Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3)

by Royal, Lauren

  He nodded. "My parents often left us with our governesses, but I remember your mother was always home with you."

  "She never went up to London. She said the air there was bad for her lungs." Another dismal sigh escaped her lips as she replaced the last few items and shut the trunk. "Noah was right. There was nothing important here. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

  "It wasn't a waste, Rachael." He watched her spread the embroidered cloth, the narrow gold ring glinting as she moved. "Did your mother have no other jewels?"

  The lamp in her hand, she froze. "Yes, of course she did. I've had them all along. She may have been quiet, but she liked pretty things. She willed all her jewels to me. Claire and Elizabeth each chose a few pieces, but the rest are in my room."

  He took the lamp from her and set it down decisively, then reached a hand to help her up. "We should have looked at them last time. Maybe something will be engraved—"

  "Nothing is. I would have noticed."

  Yes, she probably would have. Rachael was nothing if not observant. "Let's have a look, though, shall we?"

  Rachael's chamber was deep rose and rich green and dark blue, a combination as classic and sophisticated as Rachael herself. Another of her mother's watercolors hung over her washstand. Fetching a mahogany box off her dressing table, she brought it with her to sit on the bed and patted the spot beside her in invitation, apparently comfortable having an unmarried man in her room.

  Griffin wished he could say the same. It felt highly improper to be in here.

  He sat, though, when she opened the box. Filled to the brim, it sparkled with gold and lustrous pearls, diamonds and colorful gems. Griffin didn't know much about jewelry, but he recognized a fortune when he saw it.

  His eyes must have widened, because Rachael laughed at the look on his face. "This family is descended from jewelers," she reminded him. "My great-great-grandmother, or some such."

  "I think you need a few more greats," he said, remembering now. "Her father's shop burned in the Great Fire, didn't it? Way back in the 1660s?"

  "Something like that. Some cousins own another shop in London. It was opened by one of her sons, I think. In any case, there are many more jewels, including some very old ones, in the safe in Claire's workshop." Her sister Claire had taken up the old family hobby. "These were Mama's personal items. Some family heirlooms given to her by my father—Lord Greystone, I mean—and some newer things. But nothing I could identify as coming from her first husband."

  Griffin sifted through the treasure trove, rings and bracelets glittering as they slipped through his fingers. He recognized a diamond necklace as one Rachael had worn to a ball at Cainewood two summers earlier. A pair of ruby earrings that looked like the ones in her mother's formal portrait. A brooch he had often seen pinned on Georgiana's dress.

  A locket made him momentarily hopeful, but it held a swatch of hair, not a miniature or a note. No dates or names were engraved on anything.

  Then another brooch caught his eye. "The Prince of Wales's Feathers," he murmured, pulling it from the pile.

  Three silver plumes rose from a gold coronet of alternate crosses and fleurs-de-lis, studded with rubies and emeralds. Along the bottom, a gold ribbon bore a motto.

  "What does it say?" Rachael asked.

  "'Ich Dien.' I serve." He looked at her, his heart pounding. "Your father…I mean, John Chase, Lord Greystone…was he ever in the cavalry?"

  "Of course not. His younger brother served in the army, but Grandfather would never have allowed his heir to risk his life."

  "I thought not. This may be our clue."

  She blinked. "It's a national symbol of Wales, isn't it? I assumed it was a souvenir from a visit."

  "It's a military badge. From the Tenth Hussars. My regiment."

  Hope leapt into her sky blue eyes. "Do you think it was given to my mother by a member?"

  "An officer, from the looks of this piece. Gold and gemstones. An enlisted man would wear a much less expensive version." The metal felt cool in his fingers as he turned it over. Nothing was engraved on the back.

  "No more clues," she said with a sigh.

  "This alone may be enough. Would you mind if I keep it a while?"

  "Of course not. But how can it help you find my father?"

