In all the time since Deirdre lost their baby, Corinna knew. Although Sean had told her little about himself, he’d spent much time explaining Deirdre’s situation and how it had led to the mess they were in now. She imagined it was hard for Deirdre to speak of it. ‘‘You’ve every right to be here. And at least you know more about art than your brother.’’
‘‘I know less about my husband’s art than you might think. You did a grand job deflecting those questions. I can see why my brother admires you.’’
Sean had told her that? Corinna’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. ‘‘I’m surprised to hear he said so.’’
‘‘Not in so many words, mind you. But he told me all about you, and I could hear it in his tone of voice.’’
‘‘He likes my paintings.’’
‘‘Sean doesn’t care a fig about art. But he likes the way you’re not afraid to face great odds to get what you want. He did the same himself, you know. He started with nothing, and now he’s richer than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.’’
Corinna hadn’t brought Sean’s sister out here to glean information about him, but she couldn’t resist taking advantage of that opening. ‘‘How did he manage that?’’
Deirdre shrugged. ‘‘He says he has a knack.’’
‘‘A knack?’’
‘‘I don’t know what he means, exactly. All I can tell you is that shortly after I wed John, Sean moved to London, using a small inheritance he received from our uncle. A
small
inheritance,’’ she emphasized.
‘‘And?’’
‘‘The next time I saw him, he owned several pieces of property, including his own house. Twenty years old, and he had his own house.’’ Wonder suffused her voice, and she shook her head disbelievingly. ‘‘I never saw my brother often, since John doesn’t care to live in London. Once a year, maybe, if that. But the next time I saw Sean, he owned more property, and some manufactories, and any number of other businesses. Ships, too. And a bigger house. And, a couple years later, a bigger one still. Now he lives in a house so big all of Kilburton could move in. The whole village would fit in a corner of the acreage.’’
‘‘Kilburton?’’
‘‘Perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration.’’ Deirdre shrugged rather sheepishly. ‘‘Kilburton is where we grew up in Ireland.’’
‘‘Tell me more,’’ Corinna said, thinking she knew even less of Sean than she’d thought. ‘‘Tell me how he came to own all he does.’’
‘‘I don’t know that much,’’ Deirdre said with a quiet smile. ‘‘I think you should ask him yourself.’’
Chapter Twenty-three
‘‘Griffin,’’ Rachael said. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’
In his cousins’ Lincoln’s Inn Fields town house, Griffin stopped pacing the drawing room and turned to find her leaning against the doorjamb. Even in a simple day dress, she looked entirely too sultry for his comfort. Her lips appeared freshly licked. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her face. Her eyes looked large and luminous.
And sad.
‘‘I’m waiting for you, as I suspect your butler told you. Why aren’t you at the Billingsgate ball?’’
‘‘I didn’t feel like going,’’ she said.
Her wan expression broke his heart, but he embraced the emotion. Pity was much safer than lust. ‘‘You cannot withdraw from life, Rachael.’’
‘‘I’m not.’’ She scanned his evening clothes. ‘‘Why did you
leave
the Billingsgate ball?’’
‘‘To fetch you.’’
‘‘What if I don’t want to be fetched?’’
He shrugged and said nonchalantly, ‘‘Then I won’t tell you my news.’’
‘‘What news?’’ she demanded, straightening and coming toward him. ‘‘Tell me.’’
‘‘I’ll tell you on the way to the ball,’’ he promised her with a smile—the charming smile that worked on everyone.
But it didn’t work on Rachael. Not tonight. ‘‘I don’t want to go to the ball.’’
‘‘Then I don’t want to tell you my news. I’ll stop by again tomorrow.’’
‘‘Griffin!’’ Moving closer, she laughingly punched him on the shoulder. ‘‘You cannot do this to me!’’
He was happy to see her more animated, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted her joyful. He wanted her socializing. He wanted to see her dancing with eligible gentlemen and getting on with her life.
‘‘Would you care to bet?’’ he asked, starting from the room.
She grabbed his arm. ‘‘All right, I’ll go to the ball.’’
