by Darcy Burke
It was the most decent thing Sean had ever heard Hamilton utter. Surprisingly decent. Until the weasel added, “But I’m certain her paintings won’t be any good. Especially since she’s never studied anatomy.”
“She might surprise you,” Sean shot back. “You shouldn’t be so judgmental. You might vote for her painting and later on have to eat humble pie.”
“I doubt it,” Hamilton said blandly. “We failed to learn her name, so in the unlikely event I ever did vote for one of her works, I’d never know it, would I?”
“Corinna.”
“Pardon?”
“Her name is Corinna. Another girl called her Corinna as I was dragging you off.”
She’d had wide blue eyes and gleaming dark hair. Sean remembered the way she’d bitten her plump lower lip. For some reason, that had made him imagine kissing her.
“You had no right to drag me off.” Wrenching his arm from Sean’s hand, Hamilton pulled open the door to Montagu House. “I won the bet,” he added smugly.
“You did not. She didn’t believe I was you.”
“She didn’t know what to believe. Which means I won. I succeeded in convincing her you may be an artist.”
“Blarney.”
Hamilton shrugged. “Whether you agree or not doesn’t signify. You’ll still pretend to be me for Lincolnshire’s sake if you want to see your sister divorced.”
“I believe you’ll want to rethink that demand. When society discovers you deceived your uncle for your own gain, your reputation will be torn to threads. Your impressive art career will end in shame.”
“Blarney,” Hamilton mimicked in disdain. “No one will ever find out. Lincolnshire is incapacitated and housebound. And the man lived to make others miserable—especially my family—so who would give a care if he’s duped? The mean old brute deserves it.”
Maybe Hamilton had a point there. Who would complain if a man like Lincolnshire got tricked? Sean had heard tell of his infamous deeds throughout his childhood. William Hamilton—Lincolnshire’s younger brother—had dreamed of a fulfilling career in the church, but Lincolnshire couldn’t be bothered to help him secure a position. He’d been willing to instead commit his service to the military, but Lincolnshire had refused to buy him a commission. Being a younger son, William had no means to support himself, his wife, and his young child, so he hadn’t a choice when his brother banished him to Kilburton to oversee his foreign interests. Left to rot among village rabble in the dreary backwoods of Ireland, far from all their friends and relations, the family had languished in bitterness and despair, their desperate pleas to return home falling on deaf ears.
Perhaps those years of bitterness were the reason Hamilton could act so callously toward poor Deirdre. Like uncle, like nephew?
Sean stood in the museum’s busy lobby, fighting his better judgment. Though he’d normally abhor lying to a man on his deathbed (or anywhere else, for that matter), maybe the mean old earl had it coming. But more than that, Sean loved his sister. He didn’t want to see her forced to bear Hamilton’s child or living in sin with Daniel Raleigh. And he knew that if he didn’t agree to the deception, the weasel would never free Deirdre.
“This won’t interrupt your routine,” Hamilton went on. “You’ll have to move to Lincolnshire’s Berkeley Square town house for a couple of weeks, but you need only sleep there at night. You can tell the old man you must paint during the day and go off to do your usual work. It shan’t affect Delaney and Company at all.”
“What if he wants to see your paintings?”
“You mean your paintings,” Hamilton returned with a smirk. He frowned a moment, then nodded. “I’ll leave you some money to lease studio space near the square—”
“I don’t want your money,” Sean growled. “And I don’t need to lease anything. I own half of Piccadilly Street.” He normally hated advertising his wealth, but, even more, he hated being bullied. And Hamilton was a bully. Sean couldn’t resist firing back with whatever he could use to intimidate the weasel.
Hamilton raised an eyebrow. ”Do you, now? Well, that’s excellent. If you’ve a vacant garret nearby, that would be ideal. Something very private with north-facing windows. I’ve a few canvases in the apartments I’ve been renting. I shall fetch them posthaste and put them in there for you to show him.” He nodded again, more enthusiastically. “Perhaps I’ll lease the space from you permanently. Once I inherit the title, I’ll be forced to spend some time at Lincolnshire House, so I’ll need it when I return from Wales.”
