by Darcy Burke
“What would Ma say? And Da?” For the first time ever, Sean was almost glad they were gone. They’d both have been mortified. Though their daughter had always been a wild one, this went beyond inappropriate. It was unthinkable.
Sean pushed his chair back from the table and rose. ”Deirdre, you’re not thinking this through. You’ve a chance for a fresh start here in London. If you want to be accepted by society, you need to abide by its rules.”
“I’m not part of society.”
He’d begun to pace. ”I’m not meaning in the sense of the aristocracy, and you know it. The public in general, Deirdre, the respectable people. Someday you’ll have children. Do you want them to be outcasts?”
“No, I won’t have children, not if I stay with my husband!” she snapped. “Better to be an outcast than never to be born, don’t you think?”
He strode to the fireplace, snatched out the crumpled paper, and smoothed it on his rosewood desk. “I’ll meet with Hamilton. We’ll work this out. There’s just enough time to get to the British Museum by noon—”
“Don’t.” She leapt from her chair to seize his arm. “This is my mess, little brother. And you’ve got your own work to attend to.”
“I’ve no work that matters as much as this.”
“I won’t have you begging on my behalf. It’s humiliating.”
“And your living in sin won’t be? I’m going. You cannot stop me.”
He shook her off and went to summon his curricle. On the ride into town, he prayed fervently that, instead of a favor, “something important” would turn out to be the divorce that would save Deirdre from being ruined (again).
TWO
“I have a problem,” Hamilton drawled when Sean met him in the museum lobby. “I require your help.” He beckoned. “I wish to view the new Elgin Marbles exhibition.”
“That hardly presents a problem,” Sean said dryly, waving toward the back of Montagu House. “You need only walk through here and outside.”
Never one for humor, Hamilton slanted a look at him as they fell into step. “My uncle, the Earl of Lincolnshire, is dying.”
“My condolences,” Sean said automatically, though Hamilton looked cheerful enough (for him). As always, he was flamboyantly dressed. His waistcoat appeared brown to Sean, which likely meant it was actually a bright red or green. “Though I’m not sure how I can help with that.”
“That is not the problem. I’m Lincolnshire’s heir, you see,” he said smugly. “But the old man wishes to acquaint himself with me before he dies. He hasn’t seen me for many years—not since I was an infant, in fact.”
“So he wants to meet the fellow who’s inheriting his title and fortune. I don’t find that surprising,” Sean said as they stepped outdoors. “Or particularly problematic.”
Hamilton’s estrangement from his uncle was no surprise, either. Deirdre’s dear husband was an infamous recluse. He claimed that keeping to himself—with the exception of female companionship, of course—helped maintain his artistic vision. But Sean had known the weasel long enough to realize what he really meant to maintain was his pretentious, “mysterious” persona. And maybe his distance from those he disliked.
Which was nearly everyone.
“Go see your uncle if that’s what he wants.” Sean stopped before the Elgin Gallery building, which his experienced eye told him was nothing but a large, prefabricated shed.
“He doesn’t want to just see me. He’s demanded I come live with him through his final days.”
“Sounds fair enough to me. How long is he expected to live?”
“A week or two,” Hamilton spat. “And he swears that if I ignore his request, I’ll only inherit what is required by law—the title and the entailed estates. He’ll leave the rest of his fortune to charity.”
And how the angels would weep.
Sean shook his head in disgust. ”So go stay with him, man. For pity’s sake, it won’t kill you.” He turned to leave, thinking he’d obviously get no human decency out of the weasel today.
“I cannot.” Hamilton moved to block Sean’s way. “I’ve an invitation to paint the waterfall on the Llewelyn estate in the Tanat Valley. Lady Llewelyn’s message came in the same mail as Lincolnshire’s. I’ll be leaving before nightfall.”
It was common knowledge that Lady Llewelyn was Hamilton’s latest conquest. How he could think of abandoning his sick and dying uncle for the sake of a tryst—while his own lovely wife languished in isolation, no less!—was far beyond Sean.
It was the second most unthinkable suggestion he’d heard today.
