The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

CORINNA

  Lauren Royal & Devon Royal

  CHASE FAMILY TREE

  To see a larger version of the Chase Family Tree, click here!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Our heartfelt thanks:

  To Deborah Alexander, MD, for helping us choose an appropriate illness for Lord Lincolnshire and spending much precious time describing all the pertinent details. (For anyone who may not know, dropsy is currently called edema and in Lord Lincolnshire's case was caused by heart failure.)

  To Andrew Potter, research assistant at the Royal Academy Library, for the list of Academicians on the 1817 Selection Committee and historical information on the selection process.

  To our Chase Family Readers’ Group, for their enthusiastic support.

  And to our readers, because we do this for you.

  Thank you, one and all!

  For Uncle Bert

  We will miss you forever and ever!

  PROLOGUE

  IRISH WHISKEY CAKE

  Take butter with sugar and put in this eggs and flour and a bit ‘o coffee to make a nice flavour. Put in your pan and bake in your oven. Make a syrup of coffee with much sugar and a wee dram ‘o whiskey and pour this into your cake. Bring to table with sweet whiskey cream and a sprinkle of nuts.

  My mother used to caution, “Who gossips with you will gossip of you.” Nonetheless, she surely did love to gossip. She used to serve this cake when the womenfolk came for tea. She claimed it loosened ladies’ tongues.

  —Deirdre Delaney Raleigh, 1819

  Kilburton, Ireland

  November 1809

  On a damp Tuesday shortly after he turned sixteen, life as Sean Delaney had known it ceased to exist.

  First he received a letter, an event in itself. Everyone Sean knew lived in the village of Kilburton—nobody had reason to write him a letter. A very official letter it looked, too. As Sean watched the lad who’d delivered it retreat down the lane, his mother came in from the sitting room where she’d been serving tea to some womenfolk from the parish.

  “Was it not Mary McBride, then?” Ma asked. “She’s late.”

  “It wasn’t Mrs. McBride.” Sean shut the door and turned to her, the single folded sheet clutched in a hand. “It’s a letter. For me.”

  “For you?” Her pleasant, guileless face looked as surprised as he felt. “Well, open it, then, won’t you?”

  He nodded and broke the seal.

  “Who is it from?” she asked impatiently.

  “A solicitor.” Below the imposing engraved letterhead, he scanned down the page. “‘On behalf of Mr. Patrick Delaney—’”

  “Never heard of him.”

  He shrugged. “One of Da’s relations, perhaps.”

  “Your father has no living relations.” She frowned. “What is he wanting, then?”

  “He’s wanting…” He read further and gasped. “Begorrah!” His head shot up. “He’s not wanting anything. He’s dead. And he left ten thousand pounds. To me.”

  “Ten thousand pounds?”

  To a vicar’s wife like Ma, the number was incomprehensible—enough to support a villager and his family and even a servant or two for fifty years. Staring at Sean, she slowly lowered herself to a plain oak chair. Muffled feminine voices could be heard from the sitting room—her guests were having a gossip, no doubt. Uncharacteristically, she ignored them.

  “Ten thousand pounds, Sean. Whatever will you do with so much money?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  But he did know. He’d known instantly. He just didn’t want to tell her.

  He didn’t want to disappoint her, not yet.

  “I’m after going for a walk.” He grabbed a heavy wool cloak from the peg by the door. “I shan’t be gone long,” he promised before slipping outside.

  It was raining, as usual this time of year. As usual all year, come to that. Tucking the letter inside the cloak where it would stay dry, he hurried down the lane.

  Such a vast amount of money, more than Ma had seen in her entire lifetime. She would want him to do good with it. Charitable works or some such. She was a vicar’s wife, after all, and a kindly one at that.

  But Sean had something else in mind. Oh, he’d pay the expected tithe, of course. He was a vicar’s son, after all. The amount would be an unprecedented windfall for the parish, one Sean would be pleased to give. He’d been raised by this congregation—spent his entire life surrounded by them, cocooned in their comforting familiarity—and it seemed right that they should share a tenth of his good fortune.

