ARRIVING AT the Teddington Ball on Saturday night, Rachael waved to Lady A and looked around to locate Griffin. She found him in the refreshment room, talking to Juliana.
Or rather, complaining to Juliana.
"I cannot believe she refused to come tonight. How the devil am I supposed to find her a husband?"
"Corinna's submissions are due on Monday, Griffin. This is important to her."
"Well, she said she doesn't want to go to Lady Hartley's breakfast tomorrow, either, but I won't hear of it. It's the event of the season, and I've already lined up three men for her to meet."
Juliana looked as though she might argue with that, but then she noticed Rachael standing there. "Good evening, Rachael."
Griffin turned and looked at Rachael, too. Or rather, he skimmed her from her toes on up, his gaze lingering on her sky blue silk bodice before it reached her face. "What are you doing here?"
"You sent me a note," she said, confused. "You asked me to come." What kind of a fool would ask her to come and then ask her why she was here?
"Well, I didn't ask you to wear a dress like that."
"It's a ballgown. This is a ball." What else was she supposed to wear? "Your note sounded important." She glanced around, seeing entirely too many people. "Is it something we should talk about privately?"
"Let's go to Lord Teddington's library."
"All right." They'd gone to the library during the Teddingtons' ball last year, too—in fact, it was where she'd first asked Griffin if he might help her find her father—so she knew exactly where to head: down a long corridor past several other doors. Slipping inside, she walked over to a leather sofa and sat, irritated that she'd responded to his note. "What did you want to discuss with me?"
Leaving the door open, Griffin joined her on the sofa, sitting sideways to face her. "I thought of something," he said quietly. "Maybe your grandfather wasn't the last chance to learn what became of your father. If we can find your mother's family, perhaps they will know the truth."
The irritation rapidly dissipated, shifting to disbelief. She stared at him. "We cannot find her family."
"We have a name now. John Cartwright. If we can believe the old man's ramblings, he saved John Cartwright's life and Cartwright promised his daughter in return. I know your mother called herself Georgiana Woodby, but she must have been Georgiana Cartwright."
Having seen her grandfather, Rachael could no longer doubt that Griffin's reasoning made sense. "But even if she was Georgiana Cartwright, she had no family left. There's no family to find."
"Maybe that's not the case. If she gave a false name, she might have told other untruths. She might have had living family, after all."
"Maybe." Though the implications made her reel, she was willing to concede the possibility. "But how would you find them with just a name, and such a common one at that?" The man who'd raised her had also been called John, as were many other men of her acquaintance. John Hamilton, for instance. "There must be a hundred John Cartwrights." Maybe more.
"But how many of them are titled? At the time of her marriage, your mother was Lady Georgiana, which means her father was an earl at the very least. We can look him up in Debrett's Peerage. Even if he did die young, the succession will be listed in the pedigree. If you have any living relations, I can find them."
Of course he could. "I'm a bloody idiot." She rarely considered herself a fool, but it was so simple. "Why didn't I think of that?"
He shrugged. "I expect your mind was on other things. Your life has been rather traumatic lately. Besides," he added artlessly, "I'm here to think for you."
She preferred to think for herself, but she had to admit—if only to herself—that it was comforting to have Griffin's support. And surprising. Never in a million years had she thought she'd lean on Griffin.
A man dumb enough to ask her to a ball and then ask her why she'd come wearing a ballgown.
"I'm going to go home right now and consult Debrett's," she said. "Do you want to come with me?"
"There's no need to go anywhere," he said, rising from the sofa. "Why do you think I suggested we discuss this in Lord Teddington's library?"
She was a bloody idiot. Everyone had a copy of Debrett's. It didn't take long for Griffin to find the Teddingtons'. He drew it off a shelf and came back with it in his hands, a small but very fat volume bound in deep green leather.
"Here," he said, handing it to her as he reclaimed his seat by her side. "You look it up."
With shaking fingers she opened the cover and turned to the table of contents. All they had to go on was a last name.