  He slipped it into his pocket. "He died in 1792, sometime in the months after you were conceived but before you were born—that much we know. We weren't at war then. Louis the Sixteenth had yet to be tried and executed, and Napoleon didn't come to power until 'ninety-nine. There shouldn't have been many deaths that year; the Tenth would have been at home; in peacetime, there are few casualties. I'll go to regimental headquarters and ask to see the records."

  It would take two days to get there, a day to search the records, and another two days to ride home. Five days during which Corinna wouldn't meet any suitable men. But much as he wanted his sister married and off his hands, he didn't mind.

  Rachael's happiness was important, too.

  Although another woman might have made a token protest, Rachael wasn't that sort. "Thank you," she said instead, two simple, grateful words. "Do you expect you can find something that could tell us who he was?"

  He shrugged, not wanting to get her hopes up. "I can try. I'll bring you back to London now, and I'd like to take Corinna to Lady Partridge's ball tomorrow night. I'll leave for regimental headquarters first thing Sunday morning. With luck, I'll have an answer for you by Thursday."

  "An officer," she breathed. "Someone important."

  A bark of a laugh burst out of him. "It doesn't take importance to buy a commission. Only money."

  Her eyes shone. "You were important. You led campaigns in the Peninsular War. Your patrol brought news of the Prussian retreat at Wavre, thus influencing the Duke of Wellington to fight at Waterloo."

  "How do you know all that?"

  "Your sisters. They're proud of you. You'd have been at Waterloo had your brother not died."

  "Well, he did," he said flatly, keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

  He'd never wanted to be a marquess. And he'd felt damned ineffective since becoming one. But here, now, was a chance to use his military connections to advantage. To help someone.

  To help Rachael.

  And that thought made him entirely too pleased.

  EIGHT

  "YOU'RE NOT going to stay up till all hours again, are you?"

  In a creative haze, Corinna turned from her easel and blinked at her brother in the drawing room's doorway. It was close to midnight, and she hadn't realized he'd returned home. "I'm starting a new painting."

  "You didn't answer my question. I've had a long day, and I'm off to bed. Will you also be retiring soon?"

  "I don't know." Irritated, she set down her palette. "It depends upon how this goes."

  Griffin walked closer. "Doesn't look like much."

  "Yet." All she'd done was layer the pale gray ground that she used as the undertint for her paintings, with a rough white oval in the upper middle.

  "What is it going to be?"

  "I'm not sure," she hedged.

  But she knew what she wanted it to be: a portrait. That was why she'd laid the white oval where she planned to paint the face. Flesh tones would appear brighter over white than gray, and she wanted the face to be luminous.

  And she wanted it to be a good portrait. That was why she'd sketched the Elgin Marbles.

  "I want you to get a good night's sleep," Griffin pressed. "I've several men I want you to meet at Lady Partridge's ball tomorrow evening."

  Not that again. Your turn will come next, she remembered Juliana saying. All she wanted was to concentrate on her art, but everyone wanted to marry her off.

  Like paint swiped with turpentine, her creative haze had dissipated. "Well, then, I'll certainly go to bed," she said sarcastically, thinking she hadn't decided whom she wanted to paint anyway.

  "I'm glad to hear it," Griffin said, evidently missing her sarcasm. "By the way, I need to leave
Sunday morning, and I probably won't be back until Thursday. I won't be able to take you to Almack's on Wednesday night."

  "What a pity." Day after day of painting without interruptions, while he was busy dealing with some problem at Cainewood or whatever. Though she vaguely wondered what he was going to do, she didn't want to prolong this discussion. "That's too bad, Griffin," she said, hiding a smile. "Good night."

  Looking forward to the week ahead, she hummed as she cleaned up and put everything away. Then she went upstairs to her room, lit a candle from the fireplace, and ducked into her dressing room to grab a nightgown.

  And there she stopped short.

  The paintings taunted her. Hidden paintings, dozens of them stacked leaning against the walls. Portrait after portrait, none of them quite right.

  She'd spent a decade and more learning to paint still lifes and landscapes. Practicing, persevering, perfecting. Eventually she'd begun putting people into her scenes, figures strolling or laboring or simply lounging in the background. But that hadn't proved enough, hadn't satisfied her dreams.

