The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  It was early evening—dinnertime, to be precise. Covered in spotless white cloth, sixteen long tables crowded the hall, each seating twenty-six pensioners. Every man wore the same outfit: a scarlet coat and tricorn hat based on the service uniform of the Duke of Marlborough’s time. They were all sixty-five or older, and they all, to Rachael’s eye, looked alike.

  Maybe none of them was her grandfather. Maybe Griffin had been wrong.

  “I’ll show you to Grimbald, milady,” the guard said. Griffin offered his arm, and she clutched it tightly as they followed him. Cutlery clinked, and the hall rang with the deep voices of so many men. The chandeliers overhead seemed too few to light the towering chamber, but the last of the day’s sunshine streamed through its many tall, arched windows.

  The guard stopped at one end of a table. “Colonel Grimbald?”

  A gray-haired man glanced up—a man who looked eerily familiar.

  Griffin hadn’t been wrong.

  “This fine lady and gentleman are here to see you,” the guard told him and walked off.

  The man blinked and rose, standing at attention, his narrow chest puffed out in the smart red coat. He was medium height, with a long nose in a long, pleasant face. He had Rachael’s dented chin and, beneath the black tricorn, Rachael’s sky blue eyes.

  But they were blank.

  “Who are you?” he asked, not rudely but not in a welcoming tone, either.

  Griffin took Rachael’s hand. “I’m the Marquess of Cainewood, and this is my cousin, Lady Rachael Chase. Your son’s daughter.”

  “Hmmph.” He reclaimed his seat and picked up his fork, silently dismissing them. “My son has no daughter.”

  Would he send her away without even listening? Rachael looked to Griffin and back to the man. Her grandfather. “Sir.” She swallowed hard. “I know this must come as a shock, since your son—my father—is dead, but—”

  “Thomas isn’t dead.” He lifted a tankard and took a swallow of beer.

  “Sir.” Rachael felt tears sting her eyes and cursed herself. It would have been nice to be welcomed with open arms, but if that wasn’t to be, she at least wanted some answers. “I know your son did something shameful, but I just want to ask you—”

  “My son has done nothing wrong.” The words weren’t said angrily but rather matter-of-factly, his blue gaze unfocused on his dinner. “Thomas will be an important man someday; just you wait and see. He’ll be marrying John Cartwright’s daughter, he will. Lord John Cartwright’s daughter. Course, the gel ain’t yet born, so I cannot be telling you her name.” He glanced back up, cocking his head in apparent confusion. “Who are you?”

  Flustered, Rachael freed her hand from Griffin’s so she could dig in the beaded reticule that matched her lavender dress. “I’m your granddaughter.” She pulled out her father’s badge and held it out toward the man. “See, this is your son’s badge.”

  “My son has no badge,” he said flatly. “Where would he get such a thing? The lad isn’t even a year old.”

  The man across from him, an aging fellow with big ears and a hooked nose, reached to take the badge and examined it with a low whistle. “Tenth Hussars. Old Grimbald’s son must have done well for himself.” He handed it back. “He don’t mean to be uncivil, milady,” he said sympathetically. “Colonel Grimbald, he’s not quite here, if you catch my drift. Thinks it’s 1760. If you stay long enough, he’ll start nattering on about how he just saved some fellow’s life and the bloke promised his firstborn daughter to his infant son.”

  “John Cartwright,” Grimbald confirmed with a nod. “A bloomin’ a-ris-to-crat.” He drew the word out into four distinct syllables and ended it with a chortle. “My name will be connected to nobility.”

  Rachael dropped the badge back into her reticule. “Thunderation,” she muttered under her breath. She stared down the hall toward an old, faded mural of King Charles II on a horse with the Royal Hospital in the background. He’d commissioned these buildings, she suddenly remembered—a disjointed thought that came out of nowhere—but never lived to see them finished.

  Like her father hadn’t lived to see her.

  Disappointment knotted her stomach. She looked back to her grandfather and tried again. “Sir—”

  “Yes?” He looked up, appearing startled to find her there, blinking at her through eyes just like her own. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Our thanks for your time, sir.” Griffin curved an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go,” he murmured in her ear. “Staying here will accomplish nothing.”

  She nodded and allowed him to draw her back toward the door. Suddenly the huge room felt close and stifling, making her grateful to step out into the cool evening air. In the center of the deserted courtyard, a grand, bronze statue of King Charles thrust toward the sky, and she sat on its marble base, smoothing her dress over her knees and hugging them to her chest.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “He’s there, but he’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry.” Griffin stood gazing down at her. “I should have come to see him myself before bringing you.”

  “No. I’d have wanted to see him, anyway. Just to convince myself he was my grandfather.”

  “He has your eyes.”

  “And my chin. We’re related; I’ve no doubt of that at all.” She hugged her knees tighter. “But he’ll never be able to tell me what happened to my father.”

  “No, he won’t.” Griffin lowered his rangy frame to sit beside her. “He thinks your father is still a child.”

  A lone hawk circled overhead, looking as solitary as Rachael felt. “I’ll never really know who I am.”

  “Ah, Rachael.” He shifted closer, wrapping an arm about her to pull her against him. “What your father did, however awful or not, has nothing to do with who you are.”

