Well, maybe she would be happy, but Sean wouldn't. Not if the two hadn't exchanged vows. But although he'd been tempted to tell her Hamilton was threatening to make her move back in with him, he'd resisted that temptation. He didn't want to be the martyr; he didn't want her to feel indebted or burdened with guilt. Better she think her brother a knotheaded fool.
That was nothing new, anyway.
A butler opened the door. His dark suit was starched and pressed. His features looked as rigid as his clothing, his round face seemingly frozen.
"May I help you, sir?"
"I've come to see my uncle, the Earl of Lincolnshire."
"Your uncle? You must be Mr. Hamilton, then." As though he'd suddenly melted, the man's entire demeanor changed. "Come in, come in," he said, ushering Sean through the door. "I'm Quincy, and the earl is going to be so pleased to hear you've arrived. I shall inform Mr. Higginbotham, his house steward, that you are here so he can make certain your room is ready." He eyed the portmanteau. "That cannot be all you brought along."
"My manservant will bring in my trunks after he sees to my curricle."
"Good, good. I shall send an underfootman to assist him. The earl has been asking after you since he opened his eyes this morning. In truth, since last night when he received your note. He's abed, so I shall fetch a maid to show you upstairs posthaste."
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 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 artist.
"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 horribly. 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 a woman polishing the already spotless inlaid floor. "And 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 didn't 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'm 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. "It's 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. I'm still called Sean 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,
