The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  And she was also pleased to think how after she’d visited his private space—his secret, reclusive hideaway—he’d no longer be able to keep claiming he wasn’t John Hamilton. Because honestly, enough was enough.

  She looked forward to watching him eat his own words.

  The studio was in a very nice building. Shops filled the ground floor, and the two floors above were divided into large flats. Unfortunately, the studio was in a windowed garret above those, and it was no small feat helping Lord Lincolnshire up the many stairs.

  Even though Mr. Hamilton took most of his uncle’s weight, they went very slowly, and Corinna found the man much heavier than she expected.

  The minute they got inside, Lord Lincolnshire shuffled to a threadbare sofa and plopped down, wheezing. Corinna would have sat, too, but he was sprawled right in its center. And the studio had no other sofa or any chairs.

  In fact, it hadn’t much of anything.

  Six pictures rested on the floor, leaning against the bare walls. An easel held one more work of art in progress. Clearly it would be a lovely scene once it was finished, a beautiful meadow bordered by trees more realistic than any she’d ever seen rendered in paint. Tiny, individual leaves seemed to be rustling in the wind, casting shadows on the grass below. She looked forward to studying it, to figuring out how Mr. Hamilton had managed such incredible detail.

  A small table sat beside it, with a few sketchbooks piled on top. But no pencils.

  Odd, that.

  Mr. Hamilton’s supplies were on the table, too. All of them. There was no cupboard, no shelves in the room, no place for anything to be hiding. She walked over to have a look and found a selection of various pigments, a big bottle of linseed oil, a pristine palette, and two—only two!—seemingly brand-new brushes. Neither of them was nearly fine enough to paint the tiny leaves she’d seen on the trees.

  And that was it. There was nothing else. No extra jars to hold leftover mixed paint. No turpentine, no varnish.

  No rags, no blank canvases, no knives.

  No little spots of paint on the wooden floor.

  When Corinna painted in her family’s drawing room, she always spread a large tarpaulin to prevent spotting, but the floor here was bare and clean. And no folded tarp was in sight.

  “Where do you make your paints?” she asked.

  Mr. Hamilton shifted uneasily. “Right here. Where else?”

  “What do you use, then? What surface do you grind them against?”

  “I make them directly on the palette,” he said, slanting a glance to his uncle.

  She frowned. “Isn’t that too porous? I’ve always used glass. And a glass muller.”

  “A muller?” Lord Lincolnshire asked.

  “It’s sort of like a flat pestle,” she explained. “One has to grind the pigment into the oil in order to completely combine them.”

  He looked to his nephew. Mr. Hamilton lifted a shoulder. “With enough elbow grease, one has no need of a muller.”

  There were, she acknowledged, different methods. “I suppose a palette knife would do if one worked the mediums well,” she conceded.

  Lord Lincolnshire nodded approvingly. “He’s very talented, you know.”

  “Extremely talented,” she agreed. But there were no palette knives. And she still wondered how he could grind against a surface as permeable as wood. She wandered to the painting on the easel, admiring its incredibly detailed trees. “Which pigment do you use as the base for your greens?” she asked.

  “The green one.”

  “Hmm?” He had no green pigment. She turned and glanced back to the table to verify. Black, white, yellows, blues, reds, and earth tones. Other pigments were available for purchase, of course, but these were the basics, the same ones she used herself. With these colors, one could mix any other color one might want. Greens were created from blues and yellows.

  When she’d asked which pigment was his base, she’d meant which blue. Ultramarine, Prussian, cerulean? “I’m partial to cobalt,” she said, “even though it’s the most expensive.”

  “I can afford it,” he said haughtily. “I’m partial to cobalt green, too.”

  Cobalt was blue. Transparent, neutral blue. The truest of all the blues, which was why she preferred it.

  She thought a moment. And then she smoothed her pink skirts, moving closer to Mr. Hamilton so Lord Lincolnshire, who’d lain back on the sofa and closed his eyes for a spell, wouldn’t overhear. Walking right up to Mr. Hamilton, she rose to her toes and placed her mouth close by his ear.

