‘‘Our thanks for your time, sir.’’ Griffin curved an arm around her shoulders. ‘‘Let’s go,’’ he murmured under his breath. ‘‘Staying here will accomplish nothing.’’
She nodded and allowed him to draw her back toward the door. The huge room felt suddenly close and stifling, making her grateful to step out into the cool evening air. In the center of the deserted courtyard, a grand, bronze statue of King Charles thrust toward the sky, and she sat on its marble base, smoothing her dress over her knees and hugging them.
‘‘He’s gone,’’ she said. ‘‘He’s there, but he’s
gone
.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’ Griffin stood gazing down at her, looking as solid as the old brick building behind him. ‘‘I should have come to see him myself before bringing you.’’
‘‘No. I’d have wanted to see him, anyway. Just to convince myself he was my grandfather.’’
‘‘He has your eyes.’’
‘‘And my chin. We’re related; I’ve no doubt of that at all.’’ She hugged her knees tighter. ‘‘But he’ll never be able to tell me what happened to my father.’’
‘‘No, he won’t.’’ Griffin lowered his rangy frame to sit beside her. ‘‘He thinks your father is still a child.’’
A lone hawk circled overhead, looking as solitary as Rachael felt. ‘‘I’ll never really know who I am.’’
‘‘Ah, Rachael.’’ He shifted closer, wrapping an arm about her to pull her against him. ‘‘What your father did, however heinous, has nothing to do with who you are.’’
She dropped her head to his shoulder, taking comfort from his nearness, breathing in his warm male scent. ‘‘I know. I just wanted to
know
. I assure you, I wouldn’t have fallen apart had I learned the truth.’’
‘‘I never thought you would. You’re strong, Rachael.’’
‘‘You think so?’’
‘‘I know so.’’
There was conviction in his voice, and admiration, and something else she couldn’t identify, but it helped the knot in her middle loosen a little. It helped to have Griffin here. She’d always considered him an unreliable scapegrace, yet he’d been by her side all through this. Which seemed to lend her the strength she’d been missing. The strength he believed she had.
It was amazing what a difference it made to have someone believe in her.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘‘How shall we work this?’’ Setting his large case full of art supplies on the table, Sean glanced around the sparsely furnished garret studio. ‘‘Will you sit on the sofa?’’
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire sat on a sofa for the portrait,’’ Corinna pointed out, ‘‘so I think you should pose there. Did he fall asleep?’’
‘‘He didn’t. I think he might be getting better.’’ Sean wasn’t sure whether he was happy about that or not. Much as he liked the man, this couldn’t continue forever, could it?
‘‘Then how did you manage to leave him? What excuse did you give him?’’
‘‘I told him my painting wasn’t going well at Lincolnshire House, that I needed to work here instead. That’s why I brought along these supplies. I’d have looked a liar otherwise.’’
He’d brought candles, too, knowing it would grow dark as the evening wore on. He pulled them out of the case and set them up around the room and began lighting them.
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire didn’t mind, then?’’
‘‘I sent for Deirdre to keep him company.’’
Though his sister was nominally living at Lincolnshire House, she spent most of her waking hours at Daniel Raleigh’s place of business—or his home, where she planned to live with or without a divorce. Sean was less than thrilled with that, but he didn’t want to fight with his sister. He’d told the earl his wife was very fond of shopping.
Yet another lie, he thought with a sigh. ‘‘She wasn’t happy, but she agreed.’’
‘‘She should. You’re putting yourself out to secure her future.’’
If only Deirdre saw it that way. ‘‘Lincolnshire likes her,’’ he said dryly. ‘‘Thinks I chose a fine wife.’’
‘‘That’s good,’’ she said distractedly. ‘‘I like to paint standing, but I usually sit when I sketch.’’ She moved his case to the floor. ‘‘This table will do fine.’’
He lit the last candle. ‘‘I’ll get you a chair.’’
‘‘From where?’’
