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Corinna
couldn’t
bake. The women of their family were famed for their sweets, and she was the only Chase female in history with no talent in the kitchen. She couldn’t measure anything properly; she couldn’t mix without creating lumps. If she so much as approached the oven, biscuits burned and cakes collapsed.
‘‘I didn’t say she should make it,’’ Juliana pointed out. ‘‘I only said she should bring it.
I’ll
make something for her to bring.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Corinna said. It wasn’t so bad being a bungler in the kitchen, really. In truth, she’d much rather paint.

 

Chapter Sixteen
‘‘I wonder why Corinna’s so nervous,’’ Rachael said to her sisters during the drive home in their carriage. ‘‘There’s the reception, of course, but she seems to be worrying about more than that.’’
Corinna was very far from calm and collected. As a person who wasn’t quite herself these days, Rachael recognized the signs. Griffin was supposed to have returned yesterday, and she was on pins and needles waiting to hear what he might have discovered.
‘‘I don’t know what’s bothering Corinna.’’ Elizabeth shrugged. ‘‘But I’ve been thinking.’’
‘‘That’s a novelty,’’ Claire teased.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. ‘‘I meant I’ve been thinking about something else. I’ve been thinking about how Mama never wheezed like Lady Mabel.’’
‘‘I told you, that’s because she refused to come to London.’’ Claire fiddled with a new amethyst ring she’d made, twirling it on her finger. ‘‘She knew better than to aggravate her condition.’’
‘‘But Mama was very quiet,’’ Elizabeth pointed out. ‘‘I’m wondering if she actually suffered from asthma at all. Maybe she just didn’t want to socialize, so she made that up as an excuse.’’
Claire stopped twirling. ‘‘You think Mama
lied
?’’
‘‘I didn’t say she lied. I said she might have used it as an excuse.’’
‘‘She would never have—’’
‘‘Mama wasn’t perfect,’’ Rachael interrupted. An understatement, considering the woman had hidden the truth from her all of her life. ‘‘It’s possible Elizabeth could be right.’’ Thinking back, she couldn’t remember her mother ever having difficulty breathing. ‘‘Mama never attended large social gatherings. She always preferred to stay home with her needlework and her watercolors and her children.’’
‘‘She went to Cainewood,’’ Claire argued. ‘‘Often.’’
‘‘But only to visit with family. Never for a ball or any other major occasion.’’
‘‘I don’t believe it,’’ Claire said, looking pouty.
‘‘Well, it doesn’t signify anyway, does it?’’ Rachael sighed. ‘‘We’ll never really know.’’
They all rode in thoughtful silence until the carriage came to a stop before their town house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Elizabeth climbed out first, then emitted a little yelp.
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ she cried.
Rachael followed Claire out to find Griffin standing in the courtyard.
‘‘Good afternoon, ladies,’’ he said with the crooked smile she always found disconcertingly attractive. But when his gaze swung to meet hers, his expression grew more serious. ‘‘I’ve been waiting for you. I have news.’’
‘‘What news?’’ Claire demanded.
‘‘I’ll explain later,’’ Rachael told her sisters. She didn’t want an audience when she heard what Griffin had learned. ‘‘Go inside. Griffin and I will talk in the square.’’
Grumbling all the way, her sisters entered the house while Rachael and Griffin crossed the street and went through the gate to the private park in the center of the square. It was a nice day, sunny but not hot, and Lincoln’s Inn Fields was filled with people enjoying the fine weather. Choosing a bench beneath a large tree, where the shade would hide them from view of the houses all around, she sat and smoothed her pelisse’s thin lavender skirts. ‘‘You took longer than I expected.’’
Angled toward her, he pulled her father’s jeweled badge from his pocket and placed it in her palm, folding her fingers around it. ‘‘Rachael . . . I know who he was.’’
‘‘Was,’’ she repeated. ‘‘He’s dead, then.’’
In a cousinly, concerned way, he took one of her hands in both of his. ‘‘You knew that, didn’t you?’’
‘‘Yes. Yes, of course.’’ But apparently part of her had hoped that wasn’t true, because a pang of disappointment seemed to spear her in the vicinity of her heart.
‘‘There’s more,’’ he said, squeezing her fingers. ‘‘Not all of it good.’’
She nodded and pulled her hand free, staring down at the badge on her palm. She couldn’t think straight with him touching her. ‘‘Start at the beginning. Please.’’
