One look at Singleton’s dour countenance made Eamon’s good spirits evaporate.
“What happened?” Eamon demanded.
Singleton’s expression remained grim. “Her Grace received bad news from His Grace’s cousin.”
Rudyard. Damn and blast the man. “Where is she?”
“The green morning room, sir. On the fourth floor, at the very top of the stairs.”
Caro and the dowager took breakfast there, Caro had told him, but Eamon had never seen the place. The only chamber he’d entered on the fourth floor had been the dowager’s drawing room.
Singleton’s worry propelled Eamon up the stairs. He tapped on the door Singleton directed him to but heard no reply.
He pushed the door open and peered inside. Caro was there, alone, Leo and the dowager nowhere in sight.
The chamber’s Wedgewood green walls, so fashionable in the last century, held plaster reliefs of jars of trailing plants, silhouettes of women in Greek-style dress, and geometric designs. The remains of breakfast lay on a square table with upholstered chairs drawn up to it, while other seats invited a person to relax with a cup of coffee, tea, or chocolate after the meal.
Caro paced in the midst of this elegance, fists clenched, tendrils of hair loose. She’d donned a white lace cap, but it had sagged to hang from the back of her head, its pins barely holding it on.
Eamon closed the door with a hard thump, and when that did not make Caro cease glaring at the carpet as she marched, he cleared his throat.
Caro swung around, and Eamon found himself facing Medusa in all her rage. Caro’s eyes were wild, her face flushed, her breathing ragged.
“Duchess?” Eamon addressed her gently as he approached. “What is it?”
Caro emitted a noise between a shout and a scream. She thrust a much-crumpled piece of paper at him.
Mystified, Eamon took the page, smoothed it and read.
The letter from Rudyard’s man of business was short and to the point. Eamon read it through twice, rage boiling inside him to match Caro’s own.
“Devious prick,” he stated.
Caro nodded, joy flaring in her eyes that Eamon shared her fury. “He will not have my son.”
“No, he will not.” Eamon dropped the letter to the breakfast table and took Caro’s clenched hands. “We will fight this, my love.”
Caro did not seem to notice the endearment. “That is what my mother-in-law said. She is busily writing letters to everyone she knows, including the queen.” She managed a faint smile. “I am certain the queen has more to concern her than my paltry troubles.”
“Separating a mother from her son is hardly paltry. Her Majesty will likely understand your anguish, as a mother herself, the Prince Regent notwithstanding. She has other sons she must love.”
“Do not try to make me laugh.” Caro jerked from his grasp. “I wish to be angry, because it will save me from despair.”
Eamon took her hands once more, this time soothing them open.
“There will be no need for despair.”
Caro’s eyes blazed, but she did not pull away. “No, because I will fight for Leo, no matter what I need to do.”
Determination flared from her like the halo of a smiting angel.
Cousin Rudyard likely thought Caro would easily give way to his threats, crumpling like gossamer, but if so, the man was a fool. What Rudyard didn’t understand was that gossamer was actually quite strong, and nothing was fiercer than a mother protecting her child.
“I will fight alongside you,” Eamon promised. He traced her cheek, and when Caro softened, leaned to her.
She pressed her hand flat against his chest. “No, please do not kiss me.”
“Oh.” That stung. Eamon lifted his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