”I suppose Lord Llewelyn will be conveniently absent,” Sean said tightly.
“Abroad,” Hamilton confirmed.
“And I suppose you’ll be quite busy painting.”
“Naturally. The falls have never been opened to a landscape artist before. And it’s spring, the season when their volume is greatest. This very month of April, in fact, is said to be when the monk and the lady are most likely to appear. If I can capture them in paint, it will be a work for the ages.”
“The monk and the lady?”
“A monk in his long robes, the Guardian of the Falls, said to materialize in the pattern of rushing water. And the Lady of the Waterfall. She peeks out from behind the towering gush, wearing flowing skirts, her face hidden by her long hair—”
“You believe this blarney?” Sean interrupted. “This utter fairy tale nonsense?”
“You don’t? You’re Irish, for heaven’s sake. You have to believe in the fairies.”
Sean snorted. Hamilton didn’t want to see fairies. He wanted to see his fair Lady Llewelyn. “Your uncle needs you, Hamilton. Paint the falls another time.”
“There won’t be another time. Llewelyn never grants access, and he hasn’t left the country in years.”
Why on earth was the weasel coming to him with this problem? “Well, I suppose if that’s the way you feel, you’ll have to forgo Lincolnshire’s unentailed holdings.”
“Lincolnshire’s unentailed holdings make up the majority of his fortune!”
“And what on earth do you expect me to do about that?“ Sean was done with this conversation. ”Cancel your trip, Hamilton. You’d best stay and pray that your uncle goes quickly and without pain,” he added contemptuously.
Once again, his exit was blocked. ”There is something you can do about it.” Hamilton had a firm grip on his shoulder. “I want you to go to the old man, tell him you are John Hamilton, and live with him until his death.”
Sean could do nothing but gape. He couldn’t imagine he’d heard correctly.
After a long pause, he finally recalled which muscles to use for the purpose of talking. “I’d be sure you were jesting,” he said slowly, “except I know you haven’t any sense of humor to speak of.” Looming over his shorter brother-in-law, Sean gripped Hamilton’s wrist and squeezed until the weasel let go of his shoulder. “Why would I, of all people, do this favor—or any favor—for the person who ruined my sister’s life?”
“Why?” Hamilton’s lazy-lidded eyes sharpened. “Because if you help me, I’ll grant your sister her precious divorce.” He cocked his head. “And because if you refuse, I won’t. Ever.”
The words knocked the wind out of Sean.
He was being offered an impossible choice: condemn Deirdre to the shameful, miserable life of a social pariah…or defraud a sick, dying old man out of his final wish.
He couldn’t wrap his mind around either option.
Unfortunately, neither could he commit murder (however justified) in the middle of a crowded museum. So Sean chose another tack. “You’ll soon be an earl,” he pointed out. “You’re going to need an heir—a legitimate one—to carry on the line. With or without my cooperation, you’d best divorce Deirdre and remarry.”
“That doesn’t signify.” Hamilton waved a smooth, pale hand. “I shall simply force her to return to my house until she bears me a male child.”
Monstrous as that declaratio
n was, Sean couldn’t argue. He knew Deirdre would have to comply. The law was clear on this matter: A husband had the right to compel his wife to live wherever he pleased. Just thinking about the possibility made him feel sick.
“It has to be you, Delaney,” Hamilton pressed. “You’re the one person who’s not only similar in age and appearance, but also knew my father, my mother, our estate in Ireland…everything my uncle would expect you to know.”
All of this was true. Though Sean was taller, they both had similar dark hair and green eyes. And Lincolnshire hadn’t seen his nephew since infancy. No doubt Sean could pull it off.
Except…
“I’m color-blind.”
“What of it?”
“What if your uncle notices? He’ll never believe I’m a color-blind painter.”
Hamilton scoffed. “People will believe whatever you tell them. In fact…” With a mean-spirited glint in his eye, he opened the flimsy door to the Elgin Gallery and dragged Sean inside. Hamilton scanned the crowd…“There!” He pointed out a girl seated before a magnificent marble frieze, busily sketching. “I’ll bet I can fool that girl—an artist—into believing you’re an artist.”