"There," Griffin said. "'Surnames and the Superior Titles of the Peers and Peeresses of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.' That's the section you want."
"I know," she said dryly. "I've looked in Debrett's before." She turned to that section and flipped to the second page, where the Cs were listed. "Cartwright—Avonleigh."
There was a little e by the listing, indicating Cartwright was an earl. "Your mother's father was the Earl of Avonleigh," Griffin said.
"Maybe." She wouldn't believe it until she saw her mother's name in the Earl of Avonleigh's pedigree. She simply couldn't make herself believe it.
Although the earls were all listed in one section, they were in no particular order that she'd ever been able to discern, so she went back to the front, where all the titles were indexed.
"Avonleigh," Griffin said. "There it is. Page two thirty-three."
"I can read, Griffin." He may have done all the research up until now, but she could do this. She turned to page 233. "'Robert Cartwright, Earl of Avonleigh…'" She scanned down past the current earl's birth and marriage dates. "'… succeeded his uncle, John, the late earl, born 1739, married 1765 to Aurelia Egerton, daughter of William, Earl of Wilton, by whom he has issue Alice, born 1767, married 1785 to George Egerton, youngest son of John, Earl of Wilton, died 1799; Harold, born 1770, died 1791; Georgiana—'"
She broke off.
"There she is," Griffin said softly.
"Yes." There it was, in black and white, her mother's name.
"What does it say about her?" he prompted.
She swallowed hard and refocused on the tiny print. "'Georgiana, born 1774, married 1792 to Thomas Grimbald, died 1793.'"
"The year you were born," he said.
"Yes. She didn't die. She married my father—Lord Greystone—and had me." Something seemed to be tugging at her mind. Something significant. Confused again, she glanced up at Griffin.
His green gaze was unfocused, as though he were deep in thought. "Everyone believed she'd died, obviously. She was officially dead. Then she married Greystone and hid herself in the countryside."
"She pretended she had asthma and couldn't go to London because the air here was bad for her. She never liked to socialize."
"Are you sure?" Griffin asked. "I'm thinking she never came to London because someone here might have recognized her. Someone here would have realized she wasn't actually dead."
"Maybe," she said. "That does make sense. Maybe her family was here in London. John Cartwright, the Earl of Avonleigh, my grandfather. And his wife"—she glanced back to the pedigree to find the name—"Aurelia…"
When she trailed off, Griffin laid a gentle hand on her arm. "What?"
"Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh. I don't believe it." That was what had been tugging at her mind. "We know her, Griffin! She's Juliana's aunt by marriage, one of the ABC sisters. She hosted the art reception for Corinna. She smells of gardenias, like my mother. Lady Avonleigh is my grandmother!"
AT TEN O'CLOCK, Sean arrived back at Lincolnshire House, exhausted. Deirdre met him at the door and hurried him into what he thought of as the Hamilton drawing room. "What did you learn?" she asked, closing the door.
He shut his eyes, not wanting to see all of Hamilton's damned pictures. "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I spoke with dozens of my people around London and learned nothing concrete," he told
her, opening his eyes. "Whoever is making inquiries is going about it very discreetly. Asking who owns each place and what sort of man I am—but nothing else. Nothing to help me figure out what he's actually looking for. Or so my people told me."
"They haven't any reason to lie to you, have they?"
"I wouldn't think so, but even good people manage to justify all sorts of misdeeds." Another lesson he'd learned over the years. "They could have been bribed, or…oh, I don't know. Nothing surprises me anymore." He wandered to an armchair and dropped onto it.
"What happens now?"
"I've asked for reports from the concerns farther out, but I won't be hearing anything back until tomorrow, at the earliest. More likely Monday and later in the week. I'd go interview them myself, but I cannot leave Lincolnshire."
"You cannot, no." Stepping behind him, she rubbed his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sean."
The massage didn't help, but he didn't want to tell her that. It was a chilly night, and someone had laid a fire on the hearth. He stared at the dancing flames for a while, wondering how Corinna was doing with the painting. Wishing he could be with her, knowing he had to explain their impossible situation.