An awkward silence stretched between them while people walked in and out, asking the porter directions to find the Rosetta Stone or the Egyptian mummies.
“You’ll do it, won’t you?” Hamilton pressed. “Otherwise—”
“I’ll do it,” Sean snapped. He knew what otherwise entailed: doom for Deirdre.
To avoid that, he’d sell his very soul if he had to.
Which he very probably just had.
FOUR
ORANGE BRANDY
Take a quart of Brandy, the peels of eight Oranges thin pared, keep them in the Brandy forty-eight hours in a closed pitcher, then take three pints of Water, put into it three quarters of a pounde of loaf Sugar, boil it till half be consumed, and let it stand till cold, then mixe it with the Brandy.
This was served at my grandparents' wedding breakfast, and their marriage was blessed with love and health. We have had it at family weddings ever since.
—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1730
Lady Stafford and Lord Cavanaugh’s wedding was a modest affair, just family and a few friends in the gorgeous Painted Room at Stafford House. The chamber was a bit tight even for the small number of guests; the equally impressive Palm Room downstairs would have been more comfortable. But the Painted Room was perfect for the occasion, because its theme was marriage.
A famous Roman fresco was re-created on the chimneypiece, and other wedding scenes were painted directly on the plaster walls. Panels depicted music, drinking, and dancing. Cupid and Venus cavorted overhead, nymphs danced on the ceiling, lovers courted on gilt-framed canvas, and a frieze of rose wreaths and garlands of flowers went all around the cornice.
The house wasn’t actually Lady Stafford’s anymore. Cornelia had been the Dowager Lady Stafford for several years now, which meant Stafford House belonged to her son, James Trevor, who was the current Earl of Stafford and, of course, Juliana’s husband.
While the minister droned on, Juliana leaned close to Corinna and whispered, “Your turn will come next.”
“I’m not concerned about having a turn,” Corinna hissed back.
Juliana rolled her eyes.
On Corinna’s other side sat Aunt Frances, hugely pregnant and watching the ceremony with a sappy, romantic smile on her face. Love and marriage had come late to Aunt Frances, but she looked happier now than her niece had ever seen her. And love had transformed Corinna’s sisters as well. Juliana and James had wed last August—right after Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey—and the two of them still had trouble keeping their hands to themselves in public. Alexandra and Tristan had been married nearly two years and seemed to live in awe of each other and their infant son.
Although Corinna sometimes worried she’d never find that sort of love for herself, she also worried she’d never fulfill her artistic potential. Of the two, she felt the art was more under her control. It was the thing that defined her, the thing she had that others didn’t.
She was happy for Aunt Frances and her sisters. It was brilliant that they’d all found love, but to Corinna’s mind, the three had little else. They’d needed love to complete them, but she had her art.
She had her landscapes and her still lifes, and most of all, her portraits. If only she could get one of her works accepted into the Summer Exhibition, her future would look bright whether or not there was a gentleman in the picture.
No sooner had the minister announced that the Dowager Lady Stafford was now Lady Cavanaugh than Juliana began distri
buting glasses of orange brandy, a concoction some ancient Chase ancestor had claimed would guarantee a lifetime of marital bliss. How her sisters believed such nonsense, Corinna would never fathom. But she had to admit that Lord and Lady Cavanaugh looked very happy for now. Perched together on an amazing green silk sofa with gilt arms carved to look like winged lions, they both beamed as they accepted congratulations. Apparently Cornelia had found her Greek god, even if he was somewhat aged and silver-haired.
Her husband in tow, Juliana returned. She handed Corinna the last glass with a satisfied sigh. “Don’t the two of them look perfect together? I knew they’d end up married.”
Juliana always knew what was best for everyone, and she never hesitated to say so. Last season she’d suggested Lord Cavanaugh and James’s mother share a dance, and now here they were, man and wife.
