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Kilburton, Ireland
November 1807
 
On a damp Tuesday shortly after he turned eighteen, life as Sean Delaney had known it ceased to exist.
First he received a letter, an event in itself. All of Sean’s acquaintances lived in the village of Kilburton— nobody ever had reason to write him a letter. A very official letter it looked, too. As he watched the lad who had delivered it retreat down the lane, Sean’s mother came in from the sitting room, where she’d been serving tea to some womenfolk from the parish.
‘‘Was it not Mary McBride, then?’’ she asked. ‘‘She’s late.’’
‘‘It wasn’t Mrs. McBride, no.’’ Sean shut the door and turned to her, the single folded sheet clutched in one hand. ‘‘It’s a letter. For me.’’
‘‘For you?’’ Her pleasant, guileless face looked as surprised as he felt. ‘‘Well, open it, then, will you?’’
He nodded and broke the seal.
‘‘Who is it from?’’ she asked impatiently.
‘‘A solicitor.’’ Below the imposing engraved letterhead, he scanned down the page. ‘‘ ‘On behalf of Mr. Patrick Delaney—’ ’’
‘‘Who is that?’’
He shrugged. ‘‘One of Da’s relations, I expect.’’
‘‘Your father has no living relations.’’ She frowned. ‘‘What is he wanting, then?’’
‘‘He’s wanting . . .’’ He read further and gasped. ‘‘He’s not wanting anything. He’s dead. And he left ten thousand pounds. To me.’’
‘‘Ten
thousand
pounds?’’
To a vicar’s wife like Ma, the number was all but incomprehensible—enough to support a villager and his family and a servant or two for fifty years. Staring at Sean, she slowly lowered herself to a plain oak chair. Muffled feminine voices tumbled from the sitting room—her guests were gossiping, no doubt. Uncharacteristically, she ignored them.
‘‘Ten thousand pounds, Sean. Whatever will you do with so much money?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he said.
But he did know. He’d known instantly. He just didn’t want to tell her.
He didn’t want to disappoint her, not yet.
‘‘I’m after going for a walk.’’ He grabbed a heavy wool cloak from the peg by the door. ‘‘I shan’t be gone long,’’ he promised softly before slipping outside.
It was raining, as was usual this time of year. As was usual all year, for that matter. Tucking the letter under the cloak where it would stay dry, he hurried down the lane.
Such a vast amount of money—more than Ma had seen in her entire life. She would want him to do good with it. Charitable works or some such. She was a vicar’s wife, after all, and a very kindly one at that.
But Sean didn’t want to do good. Oh, he’d pay the expected tithe. He was a vicar’s son, perhaps not as devout as his father would wish, but no rebel, either. The tithe would be an unprecedented boon for the parish, one Sean would be pleased to provide. He’d been raised with all of these folks—spent his entire life surrounded by them, cocooned in their comfortable familiarity—and it seemed right that they should share a tenth of his good fortune.
But after that, he was going to leave Ireland.
He was going to London.
He was going to make a life for himself, something better than he’d ever imagined growing up in wee Kilburton.
It wasn’t going to be easy leaving kinfolk and friends, striking out on his own. He knew that. His heart seemed both heavy and light as he turned away from the village, crossed the harvested fields, wandered the age-old riverbank. Touching the precious letter beneath his cloak, he alternately laughed, pondering his immense luck, and trembled, wondering what lay ahead.
Three hours passed—three tense, exhilarating hours— before he took a deep breath and started home. It had stopped raining. When he reentered the village, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays fighting through the cloud cover as he trod the lane toward the vicarage. Just before he reached the squat house, two figures came out of it, dark shadows against the silvery glow.