Wishing he didn't have to explain anything, that there were no impossible situation to explain.
"You didn't send for me," he said finally. "How is Lincolnshire? I suppose I should go up and talk to him."
"He's with Mr. Lawless. His solicitor."
"Again? This late at night?"
"The man's been here for hours. I cannot imagine what the two of them are doing in there."
"Getting Lincolnshire's affairs in order." Wishing he could get his affairs in order, Sean sighed and rose. "Thank you. That felt good." He turned and pressed a kiss to his sister's forehead. "I'm after going up to bed."
"Good night to you, Sean. I hope tomorrow will be a better day."
"I hope so, too," he said.
But hoping, he knew, never accomplished anything. He was a doer, not a hoper…but there seemed nothing he could do these days to make things right.
FORTY
"I SAW HER here earlier," Rachael said, wandering the Teddington ballroom for the second time.
Griffin walked with her, keeping his eyes off her damned clingy dress. Or at least trying to. "I saw her here as well, I think." He wasn't exactly sure which woman was the Dowager Countess of Avonleigh. He realized she was one of the ABC sisters, but Lady C, Juliana's mother-in-law, was the only one of them he knew at all well. He'd always thought of Lady A and Lady B sort of lumped together. One was plump and one was skinny, but he wasn't sure which was which. "Has she got some meat on her bones, or is she a stick?"
"Really, Griffin. She's a perfectly lovely, kind, healthy-looking woman."
The plump one, then. The other one looked like she hadn't eaten in a week, which couldn't possibly be healthy. "Let's check the refreshment room again. And then you can check the ladies' retiring room again."
"And we should check the garden again, too." Rachael turned toward the refreshment room, then turned back. "There's Lady C. I bet she'll know where her sister went. Lady Cavanaugh!" She waved, and Lady C started walking toward them.
They met her halfway. "You look lovely tonight, dear," Lady C told her. "That's a stunning ballgown, and it matches your eyes, which are sparkling like diamonds."
"Thank you," Rachael said, her eyes sparkling even more. "I'm looking for your sister, Lady Avonleigh. Do you know where she might have gone off to?"
"I'm afraid she went home, dear."
"Oh, no. Is she unwell?"
"Not at all. But my sisters are older and don't stay out as late as they used to, especially since they began helping my son run his New Hope Institute. I expect she's sound asleep by now." Lady C put a hand on Rachael's arm. "What did you want with her? Is it something I can help you with?"
"No. I…well, I just need to talk to her. Do you think she'd mind my paying a call on her tomorrow?"
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind at all," Lady C said, looking curious but obviously much too polite to press. She pulled her reticule off her wrist and opened it, fishing out a scrap of paper and a pencil. "She lives just off Oxford Street. I'll write down her direction for you."
"I know where she lives. I was at her house for my cousin Corinna's art reception."
"How could I have forgotten that?" With a charming laugh, Lady C dropped the items back into her fancy little purse. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you again."
"Thank you so much," Rachael said, and waited patiently while Lady C walked off. Or at least, she looked patient. No sooner had the older woman got out of earshot than she whirled to Griffin. "Lady Cavanaugh is my aunt—can you believe it? She's such a nice lady. The wait is going to kill me. Can we visit Lady Avonleigh first thing tomorrow? You'll come with me, won't you?"
"I need to take Corinna to Lady Hartley's breakfast."
"That doesn't start until half past one. The best people won't get there until three o'clock. It isn't fashionable to arrive at parties on time."
He'd never understand why a garden party that started after one o'clock was called a breakfast. He ate breakfast every morning at eight. And why the devil was it fashionable to arrive late? But maybe Corinna would be more cooperative if he allowed her to paint until three. "Very well, then. We'll go see Lady Avonleigh right after church."
"How about before church?"