  But after that, he was going to leave Ireland.

  He was going to London.

  He was going to make a life for himself, something better than he’d ever imagined growing up in wee Kilburton.

  He was still quite young. People in London might not take him seriously at first. And it wouldn’t be easy to leave kinfolk and friends, to strike out on his own. He knew that. His heart seemed both heavy and light as he turned away from the village, crossed the harvested fields, wandered the age-old riverbank. Touching the precious letter beneath his cloak, he alternately laughed, pondering his immense luck, and trembled, wondering what lay ahead.

  Hours passed—tense, exhilarating hours—before he took a deep breath and started home. It had stopped raining. When he reentered the village, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays fighting through the cloud cover as he trod the lane toward the vicarage. Just before he reached the squat house, two figures came out of it, dark shadows against the silvery glow.

  “You have no choice.” The Honorable Mr. William Hamilton’s voice came low and angry through the gloom. An imposing man if not a tall one, he was the same height as the son he pulled toward their fancy carriage. “Not this time.”

  Wondering what was going on but not wanting to be seen, Sean hid himself behind a tree.

  “You paid off the last one,” young John Hamilton whined. “And the maid—“

  “Two. Two maids, there were.” His father pushed him up the carriage’s steps. “This one’s not some servant’s get, you idiot,” he muttered, following his son inside. “I’d lose face should you not—“

  The door shut, and Sean heard nothing else. As the carriage rumbled off, he stepped from behind the tree and hurried into the house.

  It was warm, welcoming, filled with the soft light of oil lamps and the scent of the whiskey cake his mother had baked earlier for her guests. A good home, simple but clean and cared for. Sean had a fine family, a sister two years older and parents who had always been there for both of them, giving of their hearts although they’d never had much to give materially.

  He felt sad, knowing he’d soon be leaving all of this, and also excited about his new life. But mostly, he was mighty curious to learn what had made the Hamiltons leave their huge manor house to pay a call at the modest vicarage.

  Hearing voices from the sitting room, he headed there. And stopped short when his sister turned to him with a grin. “I’m marrying John Hamilton.”

  Sean gaped at eighteen-year-old Deirdre. He couldn’t have heard her right. “What did you just say?”

  Her golden hair gleamed in the firelight as she bounced to her feet. “Mr. Hamilton told John he’d have to marry me.”

  “But why?” His gaze shot from his father’s bloodless face to his mother’s eyes, swollen from weeping. There could be only one reason they looked like that, one reason John Hamilton might be forced to wed Deirdre. “Don’t tell me you’re…” As he looked back to his sister, the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.

  Her grin widened as she folded her hands over her deceivingly flat middle. “Aye, little brother, I’m with child. And I’ll be the wife of John Hamilton, the handsomest, richest young man in all of Kilburton.”

  In all of the county, more like. The Hamiltons’ lofty new manor house sat in the shadow of their ancestral home, centuries-old Kilburton Castle. John Hamilton’s father was the younger brother of the Earl of Lincolnshire, sent years ago t
o oversee Kilburton, one of the earl’s many lesser estates.

  Growing up, Sean and Deirdre had been educated in a chilly one-room schoolhouse, while John had a parade of private English tutors. The boy had always been temperamental, and Sean had thought him haughty, unfeeling, and selfish. But since there were no other lads near their age in Kilburton, Sean’s mother had told him to play with John anyway. After all, as she’d often say, it was the Christian thing to do.

  Being a dutiful sort of son, Sean did as he was told. But John had always made them stay inside fiddling with paste and paint, instead of engaging in the outdoor pursuits Sean preferred, like fishing and building forts. He’d never really liked John Hamilton.

  Deirdre, on the other hand, a rather wild girl and the bane of her parents’ existence, obviously liked John Hamilton just fine.

  Fine enough to let John…

  Sean couldn’t finish the thought.

