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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 and Company’s main offices, before the cup stopped rattling in its saucer.

 

Chapter Thirty-seven
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 ball gown. 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 is 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 on other things. Your life has been rather traumatic lately. Besides,’’ he added artlessly, ‘‘I’m here to think for you.’’
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 ball gown.
‘‘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 Grimstead, died 1793.’’
‘‘The year you were born,’’ he said.
‘‘Yes. She didn’t die. She married my father—Lord Greystone—and had me.’’ She glanced up, looked at Griffin, confused again. But something seemed to be tugging at her mind. Something significant.
Griffin’s green gaze was unfocused, as though he were deep in thought. ‘‘Everyone thought she 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.
‘‘Nothing. ‘‘ He shut his eyes, not wanting to see all of Hamilton’s damned pictures.
‘‘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 talk to her, 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 of them are doing in there.’’
‘‘Getting Lincolnshire’s affairs in order.’’ Wishing he could get
his
affairs in order, Sean sighed and rose. ‘‘Thank you. That felt good.’’ He turned and pressed a kiss to his sister’s forehead. ‘‘I’m after going up to bed.’’
‘‘Good night to you, Sean. I hope tomorrow will be a better day.’’
‘‘I hope so, too,’’ he said.
But hoping, he knew, never accomplished anything. He was a doer, not a hoper . . . but there seemed nothing he could do these days to make things right.

 

Chapter Thirty-eight
‘‘I saw her here earlier,’’ Rachael said, wandering the Teddington ballroom for the second time.
Griffin walked with her, keeping his eyes off her damned clingy dress. Or at least trying to. ‘‘I saw her here as well, I think.’’ He wasn’t exactly sure which woman was the Dowager Countess of Avonleigh. He realized she was one of the ABC sisters, but Lady C, Juliana’s mother-in-law, was the only one of them he knew at all well. He’d always thought of Lady A and Lady B sort of lumped together. One was plump and one was skinny, but he wasn’t sure which was which. ‘‘Has she got some meat on her bones, or is she a stick?’’
‘‘Really, Griffin. She’s a perfectly lovely, kind, healthy-looking woman.’’
The plump one, then. The other one looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week, which couldn’t possibly be healthy. ‘‘Let’s check the refreshment room again. And then you can check the ladies’ retiring room again.’’
‘‘And we should check the garden again, too.’’ Rachael turned toward the refreshment room, then turned back. ‘‘There’s Lady C. I bet she’ll know where her sister went. Lady Cavanaugh!’’ She waved, and Lady C started walking toward them.
They met her halfway. ‘‘You look lovely tonight, dear,’’ Lady C told her. ‘‘That’s a beautiful ball gown, and it matches your eyes, which are sparkling like diamonds.’’

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