“Her new title even begins with C,” Juliana added proudly.
Corinna sipped the sweet spirits. “Why should that signify?”
James laughed, slipping an arm around Juliana’s waist. “My aunts,” he reminded Corinna, “are Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh, and Bedelia, Lady Balmforth. But until today my mother—their sister—was Cornelia, Lady Stafford.”
“Now she’s Cornelia, Lady Cavanaugh, and the three sisters are Ladies A, B, and C,” Juliana concluded.
“Holy Hannah,” Corinna said, shaking her head.
She’d never understand how Juliana’s mind worked.
James dropped a kiss on Juliana’s head and moved off, just as Lady A herself made her way over. “Wasn’t the ceremony beautiful? My baby sister, married again.” With a teary but joyful little sniff, she tore her gaze from the new Lady C and focused on Corinna. “How are you these days, my dear?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“And your art?”
“I’ve been painting madly. I think I’m close to finishing my submissions for the Summer Exhibition.”
“Don’t forget, I promised to help.”
“Thank you,” Corinna said, although she had no idea how Lady A could help. But the woman seemed quite determined. Years ago, her youngest daughter had tragically ended her own life by jumping off the London Bridge, taking her unborn baby with her. The poor girl had been artistic and ambitious, and dreamed of entering the Royal Academy just like Corinna, so Lady Avonleigh dearly wished to see Corinna succeed in her daughter’s stead.
Unfortunately, wishing didn’t accomplish much. The kindly woman’s heart was in the right place, Corinna knew, but she had no connections or influence in the art world. “I appreciate your good intentions,” Corinna told her sincerely.
“I have a plan,” Lady A announced.
“You do?”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve made a rather large donation to the Royal Academy, earmarked to provide yearly grants for deserving students to study abroad. A noble cause, don’t you think?”
“Very much so,” Corinna said. The Royal Academy had sponsored student travel years ago, but such grants had been suspended since the wars had begun, making journeys to the Continent impossible. Following Napoleon’s recent defeat at Waterloo, travel had once again resumed, and artists were now clamoring to go.
But Lady A’s grants would all go to males, of course, since females were barred from the Royal Academy schools.
Corinna sighed. “I would love to go study in Italy.”
“I’m sure you would, dear. My daughter always wanted to go, too.” Lady A rested a sympathetic hand on her arm. “I’ve made a stipulation that the yearly awards be titled the Lady Georgiana Cartwright Scholarships, in her honor. I do hope that seeing a lady’s name on the grant will encourage the Academy to consider admitting girls in future. And in the meantime”—she smiled, her soft blue eyes going a little hazy as she gazed off into space—“it gives me pleasure to think of helping any art student achieve his dreams, no matter the recipient’s gender.”
“Tell her the rest,” Juliana prompted.
“Ah, yes.” Lady A nodded, coming back from wherever she’d drifted off. “Next month I shall hold an afternoon reception in my home, to which I shall invite the members of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee. Thanks to my generous patronage, I’m certain they’ll all feel obligated to attend. And, of course, I shall invite you too, Lady Corinna, giving you the opportunity to show them some of your work and, more important, charm them and sway their decisions.”
Corinna swallowed hard. The idea that her future might depend on her ability to “charm” anyone made her feel queasy. Charm was Juliana’s department—Juliana oozed charm. And even Alexandra could be charming when necessary, when it helped her to achieve some end. But Corinna had never been much good at hiding her true feelings or keeping up a smooth, polished social grace. She wasn’t the type of person who could enter a room full of perfect strangers and instantly captivate the whole place.
Now, if Lady A were looking for someone who could enter the room and blurt out the first thing that popped into her head, she’d have come to the right girl.
But as Corinna was an unknown artist—and that would be a mark against her in the judging—she knew she should be thrilled to have an opportunity to meet the committee. And she was grateful and astonished that Lady A would go to such lengths to help her.
“Thank you so much!” she gushed. “I shall do everything I can to make the most of this chance.”