  She dropped her head to his shoulder, taking comfort from his nearness. “I know. I just wanted to know. I assure you, even if the truth was terrible, I wouldn’t have fallen apart.”

  “I never thought you would. You’re strong, Rachael.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  There was conviction in his voice, and admiration, and a warmth that helped the knot in her middle loosen a little. It helped to have Griffin here. She’d always considered him a bit of a rascal, and she’d certainly never imagined she’d find herself depending on him. Yet he’d been by her side all through this. Which seemed to lend her the strength she’d been missing. The strength he seemed to believe she had.

  It was amazing what a difference it made to have someone believe in her.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “How shall we work this?” Setting his large case full of art supplies on the table, Sean glanced around the sparsely furnished garret studio. “Will you sit on the sofa?”

  “Lord Lincolnshire sat on a sofa for the portrait,” Corinna pointed out, “so I think you should pose there. Did he fall asleep?”

  “He didn’t. I think he might be getting better.” Sean had mixed feelings about that. Happy to see the earl looking stronger, sad to think the poor man’s suffering would be prolonged. Anxious that it meant his own life would remain on hold. Hopeful that it might give him a few days more with Corinna.

  “Then how did you manage to leave him? What excuse did you give?”

  “I told him my painting wasn’t going well at Lincolnshire House, so I needed to work here instead. That’s why I brought along the supplies. I’d have looked a liar otherwise.”

  He’d brought candles, too, knowing it would grow dark as the evening wore on. He pulled them out of the case and began setting them up around the room.

  “Lord Lincolnshire didn’t mind, then?”

  “I sent for Deirdre to keep him company.”

  Though his sister was technically living at Lincolnshire House, she spent most of her waking hours at Daniel Raleigh’s house. Sean was less than thrilled about that, but he didn’t want to fight with his sister. He’d told the earl his wife was very fon
d of shopping.

  Yet another lie, he thought grimly. “She wasn’t happy, but she agreed.”

  “She should. You’re doing all this for her benefit.”

  If only Deirdre saw it that way. “Lincolnshire likes her,” he said dryly. “Thinks I chose a fine wife.”

  “That’s good,” she said distractedly. “I usually paint standing, but I like to sit when I sketch.” She moved his case to the floor and sat herself on the small table. “This should do fine.”

  He lit the last candle. “I’ll get you a chair.”

  “From where?”

  “From one of my tenants.” At her blank look, he smiled. “I own this building, Corinna. And half the others on this street.”

  “Oh.” Now she looked impressed, which he couldn’t help enjoying. “I thought you said the studio was Mr. Hamilton’s. I guess you didn’t mean literally.”

  “Hamilton plans to lease it when he returns. And I plan to charge him a small fortune for the privilege. I’ll be right back.”

  He ran downstairs and borrowed a chair from one of the shopkeepers on the ground floor. When he returned, Corinna had her sketchbook open and her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d chewed it puffy and pink.

  At least, he assumed it was pink. It definitely looked darker than usual. He had to tear his gaze away from it while he moved the chair before the sofa. If he kissed her now, he knew, this session would get way out of hand.

  “Sit,” he said, and sat himself, reaching down to pull off his boots.

  “No need to undress all the way,” she quickly reminded him.

  As she settled in her chair he removed his stockings as well. “Will this do?”

  She stared at his bare feet as if she’d never seen a pair before. “Lord Lincolnshire’s feet aren’t in the picture,” she finally said. “Just a little more.”

  Keeping a straight face, he rose and shrugged out of his tailcoat. “Will this do, then?”

  She cracked a smile. “A little more.”

  He unbuttoned and took off his waistcoat.

  “More.”

  He untied and drew off his cravat.

  “A little more.”

  He unfastened the top button on his shirt.

  “Wait.”

  “Wait?” His fingers paused on the second button, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to draw this wee bit of my throat?”

  A nervous laugh escaped her. “Your hands. Lord Lincolnshire’s hands are in the picture. I’ve decided to start with your hands.”

  “I’m thinking you’ve sketched hands before. Your sisters’, perhaps?”

  “Yes, of course. But I need male hands.”

  “Lincolnshire had two, I believe. Quite naked at the time he sat for you.”

  “Old hands. I painted him younger.”

  “Your brother’s hands, then. Surely he’s sat for you.”

  “Not without grumbling. And never long enough.”

  “I don’t remember you mentioning that any of the artists criticized Lincolnshire’s hands. I’m thinking you’ve probably mastered the painting of hands.”

  “It’s notoriously difficult to paint hands,” she said haughtily. “Will you just sit down and show me your hands?”

  He knew she was postponing the rest of the undressing due to nerves, but perhaps she needed a moment to ease into things. “All right,” he said, sitting and placing his hands on his spread knees. “Will this do?”

  “That will do fine.” She blew out a breath. “Just relax.”

  “I might suggest you do the same.”

  “Yes. Of course. Right.” She scooted her chair closer and bent over her sketchbook. “However did you come to own half this neighborhood?”