  “Do you like my new green dress?” she whispered.

  FOURTEEN

  “It’s a lovely dress,” Sean murmured, though he’d glanced away from it quickly. Her neckline wasn’t particularly low, but from this vantage point, close as she was, he could see a little ways down the front.

  Sweet mercy. He stood tensely still, trying to keep his eyes locked on her face.

  “But do you like the hue?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. It’s, um, a very flattering green.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and stepped back.

  He released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  And after that, she miraculously stopped asking questions.

  Over on the sofa, Lincolnshire was gingerly moving to sit up. ”May I see your paintings, Sean?” he asked, wheezing only a little.

  “Of course, Uncle,” Sean said. Corinna helped the earl to a sitting position while Sean went to bring the paintings over, one by one.

  The earl examined each picture minutely, making thoughtful and considered comments. John Hamilton might have argued or agreed, but Sean was only confused. His feeble responses earned one or two curious looks from Lincolnshire (or maybe suspicious looks?). Sean found the whole business exhausting. He was an entrepreneur, blast it, not an actor!

  But at least Corinna had quit making things more difficult. He hadn’t heard a peep out of her in several minutes, for which he was thankful. She was just standing by the easel, watching him with the earl, a rather dumbstruck look on her face.

  Huh. And all he’d done was say he liked her dress.

  With her, apparently, flattery could get you anywhere.

  After Lincolnshire finished rhapsodizing over the paintings, Corinna remained quiet while they assisted him back down the steps, a slow and painful process even with her help. She didn’t say much as they wheeled the chair home, and her farewell at Lincolnshire’s door was uncharacteristically reserved and polite.

  Mystified by the change in her, Sean saw the wheezing, exhausted earl upstairs and into bed. With that accomplished, he stepped out into the corridor, closed the door, and slumped against it, shutting his eyes and willing his tense muscles to relax.

  Begorrah, that had been the longest afternoon of his life.

  This won’t interrupt your routine, Hamilton had promised. It shan’t affect Delaney and Company at all.

  The weasel had been lying through his teeth.

  Sean was seriously considering ending the whole thing now. Not only because he was constantly neglecting his work—which was no small nuisance—but also because the guilt of deceiving a saint was constantly weighing down on him. It felt like…

  Like the Prince Regent was sitting on his chest.

  With effort, he opened his eyes and straightened, telling himself he was at least free for the moment. Maybe he could finally attend to his own responsibilities. He tramped down the stairs, asked a footman to have his curricle brought round, and headed out of the house.

  Then stopped dead on the doorstep.

  “You’re not Hamilton,” Corinna said.

  “Saints preserve us.” Sean blinked. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting to talk to you. You’re color-blind. Which means you cannot be Hamilton—or any painter at all. At least not a good one.”

  Once the shock subsided, he cracked a smile. “I take exception to that. I expect I could paint a decently good brown scene. Assuming I h
ad an artistic bone in my body, that is.” A stableman arrived with his curricle, but he ignored it. “What was the telltale sign, then?”

  “My dress is pink, not green.”

  “Ah.” It looked pale brown. (And so much for flattery getting him anywhere.) “After you figured that out, you didn’t say anything. Why did you keep the truth from Lincolnshire?”

  “Are you jesting? The truth would destroy the poor man. He loves you.”

  “He does seem to.”

  “And he’d be crushed to learn you’re not his nephew.” She bit her lip.

  He remembered how full and soft it had been.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Sean Delaney. Hamilton’s brother-in-law. As I’ve been telling you all along.”

  “If you’re not an artist, what do you do?”

  “I own property. I buy and sell buildings. Among other things.” He shifted uneasily. “I should explain. Not about that, but about how I ended up here. Will you walk with me in the square?”

  She seemed to consider that for a moment. “Will you buy me an ice from Gunter’s?”

