"In the picture gallery. Saints preserve us. I don't think I said anything that wasn't a disaster."
"You said that an artist's work should stand on its own, that his identity—or hers, I'm hoping everyone who was listening would agree—shouldn't influence the viewer's opinion of any specific picture." Her hand soft and warm in his larger one, she looked over and up at him and smiled. "Wherever did you come up with that?"
"Hamilton," he admitted with no small measure of disgust. "Hamilton said something very like that, and I remembered it. In my desperation to sound artistic, it just came flying out of my mouth."
"I know you despise him, and for good reason, but I'm so glad to hear he thinks that way. It makes it so much more likely that he'll vote for my painting."
Sean didn't think so. She didn't know the rest of what Hamilton had said—the part about females never painting good portraits. But he wasn't going to tell her that, not now. He wasn't going to ruin the last of these few stolen moments together.
"He should be back by now," he told her instead, pulling his hand from hers as the house came into sight. Faint snatches of music floated to them from the open French doors. "He said he'd be gone two weeks, and it was two weeks on Thursday. But instead of coming home to deal with everything, he sent a letter."
She clasped her hands before her, like maybe she was missing holding his. He hoped so. But he knew he shouldn't. "That's just as well," she said. "If he came home now, he might ruin his uncle's last days. What did the letter say?"
"He's painting the Lady of the Waterfall, and he doesn't want to leave. But I'm suspecting the lady he doesn't want to leave is the one in his bed." The rotter. "He told me not to worry; he'll be home well before the Summer Exhibition vote."
"I don't expect you were worrying," Corinna said. "You obviously cannot do the voting for him. Just like you cannot come to Lady Avonleigh's reception next week in his place. Ten days," she added with a sigh as they approached the open French doors, instinctively moving farther apart so it wouldn't appear they'd done anything but talk. "In ten days my painting will be turned in and Hamilton will come home."
"He should return before that. He said he'd be here well before the vote."
"Then in fewer than ten days, you'll be free."
Sean wouldn't be free until Lincolnshire passed on, unless Hamilton stirred everything up.
But he didn't want to say that.
Much as he wanted his life back, much as he knew he and Corinna were growing too close, ten days in her company didn't seem nearly long enough.
TWENTY-SIX
"HOW DOES LORD Lincolnshire fare today?" Sean asked as he stepped into the man's house late Monday afternoon.
Quincy sighed, a maudlin sound that spoke volumes. "Perhaps you should ask his new physician."
"New physician?"
"He's with him now. Second doctor to visit today."
Alarmed, Sean headed for the crystal staircase. Glimpsing Corinna inside the salon as he passed, he was tempted to stop. But her back was to him, and she looked absorbed, humming tunelessly while dabbing vigorously at her painting.
And Lincolnshire took precedence now regardless.
Sean took the steps two at a time, wincing at the sound of Lincolnshire's cough. Apparently hearing her brother's footsteps, Deirdre hurried out into the corridor. "You're back early today," she whispered.
"He wasn't doing well this morning."
"That's why I decided to stay home with him. He was sitting for Lady Corinna when he started coughing blood. Just a wee bit, but…"
"A wee bit is too much."
She nodded. "Lady Corinna sent him upstairs. Nurse Skeffington summoned his doctor, and then Lord Stafford arrived, too. Dr. Dalton was livid." Her eyes were wide. "He packed up his leeches and left."
"His leeches?" Sean pulled a face before registering the rest of Deirdre's words. "Lord Stafford? Corinna's brother-in-law?"
She nodded again. "Lady Corinna sent him a note. He's in with Lord Lincolnshire now." She motioned to the door, and they headed toward it.
"My recommendation is that the leeches and bleeding and blistering be stopped," Lord Stafford was telling the earl as they walked in. "Your choice, of course, but I don't believe those treatments will accomplish anything, unless you're aiming to hasten the end."
Lincolnshire shook his head wildly and coughed again.
"There now." Lifting a cup off the earl's bedside table, Lord Stafford leaned closer and held it to his lips. "Have a little sip for me, will you? It will soothe your throat, and the warmth will ease your lungs." He straightened and looked to Sean. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton."
Considering the man knew he wasn't Hamilton, he'd said that smoothly, Sean thought. "Thank you for attending him. I thought you ran a smallpox facility."
"I spend most days vaccinating, yes. But I also see a few very special patients." He aimed a gentle smile at Lord Lincolnshire. "Another sip for me, as a favor?"
The earl took a very tiny one.
"He doesn't have but a wee appetite," Deirdre said.
"He's doubtless nauseous," Stafford explained. "Although we cannot see it, of course, his internal organs will be swelling along with those parts we can see. He won't be wanting to eat much, but you should encourage him to take what he can. Especially the tea."
"We will," Sean said. "And we shouldn't allow Dr. Dalton to apply more leeches, then, yes?"
"It's my belief such treatments will only make Lord Lincolnshire more uncomfortable. Better to let things progress naturally, as I see it. But I don't expect Dr. Dalton will be returning in any case." Stafford set an affectionate hand on the earl's shoulder. "I'll be attending Lord Lincolnshire now."
Lincolnshire gave him a weak smile. "Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes.
"Think nothing of it. I'd do anything for you—just like everyone else who's had the
