"Shut the door," he instructed when Sykes walked in, then waited until the man had. "I don't remember summoning you today to play my art assistant."
"I apologize for the interruption."
"I'm certain you've a fine reason. Do sit down."
After pulling out a chair, Sykes wasted no time coming to the point. "All of your concerns are being investigated. Inquiries are being made." He pushed up on his round spectacles. "Not only at your main offices, but at your factories, your shipyards, your—"
"I get the picture," Sean interrupted.
It was horrendous timing, but he wasn't altogether surprised.
It was those people who knew, probably someone he'd dealt with. Perhaps someone whose failed endeavor he'd acquired for pennies on the pound and turned into a high-producing concern. Or someone whose property he'd bought and improved and made profitable. Or someone whose employees he'd hired and paid better, or…
The possibilities were endless.
He liked to think he was a pleasant fellow, if perhaps a bit driven. He'd never forced anyone to do anything. He believed every man had the right to his own property and the right to make his own choices regarding it, so long as he respected others' rights in the process.
All of his business dealings were honest and straightforward, within the law, and—most important—within his own moral code. He took responsibility for himself, had no sense of entitlement, didn't ask anyone for anything. All he wanted was the opportunity to pursue his goals, the chance to realize his potential. There were few bywords he swore by, and they all reflected a similar theme: mutual consent, live and let live, the Golden Rule.
But this wasn't the first time someone had tried to ruin him, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.
"I'll look into it." Downing the rest of his coffee, he pushed back from the table. "If Lincolnshire needs me," he told Deirdre, "send for me. You know where I'll be."
He was out the door, on his way to Delaney & Company's main offices, before the cup stopped rattling in its saucer.
THIRTY-NINE
Berkeley Square, Saturday 17 May
My dear Cousin,
I have an idea I wish to discuss with you. As I'll be bringing Corinna to the Teddington ball tonight, I hope you will also be attending.
Fondly,
Cainewood
ARRIVING AT the Teddington Ball on Saturday night, Rachael waved to Lady A and looked around to locate Griffin. She found him in the refreshment room, talking to Juliana.
Or rather, complaining to Juliana.
"I cannot believe she refused to come tonight. How the devil am I supposed to find her a husband?"
"Corinna's submissions are due on Monday, Griffin. This is important to her."
"Well, she said she doesn't want to go to Lady Hartley's breakfast tomorrow, either, but I won't hear of it. It's the event of the season, and I've already lined up three men for her to meet."
Juliana looked as though she might argue with that, but then she noticed Rachael standing there. "Good evening, Rachael."
Griffin turned and looked at Rachael, too. Or rather, he skimmed her from her toes on up, his gaze lingering on her sky blue silk bodice before it reached her face. "What are you doing here?"
"You sent me a note," she said, confused. "You asked me to come." What kind of a fool would ask her to come and then ask her why she was here?
"Well, I didn't ask you to wear a dress like that."
"It's a ballgown. This is a ball." What else was she supposed to wear? "Your note sounded important." She glanced around, seeing entirely too many people. "Is it something we should talk about privately?"
"Let's go to Lord Teddington's library."
"All right." They'd gone to the library during the Teddingtons' ball last year, too—in fact, it was where she'd first asked Griffin if he might help her find her father—so she knew exactly where to head: down a long corridor past several other doors. Slipping inside, she walked over to a leather sofa and sat, irritated that she'd responded to his note. "What did you want to discuss with me?"
Leaving the door open, Griffin joined her on the sofa, sitting sideways to face her. "I thought of something," he said quietly. "Maybe your grandfather wasn't the last chance to learn what became of your father. If we can find your mother's family, perhaps they will know the truth."
The irritation rapidly dissipated, shifting to disbelief. She stared at him. "We cannot find her family."
"We have a name now. John Cartwright. If we can believe the old man's ramblings, he saved John Cartwright's life and Cartwright promised his daughter in return. I know your mother called herself Georgiana Woodby, but she must have been Georgiana Cartwright."
Having seen her grandfather, Rachael could no longer doubt that Griffin's reasoning made sense. "But even if she was Georgiana Cartwright, she had no family left. There's no family to find."
"Maybe that's not the case. If she gave a false name, she might have told other untruths. She might have had living family, after all."
"Maybe." Though the implications made her reel, she was willing to concede the possibility. "But how would you find them with just a name, and such a common one at that?" The man who'd raised her had also been called John, as were many other men of her acquaintance. John Hamilton, for instance. "There must be a hundred John Cartwrights." Maybe more.
"But how many of them are titled? At the time of her marriage, your mother was Lady Georgiana, which means her father was an earl at the very least. We can look him up in Debrett's Peerage. Even if he did die young, the succession will be listed in the pedigree. If you have any living relations, I can find them."
Of course he could. "I'm a bloody idiot." She rarely considered herself a fool, but it was so simple. "Why didn't I think of that?"
He shrugged. "I expect your mind was
