She led him to the dowager’s chair, and Eamon executed a courtly bow. “I am humbled, Your Grace.”
The stick thumped again. “None of that. I met your father, Mr. Stone, several times. A scoundrel if I ever saw one. But a very charming one.”
Eamon rose from his bow, abashed. “He was, indeed, Your Grace. It was often a trial, having a father like Sir Benedict.”
“I imagine it was. He enjoyed spa towns, mainly Bath, which was where I encountered him. You must have been a small boy at the time. I don’t remember you.”
Eamon nodded. “Alas, I was often tucked away in a corner while he … entertained himself.”
His light answer couldn’t quite mask his flash of pain. Caro, who’d loved her doting parents dearly, wondered how Eamon had coped with being shoved aside while his father had enjoyed luxury and feminine company.
“I see.” The dowager’s tone softened a fraction. “And now we have hired you to look at our artworks. Are you certain you know what you are doing?”
“Maman,” Caro said quickly. If Eamon took offense, he might decide to depart, never to return.
“I have studied art all my life,” Eamon assured the dowager. “Have learned the techniques and history of the great masters. I’d not be trusted by Cheswell’s, who have a fine reputation, if I did not know my Canaletto from my Cosway.”
The dowager did not appear to be impressed. “Cheswell is a greedy man. Some dealers love art for its own sake, but his first love is guineas. What sort of man are you?”
She pinned him with the gaze of her Celtic ancestors, who’d so terrified the mighty Roman armies.
“I do love art,” Eamon said, his tone respectful. “No matter what we must face in this life, a beautiful painting or piece of sculpture from the past can be soothing. It has endured centuries of war, hardship, and sorrow, yet still remains, like a mountain that watches over a city or the sea’s unchanging depths.”
“Very poetic,” the dowager said. “How long have you rehearsed that speech?”
Eamon flashed her a grin. “Since I was a boy, Your Grace. I was left to my own devices much of the time. I learned to draw and paint to pass the hours, and I became interested in historic art. I’m not talented enough to be a great artist myself, but I can restore damaged paintings, find artworks for those who want to purchase them, and assess and catalog collections.”
“I suppose you encountered plenty of paintings in the houses your father dragged you to.” The dowager’s statement was less abrupt, as though he’d provoked her sympathy.
“I did indeed. Meandering through the galleries at Chatsworth and Wilton House provided me an excellent education.”
Eamon spoke without regret, but Caro pictured a lonely boy wandering dark and empty corridors, set aside and forgotten. Had he entertained himself by gazing at the paintings until someone finally remembered to fetch him?
“I will not inquire about your actual schooling,” the dowager continued. “Public schools and universities churn out vapid young men fit for nothing. My husband was one of those, but fortunately he had enough shrewdness to forget everything they tried to beat into him. My son, on the other hand, became a dreamy recluse.”
Caro’s rose to his defense. “Leopold was very learned, Maman.”
“I daresay he was. Never did him much good that I could discern. I know you were fond of him, Caro, but it is the truth.” The dowager focused on Eamon once more. “You are going to find all the paintings worth something and sell them for us, are you not?”
Eamon made her another bow, this one subdued. “I will do my best, Your Grace.”
“See that you do. Now, about you tossing Rudyard on his, as Leo terms it, derrière. That will cause a scandal, I wager. How many people witnessed it?”
“A good number, I am afraid,” Eamon confessed.
Caro had kept herself well away from the open front door during the incident, but at this time of day, there would have been plenty of passers-by, as this side of Grosvenor Square was a thoroughfare to Hyde Park to the west, New Bond Street to the east, and Oxford Street to the north.
“Rudyard will complain,” the dowager said. “What do you intend to do about it? Caro must not be touched by scandal. The ton can be brutal, and she does not have the high birth to withstand it.”
Caro did not wince at the dowager’s blunt words, because they were only the truth.
Eamon glanced at Caro, and she read compassion in his eyes. She did not like how much that warmed her.
“Her Grace could always sack me,” Eamon suggested. “Be outraged at me for the manner with which I behaved toward her cousin.”
“Ha,” the dowager snorted. “Not what I’d recommend.”
“I have no intention of dismissing you, Mr. Stone,” Caro said stoutly. “That is exactly what Rudyard would want.”
