“He’ll come tomorrow?” Leo asked with dismaying eagerness.
“He told me so. But tomorrow is already today, my little scamp. It is past midnight. You should be asleep.”
“Couldn’t,” Leo said. “I’ll try now. Good night, Mama. You look pretty.”
Caro’s heart warmed with his offhand compliment, delivered before a yawn nearly swallowed him. The bewilderment and confusing emotions of the night dissolved beneath her son’s unquestioning love.
She kissed Leo’s cheek, straightened his covers, and then descended to her own chamber. The dowager’s maid came out of a doze to help Caro from the gown and necklace that Jo had so graciously lent her.
Even with the calming effect of her chat with Leo, Caro did not sleep well. She was restless, Eamon’s fiery touch lingering on her skin as did the heat of his mouth on hers. Her heart sped into wild paroxysms every time she let herself think on it fully.
She worried in between her bouts of elation whether Eamon would escape the prince’s house without notice. She had no doubt he’d finagle it somehow or talk himself out of the situation if he was caught, but she’d feel better when she saw him again.
Caro’s eyes were sandy when she at last rose, dressed, and descended the stairs to the green morning room where they breakfasted.
The dowager, an early riser, was already seated at the table, munching on toast spread with peach jam made last summer from the Aylesford orchard at Mayfield. At least they had the peach trees, Caro thought as she slid into her chair across from her mother-in-law. Perhaps they could do something with them to bring in funds.
“Lady Carmichael sends her best wishes,” Caro dutifully reported.
The dowager snorted. “That busybody. How is ma vieille?”
“Quite well.” Caro would never have dared refer to Lady Carmichael as “the old dear,” but the dowager, of an age with her, had no qualms. “Thank you, Singleton,” Caro said as the butler slid a plate in front of her and lifted its lid. The lid was pewter—all the silver not part of the entail had already been sold.
Cook had prepared an egg and a few potatoes along with the slice of bread and jam. Mrs. Mulligan could do wonders with paltry supplies.
Singleton laid a sealed letter beside the plate. “Arrived with the morning post, Your Grace.”
“Mm.” Caro, hungry, already had a mouthful of toast. The jam was quite wonderful.
Caro did not recognize the handwriting on the thick folded paper. It was not Jo’s exuberant pen or Louise’s more sedate one, though they might have asked a maid or butler to address it for them. Nor was it Eamon’s rather spare and precise hand—she’d seen it in the notes he was making about the collection.
“You will never know what is inside unless you open it,” the dowager observed.
“That is a point.” Caro laid down her toast and licked blobs of jam from her fingers. She lifted her knife, broke the plain seal, and unfolded the letter.
To the Duchess of Aylesford, greetings. I hope this missive finds you well.
Please be advised that Rudyard Berridge, nephew of the late Duke of Aylesford (sixth of that title), has begun proceedings to gain the guardianship of the current Duke of Aylesford (seventh of that title). Berridge is the current duke’s closest male relative of guardian age and will extend his right to take custody of his cousin.
All correspondence about this matter will be carried out through the offices of Messrs Morgan, Brooks, and Monroe.
Your assistance will make the transition a smooth one, and any hindrance is liable to be taken to the courts.
Your most humble servant,
T. Morgan, Esq.
Chapter 14
The previous night
Eamon had learned discreet ways out of every sort of house, thanks to his father, who’d had an uncanny sense of when he’d worn out his welcome. Once Eamon convinced himself to rise from his place of refuge, he quietly slipped out of the chamber and down the stairs.
A coin to the cool footman still lingering in the foyer had his hat and coat fetched. Eamon handed the lad another half-crown and walked out of the prince’s house through a side passageway to the mews, turning up his collar against the damp. Wolfe and McCormick would tax him with his disappearance, but he’d put up with them to keep speculation away from Caro.
He had many things to do, in any case. Eamon left Portman Square behind and sought a hackney. He paid more coins to the rain-soaked driver to take him, not to his nearby lodgings in Oxford Street, but to the Strand.
From there he walked north to Maiden Lane, near Covent Garden, and ducked into a tavern. The locals glanced up as he entered, assessing him to decide whether he was a threat or someone they could cheat out of whatever money he carried.
