APPLE PUFFS
Pare the fruit and bake them. When cold, mixe the pulp of the Apple with Sugar and lemon-peel shred fine, taking as little of the Apple-juice as you can. Orange marmalade is a great improvement. Put in paste with a little Sugar inside and on top. Bake in a quick oven a quarter hour until browne.
The homely apple is always dependable. Serve at family gatherings to assure harmony.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1776
"A LOVELY first vintage." Lamplight glinted off deep ruby as Alexandra held up her glass on Tuesday night, toasting her brother during their family dinner at his Berkeley Square town house. "You did it, Griffin."
Her husband smiled. "A toast to England's newest wine producer."
"I don't know that wine producer is an apt description." Griffin grinned at his brother-in-law. Tristan had helped him save Cainewood's fledgling vineyards. "The term implies producing enough to sell a quantity. We're likely to consume this year's entire production ourselves. Within a week. Perhaps tonight."
Alexandra laughed. "You'll make more next year, and still more the year after that. Eventually there may be enough to sell."
"Charles would be proud," Juliana said softly.
Charles, their eldest brother, had planted the vines when he was the marquess. But he hadn't lived to see them bear fruit. Two years ago, when Charles died of consumption, Griffin had been forced to leave the cavalry. To come home to take Charles's place. To accept Charles's title. He'd also found himself saddled with their three unmarried sisters, a diverse collection of mainly unprofitable properties, and a field full of dying grapevines.
Today the vines were thriving, the family holdings had been reduced to those that were manageable, and two of his sisters were happily wed. Not bad, Griffin thought, relishing a sip of the heady wine.
One by one, all of his problems were being resolved. Now he had only to find a husband for Corinna and puzzle out the mystery of Rachael's parenthood. He was making good progress on the latter. Having heard from his man today, he looked forward to giving Rachael the news when he saw her at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday.
Corinna, however, was another matter altogether.
Paint, paint, paint…all she ever wanted to do was paint. Clearly she had little interest in finding a husband. He'd introduced her to countless fine gentlemen, and though on the surface she appeared cooperative, she always danced and smiled and moved on, never giving any of them a second thought.
All he wanted was her happiness. And women were happier married, weren't they? But lately it seemed Corinna paid attention to just one man. He'd be decent husband material, Griffin supposed—a little old, but wealthy, single, and kind…
If only he were expected to last out the week.
"Corinna has been spending a lot of time with Lord Lincolnshire," he commented as Juliana served the apple puffs Alexandra had made and brought to the family dinner.
"I'm painting Lord Lincolnshire's portrait. I hope to submit it for the Summer Exhibition."
Juliana put a puff on a plate and moved to hand it to her husband, James. "How is the old earl doing?" she asked.
"Well enough, considering the circumstances. He seems to be holding his own." Corinna paused for a sip of her wine. "He's very happy to have his nephew to keep him company."
James looked puzzled. "His nephew?"
"Yes, his nephew," Corinna said pointedly.
"Hmm?" James frowned, but then his face cleared. "Oh, you mean Mr. Delaney."
Confused, Griffin tilted his head. "Who is Mr. Delaney?"
Juliana paused with the plate in her hand, apparently torn between setting it before James or bopping him on the head with it. "That was a secret."
"Oh." He winced. "You didn't tell me."
Glaring at Juliana, Corinna blindly jabbed a fork in her own apple puff. "Why on earth did you tell him?"
"We don't keep secrets," Juliana explained apologetically. "We promised before our wedding."
"Well, when you tell a secret, you could at least tell that it is a secret."
"I'm sorry," Juliana squeaked.
"What the devil is this about?" Griffin demanded. "Who is Mr. Delaney?"
Corinna sighed. "The man you met at Lady Partridge's ball—the man introduced to you as John Hamilton—is actually Mr. Hamilton's brother-in-law, Sean Delaney. Mr. Hamilton asked him—"
"Blackmailed him," Alexandra interrupted.
"Well, yes. He blackmailed him into posing as himself. As John Hamilton, I mean. Lord Lincolnshire's nephew. But now he's having second thoughts, even though it's the right thing, and—"
"I beg your pardon?" Griffin cut in.
None of this made sense. The name, Sean Delaney, seemed familiar. Yet the man introduced as John Hamilton at Lady Partridge's ball hadn't seemed familiar at all. In fact, Griffin was certain he'd never set eyes on that man before in his life.
More confused than ever, he swung toward his old friend Tristan. "Did you know about this, too?"
"Not all of it." Looking down, Tristan speared a bite. "And only for a short while."
"A short while," Griffin growled.
Alexandra released a melancholy sigh. "The apple puffs don't seem to be working."
"Come again?" Tristan asked.
"They're supposed to assure harmonious family gatherings."
Her husband and Juliana's both looked amused. Griffin wasn't. "Would someone please explain—"
"Excuse me a moment," Juliana interrupted. "And don't you dare discuss anything in my absence. I'll be right back."
While she was visiting the water closet, or wherever else she might have rushed off to—Juliana was female, which meant it was much too dangerous to inquire—Griffin shoveled apple puff into his mouth and tried to puzzle out what was going on.
He failed. Miserably.
"Explain," he demanded when she returned. "And don't leave anything out."
Between them, with much mind-boggling back-and-forthness, his three sisters explained.
And explained.
And explained.
A quarter hour later, when they finally finished, Corinna paused for a breath. "You won't give away Mr. Delaney's secret, will you? Not only would it imperil his sister's divorce, but it would also make Lord Lincolnshire's final days unhappy ones."
"I don't know," Griffin grated out. While his sisters' reasoning wasn't unsound—assuming one took into consideration their female brand of logic—none of it really sat quite right with him. "I don't like tricking that kindly old man."
"You're not