He took a deep breath. ‘‘I searched all the records for the time in question and found a member of the Tenth who took leave to wed a woman the month before you were conceived. An officer, a lieutenant. His name was Thomas Grimstead.’’
‘‘Grimstead,’’ she echoed, testing the word on her tongue. She should have been Rachael Grimstead, but that sounded so very wrong. ‘‘Are you sure he was the right man?’’
Griffin nodded. ‘‘He married a woman who was thereafter known as Lady Georgiana Grimstead.’’
Startled, she looked up at him. ‘‘He was titled, then?’’
‘‘No. She must have been a nobleman’s daughter.’’
‘‘But my mother was a commoner. She was born plain Georgiana Woodby, not a lady. She always said she was uncommonly lucky to have wed an earl. You found the wrong man.’’
‘‘I also thought so at first. That’s why I was gone the extra day. I combed the records going back years, in case your mother married long before conceiving you. But very few men from the Tenth wed in the correct time frame, and no one else married a woman named Georgiana.’’
‘‘You’re sure it was her, then?’’
‘‘There’s no other explanation. Your mother acted the lady through and through, did she not? And would she not have thought herself, a woman ripe with another man’s child, ’uncommonly lucky’ to have wed at all? It cannot be a coincidence that Grimstead’s wife had the same given name. He had to have been your father.’’
‘‘Maybe.’’ The name sounded wrong, but she still couldn’t seem to think straight. She focused on a wooden stand in the distance, where lemonade was sold in the square. ‘‘This Grimstead . . . did the records say how he died?’’
‘‘They did.’’
She waited, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming. She looked back to Griffin and found his green eyes flooded with sympathy.
She didn’t want sympathy; she wanted the truth.
‘‘What?’’ she asked, but still he didn’t answer. She clenched her hand around the badge. ‘‘Out with it, damn it! I’ve already learned that my mother lied to me all of my life, came from a different family than she claimed, and my name should be Rachael Grimstead.’’ Grimstead, for heaven’s sake! It wasn’t a cold day, and she was wearing a pelisse in any case, but she wrapped her arms around herself as though she might ward off a chill. ‘‘What could you possibly have to tell me that would be more upsetting than all of that?’’
Griffin blew out a breath. ‘‘He was executed, Rachael. For treason.’’
She opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly all the air seemed to have been sucked right out of her. The birds in the tree overhead sounded entirely too cheerful. The people strolling by, chatting and drinking lemonade, sounded too cheerful, too.
‘‘Treason?’’ she finally managed to say, her voice thin and not cheerful at all. ‘‘What did he do?’’
‘‘That I don’t know; the records of the court-martial must be elsewhere. But he joined the Tenth in 1782— transferred from a disbanded regiment—and there was a notation of his family’s address at that time. In Yorkshire. I’ve hired a man to see whether they still live there. I’ll let you know when I find out. Then take you to meet them.’’
Treason. She hugged herself tighter, the edges of the hard metal badge digging into her clenched fist. ‘‘I’m not sure I want to. Meet them, I mean. Not if their son committed treason.’’
‘‘You don’t have to, of course. It will be up to you. They’re your family, but I’m willing to wager they don’t know of your existence. Perhaps that’s why your mother used another name. So they couldn’t find you.’’
‘‘That makes sense.’’ As much sense as anything else she’d heard this afternoon. ‘‘Treason,’’ she murmured. ‘‘My father was executed for treason.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’ He started to reach for her, then apparently thought better of it and crossed his arms instead. ‘‘It doesn’t change who you are, Rachael, or make you any less good than you are.’’
‘‘No,’’ she said, ‘‘it doesn’t.’’
But she must not have sounded convincing.
‘‘ ‘Fathers shall not be put to death for their children, ’ ’’ he quoted solemnly, ‘‘ ‘nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sins.’ ’’
That dredged up a tiny smile. ‘‘Griffin Chase, referencing a Bible passage? Now I’ve heard everything.’’
In all the years she’d known him—which was her whole life—he’d never been a man given to prayer.
‘‘Thank you for the information,’’ she said, rising and smoothing her pelisse. ‘‘I do appreciate your taking the time to find it. I’m sorry it proved so difficult.’’ She started back home with a sigh, taking a little comfort when he fell into step beside her. ‘‘My sisters are going to be very interested to hear all of this.’’

