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‘‘My wife has arrived,’’ he said loudly instead.

 

Chapter Twenty
Five minutes later, after Corinna departed following her introduction to his ‘‘wife,’’ Sean found himself standing in Lincolnshire’s bedroom with his sister beside him.
‘‘Uncle,’’ he said, ‘‘this is Mrs. Hamilton. Deirdre, the Earl of Lincolnshire.’’
Deirdre curtsied. ‘‘ ’Tis pleased I am to meet you, Lord Lincolnshire.’’
‘‘I’m pleased you’ve come.’’ Struggling to sit higher against all of his pillows, Lincolnshire blinked and yawned. ‘‘Please excuse me. I sat all . . . day for a portrait, and I fear that . . . left me exhausted.’’
To Sean’s relief, Deirdre didn’t seem fazed by the man’s shortness of breath, or repulsed by his ever-swelling body. ‘‘I understand that you’re ill, my lord.’’
‘‘I’m dying,’’ Lincolnshire said in his plainspoken way.
‘‘That, too. And ’tis sorry I am to hear it.’’
‘‘No fault of . . . yours.’’ The old man cocked his head. ‘‘You’re Irish.’’
She exchanged a wary glance with Sean. ‘‘Born and raised in Kilburton, sir. Your nephew married me while he was living in Ireland.’’
Lincolnshire nodded. ‘‘Kilburton is a pretty place.’’
‘‘And how would you know that?’’ Deirdre raised a brow. ‘‘I don’t recall your ever visiting.’’
Sean winced. Deirdre never had been one to think before opening her mouth. But Lincolnshire only laughed—a laugh that ended in a wheeze. ‘‘Haven’t been there . . . since before you were born,’’ he told her, and then added to Sean, ‘‘I like her.’’
Releasing a breath, Sean smiled and moved closer to his sister, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. ‘‘I like her, too.’’
‘‘You should, considering . . . she’s your wife. Why-ever did you leave her in the countryside? She’s . . . lovely.’’ The old man grinned. ‘‘Give her a kiss.’’
The look sister and brother exchanged this time wasn’t wary. It was panicked.
‘‘Go on,’’ Lincolnshire demanded.
Sean turned to Deirdre and pecked her on the cheek.
‘‘That will never do,’’ the earl declared in apparent disgust. ‘‘Word is you two . . . don’t get along. Rumor has it you live apart.’’
Was that why the old man had insisted Deirdre be fetched? Was he intent on seeing a reconciliation? ‘‘You’ve said that before,’’ Sean reminded him. ‘‘Wherever did you hear it?’’
‘‘Everywhere. I’m dying, not deaf. And I won’t countenance . . . such a relationship in Lincolnshire House.’’ He paused, all but gasping for air, but when Deirdre went to open her mouth, he waved a hand to stop her. ‘‘Everyone here has been happily . . . married, and I mean to see . . . that tradition continue.’’
‘‘You shouldn’t listen to rumors,’’ Sean protested. ‘‘I love Deirdre.’’
Maybe not
that
way, but he did love her.
‘‘Then . . . kiss her . . . like a man,’’ the old earl wheezed.
There was nothing for it. Reluctantly, Sean faced Deirdre once again. Sucking in a breath, he leaned down and laid his lips on hers, lightly, for the briefest instant.
It was all he could manage.
When he pulled back, Deirdre looked rather pale.
Slowly, Lincolnshire shook his head. ‘‘Before I expire . . . I want to see better than that.’’
Saints preserve us,
