She didn't want sympathy; she wanted the truth.
"What?" she asked, but still he didn't answer. She clenched her hand around the badge. "Out with it, damn it! I've already learned that my mother lied to me all of my life, came from a different family than she claimed, and my name should be Rachael Grimbald." Grimbald, for heaven's sake! It wasn't a cold day, and she was wearing a pelisse in any case, but she wrapped her arms around herself as though she might ward off a chill. "What could you possibly have to tell me that would be more upsetting than all of that?"
Griffin blew out a breath. "He was executed, Rachael. For treason."
She opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly all the air seemed to have been sucked right out of her. The birds in the tree overhead sounded entirely too cheerful. The people strolling by, chatting and drinking lemonade, sounded too cheerful, too.
"Treason?" she finally managed to say, her voice thin and not cheerful at all. "What did he do?"
"That I don't know; the records of the court-martial must be elsewhere. But he joined the Tenth in 1782—transferred from a disbanded regiment—and there was a notation of his family's address at that time. In Yorkshire. I've hired a man to see whether they still live there. I'll let you know when I find out. Then take you to meet them."
Treason. She hugged herself tighter, the edges of the hard metal badge digging into her clenched fist. "I'm not sure I want to. Meet them, I mean. Not if their son committed treason."
"You don't have to, of course. It will be up to you. They're your family, but I'm willing to wager they don't know of your existence. Perhaps that's why your mother used another name. So they couldn't find you."
"That makes sense." As much sense as anything else she'd heard this afternoon. "Treason," she murmured. "My father was executed for treason."
"I'm sorry." He began to reach for her, then apparently thought better of it and crossed his arms instead. "It doesn't change who you are, Rachael, or make you any less good than you are."
"No," she said, "it doesn't."
But she must not have sounded convincing.
"'Fathers shall not be put to death for their children,'" he quoted solemnly, "'nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sins.'"
That dredged up a tiny smile. "Griffin Chase, referencing a Bible passage? Now I've heard everything."
In all the years she'd known him—which was her whole life—he'd never been a man given to prayer.
"Thank you for the information," she said, rising and smoothing her pelisse. "I do appreciate your taking the time to find it. I'm sorry it proved so difficult." She started back home with a sigh, taking a little comfort when he fell into step beside her. "My sisters are going to be very interested to hear all of this."
SEVENTEEN
GINGERBREAD CAKES
Take four pints of Flower with Ginger and Nutmeg and rub Butter into it. Add to it Brandy and Treacle and mix it altogether. Let it lay till it grows stiffe then pinch pieces and make into little balls. Flatten cakes on a tin and add a Sweetmeat if you please and bake.
These spicy little cakes are known to raise the spirits. Not ghosts, that is, but spirits of the emotional variety. Excellent to bring when paying visits to the ill.
—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1775
UPON ARRIVING at Lincolnshire House the next afternoon, Corinna was shown to a drawing room, where Sean sat holding a book that he'd apparently been reading to Lord Lincolnshire.
He rose immediately. "I waited for you all yesterday. Where were you?"
He'd waited all day? "I was helping Lady Avonleigh make invitations for a reception. And I was painting. And earlier I went back to the colorman's shop." Well, really to the bookstore to buy Children of the Abbey. "What were you doing here all day? Didn't you need to…ah"—she slanted a glance to Lord Lincolnshire—"paint?"
"I have a lot of work to do, yes. But my uncle is my priority," he said pointedly.
"Of course." The strain in his voice sparked her guilt. And her poor mind was all topsy-turvy like Pamela's had been in the book Pamela or Virtue and Reward.
She'd promised to visit more often, and she imagined Sean did have some work to do—though she didn't know what—but she couldn't spend all day with the earl in his stead, could she? If she wanted to submit a portrait for the Summer Exhibition, she had to work, too.
"Good afternoon, Lord Lincolnshire," she said, walking toward the older man. "I brought you some gingerbread cakes. They're supposed to raise one's spirits."
"Says who?" Sean asked, taking the basket.
"Says my family's heirloom cookbook. Each lady in the family adds a recipe every year, and they all have legends attached. Not that I believe such nonsense," she hastened to add. "My sister Juliana baked these. I'm hopeless in the kitchen."
"I wasn't aware any ladies in Mayfair ever entered a kitchen."
"All the Chase ladies do," Lord Lincolnshire said, pausing for a breath. "They're famous for their sweets."
"All except me," Corinna said.
Sean handed Lord Lincolnshire a sweet and took one for himself. "Please, have a seat."
Corinna looked around the room, which she'd never been in before. The butler, Quincy, had called it the "yellow drawing room" when he'd shown her in here. The walls were covered with yellow silk printed with pink roses, green leaves, and some blue flowers she couldn't name. All the sofas, chairs, and footstools were upholstered in yellow brocade. Part of Lord Lincolnshire's extensive Ming vase collection was in here, and there were several excellent paintings on the walls, including two Rembrandts.
She wanted to study them, but Sean had asked her to sit, and he still seemed a bit peeved. Since she wanted another kiss from him, she decided to study them from a
