"What if he wants to see your paintings?"
"You mean your paintings," Hamilton said with a pointed smirk. He frowned a moment, then nodded. "I'll leave you some money to lease studio space near the square—"
"I don't want your money," Sean growled. He'd come a long way in the ten years since that first fateful letter arrived. Having shrewdly invested his surprise inheritance, he thought he might now be the wealthiest twenty-eight-year-old self-made man in all of Britain. "And I don't need to lease anything. I own half of Piccadilly Street."
Not to mention a good percentage of other property in and around London.
"Do you, now? Well, that's excellent. If you've a vacant garret nearby, that would be ideal. Something very private with north-facing windows. I've a few canvases in the apartments I've been renting. I shall fetch them posthaste and put them in there for you to show him." He nodded again, more enthusiastically. "Perhaps I'll lease the space from you permanently. Once I inherit the title, I'll be forced to spend some time at Lincolnshire House, so I'll need it when I return from Wales."
An awkward silence stretched between them while people walked in and out, asking the porter directions to find the Rosetta Stone or the Egyptian mummies.
"You'll do it, won't you?" Hamilton pressed. "Otherwise—"
"I'll do it," Sean snapped. He knew what otherwise entailed: doom for Deirdre.
To avoid that, he'd sell himself to the devil.
Which he very probably just had.
FOUR
ORANGE BRANDY
Take a quart of Brandy, the peels of eight Oranges thin pared, keep them in the Brandy forty-eight hours in a closed pitcher, then take three pints of Water, put into it three quarters of a pounde of loaf Sugar, boil it till half be consumed, and let it stand till cold, then mixe it with the Brandy.
This was served at my grandparents' wedding breakfast, and their marriage was blessed with love and health. We have had it at family weddings ever since.
—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1730
LADY STAFFORD and Lord Cavanaugh's wedding was a modest affair, just family and a few friends in the gorgeous Painted Room at Stafford House. The chamber was a mite tight even for the small number of guests; the equally impressive Palm Room downstairs would have been more comfortable. But the Painted Room was perfect for the occasion, because its theme was marriage.
A famous Roman fresco was re-created on the chimneypiece, and other wedding scenes were painted directly on the plaster walls. Panels depicted music, drinking, and dancing. Cupid and Venus cavorted overhead, nymphs danced on the ceiling, lovers courted on gilt-framed canvas, and a frieze of rose wreaths and garlands of flowers went all around the cornice.
The house wasn't actually Lady Stafford's anymore. Cornelia had been the Dowager Lady Stafford for several years now, which meant Stafford House belonged to her son, James Trevor, the current Earl of Stafford. Who also happened to be Juliana's husband.
While the minister droned on, Juliana leaned close to Corinna. "Your turn will come next."
"I'm not concerned with having a turn," Corinna whispered back. "My art is more important than love."
Her gaze shifted to Aunt Frances, hugely pregnant and wearing a sentimental, romantic smile. Love had recently saved Aunt Frances from the dreary life she'd been leading as a spinster in her mid-forties. And love had transformed Corinna's sisters' lives as well. Juliana and James had wed only last August, right after Frances and Lord Malmsey. Alexandra and Tristan had been married nearly two years and took joy in their infant son.
Although Corinna sometimes feared she'd fail to find true love for herself, she also worried she'd forever remain unrecognized for her talents. Of the two, she felt the art was more under her control. It was the thing that defined her, the thing that mattered most.
She was happy for Aunt Frances and her sisters. It was wonderful that they'd all found love, but to Corinna's mind, the three women had little else. They'd needed love to complete them, but she had her art.
She had her landscapes and her still lifes, and most of all, her portraits. Her art ought to be enough. If only she could get one of her works accepted into the Summer Exhibition, her future would be bright whether or not a man was in the picture.
No sooner had the minister announced that the Dowager Lady Stafford was now Lady Cavanaugh than Juliana began distributing glasses of orange brandy, a concoction some ancient ancestor had claimed was guaranteed to assure a lifetime of marital bliss. How her sisters believed such nonsense was something Corinna would never fathom. But she had to admit that Lord and Lady Cavanaugh looked very happy for now. Perched together on an amazing green silk sofa with gilt arms carved to look like winged lions, they both beamed as they accepted congratulations. Clearly Cornelia had found her Greek god, even if he was somewhat aged and silver-haired.
Her husband, James, in tow, Juliana returned. She handed Corinna the last glass with a satisfied sigh. "Oh, don't the two of them look perfect together? I knew they'd end up married."
Juliana always knew what was best for everyone, and she never hesitated to announce it. Last season she'd suggested her husband's mother and Lord Cavanaugh share a dance, and now here they were, man and wife.
"Her new title even begins with C," Juliana added proudly.
Corinna sipped the sweet spirits. "Why should that signify?"
Slipping an arm around Juliana's waist, James laughed. "My aunts," he reminded Corinna, "are Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh, and Bedelia, Lady Balmforth. But until today my mother—their sister—was Cornelia, Lady Stafford."
"Now she's Cornelia, Lady Cavanaugh, and the three sisters are Ladies A, B, and C," Juliana pointed out.
"Holy Hannah," Corinna said as James laughed again and walked off.
She'd never understand how Juliana's mind worked.
As though the conversation had summoned her, Lady A