Sean thought.
‘‘And I’ve a favor . . . to ask of you.’’
‘‘Anything, Uncle. Anything at all.’’ So long as it didn’t involve kissing his sister.
A weak smile twitched on the man’s lips. ‘‘Were I you . . . I’d wait to hear it first.’’ He paused for a breath, and then another. ‘‘I wish you to . . . keep this house—’’
‘‘I will. You have my word.’’ Arrogant Hamilton wouldn’t be selling the most impressive house in all of London. ‘‘You won’t mind living here, will you, Deirdre?’’
She glanced around in patent disbelief, taking in the towering damask-hung bed, the scenes painted on the ceiling, the gold-stamped leather wallcoverings. ‘‘What sort of knothead would mind living here?’’
That prompted another smile. But Lincolnshire wasn’t finished. ‘‘And all of my staff . . . in perpetuity.’’
Tempted as he was to agree to that, too, Sean couldn’t add to his mountain of lies. ‘‘He has more than a hundred servants,’’ he informed Deirdre.
Her eyes widened. No knothead herself, she was well aware Hamilton wouldn’t keep nearly that number. He was a man who valued his privacy.
‘‘Oh, Lord Lincolnshire, my husband doesn’t like spending much time in London. The scenes he paints are all in the countryside. We won’t be needing so many servants when he isn’t here.’’
‘‘For me, my dear. I cannot stand to think . . . these loyal people . . .
my
people . . . will be forced to fend for themselves.’’
Exchanging a glance with his sister, Sean shook his head.
‘‘I need to know . . . this house will remain in your hands. And my staff . . . will retain their employment.’’
‘‘I’ll keep the house,’’ Sean promised, ‘‘as I’ve said, although it is overly large for just Mrs. Hamilton and myself.’’ Indeed, it was overly large for anyone unrelated to royalty. ‘‘But as to the other—’’
‘‘Sean,’’ Lincolnshire cut in gently. Beseechingly. ‘‘Did you not say . . . you would do anything for me?’’
In the long silence that stretched between them, Sean’s mind raced. He was more likely to go to bed with Deirdre than Hamilton was to retain the old earl’s enormous staff. ‘‘What if I could find new, better employment for them all instead?’’
A wee snort emerged from the man’s throat. ‘‘Better than working . . . for me?’’
‘‘Very well, I misspoke. There exists no kinder, more thoughtful employer. But more prestigious positions exist, certainly. And . . .’’
‘‘And I won’t . . . be here.’’
Sean nodded.
The earl remained unconvinced. ‘‘How can you find them all . . . employment? You’re an artist, not . . . a man of business.’’
‘‘I know people. Trust me.’’
‘‘I do,’’ Lincolnshire said meaningfully, making Sean writhe inside with guilt. ‘‘But I want . . . I need to know they’re settled. That . . . they’ll be happy.’’
‘‘You will. I’ll find them all employment.’’
‘‘Better positions?’’
‘‘Better positions than they have now.’’
‘‘Before I’m gone?’’
‘‘Before you’re gone. Uncle, this I promise.’’
One promise he could keep. One promise he
would
keep.
The man nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘‘Now, as to you two.’’
Deirdre’s eyes widened again. ‘‘What now?’’
‘‘I want to see you dance . . . at the Billingsgate ball . . . on Saturday.’’

