Apparently his secret was safe. He didn't know any members of the ton, he reminded himself, glancing around at the growing gathering. And none of these people knew him.
There was no cause for worry.
"Lord Lincolnshire, how are you feeling?" the woman asked.
"As well as can be expected. And how is your son?" Lincolnshire squeezed her hands. "Well as well, I hope?"
"Oh, he's very well indeed, thanks in no small part to your assistance."
"It was but a trifle, my lady, I assure you."
A young gentleman laid a hand on Lincolnshire's shoulder. "Is there aught I can do for you, my lord? After all, there's so much you've done for me."
An older, taller man sighed. "Who will bring toys this Christmas for the children at the Foundling Hospital?"
"Who indeed?" Tears tracked down a middle-aged lady's cheeks. "We're going to miss you, Lord Lincolnshire. Mightily."
One after another, people arrived, crowding the foyer to pay their respects to the dying Earl of Lincolnshire. Men sighed and women cried, young and old alike sharing their memories, expressing their affection, declaring their sorrow.
And over and over, most touching of all, proclaiming their utter desire to see him leave the world a man content.
"We would do anything for you, my lord."
"Anything."
"Anything to make your last days easier."
"Anything to please you."
"Anything at all…"
CORINNA WAS dancing with a thoroughly boring man—the latest in a string that proved Griffin hadn't the slightest idea what she was hoping for in a husband—when she noticed her old neighbor Lord Lincolnshire enter the ballroom.
Well, try to enter, she mentally amended. He was making excruciatingly slow progress, surrounded as he was by adoring people, all of whom seemed to be clamoring to capture his attention at once.
Propped up in a cane-backed wheelchair, he looked happier than she'd imagined a dying man could possibly be. The sight warmed her inside. If anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Lord Lincolnshire. Watching him glance up and back, she smiled when she saw him aim an elated grin at whoever was pushing the chair. Her gaze followed his, focusing on the man behind him.
And her heart stuttered.
That crisp, overlong black hair. Those emerald eyes. That angular, sculpted face.
Her Greek god.
She'd never finished the drawing of him she'd begun in the Elgin Gallery. He'd left too soon. She'd actually tried painting him today—she'd decided she wanted him in her portrait—but she'd found herself unable to recall enough detail. Eventually she'd concluded she'd have to choose another subject and glumly painted over her efforts before dressing for tonight's ball.
Her canvas once more had a plain white oval where there should be a face. And now her fingers itched for a pencil.
Who was her Greek god? She hadn't expected to ever see him again. He'd certainly never appeared at a society event before this. What was he doing here? How had he come to be with Lord Lincolnshire, pushing the dear old earl in a wheelchair?
"Whom are you staring at?" her partner asked.
She'd forgotten the dratted man. Indeed, she was suddenly thankful her mother had forced dance lessons upon her those countless times when she'd protested she'd prefer to paint. All of that practice had allowed her to continue dancing by rote when she hadn't been paying attention. "I was watching Lord Lincolnshire. I'm so glad he managed to attend tonight. Might you know that gentleman with him? I'm wondering if he could be the artist John Hamilton."
"I haven't seen him before, but I seriously doubt he's John Hamilton. John Hamilton never appears in public." The music came to an end, and the man bowed. "Thank you for the dance, Lady Corinna."
"My pleasure," she assured him, smiling distractedly.
Thinking Juliana knew everyone, after curtsying Corinna looked around and found her sister conversing with her mother-in-law, the new Lady Cavanaugh.
"Might either of you know that man accompanying Lord Lincolnshire?" she asked, barging right in.
Juliana glanced over and shook her head. "A handsome devil, though, isn't he?"
A vast understatement. Corinna wanted to rip his clothes off and see the godlike body underneath. "I met him the other day at the British Museum. When you and Alexandra went off, remember? Another man introduced him as John Hamilton."
"John Hamilton, the artist? You said you'd met him, but—"
"Yes, the artist. But then everything became very confusing, because this man claimed he wasn't John Hamilton, but the other man was instead. And why would John Hamilton be with Lord Lincolnshire?"
"Lord Lincolnshire collects art," Juliana reminded her. "Ming vases and paintings."
"More to the point," Lady Cavanaugh said, "John Hamilton is Lord Lincolnshire's nephew. And his heir. Everyone knows that."
Corinna hadn't. But if John Hamilton was Lord Lincolnshire's nephew, that explained why the two men were together. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. His protests in the museum notwithstanding, her Greek god had to be the elusive John Hamilton. Being a recluse, he must have claimed otherwise in order to retain his anonymity.
But Corinna knew the truth now.
Rising excitement fluttered in her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She'd actually met John Hamilton.
The John Hamilton, a member of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee.
A man who could help her dreams come true.
She had only to renew their acquaintance in order to set her future plans in motion. "Come along," she told her sister, grabbing her hand. She motioned to Lady Cavanaugh. "I'll introduce you both."
TEN
LORD LINCOLNSHIRE held up a hand, interrupting an effusive outpouring of affection from yet another of Lady Partridge's guests. "Nephew."
"Yes? Do you need something, Uncle?" Concerned, Sean moved around the front of the wheelchair, wedging himself between two hovering matrons. "Are your limbs paining you? Would you care for some laudanum?" He reached into his pocket for the vial the nurse had pressed into his hands.
"No laudanum. I'd as soon not dull my senses." The
