“Good morning, Your Graces,” Eamon said breezily. “Forgive me if I set this down.” He rested the parcel’s end on the carpet with a thump and a gasp of breath. “It grows heavy after four flights.”
“I did offer to carry it, sir,” Singleton told him disapprovingly.
“You did, but I did not want to let it out of my hands until it was safely in this room.” Eamon grinned at Caro, who’d risen from her chair, trying not to let her heart flutter.
Did he always have to be so handsome? Climbing stairs with a heavy package hadn’t dampened Eamon’s energy one whit. His dark hair was a trifle mussed, but Caro didn’t mind that. She could straighten it later, which might lead to more mussing and hot kisses that melted her.
Eamon’s blue eyes sparkled, as though he read her thoughts.
“Tell us what it is,” she cajoled him, flustered. “Don’t tease.”
Eamon’s smile widened. “Very well. Singleton, will you assist?”
Eamon removed a knife from his pocket, cut the twine that bound the package, and then carefully began tearing at the paper. Singleton joined him, and the two men peeled off the wrappings from top to bottom.
A canvas slowly came into view, one in a thin wooden frame that Caro could tell had been hastily nailed together. The front of the canvas faced Eamon, hiding whatever was on it from the Caro and the dowager.
Caro waited with some impatience as Eamon and Singleton finished unwrapping, then had to wait longer while Singleton gathered up the papers and carried them out.
Eamon lifted the painting and turned it around.
The dusky background at the painting’s top edge surrounded a darker gray and brown beret that was perched over a man’s pale and slightly wrinkled forehead. Large tufts of graying, curly hair poked out on either side of the hat. The man had a bulbous nose, which went with his craggy face and intense dark eyes. A collar cradled the lower part of the man’s face then blended into his brown coat, with a hint of russet at the coat’s opening.
Caro regarded it in stunned surprise. She understood now why Eamon had instantly known that the painting in their gallery had been false. This one glowed with truth, as though the artist had only now laid down his brush.
Before Caro could utter a word, she heard a strangled noise behind her. She turned swiftly to see the dowager half-risen from her chair, her hand at her throat.
“Maman?” Caro hurried to the dowager’s side. “Are you unwell?”
The dowager drew herself to her full height, recovering her dignity. “What is that?” she inquired in an imperious voice.
“That is a self-portrait of Rembrandt van Rijn, painted in about 1659,” Eamon answered. “The genuine one. I cleaned it up a bit, because it had become very grimy, but do not worry. I am something of an expert at painting restoration. My landlady complained of the smell of my potions, but it was worth it.”
Caro agreed. The paint had the clarity it must have possessed a century and a half ago.
“Wherever did you find it?” Caro asked, her excitement building. If Eamon had located one painting, he might have found others as well.
“Mr. Clive’s secondhand shop in Cheapside.” Eamon’s voice went hard. “If his warehouse is searched, I’m certain it will reveal others. You might want to bring suit against him, Your Graces, because the entire time he worked in this house, he was slowly robbing you.”
Caro drew a breath to express indignation but broke off as the dowager moved with astonishing vigor to stand before the painting and Eamon.
“How dare you meddle in our affairs?” she demanded. “You stupid, stupid boy.”
“Maman,” Caro said, aghast.
Singleton, who had returned to the room, placed himself behind Eamon’s shoulder, as though ready to escort him out.
Eamon fixed a sharp gaze on the dowager. “Of course,” he said as though a puzzle had been solved. “It wasn’t your husband or your son selling the paintings, was it?”
The dowager looked neither surprised nor ashamed. “Why not? They were mine to sell. My father brought the Rembrandts and the Canalettos with him when he fled France before the ancien régime was overthrown. Papa saw the way the wind was blowing and asked for refuge with us. He sold the paintings to my husband for a nominal fee, as compensation for taking him in. Upon both their deaths, the paintings were willed to me.”
She stated this with regal defiance.
“Why, Maman?” Caro asked in amazement. “And why did you never tell me?”
The dowager turned to Caro, her face stiff. “I sold them before Leopold married you. He could never have afforded a wedding otherwise. And when Leo came along, I knew more would have to go. My husband was a spendthrift, and my son had no head for money at all, had no idea what the things in his collection were worth. Clive told me he knew copyists who’d replace them without Leopold knowing the difference.”
Caro’s bewilderment turned to anger and remorse. Anger that the dowager had kept this to herself, not trusting Caro with the secret. Remorse that the woman had forced herself to part with her beloved father’s artworks so that Caro’s husband and son could live in some comfort.