“I must give credit where credit is due,” Lady A said. “The whole scheme was your sister’s idea.”
“It was your money,” Juliana hastened to point out. “And your decision where it should be allocated.”
“I was pleased to do it. My dear daughter would have approved. I shall be even more pleased when your sister becomes the first female elected to the Royal Academy in more than fifty years, and honored to have had a hand in it.” Taking a sip of her orange brandy, she looked back to Corinna. “Of course, your talent will be the determining factor, my dear. I’ve no doubt you’ll eventually find yourself elected with or without my help.”
Corinna wished she could be so confident.
“Have you need of any planning assistance?” Juliana asked Lady A.
“I could use a hand with the invitations,” the older woman admitted. “My penmanship isn’t what it used to be.”
“I’d be pleased to help,” Juliana assured her—no surprise, since Juliana lived to have her hand in everything. “Perhaps we can have a little invitation party here next week. Friday afternoon would work well. I’ll invite Alexandra and our cousins. You remember Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth?”
“Of course,” Lady A said. “It was a pleasure chatting with them during your many sewing parties.” Last year, Juliana had offered to make baby clothes for the Foundling Hospital, and she’d needed a lot of assistance. “I would be grateful for your cousins’ help. And now…” Lady A gestured to the new Lady C. “I must congratulate my sister before the wedding supper.”
She ambled off, and Juliana drew Corinna toward their Chase cousins standing nearby. At sixteen and seventeen, Elizabeth and Claire were both dark-haired and pretty as pictures. Their tall, equally dark-haired brother, Noah, the Earl of Greystone, was twenty and would have been pretty, too, but for a small scar that slashed through his left eyebrow.
He flashed a smile as Corinna and Juliana approached. “I’m going to find Rachael,” he said, referring to his elder sister. “If you’ll excuse me.”
As he strode away, Juliana looked to Elizabeth and Claire. “We’re helping Lady Avonleigh with the reception she’s planning to help launch Corinna’s art career. I’m hoping you’ll both come to a little invitation-making party here next Friday. And I hope Rachael will come as well, of course. Where has she gone off to?”
“The terrace. She’s just staring out over Green Park.” Claire looked fretful. “She hasn’t been herself for a long while.”
“I’ve noticed,” Juliana said. All the time Corinna’s brother, Griffin, had been busy trying to marry off his three sisters, Julian
a had been trying to match him with Rachael. But Rachael had been acting sad and withdrawn these past months, which put a damper on Juliana’s efforts. “Rachael has always been so good-humored. What do you suppose is the matter?”
“She’s not yet got over finding that letter,” Elizabeth said.
Claire elbowed her younger sister in the ribs.
“What?” Juliana looked between them. “What letter?”
“Now you’ve done it, Elizabeth.” Claire’s unusual amethyst eyes glared into her sister’s green ones. “Rachael’s kept mum on the subject deliberately, you know.”
Elizabeth’s hands flew up to slap her own cheeks. “Oh, fiddlesticks!”
“What letter?” Juliana repeated.
Although the Painted Room was filled with the babel of conversation, Claire and Elizabeth’s silence was noticeable. “Whatever it is,” Corinna said for them, “Rachael wants it kept a secret.”
“Surely she didn’t mean from us,” Juliana said. “We’re her cousins.”
“No, you aren’t,” Elizabeth said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“What?” Juliana and Corinna burst out together.
Claire glared at her sister again, then sighed. “When Rachael cleared out our parents’ suite at Greystone for Noah, she found a letter that revealed she had a different father than ours. It seems our mother was married before and carrying Rachael when she was widowed. Then she married our father before giving birth.”
Juliana looked astonished. “Who was her real father, then?”
“She doesn’t know.” Claire shook her head. “The letter didn’t say, and there’s no one to ask. We have no living grandparents, and Mama’s only sister died when we were young. Rachael went through all of our mother’s belongings, searching for clues to who her first husband might have been, but she found nothing.”