Other than painting, reading Minerva Press novels was Corinna's favorite, most secret escape.
She bought them in secret, too. Most fortunately, a bookseller's shop sat next door to the colorman's shop where she purchased her art supplies. Her maid or a footman generally accompanied her on these excursions, since no one in the family had the patience to wait for hours while she chose the perfect oils and tints. Which was a good thing, since that meant they never saw her go into the bookshop afterward, either.
The last thing she wanted was her family discovering she reveled in such unrefined literature. Her sisters would be properly scandalized—or else they would tease her mercilessly. And Griffin would doubtless be pleased; he'd say it proved she pined for love and a husband.
She could do without any of those reactions.
To make doubly sure there was no risk of discovery, after reading a Minerva Press novel she always donated it to the circulating library. That way other women could enjoy them. She had no need to ever reread them herself, since she was afflicted—yes, afflicted—with the capability of remembering everything she'd ever read.
Word for word.
The printed pages simply appeared in her mind, and random sentences popped into her head at the oddest, most inconvenient moments. It was annoying beyond end. Almost annoying enough to make her stop reading.
But only almost. She set the candle on her bedside table and opened Celia in Search of a Husband with a happy sigh.
Celia was rather amusing. Though the woman proclaimed loudly and often that she wanted a husband, she discarded men left and right as though they were so many used handkerchiefs. On page 183, Celia sighed "mentally," according to the author.
Corinna often sighed silently, too.
Am I rigid? Celia wondered. What woman of real feeling would trust her peace to the keeping of a libertine? It may prove the vanity of love to believe that we could fix the heart hitherto unprincipled, but a trusting woman must meet, in the creature of her choice, either the idol of her hopes or certain disappointment in her connubial happiness—for here is no medium.
Exactly, Corinna thought with a sigh. A mental sigh, of course. One couldn't fix an unprincipled man, no matter how much she loved him, and what were the chances of her meeting her idol? Certain disappointment was much more likely, which was why she, a woman of real feeling, was much better off putting her faith in her art.
NINE
LADY PARTRIDGE lived in a small mansion at the edge of Mayfair. On Saturday night, the line of carriages stretched for blocks. Sean figured he could have inspected two properties and negotiated three deals by the time he and his "uncle" made their way to the front.
Two footmen reached in for Lincolnshire, who had spent most of the wait dozing. As they helped him hobble out, he glanced at Sean. "You look a bit sober, eh?"
"I beg your pardon, sir? I should think so." Sean watched the footmen settle the earl in an amazing contraption. A typical dining room chair with a caned back and an upholstered seat, it had two huge wheels attached to its sides and a smaller wheel centered behind. "I'm not an inveterate drinker, I can assure you."
Indeed, to the contrary—and to Deirdre's unending amusement—Sean seemed the only Irishman alive who couldn't hold his liquor.
"Downed a toddy myself before leaving," the earl said as one of the servants lifted his feet while the other unfolded a small, upholstered shelf for them to rest upon. "A swallow of spirits never hurt a fellow, should you ask me. But I plan to stick around long enough to get to know you, yet you look to be dressed for a funeral. Not mine, I hope."
"Certainly not yours, sir." Sean shook out a blanket and settled it on the earl's lap to hide his swollen legs. Though Lincolnshire was a rather slight fellow in general, his lower extremities would fit a man thrice his size. Earlier this evening, when Sean had seen them uncovered, he'd winced. "I fear, however, that I haven't spent much time at balls." He'd never been to a ball, as a matter of fact, so he'd had to guess at the proper garb. "Is something wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"Not wrong, no. Just drab for such a festive occasion." Lincolnshire himself was decked out in peacock blue and gold. "A little color wouldn't be amiss."
"Ah, I see," Sean said as he moved around to push the chair. "But I've a decided preference for black and white."
In truth, he always wore black and white. He'd learned early that to do otherwise meant risking mismatches often found humorous. Since he had nothing but black and white in his wardrobe, he was relieved to find his choice suitable if not stylish.
As he wheeled the man toward the door, a tall proper butler opened it. Sounds of music drifted out. "Your name, sir?"
"Lincolnshire," Lincolnshire barked. "And my nephew, Mr. Hamilton."
"My lord Lincolnshire, do please come in." Judging from the butler's tone, if Lincolnshire had been a dog, the man would have petted him. "Lady Partridge left instructions to be notified the very moment you arrived. This way, if you will," he added, motioning Sean along.
But Sean couldn't push the chair in the direction indicated. In fact, he couldn't push it anywhere at all. It seemed Lord Lincolnshire had barked his name a little too loudly, because people began streaming into the Partridge foyer, all but trapping the two of them in place.
"Lord Lincolnshire!" An aging matron took the old man's hands. "It's positively delightful to see you!"
"I'm delighted as well, Lady Fotherington. May I introduce my long-lost nephew, Mr. Sean Hamilton? He's like a son to me."
Sean