‘‘From one of my tenants.’’ At her blank look, he smiled. ‘‘I own this building, Corinna. And half the others on this street.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ Now she looked stunned. ‘‘I thought you said the studio was Mr. Hamilton’s. I guess you didn’t mean literally.’’
‘‘Hamilton said he plans to lease it when he returns. I intend to charge him a small fortune. I’ll be right back.’’
It took but a few minutes to run downstairs and borrow a chair from one of the shopkeepers on the ground floor. He returned to find Corinna with her sketchbook open, chewing on her bottom lip. She’d worried it pink and plump with her teeth.
At least, he assumed it was pink. It definitely looked darker than usual. And very enticing. He wanted to kiss away the marks, wanted that so badly he could already taste her. But if he kissed her now, he knew, this session would get way out of hand.
‘‘Sit,’’ he said instead, ‘‘while I undress.’’ He set down the chair so it faced the sofa.
‘‘Just a little bit,’’ she reminded him as she lowered herself to it.
He sat across from her and pulled off his shoes and stockings. ‘‘Will this do?’’
She stared at his bare feet, seeming rather riveted by them, to his amusement. ‘‘Lord Lincolnshire’s feet aren’t in the picture,’’ she finally said. ‘‘Just a little more.’’
He rose and shrugged out of his tailcoat. ‘‘Will this do, then?’’
She cracked a smile. ‘‘A little more.’’
He unbuttoned and took off his waistcoat.
‘‘More.’’
He untied and drew off his cravat.
‘‘A little more.’’
He saw her swallow as he removed his braces. He unfastened the top button on his shirt.
‘‘Wait.’’
‘‘Wait?’’ His fingers paused on the second button as he raised a brow. ‘‘You’re going to draw this wee bit of my throat?’’
A nervous laugh escaped. ‘‘Your hands. Lord Lincolnshire’s hands are in the picture. I’ve decided to start with your hands.’’
‘‘I’m thinking you’ve sketched hands before. Your sisters’, perhaps?’’
‘‘Yes, of course. But I need a man’s hands.’’
‘‘Lincolnshire had two, I believe. Quite naked at the time he sat for you.’’
‘‘Old hands. I painted him younger.’’
‘‘Your brother’s hands, then. Surely he’s sat for you.’’
‘‘Not without grumbling. And never long enough.’’
‘‘I don’t remember you mentioning that any of the artists criticized Lincolnshire’s hands. I’m thinking you’ve probably mastered the painting of hands.’’
‘‘It is notoriously difficult to paint hands,’’ she said in clipped tones. ‘‘Will you just sit down and show me your hands?’’
Evidently she was anxious, which was hardly surprising. This was rather unnerving for him as well. ‘‘All right,’’ he said, sitting and placing his hands on his spread knees. ‘‘Will this do?’’
‘‘That will do fine.’’ She blew out a breath. ‘‘Just relax.’’
‘‘I might suggest you do the same.’’
‘‘Yes. Of course. Right.’’ She scooted her chair closer, put pencil to paper. ‘‘However did you come to own half this neighborhood?’’
He didn’t usually talk to people about his property, his businesses, his company. He’d learned over the years that it made others envious. They couldn’t understand how a single man could have so much, and they certainly didn’t believe he’d worked hard and earned it honestly. They figured he’d come by it through luck or fraud or chicanery—or all three.
He’d grown up tithing, and these days he gave quite a bit of money to charity—more money every year than most people ever saw in a whole lifetime. But people didn’t seem to care about that. They wanted what he had for themselves, and they resented him for having it when they didn’t. They thought he should simply agree to give them some of it. Or they plotted ways to steal some of it, or destroy some of it.
Mother Mary, he’d never been able to decide which was worst.
Quite a few people did know, of course. People in high places, people he often dealt with. People those people had told. It was inevitable, he supposed, and he accepted that, even though it sometimes made life difficult. But he operated on the general principle that anyone who didn’t already know—and had no reason to know—would be better kept in the dark.
