by Darcy Burke
“Is she still looking?” Corinna asked, concerned.
“She cannot think of anywhere else to look,” Elizabeth said. “Griffin even helped her go through everything again last year, in case she missed something.”
Now Juliana looked intrigued. “Griffin knows about this?”
“He’s the only one besides us,” Claire said. “Please don’t tell Rachael you know now, too. She’d be mortified.”
“Why?” Corinna asked. “Does she think so little of us that she believes we’d feel differently toward her, just because we’re not cousins by blood?”
“I fear she’s not thinking at all these days.” Claire crossed her arms over her violet satin bodice and leveled another glare at her sister. “Much like Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth squeaked.
Claire sighed again. “I don’t think Rachael even realizes you’re not her cousins. She’s so upset at not knowing who her real father is that she hasn’t thought past that. Or maybe she’s blocked the truth from her mind, because she can’t stand the thought of losing all the family she knows.”
“She still has you two,” Corinna said. “And Noah. You all shared a mother.”
“But that’s all. Please just let her work it out for herself in her own good time. I don’t think she could take hearing anything more now.”
“We promise not to tell a soul.” Corinna turned to Juliana. “Don’t we?”
“Of course we do.” Juliana reached to squeeze both her cousins’ hands. “I’m sorry to hear Rachael is so upset, and I promise that no one—including her—will hear about it from either of us. We love Rachael, no matter what.”
Corinna nodded agreement, but she knew Juliana well enough to hear the barely concealed glee in her sister’s voice.
Oh, Juliana sympathized with Rachael, of course—but far more important was the fact that Rachael’s main objection to marrying Griffin had always been their shared ancestry, and that obstacle was now gone. Not to mention, Rachael had chosen to confide in Griffin, and Griffin had tried to help her and kept her secret.
Add all of that together, and it seemed another of Juliana’s incessant projects was well on its way to success. And if she actually managed to pull it off, she was going to be smug beyond belief.
Corinna couldn’t hold back a groan.
FIVE
Few people were strolling in Green Park this Thursday evening. The undulating landscape was shadowed by the setting sun, and the gardens were very tranquil.
But Rachael wasn’t.
Gripping the terrace’s rail, she stared out over grassland and trees, telling herself it was time to let go of these feelings. She was never going to learn who her father was, and she had to come to grips with that. She’d allowed Griffin to help her as he’d wanted, and they’d found nothing—just as she’d expected. That had been months ago, months spent in a melancholy haze.
The man who had raised her had cared for her, so it shouldn’t matter that they hadn’t shared a blood bond, should it? And how long could she remain angry with her mother for withholding the facts? The woman was dead, for heaven’s sake. The anger was pointless, and she had to get on with her life.
“Rachael.”
Turning to see her brother step out on the terrace, she forced a smile. “Noah. You arrived so late I had no chance to chat with you before the wedding.” His priorities never had been with family or responsibility. “Did you get the new racehorse settled in at Greystone?”
“Horses,” he corrected. “I bought two. And they’re both doing well, yes. I’m hoping for a good showing at Ascot. While I was home I asked for an inventory to be taken—”
“An inventory of what?” Since when did Noah care about anything at Greystone Castle?
“Of everything. While dining there alone, I noticed that old portrait of the first earl over the fireplace and got to thinking about what might have accumulated in the hundred and fifty years since he was granted the title and lands. The servants aren’t finished yet—I expect it will take them weeks to catalog everything they find. But one thing they discovered was an old trunk in the attic with Mama’s wedding dress and a few other items. Nothing important—”
“I want to see it.”
“I knew you would,” he said with a wry smile. “That’s why I’m telling you they found it. I had it brought down and put in my room so you can go through it after the season.”
“I want to see it now. Can we go to Greystone tomorrow?”
“I’ve just returned from Greystone, and the Jockey Club meets tomorrow. Besides, I told you nothing in it is important. You can wait a few weeks.”