 

Chapter Twenty-one
APPLE PUFFS
Pare the fruit and bake them. When cold, mixe the pulp of the Apple with Sugar and lemon-peel shred fine, taking as little of the Apple-juice as you can. Orange marmalade is a great improvement. Put in paste with a little Sugar inside and on top. Bake in a quick oven a quarter hour until browne.
The homely apple is always dependable. Serve at family gatherings to assure harmony.
—Helena Chase, Countess of Greystone, 1776
 
‘‘A lovely first vintage.’’ Lamplight glinted off deep ruby as Alexandra held up her glass on Tuesday night, toasting her brother during their family dinner at his Berkeley Square town house. ‘‘You did it, Griffin.’’
Her husband smiled. ‘‘A toast to England’s newest wine producer.’’
‘‘I don’t know that
wine producer
is an apt description.’’ Griffin grinned at his brother-in-law. Tristan had helped him save Cainewood’s fledgling vineyards. ‘‘It implies producing enough to sell a quantity. We’re likely to consume this year’s entire production ourselves. Within a week. Perhaps tonight.’’
Alexandra laughed. ‘‘You’ll make more next year, and still more the year after that. Eventually there may be enough to sell.’’
‘‘Charles would be proud,’’ Juliana said softly.
Charles, their eldest brother, had planted the vines when he was the marquess. But he hadn’t lived to see them bear fruit. Two years ago, when Charles died of consumption, Griffin had been forced to leave the cavalry. To come home to take Charles’s place. To accept Charles’s title. He’d also found himself saddled with their three unmarried sisters, a diverse collection of mainly unprofitable properties, and a field full of dying grapevines.
Today the vines were thriving, the family holdings had been reduced to those that were manageable, and two of his sisters were happily wed. Not bad, Griffin thought, relishing a sip of the heady wine. One by one, all of his problems were being resolved. Now he had only to find a husband for Corinna and puzzle out the mystery of Rachael’s parenthood.
He was making good progress on the latter. Having heard from his man today, he looked forward to giving Rachael the news when he saw her at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday. Corinna, however, was another matter altogether.
Paint, paint, paint . . . all she ever wanted to do was paint. Clearly she had little interest in finding a husband. He’d introduced her to countless fine gentlemen, and though on the surface she looked cooperative, she always danced and smiled and moved on, never giving any of them a second thought.
All he wanted was her happiness. And women were happier married, were they not? But lately it seemed Corinna paid attention to only one man. He’d be decent husband material, Griffin supposed—a little old, but wealthy, unmarried, and kind. . . .
If only he were expected to last out the week.
‘‘Corinna has been spending a lot of time with Lord Lincolnshire,’’ he commented as Juliana served the apple puffs Alexandra had made and brought to the family dinner.
‘‘I’m painting Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait. I hope to submit it for the Summer Exhibition.’’
Juliana put a puff on a plate and moved to give it to her husband, James. ‘‘How is the old earl doing?’’ she asked.
‘‘Well enough, considering the circumstances. He seems to be holding his own.’’ Corinna paused for a sip of her wine. ‘‘He’s very happy to have his nephew to keep him company.’’
James frowned. ‘‘His nephew? Oh, you mean Mr. Delaney.’’
Griffin tilted his head, confused. ‘‘Who is Mr. Delaney?’’
Juliana paused with the plate in her hand, apparently torn between setting it before James or bopping him on the head with it. ‘‘That was a secret.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ He winced. ‘‘You didn’t tell me.’’
Corinna blindly jabbed a fork in her own apple puff, glaring at Juliana. ‘‘Why on earth did you tell
him
?’’
‘‘We don’t keep secrets,’’ Juliana explained apologetically. ‘‘We promised before our wedding.’’
‘‘Well, when you tell a secret, you could at least tell that it
is
a secret.’’
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Juliana squeaked.
‘‘What the devil is this about?’’ Griffin demanded. ‘‘Who is Mr. Delaney?’’
Corinna sighed. ‘‘The man you met at Lady Partridge’s ball—the man introduced to you as John Hamilton—is actually Mr. Hamilton’s brother-in-law, Sean Delaney. Mr. Hamilton asked him—’’
‘‘Blackmailed him,’’ Alexandra interrupted.
‘‘Well, yes. He blackmailed him into posing as himself. As John Hamilton, I mean. Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew. But now he’s having second thoughts, even though it’s the right thing, and—’’
‘‘I beg your pardon?’’ Griffin cut in.
None of this made sense. The name, Sean Delaney, seemed familiar. Yet the man introduced as John Hamilton at Lady Partridge’s ball hadn’t seemed familiar at all. In fact, Griffin was certain he’d never set eyes on that man before in his life.
He swung toward his old friend Tristan, more confused than ever. ‘‘Did you know about this, too?’’
‘‘Not all of it.’’ Looking down, Tristan speared a bite. ‘‘And only for a short while.’’
‘‘A short while,’’ Griffin growled.
Alexandra released a melancholy sigh. ‘‘The apple puffs don’t seem to be working.’’
‘‘Come again?’’ Tristan asked.
‘‘They’re supposed to assure harmonious family gatherings.’’
Her husband and Juliana’s both looked amused. Griffin wasn’t. ‘‘Would someone
please
explain—’’
‘‘Excuse me a moment,’’ Juliana interrupted. ‘‘And don’t you dare discuss anything in my absence. I’ll be right back.’’
While she was visiting the water closet, or wherever else she might have rushed off to—Juliana was female, which meant it was much too dangerous to inquire— Griffin shoveled apple puff into his mouth and tried to puzzle out what was going on.

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