The card curled further as hope glimmered in her eyes once more. “My husband employed a curator,” she said, as though persuading herself to argue. “I’m certain he left a detailed record.”
“His records will help,” Eamon acknowledged. “But he did miss these rather obvious forgeries.”
Or perhaps he hadn’t. Could the curator himself have long ago disposed of the real Rembrandts and hired a forger to replace them?
“That is so,” the duchess agreed. Eamon heard the worry behind her words. What if the rest of the so-called priceless collection was worthless?
“I promise you, I’ll find something,” Eamon heard himself say. “Something hidden in the attic, maybe, well-guarded from thieves and forgers.”
“I will have to consult with the dowager,” the duchess said quickly. “Her husband purchased many of these things.”
“By all means.” Eamon made her a bow. “You consult and then write to me at Cheswell’s. I shall eagerly await your missive.”
The duchess relaxed into a sudden smile. It beamed from her, revealing her sincerity all the way down. It warmed the chilly room, that smile.
A dozen ways went through Eamon’s head for coaxing out the smile again, including her drowsing beneath him in a tumbled bed. She’d gaze up at him with her green-brown eyes, and the smile would turn sultry. Eamon, she’d whisper, and his name would be music.
Eamon shut off the thoughts lest they show on his face—or lower down his body.
“I will write,” the duchess said, her politeness less brittle. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Stone. You will hear from me soon.”
Her tone said the interview was over. As much as Eamon wanted to linger, he knew when it was time to leave.
He bowed again, resisting the urge to seize her hand and press a kiss to it, and headed for the stairs. The butler appeared like a ghost on the landing, waiting to show the barely tolerated guest out.
Eamon couldn’t resist a backward glance at the duchess as he descended. She stood where he’d left her, in front of the false paintings. She was like a pillar of flame in that cold room, a light in Eamon’s darkness.
He’d be back. No matter what he had to do, Eamon would return, would spar with his duchess again.
When Eamon set his mind on something, it fell into his hands, even a pretty duchess troubled about funds. He’d solve those worries and lay her troubles to rest. On this, he was determined.
“Thank you, Singleton,” he sang at the butler as he passed. “I know the way.”
Eamon skimmed down the rest of the stairs and out the massive front door, breaking into a whistled song as he sailed into the street.
“Ah, I have it,” the dowager said, gazing into mid-air.
Her attention had wandered when Caro, dry-mouthed, had explained that the Rembrandts were forgeries. The dowager had listened without change of expression then returned to the puzzle of Mr. Stone.
“I recall now,” the dowager continued. “His father was Sir Benedict Stone. Knight of some order I can’t remember, deceased. Came from Dorset, or so he claimed. Sir Benedict was quite a one with the ladies. A rogue of the deepest kind.” The dowager turned to Caro. “Tell me, daughter-in-law. Is his son as handsome?”
Chapter 4
Was he handsome?
Yes. In a way that was a bit frightening.
Was it Mr. Stone who was frightening, Caro wondered, or the feelings he brought to life?
She recalled too forcefully his arms around her at the drawing-room window, and the heat that burned from the inside out when he caught her studying him in a most unladylike manner.
“He certainly is charming,” Caro managed.
“His father could coax the birds out of the sky,” the dowager said in reminiscence. “Sir Benedict was a bit of a swindler, in fact, as I recall. Are you certain this young man told you truthfully about the paintings?”
“I am not,” Caro had to admit. “But if he was trying to cheat us, wouldn’t he have simply taken the pictures away with him? Perhaps leaving us with a token amount? He would do so if they were genuine, and then sell them on, would he not?”
The dowager nodded, the tapes of her lace cap fluttering. “I suppose that is true.”