“No, I can’t, Noah.” He didn’t know what was important. The trunk might have something in it that would reveal her father’s identity. “I’m going tomorrow.”
“I’m not going with you, and you cannot travel that far alone or with Claire or Elizabeth. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“I know that.” But she knew another gentleman who might be willing to accompany her in his place. “When you go back inside, will you ask Griffin to step out here a moment?”
“Can you come for me at seven?” Rachael asked, a few loose tendrils of her hair blowing in the breeze that crossed the terrace.
“That anxious, are you?” Griffin’s sisters were never ready to leave the house so early in the morning. But then, none of them were nearly as focused as Rachael. “That will be fine. Will one or both of your sisters come along, too?”
“I think not.”
“Hmm. Aunt Frances is too far gone with child, so I guess I’ll ask one of my sisters to drag herself out of bed and join us.”
“Why?”
“As a chaperone, of course.”
“We don’t need a chaperone, Griffin.”
He sipped orange brandy, watching her warily over the rim of the glass. “It’s a long journey.”
“Only half a day each direction. We won’t be gone overnight. Other than you and my siblings, no one knows about my true parentage, and I want to keep it that way, at least for now. Besides,” she added, “you’re my cousin. Would I require a chaperone to travel half a day with Noah?”
“I’m not Noah,” Griffin pointed out. “A cousin isn’t the same as a brother.” But he didn’t point out that he wasn’t, in the strictest sense, her cousin. Not by blood anyway, not since it had been established that John Chase hadn’t been her father. He didn’t want to upset her, and more to the point, he’d just as soon have her think of him as a cousin.
“You’re practically my brother,” she insisted.
Maybe having her think of him as a brother was even better. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll come for you at seven.”
“Thank you!” she exclaimed, looking happier than he’d seen her since that disappointing day when they’d gone through her mother’s belongings and found nothing.
As he watched her glide back into Stafford House, gracefully swaying as she went, he clenched his jaw.
Griffin remembered Rachael as an awkward adolescent, a tomboyish playmate, all skinny arms and gangly legs. At fourteen, she’d had a funny dent in her chin, wild, curly dark hair, and rather bulbous blue eyes. But then he’d left home for Oxford and later joined the cavalry. And during the years he’d spent away, the tomboy had become a lady.
A very sultry one.
Those cerulean eyes were now alluring, those limbs long and graceful, that figure anything but awkward. The dented chin made her face distinctive and fetching. Her hair was sleek and tamed, excepting those few tendrils that always seemed to come loose. Or maybe she left them loose deliberately. Either way, they looked soft and silky and tickled the sides of her smooth, sculpted cheeks.
In short, Rachael Chase was spectacularly attractive. Too much so for Griffin’s comfort. Which was why he was happy she thought of him as nothing more than a cousin.
Although cousins often wed, Rachael’s aunt had married a cousin, then sadly given birth to a crippled, feebleminded child.
A doctor had said the family relationship might be to blame, and as a result, Rachael was dead-set against marrying any cousin, no matter how distant. And that suited Griffin just fine, since he had no intention of marrying her.
He had no intention of marrying anyone.
At least, not anytime soon.
His sisters and Cainewood kept him occupied quite enough, thank you very much. The last thing he needed was an additional distraction, or yet another responsibility. After all, he was only twenty-six, he thought as he downed the rest of the orange brandy and went back inside.
There were years and years left before he’d have to worry about taking on a wife.
SIX
The homes on the east and west sides of Berkeley Square were close to the street and built cheek by jowl against one another, but Lincolnshire House stood alone on the north end, behind a high imposing wall.
On Friday morning, the guard at the massive wooden gate scowled at the portmanteau Sean carried. “Peddlers aren’t welcome.”
Sean’s hand clenched on the handle of the simple leather bag. “I’m the earl’s nephew,” he said, all but choking on the words.
A little gasp burst from the man’s mouth. “Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, I’m sorry, truly I am.” Babbling, he swung open the gate. “Do come in, and please accept my sincerest apologies.”
