The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  “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.” He shook his head. “More than a hundred servants altogether, and I cannot bring myself to dismiss a single one. My family has employed all of them 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 an overlarge staff bordered on the absurd, Sean found the sentiment admirable—and baffling. Where was the cruel, miserly man Sean had heard about all his life? The distant master of Kilburton who lived to spite others?

  Come to think of it, had he ever heard those stories from anyone but the weasel and his parents?

  As Sean looked on the earl’s open, smiling face, his breakfast felt as though it were congealing in his gut. An iron collar seemed to be squeezing around his throat. Clearly Lincolnshire wasn’t the brute Hamilton had described. And neither was he “incapacitated.” Perhaps he was knocking on death’s door, but for now, at least, he was fully alert.

  How could Sean deceive such a nice man?

  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. “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.

  Sean couldn’t appear in public as Lincolnshire’s nephew—when the real Hamilton came forward later to claim his earldom, all of society would learn of the hoax. 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, or worse, in subjugation to her hateful husband.

  And it would all be Sean’s fault.

  “I’d prefer not to be ‘shown off,’” he explained carefully. “I’m rather a mystery to the public. 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 won’t 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 possibly deny such a heart-rending request? 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 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 of this was over, he’d never see any of them ever again.

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

  The old man’s obvious delight did nothing to ease Sean’s guilt.

  SEVEN

  Griffin spent all of Friday morning seated across from Rachael in his carriage, smelling her heady, floral scent and watching her lick her lips so many times his jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

  He talked of parties, books and politics, family and property and plans for the future…anything to keep his mind off that sultry mouth. It was difficult to speak with his teeth clenched, so he was thankful Rachael kept up her end of the conversation. She’d always been easy to talk to, especially for a girl.

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

  When he reached to help Rachael out, he discovered she wasn’t wearing gloves. The warmth of her hand seemed to spread throughout his body, especially up his neck to heat his face. Maddeningly, she left her hand in his while they made their way down a short, covered passageway and entered through the unassuming oak door. Her fingers trembled, either from the chill 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 great fuss.”

  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.

  “Wasn’t this room decorated in red?” he asked. “And the furnishings of dark oak?”

  “I changed it all for Noah.” Her younger brother had finally taken responsibility for the earldom—a responsibility Rachael had borne herself since their parents died four years ago, when she was seventeen. “To make it his, not Papa and Mama’s.”

  How thoughtful. How Rachael. “But some of your mother’s things are in here now?”

  “In that chest.” She gestured toward the one heavy, dark piece of furniture, a large carved trunk set in a corner. “Noah had it brought down from the attic.” Her voice sounded thin. “He said nothing in it is important.”

  “He could be wrong,” he said, hoping that was the case. “Let’s have a look.”

  “Yes, let’s.” She crossed to the trunk and removed an embroidered covering and a lamp someone had set on top. Then she knelt and took a deep breath before reverently opening the lid. A musty scent wafted out, starch and aged leather mixed with hints of her mother’s gardenia perfu
me.

  Griffin knelt beside her. “Pretty,” he murmured, lifting a straw hat from atop the contents.

  “I remember her wearing it when I was a child.” Rachael removed a few more old-fashioned items of clothing, then shook out a white gown. “This must be the wedding dress Noah mentioned. I recognize it from their wedding portrait.”

  Though clearly out of fashion, the gown was lacy and beautiful. Rachael’s mother had been slender like her daughter, all willowy, graceful curves, and she obviously hadn’t been pregnant long when she married John Chase. The dress looked like it would fit Rachael perfectly. “Will you wear it for your own wedding someday, too, now that you’ve found it?”

  “I’d love to, but…” Her eyes grew misty as she gazed into the trunk. “Thunderation. I’m not going to cry.”

  Rachael could cuss as colorfully as a cavalryman, but that didn’t bother Griffin. He considered it part of her charm. It reminded him she’d spent years as the Earl of Greystone in all but name, and he admired her for that.

  “But what?” he prompted.

  “She wore it for her wedding to him. Lord Greystone. Not my father.”

  “Balderdash.” Griffin sought her gaze. “Lord Greystone was your father in every way that counted. I’m sure he would have wanted you to wear it. He would have been honored, as a matter of fact.”

  She nodded and swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I’ll ever marry, anyway.”

  “Of course you will. What gentleman in his right mind wouldn’t want you? I’m surprised Noah hasn’t already found you a match.”

  “Noah?” Her eyes cleared, and she laughed, turning back to the trunk. “Who would run his household if I wed? He won’t be matching me anytime soon.”

  Though Noah was only eighteen months her junior, he’d always seemed far less mature. Had it not occurred to the boy that seeing his three sisters settled was now his responsibility? Perhaps Griffin would have to set him straight.

  A few old books lay beneath the clothes, all inscribed, To Georgiana with love from Mama. Georgiana had been Rachael’s mother’s name, but the inscriptions were all dated with her early birthdays, and the books contained no clues. There were no diaries or anything else of a personal nature. A stack of letters tied with a ribbon held no relevant information, either. They were all written in the years following Rachael’s birth.

  When the trunk was otherwise empty, Rachael found a tiny box in the bottom and pulled it out. It held a narrow, plain gold band.

  “Her wedding ring?” Griffin guessed.

  “She was buried wearing her wedding ring. Unless…” She glanced up at him, wonder in her eyes. “This must be from her marriage to my father.” She looked inside, turning the band to catch the light. “No engraving. No clues.” Sighing, she slipped it onto the fourth finger of her right hand. “It fits.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Griffin’s knees creaked when he stood and stretched. “That’s it, then, is it?”

  “Everything in here was old, things she didn’t use anymore, things it made sense to have put away.” Leaving the ring on her finger, she began putting everything else back. “I guess she didn’t have a lot to keep. Mama led a quiet life.”

  He nodded. “I remember she was always home with you. My parents often left us with our governesses, but your mother never did.”

  “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?”

  She lifted the lamp. ”Yes, of course she did. 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 anyway, 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 not at all troubled to have him, an unmarried gentleman, in her room.

  Griffin wished he could say the same.

  He sat, though, when she opened the box. Filled to the brim, it sparkled with gold and diamonds, colorful gems and lustrous pearls. 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. I believe it was opened by one of her sons. 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 brooch he thought he could recall Aunt Georgiana wearing often, pinned to her 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. “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 1795, sometime in the months after you were conceived but before you were born—that much we know. 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 girl 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. It seemed a frivolous career next to the vital work of the army. But here, now, was a chance to use his military connections to advantage. To help someone.

  To help Rachael.

  And that thought made him far too pleased.

  EIGHT

  “You’re not going to stay up till all hours again, are you?”

  In a haze of concentration, 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?”