Mr. Clive, the former curator, had said nothing about the paintings being forgeries. Caro had to wonder why not. Was Mr. Stone the liar? Or Mr. Clive? Or had Mr. Clive simply not known?
Mr. Stone had been winsome and delightfully informal, chatting with Caro as though she were a person, not an untouchable duchess. Most gentlemen since her marriage had regarded her either in abject terror or as though she were a challenge—the forbidden young wife they wished to conquer.
Mr. Stone had spoken to Caro as herself, that debutante of ten years ago with giddy dreams and no idea what life would bring.
When she’d accepted Leopold’s proposal, Caro had imagined traveling to intriguing places full of glamor and excitement, but she’d quickly learned that the pace of one’s existence depended upon one’s husband. If the duke enjoyed staying at home gazing at paintings and dusty books, then the duchess remained home with him.
Caro’s own family had never had the funds nor the inclination to travel, so Caro had quietly put her dreams to rest. Now that she was a widow with no money and a child to raise, the possibility of viewing the world retreated even further.
For some reason, the sparkle in Mr. Stone’s blue eyes had dredged up the yearnings Caro had long ago learned to ignore. They were dangerous, those yearnings.
It would be best if Caro never saw Mr. Stone again.
His card, which she seemed to still be holding, creased her palm. He would return to assess the collection and discover if anything was worth selling.
Regardless, Caro didn’t need to speak to him. Singleton could admit him to the gallery and watch to make sure he didn’t steal anything. Caro would remain on the fourth floor, where she belonged, and never set eyes on Mr. Stone.
Never let him stir the odd feelings that had bubbled to the surface when she’d looked over his fascinating body. Never let him step close to her, the strong warmth of his arms enclosing her, promising both comfort and delight.
Caro straightened her spine and thrust his card back into her pocket. No, she’d write Cheswell’s to accept Mr. Stone’s offer to assess the collection, but she’d stay far from him when he returned.
It would be for the best.
Eamon pushed a goblet of brandy across the club’s dark walnut table to Wolfe and pegged him with his best commanding stare. “Tell me everything you know about the late Duke of Aylesmore,” he said.
“Aylesmore,” Wolfe repeated. He frowned and moved the walking stick he sported these days from one side of his chair to the other. “You mean the Sixth Duke of that title, I suppose, deceased a year ago.”
The two men sat in a relatively empty room in the club for veterans of their infantry regiment, a modest building compared with the sumptuousness of White’s or Brooks’s. Wolfe was a member of both those lofty establishments, but he often met Eamon and McCormick here, at the Twenty-Fifths Club, where they could stretch out their legs and rub elbows with fellow survivors of Waterloo.
Eamon had always found White’s stuffy. He went only as Wolfe’s guest, as he was not a member himself, though Eamon’s father had been one. Dear Father had gained membership into almost every club in London, where he’d sat in cushioned chairs and tricked aristocrats out of money, brandy, land, horses, or whatever he decided to turn his hand to.
Surprisingly, none of those aristocrats had caught on. They still greeted Eamon warmly whenever they saw him, nostalgic for the beguiling conversation of his father.
Yes, Sir Benedict had been quite the raconteur. Pity he hadn’t held on to the things he’d obtained. One last game, had been his favorite phrase. Then we’ll retire in style, my boy.
Sir Benedict had dropped dead quite suddenly one evening, before his last game could be played. He’d left the boy Eamon with no cash, no home, and no relations that would admit to him. Sir Benedict’s equally slippery man of business had obtained a place at the Hallbridge School for Eamon and deposited him there. Hence Eamon’s friendship with the man reposing across from him.
“Nothing very interesting about Aylesmore,” Wolfe continued. “Sat in the Lords and never spoke. Never did much of anything, from what I understand. Married the daughter of a country gentleman—Arnott, I believe the name was. She was Aylesmore’s second wife. A scandal, because she was a nobody and half his age, but everyone quickly forgot about them. Aylesmore was forgettable.” Wolfe pinned Eamon with a sharp gaze of his own. “Why?”
“I met the widowed duchess today.” Eamon turned his glass on the table but didn’t drink. “In her house in Grosvenor Square. She is very out of place there. Thought she was a maid, at first.”
Wolfe’s brows rose. “She couldn’t have been a maid, my short-sighted friend. No more maids, no more footmen in that household. Aylesmore and his father—and grandfather, for that matter—couldn’t hold on to a farthing for more than a minute. When this Aylesmore died, most of the staff evaporated, knowing they’d never be paid.” Wolfe kept his stern gaze on Eamon. “What the devil were you doing in his house?”
“Looking at paintings for Cheswell.” Eamon tapped his fingertips on the table. “Surely the dukes of Aylesmore have estates with peasants farming away, bringing in crops and paying rents.”
“In the past, certainly.” Wolfe nodded. “But while the wars with France made some rich, for others, it was a disaster. Aylesmore invested heavily in ships that never made it past Boney’s Continental System. His father married a Frenchwoman whose father had vast estates with yes, many peasants, which provided her an enormous dowry. That was before the Terror.”
“Didn’t meet this Frenchwoman,” Eamon said. “If she’s even still alive.”
“She is but can’t help in the area of funds. When her father’s estates were confiscated by the new French government, the dowry, which was tucked into banks in Paris as well as tied up in the land itself, vanished. The marquis fled with what he could carry in a cart, ending up in England to die at the Aylesmore country house. Anything left, the Fifth and Sixth Dukes frittered away buying pieces of art and old books. The Sixth Duke’s bride, Miss Arnott, didn’t bring much of a dowry at all, which was part of the scandal. She did bear him a son and heir, which he hadn’t managed in his first marriage.”
A sad tale. Sadder still for the lovely widow, left with a child and no income.
“You know much about it,” Eamon observed. He’d suspected Wolfe would have the information tucked away in his complicated brain, hence Eamon’s invitation for the pair of them to take brandy at their club.
“My grandmother,” Wolfe said. “She collects gossip as a hobby, and she never ceases speaking. I learn by absorption.”
Eamon lifted his glass. “Here’s to absorption.”
