"My son has done nothing wrong." The words weren't said angrily but rather matter-of-factly, his blue gaze unfocused on his dinner. "Thomas will be an important man someday; just you wait and see. He'll be marrying John Cartwright's daughter, he will. Lord John Cartwright's daughter. Course, the gel ain't yet born, so I cannot be telling you her name." He glanced back up, cocking his head in apparent confusion. "Who are you?"
Flustered, Rachael freed her hand from Griffin's so she could dig in the beaded reticule that matched her lavender dress. "I'm your granddaughter." She pulled out her father's badge and held it out toward the man. "See, this is your son's badge."
"My son has no badge," he said flatly. "Where would he get such a thing? The lad isn't even a year old."
The man across from him, an aging fellow with big ears and a hooked nose, reached to take the badge and examined it with a low whistle. "Tenth Hussars. Old Grimbald's son must have done well for himself." He handed it back. "He don't mean to be uncivil, milady," he said sympathetically. "Colonel Grimbald, he's not quite here, if you catch my drift. Thinks it's 1760. If you stay long enough, he'll start nattering on about how he just saved some fellow's life and the bloke promised his firstborn daughter to his infant son."
"John Cartwright," Grimbald confirmed with a nod. "A bloomin' a-ris-to-crat." He drew the word out into four distinct syllables and ended it with a chortle. "My name will be connected to nobility."
Rachael dropped the badge back into her reticule. "Dear heavens." She stared down the hall toward an old, faded mural of King Charles II on a horse with the Royal Hospital in the background. He'd commissioned these buildings, she suddenly remembered—a disjointed thought that came out of nowhere—but never lived to see them finished.
Like her father hadn't lived to see her.
Disappointment was a physical ache, a knot in her middle. She looked back to her grandfather and tried again. "Sir—"
"Yes?" He looked up, appearing startled to find her there, blinking at her through eyes just like her own. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Our thanks for your time, sir." Griffin curved an arm around her shoulders. "Let's go," he murmured under his breath. "Staying here will accomplish nothing."
She nodded and allowed him to draw her back toward the door. Suddenly the huge room felt close and stifling, making her grateful to step out into the cool evening air. In the center of the deserted courtyard, a grand, bronze statue of King Charles thrust toward the sky, and she sat on its marble base, smoothing her dress over her knees and hugging them.
"He's gone," she said. "He's there, but he's gone."
"I'm sorry." Griffin stood gazing down at her, looking as solid as the old brick building behind him. "I should have come to see him myself before bringing you."
"No. I'd have wanted to see him, anyway. Just to convince myself he was my grandfather."
"He has your eyes."
"And my chin. We're related; I've no doubt of that at all." She hugged her knees tighter. "But he'll never be able to tell me what happened to my father."
"No, he won't." Griffin lowered his rangy frame to sit beside her. "He thinks your father is still a child."
A lone hawk circled overhead, looking as solitary as Rachael felt. "I'll never really know who I am."
"Ah, Rachael." He shifted closer, wrapping an arm about her to pull her against him. "What your father did, however heinous, has nothing to do with who you are."
She dropped her head to his shoulder, taking comfort from his nearness, breathing in his warm male scent. "I know. I just wanted to know. I assure you, I wouldn't have fallen apart had I learned the truth."
"I never thought you would. You're strong, Rachael."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
There was conviction in his voice, and admiration, and something else she couldn't identify, but it helped the knot in her middle loosen a little. It helped to have Griffin here. She'd always considered him an unreliable scapegrace, yet he'd been by her side all through this. Which seemed to lend her the strength she'd been missing. The strength he believed she had.
It was amazing what a difference it made to have someone believe in her.
THIRTY-THREE
"HOW SHALL we work this?" Setting his large case full of art supplies on the table, Sean glanced around the sparsely furnished garret studio. "Will you sit on the sofa?"
"Lord Lincolnshire sat on a sofa for the portrait," Corinna pointed out, "so I think you should pose there. Did he fall asleep?"
"He didn't. I think he might be getting better." Sean wasn't sure whether he was happy about that or not. Much as he liked the man, this couldn't continue forever, could it?
"Then how did you manage to leave him? What excuse did you give him?"
"I told him my painting wasn't going well at Lincolnshire House, so I needed to work here instead. That's why I brought along these supplies. I'd have looked a liar otherwise."
He'd brought candles, too, knowing it would grow dark as the evening wore on. He pulled them out of the case and set them up around the room and began lighting them.
"Lord Lincolnshire didn't mind, then?"
"I sent for Deirdre to keep him company."
Though his sister was nominally living at Lincolnshire House, she spent most of her waking hours at Daniel Raleigh's place of business—or his home, where she planned to live with or without a divorce. Sean was less than thrilled with that, but he didn't want to fight with his sister. He'd told the earl his wife was very fond of shopping.
Yet another lie, he thought with a sigh. "She wasn't happy, but she agreed."
"She should. You're putting yourself out to secure her future."
If only Deirdre saw it that way. "Lincolnshire likes
