair again. And laughed.
He let his hands dangle over the arms of the chair as he abandoned himself to joyousness he hadn’t felt in many years.
Caro’s golden laughter joined his, the sound filling the room. It felt so good to simply laugh after so long a time of emptiness, resignation, and uncertainty.
“Are they as valuable as they look?” Caro asked when they both had regained their breaths.
Eamon pried himself from the chair, wiping his eyes. “Oh, yes. These pages are legendary. I’m no book expert, but even I know about them. Collectors will pay a fortune for these, and you will become a hero in the art world’s eyes.”
“Only if collectors believe they are real,” Caro said, her enthusiasm dimming.
“They’ll believe it.” Eamon regarded the gold leafing that glittered from the pages. “Records of where your husband obtained them would be helpful, but I suppose that’s too much to expect—”
He broke off as Caro produced a leather-bound tome from under more scattered papers and held it out to him. “All the transactions are in here. My husband’s grandfather, the Fourth Duke, purchased the pages from a cardinal in Rome in 1742.”
Eamon leafed through the book in wonder.
Caro had marked the page with the transaction but there were others as important.
Records of purchases of more paintings, including one by Claude, one for an enamel and gold medallion by Cellini, and receipts for statuettes, including the Diana that had been replaced by a recent copy.
“Where did you find this?” Eamon asked as he turned the pages. “Behind a brick in the fireplace?”
“Under the cushions of that chair.” Caro gestured to the seat where Eamon had fallen in mirth.
Eamon stared at the piece of furniture in shock. “You will have to chastise Singleton for not tidying up.”
“Leopold never allowed anyone into this room but the family. We left it as it was when he died, and in any case, the maids and footmen soon departed. All the records were supposed to be in the gallery, with Mr. Clive’s notebooks and the artworks.”
And many had been, but they’d not been complete. Perhaps Caro’s husband had been cannier than he’d been given credit for, or perhaps simply absent-minded. They’d likely never know.
“What made you come into this sanctuary today?” Eamon asked.
“To look for more debts to be paid. I want the slate to be clean for Leo.”
Eamon’s gestured to the manuscript pages, which sang at him from the desk. “With these, they will be. You can make the creditors happy and have plenty left over to hire staff to help Singleton, as well as purchase suits for Leo and new frocks for yourself.”
Caro remained uneasy. “Will anyone buy these? If they’ve been missing for so long, should they not go back to the Vatican or a monastery somewhere?”
Eamon shook his head. “The place they originated is long gone, and while they might have been stored in the Vatican for a time, I imagine they got there by means of war, looting, or some such in the turmoil of medieval days. The sale to the Duke of Aylesmore was legal, according to this notebook, probably by accountants trying to keep a pope solvent. They belong to Leo, my dear, without doubt. His to do with what he wishes, including making them into pretty bookmarks.” Eamon felt his laughter rise again.
“My husband didn’t always know what he had,” Caro said with some fondness.
No, the man had been a fool about value … except for Caro. The duke had recognized her worth. And because he didn’t care what things cost or their pedigree, he’d loved her for herself, hang what anyone thought.
Caro was like these manuscript pages, hidden away, cared for, and immensely beautiful.
“Luckily, tucking them away here kept the pages from light, air, and dirt that would deteriorate them,” Eamon said.
“As to who will buy them, I know certain collectors who’ll fall all over themselves to obtain them, including those who purchase for museums. I can make certain the right person takes them—someone who will treasure them and let others enjoy their beauty as well. ”
“Yes, please arrange it,” Caro said eagerly.
The fact that Caro placed perfect trust in him did strange things to Eamon’s heart.
“Only …” Caro trailed off, her gaze going wistfully to the first page with its medley of gold leaf and bright colors. “Could we keep one? To honor Leopold. And also, it is so very beautiful.”
Eamon grinned at her. “Keep whatever you like. Sell it, hang it in your gallery, sleep with it under your pillow.” He flinched. “No, not the last, please. It would crease.”
Caro let forth her wonderful laughter again. “Very well then, do find a collector for them all, except this one.” She gently drew the first page toward her.
“It shall be done,” Eamon said. “I’ll fix up a cabinet for the page so it can be displayed in the gallery, as it should be.”
“Thank you, Eamon.” Caro’s voice was quiet, her eyes holding gentleness.
Eamon longed to enclose her in his arms, but not here, not in the study of the man she’d liked so well. Eamon didn’t believe in ghosts, but he certainly felt the spirit of the Sixth Duke of Aylesmore hovering here.
He cleared his throat. “I came this morning for an entirely different matter—to tell you that Rudyard is gone, his reputation ruined. He is unlikely to be back to bother you again.”
Caro drew a quick breath of surprise. “Are you certain?”
“Very certain.”