“You will not,” Louise said firmly. “Your family will one day admit a gentleman past the barriers, as they did for your sister, and he’ll be perfect for you. You’ll be besotted.”
Jo sent her a stare so skeptical it confirmed where her niece Merry had learned the expression. “You are sweet, Louise, but they never will. Sutcliffe was allowed for my sister because he hasn’t the imagination to pose any danger to my parents. I have given up forming any sort of interest in a man at all.”
Caro recalled Jo’s flustered demeanor when she’d dashed into Mr. McCormick and her long gaze at him over the banister afterward and decided Jo’s last statement wasn’t true.
“In any case, you both are mad,” Caro said. “Even if I invite Mr. Stone so that I can apologize and make certain we part friends, he will never come. He is finished with the Aylesmore family.”
Jo and Louise exchanged a glance that said much, but to Caro’s relief, they finally changed the subject.
Hours later, Caro returned home, consulted with the dowager, and wrote Eamon a letter. She started and discarded the missive half a dozen times, lamenting at wasting so much costly paper. Finally, she managed a few simple lines inviting him to dine at eight o’clock in the evening on Monday next.
She made herself fold the sheet and address it to Mr. Eamon Stone, care of Cheswell’s.
He wouldn’t come, Caro told herself once she had sent Singleton off to deliver the letter. She’d hear nothing more of Eamon, and she would have to live with that.
The next morning, however, Singleton brought her a note that had been penned on the bottom of the one Caro had sent the previous afternoon. Her heart beat thickly as she unfolded the paper and read the simple message:
I will be honored to attend.
E. Stone
Chapter 19
Eamon arrived at the Grosvenor Street house exactly on time. He’d debated turning up early, as McCormick suggested, to appear reliable, but Wolfe told McCormick he was an idiot. Eamon should arrive late, so as not to seem too keen.
Eamon claimed they were both idiots and knocked on the front door at the stroke of eight.
Singleton answered it after letting him sweat for half a minute, peering down his bulbous nose at Eamon when he opened the door.
“Is it to be the blue reception room?” Eamon asked as he stepped into the silent house. The hall was dark, though the sun lingered in the late May sky. Being sentenced to the blue reception room would confirm that he’d angered Caro irretrievably.
“The gold dining room, sir.” Singleton’s tones were chilly. “Third floor.”
“Ah, the third floor.” Eamon hid his relief. “I haven’t ventured there.” He’d had so much to do in the gallery that he hadn’t made a start on the two floors above that. His plan had been to go through the house room by room, methodically, to discover if the dukes had stashed away anything that Clive had missed, but the gallery alone would take months.
“Second room off the landing, sir,” Singleton offered.
“I will endeavor to find it. Thank you, Singleton.”
The man bowed frostily. Eamon doubted Caro had confided the tale of his ill-chosen words and her embarrassment afterward, but the man would have noted Eamon’s absence and concluded that any rift was Eamon’s fault.
Eamon ran lightly up the stairs on his own—Singleton was apparently not going to bother announcing him.
He tried not to stare at the place on the first landing where Caro had fallen onto him in a silken armful, tried to banish his memory of each passionate kiss they’d shared afterward. Eamon’s heart had been full, nothing existing in the world at that moment but himself and Caro.
He’d forgotten to ask how she felt before blurting out his spontaneous confession. Caro’s absolute shock had lanced through him, reminding Eamon that he had no business falling in love with a lofty duchess. He’d been hired to catalog the artwork, and not on a quest to conquer the beautiful lady in the tower.
The house grew darker as he ascended, and Eamon had the sudden sense of being led into a snare. Singleton could have directed him to an unused room, which would shut like a trap, imprisoning him for being so disrespectful to the duchess. His friends would wonder for a time what had happened to the annoying Eamon and then gradually forget about him.
When Eamon reached the third floor, he heard no sound at all. He could barely see to find the second door along, having to grope for the handle when he reached it.
Eamon drew a breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed the door inward.
Light poured out at him. The room was a tall square, the first half of the walls filled with windows and glittering wall sconces, the top register covered in paintings.
Eamon didn’t immediately scan the pictures for any that might be of value, because his attention was taken with the dining table and its occupants.
Every candle in the house must have been brought out for the occasion. The chandelier, the wall sconces, and three candelabras down the table’s length were filled with tall, lit candles. Their warm glow danced on the porcelain service laid out on a tapestry runner and crystal goblets, already full of pale wine.