‘‘You have no choice.’’ The Honorable Mr. William Hamilton’s voice came low and angry through the gloom. An imposing man if not a tall one, he was the same height as the son he pulled toward their fancy carriage. ‘‘Not this time.’’
Wondering what was going on but not wanting to be seen, Sean hid himself behind a tree.
‘‘You paid off that village girl without any repercussions.’’ Young John Hamilton sounded sullen, furious. ‘‘And that maid—’’
‘‘Two. Two lowly maids.’’ His father pushed him up the carriage’s steps. ‘‘She’s not some servant’s get, you idiot,’’ he muttered, following his son inside. ‘‘I’d lose face should you not—’’
The door shut, and Sean heard nothing else. As the carriage rumbled off, he stepped from behind the tree and hurried into the house.
It was warm, welcoming, filled with the soft light of oil lamps and redolent with the scent of the whiskey cake his mother had baked earlier for her guests. A good home, simple but clean and cared for. Sean had a fine family, a sister three years his junior and parents who had always been there for both of them, giving of their hearts although they’d never had much to give materially.
He felt sad, knowing he’d soon be leaving all of this, and also excited about his new life. But mostly, he was mighty curious to learn what had made the Hamiltons leave their huge manor house to pay a call at the modest vicarage.
Hearing voices from the sitting room, he headed there. And stopped short when his sister turned to him with a grin. ‘‘I’m marrying John Hamilton.’’
Sean stared at fifteen-year-old Deirdre. He couldn’t have heard her right. ‘‘What did you just say?’’
Her golden hair gleaming in the firelight, she lifted her chin. ‘‘Mr. Hamilton told John he’d have to marry me.’’
‘‘But why?’’ His gaze shot from his father’s bloodless face to his mother’s eyes, swollen from weeping. There could be only one reason they looked like that, one reasonJohn Hamilton might be forced to wed Deirdre. ‘‘You’re not . . .’’ As he looked back to his sister, the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.
Her grin widened as she folded her hands over her deceivingly flat middle. ‘‘I’m with child, aye. And I’ll be the wife of John Hamilton, the handsomest, richest unmarried man in all of Kilburton.’’
In all of the county, more like. The Hamiltons’ lofty new manor house sat in the shadow of their ancestral home, centuries-old Kilburton Castle. John Hamilton’s father was the younger brother of the Earl of Lincolnshire, sent years ago to oversee Kilburton, one of the earl’s many lesser estates.
Growing up, Sean and Deirdre had been educated in a chilly one-room schoolhouse, while John had a parade of private English tutors. The boy had always been temperamental, and Sean had thought him haughty, unfeeling, and selfish. But the two had been born the same year, and since there were no other lads their age in Kilburton, Sean’s mother had told him to play with John anyway. After all, she’d often said—all
too
often, in Sean’s estimation—it was the Christian thing to do.
Being a biddable sort of son, Sean had done what he was told and played with the fellow more times than he could count. But Hamilton had always wanted to stay inside and fiddle with paste and paint, while Sean preferred outdoor pursuits like fishing and building forts. He’d never really liked John Hamilton.
Deirdre, on the other hand, a rather wild girl and the bane of her parents’ existence, obviously liked John Hamilton just fine.
Fine enough to let John ruin her.
Still and all, Sean loved his sister. She was pretty and fun, the best of companions, always ready with a smile and a plan for mischief. Looking at her now, her eyes dancing, Sean clenched his fists.
He no longer disliked John Hamilton . . . he hated the rotter. For life.