  She'd always wanted to paint real portraits, detailed studies of people. She all but burned to paint portraits, and last year she'd put all other sorts of painting behind her.

  She walked closer and flipped canvases, bringing the candle near to scrutinize the year's many efforts. Her maid. Alexandra and Juliana. Alexandra and baby Harry. Juliana alone, her shoulders bare, her skirts hiked up to expose one scandalous, naked knee.

  Juliana, the dear, had obligingly posed for Corinna in the buff. Rigidly, self-consciously nude. Unfortunately, Corinna had been unable to paint her sister nude, as the sight of such a work of art would have driven Griffin out of his mind.

  And none of the paintings were good enough.

  Sighing, she leaned them back against the wall. She knew she had it in her to produce a fine portrait. She'd long since mastered all the things she could easily study—the face, the hair, the clothing, the hands—and she portrayed her subjects' expressions with unfailing insight.

  But when it came to the body, she found herself frustrated every time. The people looked stiff and unnatural, not altogether surprising, given they'd looked stiff and unnatural when they'd posed. Corinna's maid and sisters could never seem to sit still for long, and sketching them had never proved as helpful as she'd wished.

  Not to mention her maid and sisters were all female. Men were formed differently, and since half the world's population was male, Corinna intended to paint them, too. But barring her brother—who so far had been uncooperative—where on earth was a gently bred lady supposed to find a male model?

  Well, perhaps sketching the Elgin Marbles had done the trick, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. At least they had held still for hours.

  Squaring her shoulders, she returned to her room and summoned her maid to help ready her for bed. But then she found she couldn't relax. She rarely rose before noon, because she retired late as a habit. Although painting by candlelight rather than sunlight could sometimes prove challenging, the night hours were quiet, almost mystical, the very best time for creativity.

  It was too early to fall asleep.

  She pulled out a small book tucked under her bed, the second volume of Celia in Search of a Husband by Medora Gordon Byron. Smiling, she cradled it in her hands. A Minerva Press novel, a torrid romance, bound as usual in cheap marble-patterned paper.

  Other than painting, reading Minerva Press novels was Corinna's favorite, most secret escape.

  She bought them in secret, too. Most fortunately, a bookseller's shop sat next door to the colorman's shop where she purchased her art supplies. Her maid or a footman generally accompanied her on these excursions, since no one in the family had the patience to wait for hours while she chose the perfect oils and tints. Which was a good thing, since that meant they never saw her go into the bookshop afterward, either.

  The last thing she wanted was her family discovering she reveled in such unrefined literature. Her sisters would be properly scandalized—or else they would tease her mercilessly. And Griffin would doubtless be pleased; he'd say it proved she pined for love and a husband.

  She could do without any of those reactions.

  To make doubly sure there was no risk of discovery, after reading a Minerva Press novel she always donated it to the circulating library. That way other women could enjoy them. She had no need to ever reread them herself, since she was afflicted—yes, afflicted—with the capability of remembering everything she'd ever read.

  Word for word.

  The printed pages simply appeared in her mind, and random sentences popped into her head at the oddest, most inconvenient moments. It was annoying beyond end. Almost annoying enough to make her stop reading.

  But only almost. She set the candle on her bedside table and opened Celia in Search of a Husband with a happy sigh.

  Celia was rather amusing. Though the woman proclaimed loudly and often that she wanted a husband, she discarded men left and right as though they were so many used handkerchiefs. On page 183, Celia sighed "mentally," according to the author.

  Corinna often sighed silently, too.

  Am I rigid? Celia wondered. What woman of real feeling would trust her peace to the keeping of a libertine? It may prove the vanity of love to believe that we could fix the heart hitherto unprincipled, but a trusting woman must meet, in the creature of her choice, either the idol of her hopes or certain disappointment in her connubial happiness—for here is no medium.

  Exactly, Corinna thought with a sigh. A mental sigh, of course. One couldn't fix an unprincipled man, no matter how much she loved him, and what were the chances of her meeting her idol? Certain disappointment was much more likely, which was why she, a woman of real feeling, was much better off putting her faith in her art.

