"No, I can't, Noah." He didn't know what was important. The trunk might have something in it that would reveal her father's identity. "I'm going tomorrow."
"I'm not going with you, and you cannot travel that far alone or with Claire or Elizabeth. It wouldn't be safe."
"I know that." But she knew another man who might be willing to accompany her in his place. "When you go back inside, will you ask Griffin to step out here a moment?"
"CAN YOU COME for me at seven?" Rachael asked, a few loose tendrils of her hair blowing in the breeze that crossed the terrace.
"That anxious, are you?" Griffin's sisters were never ready to leave the house so early in the morning, but none of them were nearly as focused as Rachael. "That will be fine. Will one or both of your sisters come along, too?"
"I think not."
"Hmm. Aunt Frances is too far gone with child, so I guess I'll ask one of my sisters to drag herself out of bed and join us."
"Why?"
"As a chaperone, of course."
"We don't need a chaperone, Griffin."
He sipped orange brandy, watching her warily over the rim of the glass. "It's a long journey."
"Only half a day each direction. We won't be gone overnight. Other than you and my siblings, no one knows about my true parentage, and I want to keep it that way, at least for now. Besides," she added, "you're my cousin. Would I require a chaperone to travel half a day with Noah?"
"I'm not Noah," Griffin pointed out. "A cousin isn't the same as a brother." But he didn't point out that he wasn't, in the strictest sense, her cousin. Not by blood anyway, not since it had been established that John Chase hadn't been her father. He didn't want to upset her, and more to the point, he'd just as soon have her think of him as a cousin.
"You're practically my brother," she insisted.
Maybe having her think of him as a brother was even better. "Very well," he said. "I'll come for you at seven."
"Thank you!" she exclaimed, looking happier than he'd seen her since that disappointing day when they'd gone through her mother's belongings and found nothing.
As he watched her glide back into Stafford House, her luscious derrière swaying as she went, he gritted his teeth.
Griffin remembered Rachael as an awkward adolescent, a tomboyish playmate, all skinny arms and gangly legs. At fourteen, she'd had a silly dent in her chin, wild, curly dark hair, and sky blue eyes that seemed much too big for her face. But then he'd left home for Oxford and later joined the cavalry. And during the years he'd spent away, the tomboy had become a woman.
A very sultry one.
Those cerulean eyes were now alluring, those limbs long and graceful, that body anything but awkward. The dent in her chin no longer appeared silly—it looked provocative instead. Her hair was sleek and tamed, excepting those few chestnut tendrils that always seemed to come loose. Or maybe she left them loose deliberately. Either way, they caressed the sides of her face in a way that made him wish his hands were there in their place.
In short, he found Rachael Chase entirely too attractive. Which was why he was happy she thought of him as nothing more than a cousin.
Although cousins often wed, Rachael's aunt had married a cousin, then sadly given birth to a crippled, feebleminded child. A doctor had said the family relationship might be to blame, and as a result, Rachael was dead-set against marrying any cousin, no matter how distant. And that suited Griffin just fine, since he had no intention of marrying her.
He had no intention of marrying anyone, for that matter.
At least, not in the foreseeable future.
His sisters and Cainewood kept him occupied quite enough, thank you very much. The last thing he needed was an additional distraction, or yet another responsibility. For God's sake, he was only thirty, he thought as he downed the rest of the orange brandy and went back inside.
There were years and years left before he had to worry about taking on a wife.
SIX
THE HOMES ON the east and west sides of Berkeley Square were close to the street and built cheek by jowl against one another, but Lincolnshire House stood alone on the north end, behind a high imposing wall.
On Friday morning, the guard at the massive wooden gate scowled at the portmanteau Sean carried. "Peddlers aren't welcome."
Sean's hand clenched on the handle of the simple leather bag. "I'm the earl's nephew," he said, all but choking on the words.
A little gasp burst from the man's mouth. "Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, I'm sorry, truly I am." Babbling, he swung open the gate. "Do come in, and please accept my sincerest apologies."
Sean was more than willing to do so, but he was struck dumb at sight of the house.
His own house in Hampstead was sizable and impressive. Originally built in the seventeenth century, it had been extended and remodeled some fifty years ago by the notable architect Robert Adam, for a chief justice who worked in the City but wanted to live in the suburbs. It sat in acres of gardens and ancient woodland, with a stunning view out over London. Deirdre had gasped the first time she saw it.
But it seemed a hovel in comparison to the Earl of Lincolnshire's enormous mansion in Berkeley Square.
A rather plain Palladian-style brick building, it was quite simply the largest house Sean had ever seen. Five gardeners labored industriously in the lavishly landscaped courtyard. After banging the knocker, he shifted uncomfortably on the front steps beneath the portico, wishing he'd never consented to what he was about to do.
Deirdre certainly hadn't agreed that it was worthwhile to secure her divorce. Last night's disbelieving cry—"You promised to do what?"—still rang in his head. "That's ridiculous!" she'd railed—and Irishwomen