  “You’re overwarm?” It wasn’t a particularly hot day.

  “No, but Gunter’s Tea Shop is probably the only place in London where a girl can be seen alone with a gentleman without ruining her reputation.”

  “Agreed, then,” he said when he stopped laughing.

  She was a clever one.

  Leaving the curricle in front of Lincolnshire House, they made their way across the square to Gunter’s, where he ordered a lemon ice for himself and a strawberry ice for Corinna. They took them back into the square.

  “This is such a relief,” he said as they walked.

  “The other fellow in the museum was really Hamilton, then. I’m guessing this was his plan?”

  Sean nodded. ”I didn’t want to go along with it.“

  “But you did it anyway.”

  “For my sister.” Sean sighed. “Hamilton’s wife.”

  By the time he explained, both their dishes were empty. They sat on a bench beneath a large London plane tree.

  “So you’re not married, then?” she asked. “You don’t have a wife?”

  “No,” he said vaguely, not really listening. He was watching Corinna lick her spoon. When it was spotless, she let it clatter into her bowl.

  “Well, I don’t blame you for what you’re doing,” she declared. “I’d have done the same to save my sister from being unhappy all her days.”

  “I feel terrible tricking Lincolnshire, though. I’m going to tell him the truth.”

  “You cannot!” She turned to him urgently. “You’ll ruin your sister’s life, and—”

  “I fear I’ve failed Deirdre already. When Hamilton learns I appeared as him in public, he’ll be furious. Think of the damage to his reputation.”

  “But if you give up now, you’ll ruin the rest of Lord Lincolnshire’s life, too! He’s the most incredible man in the world, and he’s tragically lost everyone he loves, and he’s so thrilled to have his nephew with him in his final days. How can you even think of depriving him of his last chance at happiness?”

  “It’s sorry I am for that. But I cannot go on lying to the poor fellow.” Sean thought of telling her how the guilt weighed on him, but that wasn’t really the point. “It just isn’t right—”

  “It’s kind, and what’s so wrong about that? How is it hurting him? He’d be much more hurt to learn his real nephew is so very selfish, and there’d be nothing he could do about it anyway. The law is the law. John Hamilton is his nearest blood relative, his legal heir. He’ll inherit no matter what Lord Lincolnshire might prefer.”

  “True he’d inherit the title and any entailed property. But Lincolnshire could will everything else to anyone he wanted.”

  “I suppose he could, Mr. Delaney. But—”

  “Sean.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My name is Sean. And I’m thinking we should have leave to call each other by our given names.”

  He already called her Corinna in his head. He’d thought of her as Corinna ever since he’d heard her name called out in the British Museum. And having never spent much time around the peerage, he would probably forget to add the Lady.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “That seems rather…intimate.”

  “You’re the only one who knows my secret,” he pointed out. “That’s a rather intimate thing, don’t you think? And we’ve kissed.”

  Her blue eyes went wide and inscrutable.

  “Not that that’s happening again,” he quickly added.

  “But you’re not married,” she said just as quickly, and then, “Yes, of course that’s not happening again.” A charming little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Now where were we…Sean?” She sobered. “Oh, yes. You’d said that if Lord Lincolnshire learned the truth, he’d be able to will most of his property to anyone he wanted. But at what cost? He’d be disappointed and unhappy the rest of his days, and once he’s gone, will it really matter whether Mr. Hamilton does or doesn’t inherit? Lord Lincolnshire deserves happiness,” she concluded with a decisive nod. “That’s the most important thing.” She looked thoughtful. “And at least there’s still a chance for your sister. If you abandon the plan on purpose, we know she’ll be lost.”

  Corinna had a point. A lot of points, actually. Lincolnshire’s happiness was more important than depriving the weasel of his inheritance. But… “He’s going to find out anyway. You just saw for yourself how obvious it is that I’m not an artist. The earl may be wasting away physically, but his mind is sharp as a knife. He’s already growing suspicious. And how will he feel when he uncovers the truth? Wouldn’t it be better for me to break it to him gently?”