But Corinna . . . How could he justify keeping Corinna in the dark any longer? He’d been kissing her. She stirred his blood, and he’d become equally attracted to her intellect. He admired her. She seemed to fill a void in his life he hadn’t known was there, and he’d been thinking of marrying her.
Though he remained far from convinced he actually could, the thought had surely crossed his mind. And she’d been asking for details for quite a while now. Not forcefully, but sweetly. Under the circumstances, it didn’t feel right to keep dodging her questions.
‘‘I have a knack,’’ he finally said.
Her eyes were on her sketch, but a faint smile curved her lips. ‘‘Deirdre said you’d say that.’’
‘‘When was that?’’
‘‘At the Billingsgate ball.’’ She focused on his left hand, drew a few lines. ‘‘She told me you departed Ireland with nothing, and the next time she saw you, you owned several pieces of property.’’
‘‘I didn’t start with nothing,’’ he corrected. ‘‘My uncle left me an inheritance.’’
‘‘How much?’’
‘‘Ten thousand pounds.’’
She nodded, clearly unimpressed. Sean hadn’t expected any different. Ten thousand might be a fortune to a vicar’s son in Ireland, but to a marquess’s daughter in Mayfair?
It was a pittance.
Such different people they were, from such different backgrounds. He might have money now and dress like a gentleman, but he’d never have met her were it not for Hamilton. He’d never have spoken to her. Never have danced with her or shared ices in Berkeley Square.
And they’d certainly never have kissed.
He shifted uneasily, thinking he shouldn’t be doing this.
Knowing
he shouldn’t be doing this. It was too tempting for them both, and he didn’t know how he was going to take off any more of his clothes without her attacking him and him allowing it. Or, more likely, encouraging it.
She was only sketching his hands so far, he reminded himself. There was no need to panic yet.
‘‘What happened after you received the inheritance?’’ she asked.
‘‘I left my family, came to London, bought a small, run-down building. By myself I fixed it up, and then I sold it for a profit. That’s when I discovered I have a knack.’’
‘‘For buying and selling property?’’
‘‘For making money,’’ he said with a grin.
He couldn’t help himself. He rarely talked about this with anyone, and he was rather proud of himself, after all. The seventh deadly sin, his father would have reminded him had he been alive to see how far his son had come. But Sean would have laughed, because he believed a man was entitled to find satisfaction in a job well done.
As was a lady, he thought, watching her sketch. ‘‘I bought a larger building and did it again,’’ he explained. ‘‘And again. Eventually I had enough funds to hire other people to fix up the buildings, so I could concentrate on finding and buying them faster, and after that, I realized it might be more profitable to keep some of the buildings—select ones, based on criteria—and make money leasing them out.’’
‘‘Deirdre said you own more than buildings. Businesses. Manufactories. And ships, too, she told me.’’
His sister had a big mouth. No wonder Corinna had been so curious. ‘‘Well, now, one of the tenants I leased to had a business that was about to fail, and I realized I could fix that, too. So I bought it and made it profitable. And then I bought other businesses. And started some. Some of the businesses required supplies that came from outside the country, and I realized I could make more profit by importing such supplies myself. And importing supplies for other people. And exporting some of the things I was manufacturing, and some other things other people were manufacturing—’’ He cut himself off and shrugged. ‘‘I seem to have a knack for making money all sorts of ways.’’
She froze midsketch, stunned. And admiring. All the men she knew were wealthy, of course, but their wealth came from owning land. Mostly from owning land for generations—the same land, for hundreds of years. None of them had started with nothing, or even ten thousand pounds, and built their wealth all by themselves.
No other men she knew had a knack for making money. Or a knack for much of anything else, come to think of it. Except maybe sitting a horse or tying a perfect cravat.
‘‘How is it coming?’’ he asked.
‘‘I beg your pardon?’’