‘‘I changed it all for Noah.’’ Having come of age last year, her brother had finally taken responsibility for the earldom—a responsibility Rachael had borne herself since their parents died when she was just fifteen. ‘‘To make it his, not Papa’s and Mama’s.’’
How thoughtful. How Rachael. ‘‘But some of your mother’s things are in here now?’’
‘‘In that chest.’’ She gestured toward the one heavy, dark piece of furniture, a large carved trunk set in a corner. ‘‘Noah had it brought down from the attic.’’ Her voice sounded thin. ‘‘He said nothing in it is important.’’
‘‘He could be wrong,’’ he said, hoping that was the case. ‘‘Let’s have a look.’’
‘‘Yes, let’s.’’ She crossed to the trunk and removed an embroidered covering and a lamp someone had set on top. Then she knelt and took a deep breath before reverently opening the lid. A musty scent wafted out, starch and aged leather mixed with hints of her mother’s gardenia perfume. ‘‘Oh, God, Griffin.’’
Griffin knelt beside her. ‘‘Pretty,’’ he murmured, lifting a straw hat from atop the contents.
‘‘It’s years out of style. I remember her wearing it when I was a child.’’ Rachael removed a few more dated items of clothing, then shook out a white gown. ‘‘This must be the wedding dress Noah mentioned. I remember seeing it in their wedding portrait.’’
Though clearly out of fashion, it was lacy and beautiful. Georgiana, Rachael’s mother, had been slender like her daughter, all willowy, graceful curves, and she obviously hadn’t been pregnant long when she married John Chase. The dress looked like it would fit Rachael perfectly. ‘‘Will you wear it for your own wedding someday, too, now that you’ve found it?’’
‘‘I’d love to, but . . .’’ Her eyes grew misty as she stared into the trunk. ‘‘Damn. I am not going to cry.’’
Rachael could cuss as colorfully as a cavalryman, but that didn’t bother Griffin. He considered it part of her charm. It reminded him she’d spent years as the Earl of Greystone in all but name, and he admired her for that. ‘‘But what?’’ he prompted.
‘‘She wore it for her wedding to him. Lord Greystone. Not my father.’’
He reached out to take her chin and turn her to face him. ‘‘Lord Greystone was your father in every way that counted. I’m sure he would have wanted you to wear it. He would have been honored, as a matter of fact.’’
She nodded and swallowed hard. ‘‘I’m not sure I’ll ever marry, anyway.’’
‘‘Of course you will. Any man would be lucky to have you. I’m surprised Noah hasn’t found you a match.’’
‘‘Noah?’’ Her eyes cleared, and she laughed, turning back to the trunk. ‘‘Who would run his household should I wed? He won’t be matching me anytime soon.’’
Though but eighteen months her junior, Noah had always seemed far less mature. But Griffin couldn’t imagine any man wanting the responsibility of three sisters. Much better to find them good husbands and enjoy their company from time to time without worrying over the lot of them.
A few old books lay beneath the clothes, but they were all signed,
To Georgiana with love from Mama,
and dated with her early birthdays, giving no clues to her first husband. There were no diaries or anything else of a personal nature. A stack of letters tied with a ribbon held no pertinent information, either. They were all written in the years following Rachael’s birth.
When the trunk was otherwise empty, Rachael found a tiny box in the bottom and pulled it out. It held a narrow, plain gold band.
‘‘Her wedding ring?’’ Griffin guessed.
‘‘She was buried wearing her wedding ring. Unless . . .’’ She glanced up at him, wonder in her eyes. ‘‘This must be from her marriage to my father.’’ She looked inside, turning the band to catch the light. ‘‘No inscription. No clues.’’ Sighing, she slipped it onto the fourth finger of her right hand. ‘‘It fits.’’
‘‘I’m not surprised.’’ Griffin’s knees creaked when he stood and stretched. ‘‘That’s it, then, is it?’’
‘‘Everything in here was old, things she didn’t use anymore, things it made sense to have put away.’’ Leaving the ring on her finger, she started putting everything else back. ‘‘I guess she didn’t have a lot to keep. Mama led a quiet life.’’
He nodded. ‘‘My parents often left us with our governesses,but I remember your mother was always home with you.’’
