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The butler closed the door and promptly disappeared down a corridor. Sean waited pensively. In contrast to the house’s plain facade, its interior was absolutely sumptuous. The grand, pillared entrance led to a wide, sweeping curved staircase with broad steps made of the 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 one.

‘‘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?

Hamilton’s family had always described him as a heartless blackguard.

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?’’

‘‘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 started swelling ’orribly. 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 another woman polishing the already spotless inlaid floor. ‘‘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 did not look as ill as Hamilton had indicated. ‘‘I’m so pleased you agreed to keep me company in my final days,’’ he added enthusiastically. ‘‘Come here, nephew. Let me have a look at you.’’

Feeling like the fraud he was, Sean walked closer. ‘‘Your letter implied you were quite ill, my lord.’’

‘‘My lord? Please call me Uncle. And yes, I do fear 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.

‘‘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. ‘‘ ’Tis dropsy, they tell me.’’

‘‘What causes it?’’

‘‘That they
haven’t
told me. Or perhaps they don’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 Hamilton’s name, not to mention he was likely to 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. 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. Sweet Jesus, whatever had made him think he could pull this off? Warning himself to tread more carefully, 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 the Irish had a less than sterling reputation in London.

‘‘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.’’

Hamilton’s aunt, Lincolnshire’s wife. Guilt was a fist around Sean’s heart. ‘‘You must miss her.’’

‘‘I surely do. After all our children died, at least we still had each other. Rather disconcerting to find oneself alone.’’

‘‘You seem to be surrounded by staff, sir. Uncle.’’ An understatement of great proportions. The nurse still puttered in the shadows, and two more maids had come and gone in the past few minutes, delivering a glass of water, fussing with the curtains, seeing to the man’s comfort.

‘‘Ah, yes, that I am.’’ The earl smiled a bit sheepishly, revealing straight but tea-stained teeth. ‘‘Mrs. Skeffington takes excellent care of me,’’ he said, indicating the nurse, ‘‘but she does have some help. More than a hundred servants altogether, and I cannot bring myself to dismiss a single one. My family has employed them all for years.’’

‘‘
All
of them?’’

‘‘And their folk before them, generations back. My forebears housed many relations, you see. As did I, in the past.’’ A sigh escaped his lips, a wheezy sort of sound. ‘‘While my family shrank, the families of the servants continued to grow. After so many years of loyal service, I cannot find it in myself to turn them out. It’s no simple matter to find good positions these days, even with a letter of good character.’’

While keeping such a large staff bordered on absurd, Sean found the sentiment touching, which ratcheted his guilt up a level. No wonder the maid had described Lincolnshire as the most wonderful employer in all of England.

Sean’s breakfast felt as if it were congealing in his gut. An iron collar seemed to be squeezing around his throat. How could he do this to such a nice man? Clearly Lincolnshire wasn’t the blackguard Hamilton had described. And neither was he ‘‘incapacitated.’’ Perhaps he was knocking on death’s door, but for now, at least, the man was fully alert.

Lincolnshire leaned to pat Sean’s hand. ‘‘I’m so glad you’re here, John,’’ he repeated gratefully.

‘‘Sean,’’ Sean choked out.

‘‘Sean, yes. I shall have to grow accustomed to that.’’ He smiled again, a fond smile that spiked Sean’s guilt to new heights. ‘‘Lady Partridge is holding a ball tomorrow night. I’ve already sent my regrets, but I’ve a sudden hankering to see all my friends one last time. To show off my famous nephew. I’ll have my secretary send her a note, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to accompany me.’’

Trouble?

Guilt transformed to a panic that
trouble
didn’t even begin to describe.

Should Sean appear in society as Lincolnshire’s nephew, the truth would be revealed when Hamilton later appeared as himself. And then where would they all be? Hamilton would lose his art career if not his inheritance. He’d kill Sean, or, at the very least, refuse Deirdre her divorce. Sean’s sister would go on to live in sin, and he’d be proved worse than a knotheaded fool— a complete failure as a brother and a man.

