It took courage to do what the dowager had done, Caro realized, and sacrifice. All the while the woman had been sipping chocolate and disparaging her acquaintances, she’d given up something dear to her heart so the family could keep fires burning in their chambers.
“Then why on earth did you let me hire Mr. Stone?” Caro asked her. “It was my idea to being in Cheswell’s, and you did nothing to stop me. You encouraged me, in fact.”
“Because I thought there might be paintings Clive had missed,” the dowager said heatedly. “Clive wasn’t the brightest of men. I thought I would continue my scheme with Stone here, but he turned out to be too damned clever for his own good.”
Caro swung to Eamon, who’d watched the exchange with a neutral expression.
“You said you thought the paintings had been copied years ago,” Caro reminded him. “That some of the pigments were no longer obtainable.”
“True.” Eamon nodded. “I will guess that Clive already had some of the forgeries in stock—he has a warehouse full of them—and leapt at the chance to make use of them. He might have had difficulty selling the fakes, especially if it was known the originals were in the duke’s collection.”
“My husband did like to show them off,” the dowager said with exasperation. “My son, however, never spotted the forgeries. Few visitors came to the house to look at them after the Fifth Duke died, in any case. Leopold preferred burying his nose in a book to speaking to people.”
“So Her Grace has mentioned.” Eamon shared a glance with Caro. “Out of interest, Your Grace, how much did Clive give you for this painting?”
“I scarcely remember,” the dowager said. “I’d say about three hundred guineas. Sometimes he’d go as high as five.”
Eamon’s face turned a faint shade of green, and Singleton winced.
“Clive can turn around and flog them for thousands,” Eamon informed her. “Since you sold the paintings to him legitimately, he actually does have the provenance he claimed. He swindled you, madame.”
The dowager shrugged. “I knew they were worth more, but Clive promised to be discreet. He said nothing to my son or Caro, so he did hold up his end of the bargain.”
“Even so, whenever he found a buyer for the originals, he should have given you the lion’s share of the profit.” Eamon’s gaze was firm. “He cheated your son and grandson out of a fortune. I will return to his warehouse and search it, though I will guess he’s already sold most of the others for a hefty sum to buyers who didn’t question him.”
“I’ve told you, this is none of your business,” the dowager said, her haughty self once more. “I agreed to let Caro hire you, because I never thought you’d find the damned paintings I sold and bring one home. Did you steal this from Clive? Or threaten him to make him hand it over?”
“I purchased it,” Eamon said calmly. “For more than Clive paid you for it, though I talked him down from the price he originally stated.”
“You bought it?” Caro blurted. “Why? How?”
The corners of Eamon’s eyes crinkled. “I have my resources. As for why.” He tipped the canvas toward Caro. “To give it to you.”
Caro gaped at Rembrandt, who gazed staunchly back at her. “You cannot give it to me. Maman sold it, and you purchased it. That means it is yours.”
“Yes,” Eamon agreed. “And, as it belongs to me, I can do with it what I wish. I wish to make it a gift to you. Or, if you refuse to accept it for yourself, I will give it to Leo.”
“Do not quibble, Caro,” the dowager broke in. “I am not happy with Mr. Stone, but the damage has been done. Now, he is bestowing a valuable painting on you so that you might sell it again for some much-needed cash.”
Her mother-in-law’s frank speeches about money always left Caro breathless, but that did not mean she was wrong.
“I’m not certain I will sell it,” Caro began. Leopold had been fond of the painting, even if the one he’d proudly showed Caro had been a fake.
“Nonsense,” was the dowager’s assessment. “Of course you should sell it.”
“I do have an interested buyer,” Eamon said. “One you would approve of. He is willing to pay twenty-five hundred guineas for it.”
Caro grasped the back of a chair for support. “Twenty-five hundred …”
“That would pay some of the more egregious bills,” the dowager said without a flinch. “And allow you to hold your head up again when you go back into society, Caro. With enough left over for a decent frock. You truly need a few.”
The dowager wore gowns from the late 1790s, simple affairs that had come into fashion after the high hair and wide panniers had fallen from favor. They were comfortable, she claimed, and she saw no reason to trade the style for any other. She’d always been rather critical of Caro’s clothes, however, believing her daughter-in-law ought to dress in the first stare of fashion.
“I will think on it,” Caro managed.
Twenty-five hundred guineas would stave off the nastiest of the dunners, the ones who cared nothing for a duke’s rank.
Once the deepest debts were paid, and some of the accounts who’d been more patient brought up to date, then Leo’s family would be considered creditworthy again. Whispers that Caro had been the cause of the duke’s being a bankrupt might cease.
