“I mean no offense,” Caro said quickly. Her touch turned to a light caress. “When you kiss me, I can think of nothing else.”
Eamon’s ache eased. “Mm, I do like that explanation.”
“It is not amusing. I have been befuddled since the day you walked into this house.”
“I likewise have been befuddled, Duchess. That started as soon as I saw you.”
Caro’s gaze held heat that seared Eamon’s body. “Eamon, I?—”
The door to the room burst open, and a small figure barreled in. “Mr. Stone! You’re back! I found something.”
Eamon turned from Caro, surprised at the delight that infused him. “There’s my lad. I mean, my liege.” He turned his impulsive reach for the boy into a courtly bow.
Leo grabbed Eamon’s hand, ignoring the play. “It’s in the gallery. Come with me.”
Eamon let himself be towed away. When he looked back, the smile Caro beamed on them made every hurt from his past life dissolve and flow away.
Leo eagerly dragged Eamon down the flights of stairs, not releasing him until they’d reached the gallery floor.
The boy raced through the long room, sliding to a halt at the table that held Vespasian. He seized a small book he’d left the Roman emperor to guard and slammed it into Eamon’s hands.
“It’s old,” Leo stated, dancing from foot to foot. “Smells like it too. Is it worth a lot of money?”
“Give me a chance to look at it, lad.”
It was always confounded dark in the gallery in spite of the tall windows, even on this fine day. Only one candle burned in the candelabra, and Eamon used it to light the other three. Singleton would swoon at the waste, but Eamon would risk his wrath.
The book was about seven inches by five with a leather-tooled binding, which must have been very nice when it was first purchased. The leather was cracking a bit, more so where it had been exposed to the air than where it had been squeezed between other books.
Inside, Eamon found printed pages, which was a pity, because hand copied books were far more valuable than those churned out by a printing press.
It was a book of hours, in Latin. The title page held a picture of the Virgin and child in an embellished oval, with the name of the Italian publisher beneath it. The date was listed as MDCCLX.
“Very nice,” Eamon said. “The condition isn’t bad. Published in 1760, so about fifty or so years old. I’m not an expert on books, but I am guessing this would fetch about twenty-five quid to the right collector.”
“Is that a lot?” Leo asked in hope.
“It would buy more candles, that’s for certain.” Eamon snuffed out the extra two with his fingers to save Singleton apoplexy. “Well done, Leo. This is the sort of thing we need.”
The book wasn’t worth very much in comparison to what the duke’s collection should have brought in, but Eamon wasn’t going to sadden the boy by telling him so. And anyway, it was a start.
Leo drew himself up proudly. “I’ll keep on looking. There’s bound to be more.”
Without waiting for Eamon to answer, he ran for the bookcases and swarmed up the steps. Eamon enjoyed watching him solemnly pull out a tome, examine it, shake his head and replace it, then move to the next one.
Eamon balanced the small volume in his hand. If this had been a medieval illuminated book of hours—for keeping track of saints’ days and daily, weekly, and yearly prayers—it would be worth a fortune. This one had been churned out by printers by the hundreds to sell to the faithful about fifty years ago. The binding and good condition of the paper inside made it sellable, but only if someone wished to purchase it. Otherwise, it could be torn apart and used for fuel.
Damn it, there had to be something.
Eamon gazed upon the rows of copied paintings, some of them better than others, and up at the full bookcases, anger rising.
He was furious at Caro’s husband for not noticing that his collection was worth damn all, and at her father-in-law, or whoever it had been, for selling off the Rembrandt and probably more of the best paintings and then squandering the money. Both dukes had left their wives, not to mention their heirs, in near poverty, while the world expected them to keep up grand houses and move among the loftiest of society.
Eamon thought of Caro in the borrowed and altered frock, wearing diamonds lent by her friend the princess. Caro had graced both gown and jewels with her natural elegance, but she should be in silks, with diamonds dripping from her. The rest of the ton ought to be bathing in the glow of her greatness instead of pitying her or mocking her.
Now their idiot relation, Rudyard, was trying to control the young duke, to keep himself the sole heir or maybe speeding himself into the dukedom.
Eamon would stop him. He leaned against the long table, one eye on Leo, who was nimble on the ladder. Eamon wasn’t certain exactly how he would best Cousin Rudyard, who had money and position behind him. Plus, unfortunately, the law that said he was a more important relation to Leo than Caro.