‘‘I’d prefer not to be ‘shown off,’ ’’ he explained carefully. ‘‘I’m rather a mystery to the public, if you’ve heard. That secrecy adds to my cachet, and—’’

‘‘Your mysterious ways are legend. Very well, then.’’ Lincolnshire looked resigned, and Sean was relieved— for approximately two seconds. ‘‘I’ll not tell anyone you’re John Hamilton. I’ll simply introduce you as my nephew Sean.’’

‘‘Surely people know who your heir is. . . .’’

‘‘I’ll tell them you’re my long-lost
other
nephew. For now. They’ll learn the truth, of course, when you inherit. It will be our little secret.’’ For a moment the earl’s eyes danced with merry amusement, but he quickly sobered. ‘‘I’d . . . well . . .’’ The old man cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. ‘‘I’d given up living, Sean. I didn’t want to see anyone. But now . . . having you here . . . it makes me want to live again. I’ve a short time left. With you by my side, I wish to say my good-byes.’’ A sheen of tears glazed his eyes. ‘‘Please, nephew, do me this favor.’’

How could Sean deny such a fine, upstanding fellow? How could he possibly refuse? How could he disappoint the most wonderful man in all of England?

He gazed up at the exquisite painted ceiling, where the Goddess of Dawn chased away the Goddess of Night. Hamilton had been so wrong about his uncle, in so very many ways. And being introduced as Lincolnshire’s
other
nephew should carry no risk. Their ruse would never come to light. Sean had no connections with high society. Before Lincolnshire, he’d never met any member of the
ton
. No one should suspect he was anything but what Lincolnshire said, and after all this was over, he would never see any of them ever again.

‘‘Very well,’’ he finally said, lowering his gaze to meet the earl’s eyes. ‘‘I’ll accompany you. Just remember to call me Sean.’’

Chapter Seven

Griffin spent all of Friday morning seated across from Rachael in his blasted carriage, breathing her come-hither scent and watching her lick her lips so many times his jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

It was that or leap across the space between them to kiss off that beckoning sheen. A temptation he’d managed to resist in all the months since he’d left the cavalry and returned to England. A temptation he was determined to resist forever.

Instead, he talked of politics, books and plays, family and property, and plans for the future . . . anything to keep his mind off that generous, glistening mouth. It was difficult to speak with his teeth clenched, so he was thankful Rachael kept up her end of the conversation. She always had been easy to talk to, especially for a female.

At long last, in the early afternoon, the carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the modest courtyard before the small castle that was Rachael’s home at Greystone. Spring rain pelted his head when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. He breathed a sigh of relief and reached to help Rachael out.

She hadn’t worn gloves, damn it. Her hand felt entirely too warm in his, especially when she left it there while they made their way down a short, covered passageway and entered through the unassuming oak door. Her fingers trembled, either from the cold or from nervousness at what they might find; he wasn’t sure which.

He was thankful she dropped his hand when the butler, Smithson, approached. ‘‘Lady Rachael. Lord Cainewood.’’ Tall and lean with gray hair and piercing gray eyes that seemed to match the old castle, Smithson was too mannerly to show dismay at their unexpected arrival. ‘‘What a pleasant surprise.’’

‘‘We’ll be here but a short while,’’ Rachael assured him. ‘‘No need for any preparations.’’

He glanced at the tall-case clock that stood in the square, stone-floored entry. ‘‘I’ll ask Cook to prepare a luncheon. Will you be wanting anything more?’’

‘‘No, thank you. I wish only to fetch something of my mother’s, and Lord Cainewood was kind enough to accompany me.’’ She headed toward the oak staircase that marched up the wall opposite the entrance. ‘‘Please don’t trouble yourself or anyone else.’’

Griffin followed her up the steps, past two of her mother’s watercolor paintings, and along the corridor that led to what used to be her parents’ bedroom. The chamber’s walls were covered in pale green paper with gold tracery, the bedding green velvet of a deeper hue, the furniture light and slender, of the style popularized by Sheraton.

‘‘Did this room not used to be decorated in red?’’ he asked. ‘‘And the furnishings of dark oak?’’

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