Sean rolled his eyes. “I’m not going along with—”
“Hush. You haven’t heard the terms of the bet. If I manage to convince the girl, you’ll agree to do as I’ve asked, thereby securing my inheritance and your sister’s liberation. If I fail, I swear I’ll march out of this building and straight to the clerk to start the divorce proceedings. Either way, Deirdre wins.” A slow, devious smile stretched across his face. “Take it or leave it, Delaney.”
Before Sean could protest any further, Hamilton pushed him toward the girl.
THREE
If only she could find a young man who looked like this, Corinna mused as she sketched another Greek god, she’d have nothing left to wish for.
Not that she had the slightest intention of wedding anytime soon, much to her brother’s displeasure. Griffin wanted nothing more than to marry her off, to have her—his last unwed sister—out of his house and off of his hands. To make her someone else’s responsibility.
To that end, he’d been dragging Corinna to balls and to Almack’s and to every other social event on the calendar, for the express purpose of hurling her at every eligible gentleman he could find. The season had been underway only a few weeks, yet already she was grumbling more than Juliana had all last year.
Griffin really did take all the fun out of it.
True, she was fond of dancing, and she also liked gentlemen, of course. Especially the ones who’d managed to get her alone, behind a potted palm in a ballroom or in a dark corner on a terrace, for a kiss. But those had been few and far between this year—her brother was a much more vigilant chaperone than dear, oblivious Aunt Frances.
Artists were supposed to be creatures of passion, were they not? Well, Corinna’s life seemed to be sorely lacking in passion. After the shattering consecutive deaths of her father, mother, and eldest brother had kept her hidden away in mourning through much of her adolescence, she’d emerged a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old eagerly anticipating her first season. Anticipating glamour, gaiety, novelty, intrigue, and most of all, passion. And when she’d finally made it to London, finally come out in society, finally experienced her first kiss, it had all been…
Rather pleasant.
But that was all.
So excuse her if she was in no great hurry to put aside her grand, exhilarating, ambitious artistic dreams in favor of the rather pleasant pastime of finding love.
Especially since, now that she was seventeen and the last unmarried sister, Griffin was making it rather annoying.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she was using her pencil to shade the fascinating muscles on the god’s toned bare chest when something caught her eye. Glancing up, she spotted two young gentlemen heading in her direction. Not an unusual sight—the gallery was crowded with people—but something about these gentlemen held her interest. Actually, it was just one of the gentlemen. The taller one.
The one who bore a striking resemblance to the Greek god she’d been sketching.
Flipping to a new page, she started sketching him instead. Quickly, before he disappeared from view.
His angular, sculpted face was framed by crisp black hair that grew long at the back of his neck. His eyes were the greenest she’d ever seen. Sadly, he was somewhat more clothed than the marble gods, but having sketched quite a few of them, she fancied she could imagine what he looked like beneath his smart but conservative trousers, waistcoat, and tailcoat. Her pencil outlined broad shoulders—
She froze midsketch as the two gentlemen walked right up to her.
“Good afternoon,” the shorter one said.
Like his taller companion, he was dark-haired and green-eyed and good-looking. And he was much more fashionably dressed. But all in all, she decided, not nearly of the same godly caliber.
Still, she felt flustered. She wasn’t accustomed to handsome young men introducing themselves. Good manners dictated they ask permission of a young lady’s chaperone, who would then provide the introduction.
Of course, Corinna’s chaperones were currently off who knows where, looking at rocks.
“Good afternoon,” she returned guardedly. “Mr.…?”
“Delaney,” he drawled. “Sean Delaney, at your service. And this,” he added, indicating the taller man, “is my good friend Mr. John Hamilton. Having noticed you sketching, he wished to greet a fellow artist. You’ve heard of him, I presume?”
Had she heard of him? Corinna’s sketchbook and pencil fell to the floor. Everyone had heard of John Hamilton, the young renowned and reclusive painter of landscapes.