  Still and all, he loved his sister. She was lovely and fun, the best of companions, always ready with a smile and a plan for mischief. Looking at her now, her eyes dancing, he sadly shook his head. She had no idea what she was in for. John might seem nice when he wanted something from you, but once he’d gotten what he wanted…

  Sean clenched his fists.

  He no longer disliked John Hamilton. He hated him.

  For life.

  ONE

  Eight years later

  The British Museum, London

  April 1817

  “We want to see the Rosetta Stone,” two impatient voices chorused.

  For the third time.

  “Just a few more minutes,” Lady Corinna Chase promised her sisters, her gaze focused on her sketchbook.

  “A few is three,” Alexandra, the oldest, pointed out.

  “Or maybe five,” added Juliana, the middle sister.

  “But certainly not thirty,” Alexandra went on. “You said ‘a few more minutes’ half an hour ago.”

  “And half an hour before that,” Juliana put in.

  Corinna was used to ignoring her sisters’ chatter, but the squeak of wheels threatened her concentration. Alexandra was rolling a perambulator back and forth in hopes of soothing Harold, her infant son. Though ladies generally didn’t make a habit of carting their babies around town—most aristocratic mothers happily left their children in the care of wet nurses and nannies—Alexandra had insisted on buying one of the newfangled contraptions, because she rarely let little Harry out of her sight.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. “How can you gaze at statues for so long?”

  “I’m not gazing. I’m sketching.” Corinna drew another line, following the curve of the marble figure’s muscled thigh. “And as you see, this is not a statue, it’s a panel. Part of a frieze from the famous Parthenon in Greece, to be exact. And more importantly, the figures carved on it are anatomically correct.”

  Which was the reason she’d come, of course. The reason she’d been willing to drag herself out of bed at a preposterous hour to come see the Elgin Marbles. Corinna wanted nothing more than to study human anatomy so she could improve her skill in portraiture. Unfortunately, the anatomy classes at the Royal Academy of Arts were entirely forbidden to girls.

  Entirely.

  Forbidden.

  It was infuriating. Corinna’s fondest wish was to be elected to the Royal Academy, an honor no woman had attained since 1768. Though she harbored no illusions of accomplishing this goal at the tender age of seventeen—for one thing, Academicians were required to be at least twenty-four years old—earning a nomination was a long, involved process, and she hoped to take her first step within a matter of weeks, by getting one of her paintings accepted for the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition.

  That was something girls did accomplish on a regular basis, although not usually with portraits. Proper ladies painted only landscapes and still lifes—painting people was considered unseemly. But Corinna’s heart lay in portraiture. As she’d grown older, she’d found herself more and more drawn to the human figure, fascinated by the challenge of capturing a personality on canvas.

  But how was she supposed to paint people accurately if she wasn’t allowed to attend anatomy classes?

  “We cannot stay much longer,” Juliana said. “I need to make sure everything’s in place for Cornelia’s wedding.” Cornelia, Juliana’s mother-in-law, was marrying Lord Cavanaugh at her home later that evening. “And I want to see the Rosetta Stone,” she added for the fourth time.

  “So go see it.”

  “And I want to see the gems and minerals,” Alexandra said. “And the jeweled—“

  “Go see it all. Go see every rock in the museum.” Corinna flipped a page, refocusing on the nude form of the gorgeous Greek god before her. “I’ll be right here.”

  “That would take an hour or more.” Squeak. Squeak. “We cannot leave you here in the Elgin Gallery alone.”

  “I’m not alone. There are people everywhere.” Too many people, constantly jostling her and blocking her view.

  “The Rosetta Stone is in the main building.”

  “It’s perfectly proper for two married ladies to cross the museum grounds together.” Unlike Corinna, who was a bit of a free spirit, her sisters seemed always concerned with being proper. “I knew I should have brought Aunt Frances along instead. She’s more patient than either of you.”

