Corinna smiled in relief, certain Juliana would figure out which man was John Hamilton. The meddler in the family, Juliana had a skill for weaseling out secrets. "I'd be pleased for you to meet Mr. Hamilton," she said, turning back to the men.
They were gone.
Lifting her sweet baby boy from the pram, Alexandra frowned. "Mr. Hamilton?"
"The landscapist, John Hamilton. He was just here." Corinna scanned the crowded gallery, to no avail. "He looks like a Greek god. Or perhaps it's his friend who looks like the Greek god, or his brother-in-law—"
"Whatever are you babbling about? John Hamilton never appears in public." Looking sympathetic, Juliana touched her arm. "I think we should go. I must get home well before my mother-in-law's wedding, and in any case, you've clearly been sketching too long."
BACK OUTDOORS, Sean hauled Hamilton toward Montagu House, one hand clenched on the man's upper arm.
"It's a shame women cannot study anatomy," Hamilton remarked as though they were on a leisurely stroll, "because sketching statues isn't going to help her learn anything."
"Is that so?" Sean gritted out.
"I've yet to see a portrait painted by a woman that was any good, and I never expect to, so I seriously doubt I'll vote for that female's painting."
Sean had no wish to continue this conversation. In fact, he'd gladly pay a thousand pounds to avoid speaking with Hamilton ever again. But he felt sorry for the woman in question. "What if her picture is good? Will you still refuse to vote for it simply because it was painted by a lady?"
"Of course I wouldn't. Point of fact, I wouldn't be aware a female painted it, since I never seek signatures before I vote. Most of the Summer Exhibition judges take an artist's status into consideration, but I believe each work should stand on its own. Regardless of what the other Academicians think, I maintain that a painter's identity should never influence a judge's opinion."
It was the most reasonable statement Sean had ever heard leave Hamilton's lips. Surprisingly reasonable. Until the rotter added, "But I'm certain her paintings won't be any good, because she's never studied anatomy."
"She might surprise you," Sean shot back. "You shouldn't be so judgmental. You might vote for her painting and later on have to eat humble pie."
"I doubt it," Hamilton said blandly. "We failed to learn her name, so in the unlikely event I ever did vote for one of her works, I'd never know it, would I?"
"Corinna."
"Pardon?"
"Her name is Corinna. Not that I learned it in the course of your shoddy introduction. Another woman called her Corinna as I was dragging you off." Her lovely face swam into his memory. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
"You had no right to drag me off." Wrenching his arm from Sean's hand, Hamilton pulled open the door to Montagu House. "Who's beautiful?"
"Corinna," Sean repeated as he followed him inside.
Wide blue eyes and gleaming dark hair. Sean had never been a fanciful sort of man, and he damn well didn't believe in love at first sight or any of the other nonsense poets regularly spouted. But something about her had seemed to crawl under his skin and clutch him low in the gut. Something had made him bunch his fists to keep from reaching to touch her. Something had made him want to kiss her.
He remembered her biting her plump lower lip, and how he'd been tempted to bite it himself. "There's something about her…she's very sensual."
"Sensual? I didn't notice," Hamilton said, and while Sean was wondering how an artist could be that unobservant, he added, "I won the bet," in a smug tone.
"You did not. She didn't believe I was you."
"She didn't know what to believe. Which means I won. I succeeded in convincing her you may be an artist."
"Blarney."
Hamilton shrugged. "Whether you agree or not doesn't signify. You'll still pretend to be me for Lincolnshire's sake if you want to see your sister divorced."
"I believe you'll want to rethink that demand. When society discovers you deceived your uncle for your own gain, your reputation will be torn to threads. Your stellar art career will end in shame."
"Blarney," Hamilton mimicked in disdain. "No one will ever find out. Lincolnshire is incapacitated and housebound. Furthermore, he's a heartless blackguard, so who the hell would give a care whether he's hoaxed? He banished my family to the backwoods of Ireland when we should rightfully have been living the high life in London."
It was a litany Sean had heard practically since birth, not only from Hamilton himself but from both of the man's parents. They'd been none too happy to find themselves living among Irish rabble, but they'd been given no choice. Lincolnshire had ordered his younger brother to oversee his foreign interests, and the man had had no other means, short of lowering himself to common labor, to support his wife and child. He'd wanted to be a deacon or dean or archbishop, but Lincolnshire had refused to pull the necessary political strings. He'd been willing to serve in the military, but Lincolnshire had refused to buy him a commission.
Maybe Hamilton was right. Who was going to complain if such a heartless old man's nephew tricked him?
Sean stood in the museum's busy lobby, fighting his better judgment. Though he'd normally refuse to lie to a dying man—or to any decent man, for that matter—perhaps the mean old earl had it coming. But more than that, Sean loved Deirdre. He didn't want to see her forced back to Hamilton's bed or living in sin with Daniel Raleigh. And he knew that if he didn't agree to Hamilton's plan, the self-centered cur would never free his sister.
"This won't interrupt your routine," Hamilton promised. "You'll have to move to Lincolnshire's Berkeley Square town house for a couple of weeks, but you need only sleep there at night. You can tell the old man