Sean was more than willing to do so, but he was struck dumb at sight of the house.
His own house in Hampstead was sizable and impressive. Originally built in the seventeenth century, it had been extended and remodeled some fifty years ago by the notable architect Robert Adam, for a chief justice who worked in the City but wanted to live in the suburbs. It sat in acres of gardens and ancient woodland, with a stunning view out over London. Deirdre had gasped the first time she saw it.
But it seemed a hovel in comparison to the Earl of Lincolnshire’s enormous mansion in Berkeley Square.
A rather plain Palladian-style brick building, it was quite simply the largest house Sean had ever seen. Five gardeners labored industriously in the lavishly landscaped courtyard. After banging the knocker, he shifted uncomfortably on the front steps beneath the portico, wishing he could be anywhere else but here, doing anything else but this.
Deirdre certainly hadn’t agreed that going along with Hamilton’s plan was worthwhile to secure her divorce. Last night’s disbelieving cry—“You promised to do what?”—still rang in his head. “That’s ridiculous!” she’d railed—and Irishwomen were nothing if not expert railers. “You fool! You knothead! I don’t need you to play the martyr for me. I’ll be happy together with Daniel whether we’re married or not.”
Well, maybe she would be happy, but Sean wouldn’t. And although he’d been tempted to tell her of her husband’s threat to make her move back in with him, he’d resisted that temptation. He didn’t want to be the martyr; he didn’t want her to feel indebted or burdened with guilt. Better she think her brother a knotheaded fool.
That was nothing new, anyway.
A butler opened the door. His dark suit was starched and pressed. His expression looked as rigid as his clothing.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I’ve come to see my uncle, the Earl of Lincolnshire.”
“Your uncle? You must be Mr. Hamilton, then.” As though he’d suddenly melted, the man’s entire demeanor changed. “Come in, come in,” he said, ushering Sean through the door. “I’m Quincy, and the earl is going to be so pleased to hear you’ve arrived. I shall inform Mr. Higginbotham, his house steward, that you are here so he can make certain your room is ready.” He eyed the portmanteau. “That cannot be all you brought along.”
“My manservant will bring in my trunks after he sees to my curricle.”
“Good, good. I shall send an underfootman to assist him. The earl has been asking after you since he opened his eyes this morning. In truth, since last night when he received your note. He’s abed, so I shall fetch a maid to show you upstairs posthaste.”
The butler closed the door and promptly disappeared down a corridor. Sean waited, anxious to get this introduction over with. How much time would he be forced to spend with the mean old brute?
Unpleasant as the earl himself might be, he certainly had a nice house. In contrast to the building’s simple facade, its interior was absolutely sumptuous. The grand, pillared entrance led to a wide, sweeping curved staircase with broad steps made of purest white marble. Grecian-style couches lined the perimeter, plushly upholstered in light-colored velvet with darker trim. Gold and crystal glittered everywhere, and there was lots of Oriental pottery scattered about. Paintings hung everywhere, too—enormous gilt-framed paintings that Sean imagined were probably famous, though knowing nothing of art, he couldn’t identify a single artist.
“Fancy, ain’t it?”
Wondering if his mouth had been hanging open, he turned to see a little bird of a middle-aged woman wearing a dark dress with a starched white apron. “It’s impressive.”
“The most impressive house in London,” she declared, leading him across the stone floor toward the steps. “Which is only fair, considering Lord Lincolnshire is the most wonderful man in all of England.”
Wonderful? The earl was wonderful?
That couldn’t be right. This maid was obviously just being a dutiful employee.
The staircase’s newel post looked to be fashioned of solid crystal. Atop balusters of gilded ironwork, the handrail was crystal, too. As Sean climbed, he nodded at two more servants on their way down. “What exactly is wrong with his lordship’s health?”
