“Strange you are so honest, recalling who your father was.” Sam broke into Eamon’s thoughts. “A blessing that he fell off his perch, I will tell you the truth. He’d have had you churning out your drawings and daubs to sell off to gullible punters by the bucketful.”
Eamon knew this to be true. Even as a boy, he’d realized that Sir Benedict had exploited Eamon’s winsome manner, small stature, and agility to help him swindle his way into comfortable situations. He’d have done more and more as Eamon grew, until Eamon would have had to battle his way free.
Eamon sipped more bad brandy, willing the past to remain in the past. He had more important issues to face here and now.
“I didn’t only come to have a gossip with you, Sam,” Eamon began.
“Didn’t fink ye did.” Sam nodded. “You need good old Sam Noble’s expertise. What are we stealing?”
“Nothing. Yet.” Eamon liked that Sam turned his full attention on him. Sam had been one of the few of his father’s colleagues to take Eamon seriously. “Do you know of a bloke called Clive? Styles himself a curator of paintings. Had a post with the Duke of Aylesmore before said duke gave up the ghost.”
Sam’s brows knit. “You mean Hieronymus Clive?”
“Is that his name?” Eamon asked in surprise. “Like Bosch who did all those bizarre paintings in the 1500s? Allegories and such.”
“Wouldn’t know about that. But yes, if it’s the Clive you’re thinking of, he has that moniker. Don’t trust the man.” Sam squinted at him. “What are you asking me for? You’re a perfectly fine judge of a bloke. What do you make of him?”
“I’ve never clapped eyes on him. Only seen his ledgers and heard his name. The Duchess of Aylesmore doesn’t know much about him. Her husband worked with Clive—I imagine neither man found any reason to discuss their business with a woman.” More fool they.
“He’s a fence,” Sam said without hesitation. “Takes pieces of art, silver, gold plate, bits and bobs, and asks no questions. Sells them on without a qualm.”
“A receiver?” Eamon sat back, disconcerted. “He was turned loose in that house in Grosvenor Square, where he might have found treasures unimaginable.”
“He probably imagined them just fine. But he’s no thief. Won’t soil his precious hands. If he has any treasure from Aylesmore’s hoard, they were handed to him. Don’t mean he wouldn’t take something home for cleaning or appraisal, with the owner’s permission. But what he brings back won’t necessarily be the same thing he took away.”
“He’d replace them with forgeries.” Eamon turned his glass on the table. “Does he make the forgeries himself?”
“You’d have heard about him before this if he did. No, he hires them, same as he hires a thief to steal to order for him or his clients. As I say, he won’t soil his own hands.”
Eamon glared at the blackened brick wall opposite him. “How the devil did he get hired on by Aylesmore? Surely the duke, or his man of business, would have asked for references?”
“Clive would have them,” Sam answered. “From what I hear put about, the Duke of Aylesmore was several planks thick. Most of these aristos are. Their heads are messed about by breeding too close to the bloodline. Happens in horses too.”
“Bloody idiot.” Eamon refrained from hurling his glass against the wall to hear the satisfying crash. It wouldn’t be wise to burst out with sudden violence in this place.
“Aye,” Sam agreed.
“Thank heaven Clive quit the place as soon as the late duke was laid to rest,” Eamon said. “Probably had picked it clean by then. I hate to think of a man like that roaming the house, and Caro there without protection.”
Sam’s brows climbed his broad forehead. “Caro, is it? Is that the duchess you’re meaning? Lad, run far from such things, before ye find yourself too deep. What did I just tell ye about aristos?”
“She isn’t an aristo,” Eamon said impatiently. “Not in that sense. She was born a plain Miss, a gentleman’s daughter. Her family were on the same footing as mine.” Sir Benedict, though he’d finagled his way into his knighthood, had at least been gentry born.
“Even so, she’s one of them now. Not for the likes of you and me, I’m thinking.”
Eamon fell silent, not intending to argue. In this world, a person’s background and breeding counted for far more than how clever he was or even how wealthy he was. Nabob’s daughters were sought for their father’s money but never really accepted by the old blood. A self-made man was regarded with deep suspicion.
Eamon fell into no category he knew, but he’d comforted himself that he and Caro had arisen from much the same stock.
However, Sam was right. Caro was now the mother of one duke and the widow of another. Her mother-in-law was definitely aristocratic and guarded Caro fiercely. Caro’s friends, likewise, were lofty.
If any of them wanted Eamon out, he’d have no recourse.
Did that mean Eamon was giving up? Far from it. If he could do nothing but save Caro from a crafty swindler and the duke’s vindictive cousin, then save her he would. His reward would be watching her and Leo live a safe and happy life.
He repeated this to himself with vehemence.
“Where can I find Hieronymus Clive?” he asked Sam.