 

Chapter One
Ten years later
The British Museum, London
April 1817
 
‘‘We want to see the Rosetta Stone,’’ two feminine voices chorused.
For the third time in the last quarter hour.
‘‘Just a few more minutes,’’ Lady Corinna Chase promised her sisters, her gaze focused on her sketchbook.
‘‘A few is three,’’ Alexandra, the oldest, pointed out. ‘‘Or maybe five. But certainly not thirty. You said ‘a few more minutes’ half an hour ago.’’
‘‘And half an hour before that,’’ Juliana, the middle sister, added.
The squeak of wheels threatened Corinna’s concentration. Alexandra was rolling a perambulator back and forth in hopes of soothing Harold, her infant son. It was all but unheard-of for ladies to cart their babies around town—most aristocratic mothers happily left their children in the care of wet nurses and nannies. But Alexandra had insisted on buying one of the new contraptions, because she rarely let little Harry out of her sight.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
‘‘How can you stare at statues for so long?’’
‘‘I’m not staring. I’m drawing.’’ Corinna sketched another line, following the curve of a muscled male thigh. ‘‘And in case you haven’t noticed, the Elgin Marbles aren’t all statues. This particular panel is part of a frieze from the illustrious Parthenon in Greece. Even more important, the figures are anatomically correct.’’
Which was why she was here, of course. Why she’d been willing to drag herself out of bed at an ungodly hour to sketch. Corinna wanted nothing more than to study human anatomy. Unfortunately, the anatomy classes at the Royal Academy of Arts were entirely forbidden to women.
Entirely.
Forbidden.
It was infuriating. Corinna’s fondest wish was to be elected to the Royal Academy, an honor no woman had attained since 1768. Though she harbored no dreams of accomplishing this goal at her current age of twenty-two—for one thing, Academicians had to be at least twenty-four years old—getting nominated and eventually elected was a long, involved process, and she hoped to take her first step within a matter of weeks, by getting one of her paintings accepted for the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition.
That was something women
did
accomplish on a regular basis, although not usually with portraits. Traditionally, ladies painted only landscapes and still lifes—painting people was considered fast and unseemly. However, Corinna’s heart lay in painting portraits. She was drawn to the human form, compelled to render personalities in oil on canvas.
But how was a woman supposed to accurately paint people if she wasn’t allowed to attend anatomy classes?
‘‘We cannot stay much longer,’’ Juliana said. ‘‘I need to make sure everything’s in place for Cornelia’s wedding.’’ Cornelia, Juliana’s mother-in-law, was marrying Lord Cavanaugh at her home later that evening. ‘‘And I want to see the Rosetta Stone,’’ she added for the fourth time.
‘‘So go see it.’’
‘‘And I want to see the gems and minerals,’’ Alexandra said. ‘‘And the jeweled—’’
‘‘Go see it all. Go see everything in the museum.’’ Corinna flipped a page, refocusing on the nude form of the gorgeous Greek god before her. ‘‘I’ll be right here.’’
‘‘That would take an hour or more.’’
Squeak. Squeak.
‘‘We cannot leave you here in the Elgin Gallery alone.’’
‘‘I’m not alone. There are people everywhere.’’ Too many people, constantly jostling her and blocking her view.
‘‘The Rosetta Stone is in the main building.’’
‘‘It is perfectly proper for two married ladies to cross the museum grounds together.’’ Unlike Corinna, who was known as a bit of a rebel, her sisters were always concerned with being proper. ‘‘I knew I should have brought Aunt Frances along instead. She’s more patient than either of you.’’
‘‘She’s also nine months gone with child.’’ Alexandra sighed. ‘‘We’ll be back in an hour.’’
‘‘Make that two or three,’’ Corinna muttered, but they had already left. Hearing the pram
squeak-squeak
toward the door, she smiled and licked her lips. She and the Greek god were alone at last.
Holy Hannah, he was magnificent.
 
Major changes in Sean Delaney’s life always seemed to be heralded by a letter.
The first had been the letter informing him of his unexpected inheritance, of course, but more letters had followed. A year later, a letter had told him his parents had perished of smallpox. He’d received numerous letters each time he’d established a new company, each time he’d bought an ongoing concern, each time he’d purchased a piece of property. More recently, six short months ago, a letter had arrived from his sister, Deirdre, confessing the failure of her marriage and advising Sean she would soon arrive to move in with him.
Nevertheless, when his butler brought him a letter this fine spring morning in Hampstead, he broke the seal without a second thought. Opened it. Scanned the scrawled message quickly.
Then crumpled it into a ball and hurled it into his library’s fancy white marble-manteled fireplace.

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