She turned to him, positively stunned. Her Greek god was John Hamilton—John Hamilton!—and he wanted to meet her. Her, Corinna Chase, possibly the most unrenowned artist in all of London.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she gushed, “I cannot tell you how I much admire—”
“Please stop,” he interrupted, bending to scoop up her fallen supplies. He straightened and, with a roll of his gorgeous green eyes toward Mr. Delaney, handed the items to her. “I’m sorry, but I’m not John Hamilton.” His lilting voice was distracting. The melodic Irish accent didn’t quite mesh with the Greek physique. “I’m Sean Delaney. And I’m afraid my brother-in-law here—the real John Hamilton—has a horrible sense of humor.”
“Now, Hamilton.” The other fellow dolefully shook his head. “There’s no need to hide your identity from this charming young lady.”
“It’s your identity, and you feel the need to hide it from everyone.” The Irishman drew a line in the air that traced his companion from head to toe. “You’ll note he’s the one dressed with artistic flair,” he pointed out to Corinna before brushing at his own plain black clothes. “I’m merely a common man of business.”
“Please forgive Mr. Hamilton.” Mr. Delaney—or perhaps he was Mr. Hamilton—raised a brow toward Corinna. “He’s much too self-effacing.”
“Blarney!” the Greek god shot back. “You’re a dunce, Hamilton.”
Corinna felt like a tennis ball bouncing back and forth between two players. She didn’t know which one to believe. But since she didn’t expect to see either of them ever again, she figured it didn’t signify.
While they’d volleyed, she’d regained her senses enough to recall Mr. Hamilton was a member of the committee that chose artwork for the Summer Exhibition. That was what truly mattered.
She clutched her art supplies to her chest. “I’m an oil painter myself,” she told both of them, praying one really was John Hamilton. “I’m here sketching the marbles to learn anatomy so I can improve my technique for portraits. It’s my fondest hope that one of my canvases will be selected for this year’s Summer Exhibition.”
“I’m certain Mr. Hamilton will vote for it,” the shorter one assured her gravely.
“I will not.” The Greek god’s fists were clenched, and hi
s Irish lilt came through gritted teeth. “I mean, he won’t. Or perhaps he will, but I’m not Hamilton.”
“Pshaw.” His friend waved a smooth, graceful hand. “He’s—”
“Corinna!” She looked away to see her sisters and the pram squeaking their way toward her. “I’m sorry we took so long,” Alexandra said. “Are you finished yet?”
Corinna beckoned them eagerly, certain Juliana would discern which fellow was John Hamilton. An inveterate meddler, Juliana could ferret out any secret. “I’d be pleased for you to meet Mr. Hamilton,” she said, turning back to the gentlemen.
They were gone.
Lifting sweet little Harry from the pram, Alexandra frowned. “Mr. Hamilton?”
“The landscapist, John Hamilton. He was just here.” Corinna scanned the crowded gallery, to no avail. “He’s gorgeous. Or perhaps it’s his friend who’s gorgeous, or his brother-in-law—”
“Whatever are you on about? Everyone knows John Hamilton never appears in public.” Looking sympathetic, Juliana touched her arm. “I think we should go. I must get home well before my mother-in-law’s wedding, and in any case, you’ve clearly been sketching too long.”
Sean hauled Hamilton back toward Montagu House, one hand clenched on the weasel’s upper arm.
“It’s a shame girls cannot study anatomy,” Hamilton drawled as though they were on a leisurely stroll, “because sketching statues isn’t going to help her learn anything.”
“Is that so?” Sean gritted out.
“I’ve yet to see a portrait painted by a female that was any good, and I never expect to, so I seriously doubt I’ll vote for that girl’s painting.”
Sean had no wish to continue this conversation. In fact, he’d gladly pay a thousand pounds to avoid speaking with Hamilton ever again. But he felt sorry for the girl in question. “What if her picture is good? Will you still refuse to vote for it simply because it was painted by a lady?”
“Of course I wouldn’t. As it happens, I wouldn’t be aware a lady painted it, since I don’t look at signatures before I vote. Most of the Summer Exhibition judges take an artist’s status into consideration, but I believe each work should stand on its own. Regardless of what the other Academicians think, I believe a painter’s identity should never influence a judge’s opinion.”