  “I’m an artist. I can cover for you. I can help you keep up the act.”

  “You’re not around enough to do that.”

  “I can be around enough. I’ll visit Lord Lincolnshire every day. I’ll stay close. You won’t mind that, will you?”

  Would he mind? Sean wanted to laugh. Whyever should he mind spending hours and hours every single day with a girl he couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t help wanting, and couldn’t ever have for his own?

  Of course he wouldn’t mind—he loved torturing himself.

  “I won’t mind,” he muttered, only adding to his legion of lies.

  FIFTEEN

  TEA BUNS

  Mix a lot of Flower with some Sugar and a little Salt in a bowl, then put in Egges, Butter, halfe a cup of Milk and a measure of Yeast to make a thick dough. Allow to rise, then flatten and make rounde buns and allow to rise again before you bake.

  A most genteel addition to afternoon tea, these buns encourage serenity.

  —Georgiana, Countess of Greystone, 1806

  Yesterday’s discovery that John Hamilton was really Sean Delaney—well, that and constantly reliving the kiss—had kept Corinna too distracted to take notice of the calendar. But today she’d realized it was May. The second of May, to be precise. Lady A’s reception was on the fourteenth, and Summer Exhibition submissions were due on the nineteenth.

  It usually took her at least two weeks to complete a painting. And for this one, she hadn’t even chosen a subject.

  Griffin had been gone a day longer than he’d said he would, yet with all the peace and quiet, she still wasn’t making progress. Her anxiety had kept her mind buzzing the entire afternoon at Juliana’s home. Family and friends had assembled there, in Stafford House’s beautiful Palm Room, to pen the invitations to the reception Lady A was planning to introduce Corinna to the art world.

  All of Corinna’s female relations had come. Alexandra and Juliana, and their three cousins, Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth. A hugely pregnant Aunt Frances. Lady Avonleigh, of course, and her two sisters, Lady Balmforth and Lady Cavanaugh, who was also Juliana’s mother-in-law.

  It was touching. Corinna had never been the sentimental type, but the thought of all of them helpi
ng her made her throat feel tight.

  And the thought of all their generous hard work going to waste if she didn’t finish her portrait in time made her stomach feel like rebelling.

  “It was so kind of you all to come,” Lady A said now as she stacked the last of the completed invitations. “I was dreading this task, but with all you ladies here, it was nothing!”

  Juliana piled the leftover tea buns she’d served into a basket. “Have you need of any more assistance, Lady Avonleigh? With anything else at all?”

  “Just encourage everyone to attend, please, all of you. Royal Academicians in particular, but anyone else influential as well. You all know the wording for the invitations now, so feel free to write out more should you think of anyone else who might be able to further Corinna’s career. Above all, we must make certain the committee members all attend.” She rose to fetch her pelisse, saying to Corinna, “I’m sure John Hamilton will accept, as he’s your personal acquaintance—”

  “I wouldn’t call him that,” Corinna interrupted. Her nervousness about charming the committee had suddenly returned, causing a fluttering in her stomach that mixed oh-so-nicely with the nausea.

  “You’ve danced with him, my dear.”

  “He’s very busy,“ Corinna insisted. Sean couldn’t attend the reception—the Academy members would surely expose him as a fraud. “And you know he doesn’t like to appear in public.”

  “Now that he’s inheriting Lord Lincolnshire’s title, I’m certain that will change. Don’t fret, my dear; he shall attend.” Lady A came close and kissed Corinna’s cheek, enveloping her in a cloud of gardenia and camphor scent. Corinna quickly stepped away under the guise of retrieving her reticule; the unappealing fragrance had nearly been enough to bring her luncheon back up.

  Luckily, Lady A didn’t seem to notice. ”Should you run into Mr. Hamilton,” she went on, buttoning her pelisse, “you might encourage him to see that the other committee members accept as well.”