  “She’s also nine months gone with child,” Alexandra retorted. She sighed. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Make that two or three,” Corinna muttered as they left. Hearing the pram squeak-squeak away, she smiled. She and the Greek god were alone at last.

  Holy Hannah, he was magnificent.

  Major changes in Sean Delaney’s life always seemed to be heralded by a letter.

  The first had been the letter informing him of his unexpected inheritance, of course, but more letters had followed. A year later, a letter had relayed the devastating news that he was now an orphan, his parents having succumbed to smallpox. In the years that followed, he’d received numerous letters each time he’d established a new enterprise, each time he’d bought an ongoing concern, each time he’d purchased a piece of property. And six months ago, a letter had arrived from his older sister, Deirdre, confessing her unhappiness in her marriage (surprise, surprise) and announcing her intention to leave John Hamilton and come live with her brother instead.

  But when Sean’s butler brought him a letter this fine spring morning in Hampstead, he broke the seal without a second thought. Opened it. Scanned the scrawled message quickly.

  Then crumpled it into a ball and hurled it into his library’s fancy white marble fireplace.

  “Who was it from?” Deirdre asked from the plush blue velvet chair where she’d draped herself with a book.

  She was still a beauty, though you wouldn’t have known it when she’d first arrived. After eight long, bitter years of fighting with her weasel of a husband, Deirdre had looked haggard when she’d shown up on Sean’s doorstep. She’d looked run-down and wretched and much older than twenty-six.

  As Sean feared, John Hamilton had treated her like dirt. Or less than dirt, considering one usually noticed dirt and did something about it. In contrast, Hamilton preferred to ignore his Deirdre completely, while amusing himself with an endless parade of other women. None of whom he bothered to try to conceal from his wife.

  The worst of it was that she’d miscarried three months into their marriage, losing not only a child, but the only bright spot in her gloomy new life. Poor, heartbroken Deirdre remained childless and lonely, while Hamilton, who’d gained a reputation as a talented young artist as well as a notorious scoundrel, had illegitimate offspring all over Great Britain.

  Sean sipped his tea, glaring at at the paper ball in the empty fireplace, wishing it weren’t such a warm, sunny day. Had there been a proper fire on the hearth, the letter would have been ashes by now. “It was from your husband.” The final word left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “From John? What did he s
ay?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I’m done with him.”

  Sean wished she were done with him. The reason Deirdre looked so much better lately was that she’d met Daniel Raleigh, a prosperous merchant Sean sometimes worked with. The two had fallen head-over-heels in love and wanted to marry. But despite her desperate pleas, Hamilton refused to grant her a divorce.

  Maddeningly, women weren’t given the same rights as men when it came to ending a marriage. Only the husband could sue for divorce, and it seemed Hamilton preferred to stay wed. Apparently he found Deirdre a convenient prop for deflecting any woman who might dare ask for commitment after finding herself carrying Hamilton’s child. Such conversations could grow tiresome, you see.

  And what could Deirdre’s screaming anguish possibly matter, next to Hamilton’s slight discomfort?

  The weasel.

  “He wants me to meet with him at noon,” Sean told his sister. “At the British Museum. He claims he has ‘something important’ to discuss.”

  Hope leapt into her eyes. “My divorce?”

  He shook his head. “It sounded more like a favor. What makes him think I’d do him a favor? Me, of all people?”

  She sighed and returned to her book. “It doesn’t signify. Divorce or no, Daniel wants me to come live with him, and I’ve decided I will.”

  Sean nearly spat out a mouthful of tea.

  Raleigh had a fine house and could provide well for Deirdre. He was a steady man of good character. Sean liked him, and he treated Deirdre like a princess.

  But all of that was beside the point.

  “Begorrah,Deirdre! You’ll live with him as his mistress?”

  “I made a mistake, Sean. I’ll be the first to admit that. But haven’t I suffered for it long enough? John’s already stolen nearly a decade of my life.” She set her book aside. “I’d much prefer to marry Daniel, but that isn’t an option. He’s willing to have me anyway, and it’s time I lived again.”