  He hesitated. He didn’t usually like talking to people about his work or his prosperity. He’d learned that when others discovered someone who looked like him (young, unassuming, Irish) was actually one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in London, they tended to have rather strong reactions.

  To say the least.

  Some, like Corinna, were just surprised or impressed. But others reacted negatively. They were envious or suspicious or resentful. They didn’t see how someone like him could have built something like Delaney & Company. At least, not without resorting to dishonest means.

  It was those people Sean feared. Those people he tried to keep in the dark.

  But Corinna wasn’t one of those people, so he supposed it was high time he stopped dodging her questions.

  “I have a knack,” he finally said.

  Her gaze stayed on her sketch, but a faint smile curved her lips. “Deirdre said you’d say that.”

  “When was that?”

  “At the Billingsgate ball.” Focusing on his left hand, she deftly penciled a few lines. “She told me you left Ireland with nothing, and the next time she saw you, you owned a bunch of property.”

  “I didn’t start with nothing,” he corrected. “My uncle left me an inheritance.”

  “How much?”

  He laughed. “You surely don’t beat about the bush.”

  She looked up, all wide blue eyes. “I—”

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind. Your bluntness is one of my favorite things about you.” As her face melted into a smile, he added, “It’s an endless source of amusement.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and returned to her sketch.

  He laughed again. “It was ten thousand pounds.”

  She didn’t even blink. Not that Sean had expected her to. Ten thousand might be an unimaginable fortune to a vicar’s son in Ireland, but to a marquess’s daughter in Mayfair?

  It might as well be pocket money.

  Such different people they were, from such different places. He might be wealthy now, and he might dress like a gentleman, but still, if not for Hamilton’s antics, he’d never have crossed paths with a girl like Corinna. They’d never have spoken. Never have danced or shared ices in Berkeley Square.

  And they definitely would never have kissed.

  He looked down at his hands—the ones she was sketching—thinking he shouldn’t be doing this. Knowing he shouldn’t be doing this. What would her brother say if he knew what his sweet, innocent little sister was doing at this very moment? Just the thought of Cainewood finding out made Sean squirm on the sofa.

  She frowned. “Hold still.”

  He obeyed.

  “What happened after you received the inheritance?” she asked.

  “I left my family and came to London. I bought a small, run-down building. By myself I fixed it up and sold it for a profit. That’s when I discovered I have a knack.”

  “For buying and selling property?”

  ”For making money,” he told her with a grin.

  He couldn’t help himself. He was proud of what he’d achieved. The seventh deadly sin, his father would have reminded him had he been alive to see how far his son had risen. But Sean didn’t think this was the sort of pride God meant to condemn. Sean worked hard for what he earned, after all, and he never forgot that God had a hand in his success. He still tithed, and he contributed staggering sums to charity besides. He took at least as much satisfaction from using his money to help people as he had from earning it in the first place.

  So he grinned, and he didn’t feel bad about it, either. “I bought a larger building and did it again,” he went on. “And again. After a while, I had enough resources to hire more people to fix up more buildings, so I could buy and sell them faster, and after that, I realized it might be more profitable to keep some of the buildings—certain ones, that fit certain criteria—and make money leasing them out.”

  “Deirdre said you own more than buildings. Businesses. Manufactories. And also ships, she told me.”

  His sister had a big mouth. No wonder Corinna had been so curious. “One of the tenants I leased to had a business that was about to fail, and I realized I could fix that up, too. So I bought the business and made it profitable. And then I bought other businesses. And
started some. Some of the businesses needed supplies that came from outside the country, and I realized I could make more profit by importing the supplies myself. And importing supplies for other people. And exporting some of the things I was manufacturing, and some other things other people were manufacturing…” He shrugged. “There are all sorts of ways to make money.”

  Corinna was frozen midsketch, more than a little stunned. All the gentlemen she knew were rich, of course—but their money came from owning land. In most cases, their families had owned the same land for hundreds of years. No one she knew had started with nothing, or even with just ten thousand pounds. No one she knew had built their fortune all by themselves.

  She’d never met someone like Sean, someone with a “knack” for making money. Or a knack for much of anything, come to think of it. Except maybe sitting a horse or tying a perfect cravat.

  No, wait. They all had valets to tie their cravats for them.

  “How is it coming?” Sean asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The hands.”

  “Oh. They’re…they’re fine.”

  “You need to see more than hands, Corinna, if you’re going to fix Lincolnshire’s portrait.”

  She nodded slowly, reluctantly, knowing he was right.

  He rose immediately and, as if hurrying to get it over with before he could change his mind, finished unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off over his head. Then he draped it over the arm of the sofa and…just stood there.

  Half naked.

  Corinna held her breath. Held herself still. Tried to keep her face blank and unreadable. She didn’t want him to know what she was thinking.

  Which was that he truly was a Greek god.

  Or even better, because he was human instead of marble.

  She’d never seen a real man without his shirt before. Did they all look like this? Somehow, she thought not. His skin looked young and smooth, encasing all sorts of interesting ridges and planes. Muscles, they were, she supposed. It appeared that men had many more of them than women—or at least men like Sean did. Men who fixed buildings and worked hard instead of leading soft lives of leisure.

  His hands moved to the buttons on his trousers.