 

Chapter Seventeen
GINGERBREAD CAKES
Take four pints of Flower with Ginger and Nutmeg and rub Butter into it. Add to it Brandy and Treacle and mix it altogether. Let it lay till it grows stiffe then pinch pieces and make into little balls. Flatten cakes on a tin and add a Sweetmeat if you please and bake.
These spicy little cakes are known to raise the spirits. Not ghosts, that is, but spirits of the emotional variety. Excellent to bring when paying visits to the ill.
—Anne Chase, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1775
 
Upon arriving at Lincolnshire House the next afternoon, Corinna was shown to a drawing room, where Sean sat holding a book that he’d apparently been reading to Lord Lincolnshire. He rose immediately. ‘‘I waited for you all yesterday. Where were you?’’
He’d waited
all day
? ‘‘I was helping Lady Avonleigh make invitations for a reception. And I was painting. And earlier I went back to the colorman’s shop.’’ Well, really to the bookstore to buy
Children of the Abbey
. ‘‘What were you doing here all day? Didn’t you need to . . . ah’’—she slanted a glance to Lord Lincolnshire— ‘‘paint?’’
‘‘I have a lot of work to do, yes. But my uncle is my priority,’’ he said pointedly.
‘‘Of course.’’ The strain in his voice sparked her guilt. And
her poor mind was all topsy-turvy
like Pamela’s had been in the book
Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded
.
She’d promised to visit more often, and she imagined Sean did have some work to do—though she didn’t know what—but she couldn’t spend all day with the earl in his stead, could she? If she wanted to submit a portrait for the Summer Exhibition, she had to work, too.
‘‘Good afternoon, Lord Lincolnshire,’’ she said, walking toward the older man. ‘‘I brought you some gingerbread cakes. They’re supposed to raise one’s spirits.’’
‘‘Says who?’’ Sean asked, taking the basket.
‘‘Says my family’s heirloom cookbook. Each lady in the family adds a recipe every year, and they all have legends attached. Not that I believe such nonsense,’’ she hastened to add. ‘‘My sister Juliana baked these. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.’’
‘‘I wasn’t aware any ladies in Mayfair ever entered a kitchen.’’
‘‘All the Chase ladies do,’’ Lord Lincolnshire said, pausing for a breath. ‘‘They’re famous for their sweets.’’
‘‘All except me,’’ Corinna said.
Sean handed Lord Lincolnshire a sweet and took one for himself. ‘‘Please, have a seat.’’
Corinna looked around the room, which she’d never been in before. The butler, Quincy, had called it the ‘‘yellow drawing room’’ when he’d shown her in here. The walls were covered with yellow silk printed with pink roses, green leaves, and some blue flowers she couldn’t name. All the sofas, chairs, and footstools were upholstered in yellow brocade. Part of Lord Lincolnshire’s extensive Ming vase collection was in here, and there were several excellent paintings on the walls, including two Rembrandts.
She wanted to study them, but Sean had asked her to sit, and he still seemed a bit peeved. Since she wanted another kiss from him, she decided to study them from a chair.
After she chose the seat with the best view, Sean reseated himself, too. ‘‘This gingerbread is delicious,’’ he told her.
‘‘I’ll tell Juliana.’’ She turned to Lord Lincolnshire. He was covered to the waist with a heavy blanket, making her wonder what might be concealed underneath. His hands looked a little puffy, and he’d taken only a tiny bite of the cake. ‘‘How are you feeling today, sir?’’

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