She preferred to think for herself, but she had to admit—if only to herself—that it was comforting to have Griffin's support. And surprising. Never in a million years had she thought she'd lean on Griffin.
A man dumb enough to ask her to a ball and then ask her why she'd come wearing a ballgown.
"I'm going to go home right now and consult Debrett's," she said. "Do you want to come with me?"
"There's no need to go anywhere," he said, rising from the sofa. "Why do you think I suggested we discuss this in Lord Teddington's library?"
She was a bloody idiot. Everyone had a copy of Debrett's. It didn't take long for Griffin to find the Teddingtons'. He drew it off a shelf and came back with it in his hands, a small but very fat volume bound in deep green leather.
"Here," he said, handing it to her as he reclaimed his seat by her side. "You look it up."
With shaking fingers she opened the cover and turned to the table of contents. All they had to go on was a last name.
"There," Griffin said. "'Surnames and the Superior Titles of the Peers and Peeresses of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.' That's the section you want."
"I know," she said dryly. "I've looked in Debrett's before." She turned to that section and flipped to the second page, where the Cs were listed. "Cartwright—Avonleigh."
There was a little e by the listing, indicating Cartwright was an earl. "Your mother's father was the Earl of Avonleigh," Griffin said.
"Maybe." She wouldn't believe it until she saw her mother's name in the Earl of Avonleigh's pedigree. She simply couldn't make herself believe it.
Although the earls were all listed in one section, they were in no particular order that she'd ever been able to discern, so she went back to the front, where all the titles were indexed.
"Avonleigh," Griffin said. "There it is. Page two thirty-three."
"I can read, Griffin." He may have done all the research up until now, but she could do this. She turned to page 233. "'Robert Cartwright, Earl of Avonleigh…'" She scanned down past the current earl's birth and marriage dates. "'… succeeded his uncle, John, the late earl, born 1739, married 1765 to Aurelia Egerton, daughter of William, Earl of Wilton, by whom he has issue Alice, born 1767, married 1785 to George Egerton, youngest son of John, Earl of Wilton, died 1799; Harold, born 1770, died 1791; Georgiana—'"
She broke off.
"There she is," Griffin said softly.
"Yes." There it was, in black and white, her mother's name.
"What does it say about her?" he prompted.
She swallowed hard and refocused on the tiny print. "'Georgiana, born 1774, married 1792 to Thomas Grimbald, died 1793.'"
"The year you were born," he said.
"Yes. She didn't die. She married my father—Lord Greystone—and had me." Something seemed to be tugging at her mind. Something significant. Confused again, she glanced up at Griffin.
His green gaze was unfocused, as though he were deep in thought. "Everyone believed she'd died, obviously. She was officially dead. Then she married Greystone and hid herself in the countryside."
"She pretended she had asthma and couldn't go to London because the air here was bad for her. She never liked to socialize."
"Are you sure?" Griffin asked. "I'm thinking she never came to London because someone here might have recognized her. Someone here would have realized she wasn't actually dead."
"Maybe," she said. "That does make sense. Maybe her family was here in London. John Cartwright, the Earl of Avonleigh, my grandfather. And his wife"—she glanced back to the pedigree to find the name—"Aurelia…"
When she trailed off, Griffin laid a gentle hand on her arm. "What?"
"Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh. I don't believe it." That was what had been tugging at her mind. "We know her, Griffin! She's Juliana's aunt by marriage, one of the ABC sisters. She hosted the art reception for Corinna. She smells of gardenias, like my mother. Lady Avonleigh is my grandmother!"
AT TEN O'CLOCK, Sean arrived back at Lincolnshire House, exhausted. Deirdre met him at the door and hurried him into what he thought of as the Hamilton drawing room. "What did you learn?" she asked, closing the door.
He shut his eyes, not wanting to see all of Hamilton's damned pictures. "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I spoke with dozens of my people around London and learned nothing concrete," he told her, opening his eyes. "Whoever is making inquiries is going about it very discreetly. Asking who owns each place and what sort of man I am—but nothing else. Nothing to help me figure out what he's actually looking for. Or so my people told me."
"They haven't any reason to lie to you, have they?"
"I wouldn't think so, but even good people manage to justify all sorts of misdeeds." Another lesson he'd learned over the years. "They could have been bribed, or…oh, I don't know. Nothing surprises me anymore." He wandered to an armchair and dropped onto it.
"What happens now?"
"I've asked for reports from the concerns farther out, but I won't be hearing anything back until tomorrow, at the earliest. More likely Monday and later in the week. I'd go interview them myself, but I cannot leave Lincolnshire."
"You cannot, no." Stepping behind him, she rubbed his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sean."
The massage didn't help, but he didn't want to tell her that. It was a chilly night, and someone had laid a fire on the hearth. He stared at the dancing flames for a while, wondering how Corinna was doing with the painting. Wishing he could be with her, knowing he had to explain their impossible situation.
Wishing he didn't have to explain anything, that there were no impossible situation to explain.
"You didn't send for me," he said finally. "How is Lincolnshire? I suppose I should go up and talk to him."
"He's with Mr. Lawless. His solicitor."
"Again? This late at night?"
"The man's been here for hours. I cannot imagine what the two