  NINE

  LADY PARTRIDGE lived in a small mansion at the edge of Mayfair. On Saturday night, the line of carriages stretched for blocks. Sean figured he could have inspected two properties and negotiated three deals by the time he and his "uncle" made their way to the front.

  Two footmen reached in for Lincolnshire, who had spent most of the wait dozing. As they helped him hobble out, he glanced at Sean. "You look a bit sober, eh?"

  "I beg your pardon, sir? I should think so." Sean watched the footmen settle the earl in an amazing contraption. A typical dining room chair with a caned back and an upholstered seat, it had two huge wheels attached to its sides and a smaller wheel centered behind. "I'm not an inveterate drinker, I can assure you."

  Indeed, to the contrary—and to Deirdre's unending amusement—Sean seemed the only Irishman alive who couldn't hold his liquor.

  "Downed a toddy myself before leaving," the earl said as one of the servants lifted his feet while the other unfolded a small, upholstered shelf for them to rest upon. "A swallow of spirits never hurt a fellow, should you ask me. But I plan to stick around long enough to get to know you, yet you look to be dressed for a funeral. Not mine, I hope."

  "Certainly not yours, sir." Sean shook out a blanket and settled it on the earl's lap to hide his swollen legs. Though Lincolnshire was a rather slight fellow in general, his lower extremities would fit a man thrice his size. Earlier this evening, when Sean had seen them uncovered, he'd winced. "I fear, however, that I haven't spent much time at balls." He'd never been to a ball, as a matter of fact, so he'd had to guess at the proper garb. "Is something wrong with what I'm wearing?"

  "Not wrong, no. Just drab for such a festive occasion." Lincolnshire himself was decked out in peacock blue and gold. "A little color wouldn't be amiss."

  "Ah, I see," Sean said as he moved around to push the chair. "But I've a decided preference for black and white."

  In truth, he always wore black and white. He'd learned early that to do otherwise meant risking mismatches often found humorous. Since he had nothing but black and white in his wardrobe, he was relieved to find his choice suitable if not stylish.

  As he wheeled the man towa
rd the door, a tall proper butler opened it. Sounds of music drifted out. "Your name, sir?"

  "Lincolnshire," Lincolnshire barked. "And my nephew, Mr. Hamilton."

  "My lord Lincolnshire, do please come in." Judging from the butler's tone, if Lincolnshire had been a dog, the man would have petted him. "Lady Partridge left instructions to be notified the very moment you arrived. This way, if you will," he added, motioning Sean along.

  But Sean couldn't push the chair in the direction indicated. In fact, he couldn't push it anywhere at all. It seemed Lord Lincolnshire had barked his name a little too loudly, because people began streaming into the Partridge foyer, all but trapping the two of them in place.

  "Lord Lincolnshire!" An aging matron took the old man's hands. "It's positively delightful to see you!"

  "I'm delighted as well, Lady Fotherington. May I introduce my long-lost nephew, Mr. Sean Hamilton? He's like a son to me."

  Sean tensed, waiting to be called a fraud, but the woman focused on him only briefly. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," she said politely, displaying no interest in him at all.

  Apparently his secret was safe. He didn't know any members of the ton, he reminded himself, glancing around at the growing gathering. And none of these people knew him.

  There was no cause for worry.

  "Lord Lincolnshire, how are you feeling?" the woman asked.

  "As well as can be expected. And how is your son?" Lincolnshire squeezed her hands. "Well as well, I hope?"

  "Oh, he's very well indeed, thanks in no small part to your assistance."

  "It was but a trifle, my lady, I assure you."

  A young gentleman laid a hand on Lincolnshire's shoulder. "Is there aught I can do for you, my lord? After all, there's so much you've done for me."

  An older, taller man sighed. "Who will bring toys this Christmas for the children at the Foundling Hospital?"

  "Who indeed?" Tears tracked down a middle-aged lady's cheeks. "We're going to miss you, Lord Lincolnshire. Mightily."