‘‘Excellent.’’ With any luck, she’d find a love interest tonight. Then it wouldn’t matter that she wasn’t his cousin, because she’d be taken anyway. ‘‘I’ll wait here while you change.’’
‘‘Oh, no, you won’t.’’ Still holding his arm, she pulled him toward a sofa. ‘‘Tell me what you learned.’’ With both hands, she pushed him to sit. ‘‘Now, damn it.’’
‘‘Has anyone ever told you you’re demanding?’’
‘‘Most everyone.’’ She sat beside him and licked her lips, kicking his pulse up a notch even though that was the last thing he wanted. ‘‘Did the man you hired find my father’s parents?’’
‘‘His mother is dead, but the man found his father. His name is Thomas Grimstead, same as his son. Colonel Thomas Grimstead—he was a military man, too.’’
She nodded, looking vulnerable in a way that made him want to hug her. ‘‘Is he still living in Yorkshire?’’
‘‘Not anymore. He’s living at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.’’
‘‘So close,’’ she murmured. The Royal Hospital wasn’t a hospital for the ill, but rather a government-funded home for pensioned soldiers. ‘‘I have a grandfather so close, and I never knew it.’’ She licked her lips again, proving Griffin a pathetic weakling of a man. ‘‘I want to see him. I want to meet him and find out if my father really committed treason.’’
‘‘I’m glad,’’ he said. It was better to know than to stay in denial. ‘‘I’ll take you Monday. No, Tuesday. I’ve got a meeting with my solicitor scheduled for Monday. I’m sorry.’’
‘‘You’re entitled to live your own life. I can wait. I’ve waited twenty-four years already.’’
‘‘I guess you have. Now
I’ll
wait while you change for the ball.’’
She sighed. ‘‘You’re not really going to hold me to that, are you? I don’t want to dance, so what is the point in going? I don’t feel up to having men paw me.’’
‘‘They wouldn’t dare. I’d issue a challenge on the spot.’’
‘‘To a duel? Just what I need . . . your death on my head.’’
‘‘You think I would lose? You wound me.’’ He playfully clutched his heart. ‘‘Get changed. You can dance with me,’’ he offered, vaguely wondering what the devil he was doing suggesting something that would result in his clenching his teeth all night. ‘‘Nothing but innocent, cousinly dances.’’
The Billingsgates had a rather impressive art collection, one Corinna had spent much time studying during the ball the Billingsgates held last Season. This year, although she once again found herself hovering in their picture gallery, she wasn’t enjoying herself nearly as much.
And she wasn’t studying the paintings this time, either. Mostly, she was trying to help Sean escape both the room and the guests who insisted on surrounding him. If she could manage that, maybe she could also manage to get him off alone.
She wanted to talk to him without everyone’s eyes on the two of them. She wanted him to look at her without it being a look of distress. She wanted to touch him and feel his touch in return. She wanted to be close enough to breathe in his scent.
And she was dying for a kiss.
Unfortunately, Lady Billingsgate’s guests weren’t cooperating. And neither was Lord Lincolnshire.
‘‘Wouldn’t you care for some air, Uncle?’’ Sean asked for the third time.
‘‘Oh, no. I’m . . . enjoying this conversation.’’
No doubt he basked in seeing his heir command so much attention. But Corinna had already had to save Sean from mistaking a watercolor for an oil and justify his description of a piece of William Hogarth’s as a ‘‘groundbreaking new work.’’
Not an easy task, considering Hogarth had died in 1764.
‘‘It was groundbreaking when it
was
a new work,’’ she’d said. Fortunately, the hangers-on bunched around Sean had nodded as though they’d interpreted his comment that way all along.
‘‘Oh, I do adore mythology as the subject for a painting,’’ Lady Trevelyan said now, moving on to the next piece of art. ‘‘What do you think of this one by Kauffmann, Mr. Hamilton?’’
‘‘Very detailed,’’ Sean said—a safe enough comment. But then he added, ‘‘I admire his—’’
‘‘His?’’
‘‘Joshua Reynolds, he means,’’ Corinna rushed to say. ‘‘Am I right, Mr. Hamilton? You were referring to Sir Joshua Reynolds, since
Angelica
Kauffmann was one of his protégées?’’
