The dowager duchess reposed in state at the foot of the table. She wore a sumptuous velvet gown from the end of the last century, her gray hair surmounted by a tasteful diamond tiara. Eamon’s trained eye noted that the stones were paste, but they sparkled richly all the same.
Leo’s chair was at the head of the table, where he was propped up by cushions. He wore a cashmere suit that was more up to date than the dowager’s ensemble but appeared to be uncomfortable for the lad.
Between them, on the table’s far side, was Caro. Eamon wondered a moment what was different about her then realized she’d donned a golden-colored gown with a daring neckline that rode low on her shoulders.
As at the ball, she’d filled in the space that would expose her flesh with a gauzy fichu, but the opaque fabric only made her more enticing. Eamon imagined himself peeling away the fichu while he kissed her warm skin, Caro sighing with contentment beneath him.
Eamon jerked his thoughts from such enticements, reminding himself that those pleasures were not for him.
Caro rose in a stately motion, and Leo leapt to his feet, scattering cushions. The dowager remained seated but gave Eamon a sedate nod.
Eamon made his most formal bow. “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said to the dowager. “And my liege.” This to Leo. “Your Grace,” another nod to Caro, who regarded him without expression.
Was she pleased to see him? Dismayed he’d actually turned up? Deciding to pretend she barely knew him?
Leo, on the other hand, was unabashedly delighted.
“I knew you’d come,” he sang out. “I’ve been going through all the books, like you said, but I haven’t found anything yet.”
Eamon didn’t like how he warmed at the boy’s eagerness. “There are very many books,” he said. “One of them is bound to be worth something.”
“I’ll keep looking,” Leo said with confidence and trotted back to his chair.
Eamon waited until Caro resumed her seat, then he restored the cushions for Leo, made sure the boy was settled, and took the place that had obviously been laid for him opposite Caro.
As soon as Eamon’s backside touched the chair, Singleton appeared through the door to a connected room, bearing a soup tureen. Singleton carried the large porcelain vessel solemnly to the dowager’s side and ladled two substantial portions into her bowl before turning to Eamon, the guest.
Eamon stopped him after one ladleful, noting there was only a small amount of liquid left in the tureen. He noted that Caro took very little as well, so that Singleton could give the rest to Leo.
This needed to cease, Eamon thought angrily as he lifted his spoon. Caro should not have to starve herself for the sake of her son and her mother-in-law. As Eamon was here tonight, he was probably taking much of Caro’s share.
He silently cursed Mr. Clive for robbing the dukes, and the dukes for not noticing. The pack of fools had left two women and a child to eke out an existence in genteel poverty.
“Do you not like it?” Leo asked worriedly as Eamon glared into his bowl.
“Of course I do.” Eamon hastened to reassure him. He spooned up a large slurp—it would be churlish to waste what little comestibles they had. The soup was creamy with the barest hint of fish and vegetables but managed to be tasty. “Your cook is quite talented,” he said to the dowager.
The dowager duchess sent him a haughty glare. “She’ll do.”
Eamon hid a grin. The dowager must be the sort of aristocrat reluctant to praise her staff too highly to others. One never knew when her rivals would pinch her best servants.
Eamon caught Caro’s gaze and found humor in it—she knew exactly how to read her mother-in-law. Eamon smiled in return. Caro flushed and immediately returned her attention to her soup.
As soon as Leo had scraped his bowl dry, the dowager laid down her spoon. The door opened immediately to admit Singleton, who deftly removed the bowls from the plates they’d rested in. He disappeared into the next room for a moment then returned with a covered tray. He deposited the cover on the sideboard and circled the table with the platter, dispensing slabs of poached fish, likely more of what had been in the soup.
The dowager took a large filet, Eamon asked for the smallest on the tray, Caro took the next smallest, and the rest went to Leo.
The lad didn’t notice that his elders gave him and his grandmother the lion’s share of the food, and Eamon would never tell him. Let the boy live in blissful ignorance for a few more years. He’d be sent off to school soon—if the duke had been wise enough to secure him a place with fees paid well in advance—and Leo would face plenty of austerity there.
Caro noticed, however. She frowned at Eamon as though annoyed with him as she daintily cut up her fish.
Singleton came around with a butter sauce, and Eamon allowed him to ladle a large spoonful onto his fish. They seemed to have a lot of butter, which was probably from one of the duke’s farms.
No one spoke as they consumed the course, Leo eating happily, swinging his dangling legs. The lad seemed unconstrained, indicating that being invited to the large dining table must not be a rare occurrence. Eamon had always liked that Caro didn’t shut her child in the nursery and pretend he existed only on special occasions.
Again, as soon as Leo finished, the dowager, who’d consumed her fish quickly, laid down her fork.
Singleton did his ritual once more, removing the plates and carrying around a platter of roast chicken with accompanying vegetables. Eamon asked for a small amount, eyeing Caro defiantly as he did so.