‘‘She never went up to London. She said the air there was bad for her lungs.’’ Another dismal sigh escaped her lips as she replaced the last few items and shut the trunk. ‘‘Noah was right. There was nothing important here. I’m sorry I wasted your time.’’
‘‘It wasn’t a waste, Rachael.’’ He watched her spread the embroidered cloth, the narrow gold ring glinting as she moved. ‘‘Did your mother have no other jewels?’’
The lamp in her hand, she froze. ‘‘Yes, of course she did. I’ve had them all along. She may have been quiet, but she liked pretty things. She willed all her jewels to me. Claire and Elizabeth each chose a few pieces, but the rest are in my room.’’
He took the lamp from her and set it down decisively, then reached a hand to help her up. ‘‘We should have looked at them last time. Maybe something will be engraved—’’
‘‘Nothing is. I would have noticed.’’
Yes, she probably would have. Rachael was nothing if not observant. ‘‘Let’s have a look, though, shall we?’’
Rachael’s chamber was deep rose and rich green and dark blue, a combination as classic and sophisticated as Rachael herself. Another of her mother’s watercolors hung over her washstand. Fetching a mahogany box off her dressing table, she brought it with her to sit on the bed and patted the spot beside her in invitation, apparently comfortable having an unmarried man in her room.
Griffin wished he could say the same. It felt highly improper to be in here.
He sat, though, when she opened the box. Filled to the brim, it sparkled with gold and lustrous pearls, diamonds and colorful gems. Griffin didn’t know much about jewelry, but he recognized a fortune when he saw it.
His eyes must have widened, because Rachael laughed at the look on his face. ‘‘This family is descended from jewelers,’’ she reminded him. ‘‘My great-great-grandmother, or some such.’’
‘‘I think you need a few more ‘greats,’ ’’ he said, remembering now. ‘‘Her father’s shop burned in the Great Fire, did it not? Way back in the 1660s?’’
‘‘Something like that. Some cousins own another shop in London. It was started by one of her sons, I think. In any case, there are many more jewels, including some very old ones, in the safe in Claire’s workshop.’’ Her sister Claire had taken up the old family hobby. ‘‘These were Mama’s personal items. Some family heirlooms given to her by my father—Lord Greystone, I mean— and some newer things. But nothing I could identify as coming from her first husband.’’
Griffin sifted through the treasure trove, rings and bracelets glittering as they slipped through his fingers. He recognized a diamond necklace as one Rachael had worn to a ball at Cainewood two summers earlier. A pair of ruby earrings that looked like the ones in her mother’s formal portrait. A brooch he had often seen pinned on Georgiana’s dress.
A locket made him momentarily hopeful, but it held a swatch of hair, not a miniature or a note. No dates or names were engraved on anything.
Then another brooch caught his eye. ‘‘The Prince of Wales’s Feathers,’’ he murmured, pulling it from the pile.
Three silver plumes rose from a gold coronet of alternate crosses and fleurs-de-lis, studded with rubies and emeralds. Along the bottom, a gold ribbon bore a motto.
‘‘What does it say?’’ Rachael asked.
‘‘ ‘
Ich Dien
.’ I serve.’’ He looked at her, his heart pounding. ‘‘Your father . . . I mean, John Chase, Lord Greystone . . . was he ever in the cavalry?’’
‘‘Of course not. His younger brother served in the army, but Grandfather would never have allowed his heir to risk his life.’’
‘‘I thought not. This may be our clue.’’
She blinked. ‘‘It’s a national symbol of Wales, is it not? I assumed it was a souvenir from a visit.’’
‘‘It’s a military badge. From the Tenth Hussars. My regiment.’’
Hope leapt into her sky blue eyes. ‘‘Do you think it was given to my mother by a member?’’
‘‘An officer, from the looks of this piece. An enlisted man would wear a much less expensive version.’’ The metal felt cool in his fingers as he turned it over. Nothing was engraved on the back.
‘‘No more clues,’’ she said with a sigh.
‘‘This alone may be enough. Would you mind if I keep it a while?’’
‘‘Of course not. But how can it help you find my father?’’