“Such a tragedy.” The maid sighed. “He complained of chest pain that lasted a few hours. Before the doctor could arrive, he fell into a dead faint, and when he woke, his legs began swelling horribly. A dreadful sight, I tell you. And he’s short of breath, the poor man. Dropsy, the doctor said.”
“Dropsy.” Sean knew little about the disease, but it sounded bad. “He can talk, though, yes?”
“Aye, that he can.” At the top of the stairs, she turned down a corridor that had more paintings on the walls and more Oriental pottery on marble hall tables. She skirted around a woman polishing the already spotless inlaid floor. “And he cannot wait to see you.”
Sean was waved through a door to find Lincolnshire in a huge state bed hung with dark damask trimmed with pale silk. His face hidden from Sean’s sight by a sturdy nurse dressed in white, the earl sat propped against four or five pillows. The nurse finished plumping them and stepped away.
“John!” the man exclaimed as Sean came into view. He had light-colored eyes, thinning gray hair combed forward, and an altogether dignified, pleasant appearance.
And he didn’t look nearly as ill as Hamilton had indicated.
“I’m so pleased you agreed to keep me company in my final days,” he enthused. “Come here, nephew. Let me have a look at you.”
Sean approached warily. “You seem far stronger than I feared, my lord.”
“My lord? Please call me Uncle. But I’m afraid I am quite ill. Began with massive pain—a great, squeezing pressure in the vicinity of my heart. As though a man were sitting on my chest.” He paused. And then, “No,” he corrected himself, “as though the Prince Regent were sitting on my chest.”
Lincolnshire smiled at his own joke; the Prince Regent was grossly overweight. Although Sean had never run in court circles, even he knew that. Scurrilous cartoons were often printed in the papers, and a recent one had featured the fat prince picking his teeth following an enormous meal.
“The doctors say I won’t last two weeks,” Lincolnshire added, sounding a bit out of breath. “I need all these pillows because I cannot breathe lying down. I have to stay upright even to sleep, so I can breathe. Sit down, sit down.” Looking much more chipper than a man with a death sentence rightly should, he indicated a tufted velvet chair close by the bed. “It’s dropsy, they tell me.”
“What causes it?”
“That they haven’t told me. Or perhaps they d
on’t know. Sit, John, sit.”
“You seem so cheerful,” Sean commented as he lowered himself.
“I’m happy to see you. After all these years, John—”
“Sean,” he interrupted.
“Eh?”
“Call me Sean, please.” He couldn’t stand being called by the weasel’s name, not to mention he would likely forget to answer to it. “Sean is the same name as John in Ireland, you see, so I’ve been called Sean since I was a lad. I’m still called Sean by all my friends and family.”
“You haven’t any family left other than me, have you? Or only on your mother’s side?” The old man cocked his head. “You’ve an Irish accent, too. How is that?”
Sean had forgotten Hamilton’s parents were dead and he’d had no siblings. He’d have to tread more carefully.
Sweet mercy, whatever had made him think he could pull this off?
He ignored the first questions and answered the last. “Surely you know I was raised in Ireland.”
“But you’re an Englishman, after all. I made certain you always had English tutors. Paid the enormous bills myself.”
Sean shrugged—casually, he hoped. “Everyone else around me was Irish. I expect I picked up a bit of an accent anyway.”
“A bit?”
In all honesty, Sean had thought he’d lost most of it. Or at least he’d tried to. He was very careful to always say yes rather than aye, and my rather than me. Yes, that’s my best suit, instead of Aye, that’s me best suit.
He knew London wasn’t overly fond of the Irish.
“Ah, well, I suppose it doesn’t signify,” Lincolnshire added kindly. “I’ll call you Sean if that pleases you. I’m just glad to have you here. Been lonely since your aunt passed on.”
“You must miss her.” Hamilton’s aunt, Lincolnshire’s wife. So the earl had cared for his wife—and for his nephew enough to see to the boy’s education. He sure didn’t seem like a heartless beast.
“I still do miss her. After all our children died, at least we still had each other. Rather disconcerting to find oneself alone.”