"You can't wake up an old lady to give her this news, Rachael. Or interrupt her toilette. And then no doubt she'll be in church, and then she'll want luncheon." Lady A was the one who liked to eat, after all, and Lady Hartley wouldn't be serving "breakfast" until the fashionable people arrived. "I'll pick you up at one o'clock."
"Then we won't get to Lady A's until half past one. What if she's left for Lady Hartley's house already?"
"You just told me people won't arrive until three. Half past noon, then. That ought to be safe."
"I cannot wait that long."
"You've already waited twenty-four years, remember? I expect you'll survive."
"All right," Rachael muttered, sounding more than disgruntled. But her eyes were still sparkling. She looked better than she had in months, as though she were blossoming, as though a weight had lifted off her shoulders. Not that she'd looked bad before…
She licked her lips.
Good God, he would really be in trouble now.
"HOW IS IT going?" Griffin asked.
Startled, Corinna jumped, then quickly stepped from behind her easel, struggling out of the fog she'd worked in all day.
"All right," she said, though the painting was going brilliantly.
Although it was faced away from him, she raised her palette before it like a shield. She couldn't risk Griffin's seeing it before she'd changed Sean's hair and eyes—she didn't want him to know Sean was her model unless he had to know. Unless she decided she had no choice but to tell him. With any luck, Griffin might decide she could marry Sean without ever learning he'd posed nude.
"I don't want you to see it until it's finished."
He only shrugged, in any case. He'd never cared overmuch about her art. "I'm glad to hear it's going well. I want you to attend Lady Hartley's breakfast tomorrow."
"I'm not going, Griffin. I already told you that. How was the Teddington ball?"
"It went well. I lined up four men there for you to meet tomorrow. You should go up to bed now, so you'll be fresh."
She glanced toward the clock on the drawing room's mantel. "It's but one in the morning, and you know I rarely stop painting before three. And I don't need to be fresh tomorrow, because I'm not going to the breakfast."
"How about if we compromise and you paint until three o'clock tomorrow afternoon? That sounds fair, doesn't it? It's the event of the season."
"The Summer Exhibition is the event of my life." He was such a brother. She decided to change the subject. "Have you asked Mr. Delaney's advice yet regarding property management?"
"I've been too busy. And w
hy do you care?" His eyes narrowed speculatively. "Juliana asked me about that, too. You're not interested in Mr. Delaney, are you?"
She wondered whether he would consider that a good thing or a bad one. "Interested in what way?"
"As a suitor. A potential husband."
She still couldn't tell what he was thinking. Better to play it safe, she decided; better he should get to know Sean before she admitted anything. "Of course not. I just remembered you'd said you wanted to talk to him, and I wondered if you had yet, that's all." She hoped that when he did talk to Sean he'd be impressed, which would save her from having to tell him who had posed for her portrait. "Now leave me alone, Griffin. I need to paint. And I'm not going to Lady Hartley's breakfast."
"I'll send our regrets," he gritted out, and then, as he walked off, Corinna heard him mutter, "Why do women always seem to get the best of me?"
Fog-free for the first time all day, she returned to her easel to appraise her picture. It really was coming along brilliantly, she thought, smiling. Just brilliantly.
But oh, my.
This was one extremely sensual painting.
Maybe no one besides the committee should see it before it was hung in the Summer Exhibition. It was her best work ever, but someone might express shock and talk her out of submitting it. Griffin especially—even though he wouldn't be able to tell it was Sean, he might not be entirely thrilled that his sister had painted such a portrait. After all was said and done, after she'd been honored by its selection, it would be a different story. He'd be proud of her then, surely. But before then…
Thanks heavens Lady A had offered to go with her to deliver it. She'd have to cover it up so the dear woman wouldn't be able to examine it in the carriage. Then somehow get through the submission process without her ever seeing it.
How she'd manage that, she couldn't imagine, but she'd worry about that later. After the painting was finished, after she'd changed Sean's hair and eyes.
Until then, she wanted him just as he looked now, she thought, raising her brush to the canvas and letting the fog close in again.
Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3) Page 23