He slipped it into his pocket. ‘‘He died in 1792, sometime in the months after you were conceived but before you were born—that much we know. We weren’t at war then. Louis the Sixteenth had yet to be tried and executed, and Napoleon didn’t come to power until ’ninety-nine. There shouldn’t have been many deaths that year; the Tenth would have been at home; in peacetime, there are few casualties. I’ll go to regimental headquarters and ask to see the records.’’
It would take two days to get there, a day to search the records, and another two days to ride home. Five days during which Corinna wouldn’t meet any suitable men. But much as he wanted his sister married and off his hands, he didn’t mind.
Rachael’s happiness was important, too.
Although another woman might have made a token protest, Rachael wasn’t that sort. ‘‘Thank you,’’ she said instead, two simple, grateful words. ‘‘Do you expect you can find something that could tell us who he was?’’
He shrugged, not wanting to get her hopes up. ‘‘I can try. I’ll bring you back to London now, and I’d like to take Corinna to Lady Partridge’s ball tomorrow night. I’ll leave for regimental headquarters first thing Sunday morning and hopefully have an answer for you by Thursday.’’
‘‘An officer,’’ she breathed. ‘‘Someone important.’’
A bark of a laugh burst out of him. ‘‘It doesn’t take importance to buy a commission. Only money.’’
Her eyes shone. ‘‘You were important. You led campaigns in the Peninsular War. Your patrol brought news of the Prussian retreat at Wavre, thus influencing the Duke of Wellington to fight at Waterloo.’’
‘‘How do you know all that?’’
‘‘Your sisters. They’re proud of you. You’d have been at Waterloo had your brother not died.’’
‘‘Well, he did,’’ he said flatly, keeping the bitterness out of his voice.
He’d never wanted to be a marquess. And he’d felt damned ineffective since becoming one. But here, now, was a chance to use his military connections to advantage. To help someone.
To help Rachael.
And that thought made him entirely too pleased.
Chapter Eight
‘‘You’re not going to stay up ’til all hours, are you?’’
In a creative haze, Corinna turned from her easel and blinked at her brother in the drawing room’s doorway. It was close to midnight, and she hadn’t realized he’d returned home. ‘‘I’m starting a new painting.’’
‘‘You didn’t answer my question. I’ve had a long day, and I’m off to bed. Will you also be retiring soon?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’ Irritated, she set down her palette. ‘‘It depends upon how this goes.’’
Griffin walked closer. ‘‘Doesn’t look like much.’’
‘‘Yet.’’ All she’d done was layer the pale gray ground that she used as the undertint for her paintings, with a rough white oval in the upper middle.
‘‘What is it going to be?’’
‘‘I’m not sure,’’ she hedged.
But she knew what she wanted it to be: a portrait. That was why she’d laid the white oval where she planned to paint the face. Flesh tones would appear brighter over white than gray, and she wanted the face to be luminous.
And she wanted it to be a
good
portrait. That was why she’d sketched the Elgin Marbles.
‘‘I want you to get a good night’s sleep,’’ Griffin pressed. ‘‘I’ve several men I want you to meet at Lady Partridge’s ball tomorrow evening.’’
Not that again.
Your turn will come next,
she rememberedJuliana saying. All she wanted was to concentrate on her art, but everyone wanted to marry her off.
Her creative haze had dissipated, like paint swiped with turpentine. ‘‘Well, then, I will certainly go to bed,’’ she said sarcastically, thinking she hadn’t decided whom she wanted to paint, anyway.
‘‘I’m glad to hear it,’’ Griffin said, evidently missing her sarcasm. ‘‘By the way, I need to leave Sunday morning, and I probably won’t be back until Thursday. I won’t be able to take you to Almack’s on Wednesday night.’’
‘‘What a pity.’’ Day after day of painting without interruptions, while he was busy dealing with some problem at Cainewood or whatever. Though she vaguely wondered what he was going to do, she didn’t want to prolong this discussion. ‘‘That’s too bad, Griffin,’’ she said, hiding a smile. ‘‘Good night.’’
Looking forward to the week ahead, she hummed as she cleaned up and put everything away. Then she went upstairs to her room, lit a candle from the fireplace, and ducked into her dressing room to grab a nightgown.