‘‘Joshua Reynolds, yes.’’ The smile he sent her was a grateful one. ‘‘As I was saying, I admire Reynolds for being open-minded enough to recognize a female artist.’’
‘‘That’s what I thought.’’ Corinna breathed a silent sigh of relief. ‘‘Although, of course, Kauffmann was widely recognized as one of the founders of the Royal Academy. One of only two female Academicians in its history, as a matter of fact.’’
Sean’s smile now was warm rather than grateful. ‘‘I look forward to your being the third.’’
Their gazes caught and held. He really
did
want to see her succeed. ‘‘I appreciate your support,’’ she said softly.
A gentleman cleared his throat. ‘‘Speaking of Reynolds,’’he said, moving along to stand before two large portraits. ‘‘What do you think, Mr. Hamilton, of Reynolds’s work as compared to Gainsborough’s?’’
‘‘Hmm.’’ Corinna saw Sean glance to the artists’ signatures. ‘‘This Gainsborough is rather sentimental, is it not, while the Reynolds here is, ah, more grand. Establishing the importance of the man portrayed rather than sympathy with the subject.’’
Though Sean looked quite proud of his analysis, the questioner frowned. ‘‘I meant in
general
, Mr. Hamilton, not these particular portraits. One man’s body of work juxtaposed against the other.’’
‘‘I do not judge entire bodies of work, sir. I never seek signatures prior to evaluating a painting. Each work should stand on its own—the artist’s identity shouldn’t influence my opinion of any specific picture.’’
The gentleman was clearly taken aback. ‘‘I thought all artists studied the masters’ techniques.’’
Corinna didn’t quite know what to say to that, so she was relieved when Juliana stepped forward and laughed. ‘‘Ah, there is your mistake, Lord Prescott,’’ her sister said. ‘‘One cannot make suppositions regarding ‘all artists.’ Artists are known to be eccentric, individualistic. They pride themselves on not conforming to convention. Therefore you should never expect a particular artist, such as Mr. Hamilton here, to approach other artists’ work in any singular, conforming manner.’’
Thank God for sisters, Corinna thought. Lord Lincolnshire also looked impressed with Juliana’s speech. He blinked madly. And then he coughed. And coughed again. A bit of froth appeared on his lips.
Looking alarmed, Sean dug out a handkerchief and dabbed it off. ‘‘I really think you need some air, Uncle. I insist.’’
‘‘Take me to the . . . doors, then. And . . . let me see . . . you dance’’—gasping, he looked to Deirdre— ‘‘with your wife.’’
Corinna was alarmed, too. ‘‘He cannot even get three syllables out before needing a breath,’’ she said to her sister as they followed Sean, Deirdre, and Lord Lincolnshire into the ballroom. ‘‘Maybe you should ask James to have a look at him.’’ Besides being an earl, Juliana’s husband was also a physician.
‘‘I’m sure Lord Lincolnshire has his own doctors.’’
‘‘But he’s getting worse.’’
‘‘He’s dying,’’ her sister reminded her gently.
‘‘But he might die before I finish his portrait, and he really wants to see it completed.’’
Juliana measured her for a moment. ‘‘All right. I’ll ask him.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Corinna said.
They watched Sean wheel Lord Lincolnshire over to the French doors, then turn to Deirdre and reluctantly escort her to the dance floor. The musicians struck up a country tune.
Corinna breathed a sigh of relief. ‘‘Thank goodness it isn’t a waltz.’’
‘‘Why is that?’’ Juliana asked.
‘‘Sean cannot waltz to save his life.’’
‘‘Sean?’’
‘‘Mr. Delaney,’’ Corinna corrected quickly. ‘‘And thank you for stepping in to save him. With any luck, that was the last in our long series of close calls.’’
A slow smile curved her sister’s lips. ‘‘
Our
, hmm?’’
‘‘Yes, our. You, me, Mr. Delaney, Alexandra, Griffin. We’re all in this together. All of us who know the secret.’’
Juliana’s smile remained. ‘‘
Our
could also mean just you and Sean—I mean, Mr. Delaney.’’ Now her smile widened at her own deliberate mistake. ‘‘The two of you belong together. Anyone can see it.’’