AN EARL'S funeral bore little resemblance to the simple ceremonies performed by a country vicar like Sean's father. Lord Lincolnshire was to be buried in Westminster Abbey on Friday, and Sean had also arranged for a reception at Lincolnshire House afterward.
Getting everything in place took the better part of the day, and it was late afternoon by the time he trudged up the steps to the garret studio, hoping Corinna wasn't already waiting. A small part of him couldn't wait to see her, but most of him dreaded her arrival. He wanted a few minutes to prepare himself, to steel himself for what lay ahead.
He didn't have to do this, he knew. There were other, easier ways out. Soon the truth would be revealed, as Hamilton was due in town for the judging and would waste no time claiming his new title. Once that happened, society would make it clear to Corinna that Sean was unacceptable. Or he could allow her brother to explain the facts. But he wasn't a man who expected others to do his dirty work. He still picked up a hammer if he saw the need on a construction site, and he wouldn't leave this task to others, either.
And he had to say good-bye. He needed to tell Corinna just how much he wished things were different. He'd brought something to give her to remember him by, and he'd do that first, while she was still clearheaded enough to be capable of understanding what it meant. He wanted one last kiss, and he wanted, one last time, to hear her sweet feminine voice.
Reaching the top of the stairway, he opened the door to the garret and heard a harsh masculine voice instead. "Go away."
"I beg your pardon?" Thinking for a moment that he must have entered the wrong building, Sean took a step back. Then he blinked as the man turned to face him, paintbrush in hand. "Hamilton? What are you doing here?"
"Working. I'd planned to lease this space, if you'll remember, so I consider it mine." He gestured to a large canvas on the easel, where the essentials of a scene were already taking form. "The falls, with the Lady of the Waterfall visible in the towering gush. Inspired, isn't it? What do you think?"
Sean shut the door behind him. "I think you were due back weeks ago."
Hamilton merely shrugged. "I arrived earlier today, in time to vote on the submissions for the Summer Exhibition." He turned back to his canvas and began adding mist rising at the bottom of the falls. "I told you I would."
"You also told me your uncle would die within days."
"He didn't?"
"Not until this morning."
Unsurprisingly, Hamilton displayed no emotion at the news of his uncle's passing. But he wouldn't stay calm for long—not once he heard what had transpired since he left the country.
Having long since resigned himself to the fact that this entire exercise had been for naught, Sean's main regret was that he'd been unaware of Hamilton's arrival—that he'd failed to speak with the man before the Summer Exhibition selection. He hadn't realized it would take place the very day after the submissions were due. "Did you vote for Lady Corinna Chase's painting?" he asked with a sigh.
"Who the hell is Corinna Chase?"
"The woman we met in the British Museum. The one who said she wanted to paint portraits."
"I don't remember her. And I haven't the slightest idea. As usual, I voted for my favorites without looking at any artists' names." He added more mist. "The entire proceeding proved very tedious. No less than fourteen rounds before the final selection was decided on, and all the while all I wanted was to work on this picture."
"It was a portrait of Lincolnshire. Seated on a bench in Berkeley Square, holding a book—"
"I don't recall anything like that. Not that I would have recognized the old bastard in any case. I haven't set eyes on him since I was a babe—"
"Sweet Jesus, he was your father's identical twin. And she painted him looking younger, probably very much as you remember your own father."
"I didn't see any portraits of my father, Delaney. And I voted for very few portraits overall—you know I prefer landscapes." Having finished adding the mist, he deftly painted some water spraying back up. "My favorite canvas, however," he mused contemplatively, "did turn out to be a portrait. I'm not sure whether it made the final cut—it may not have, because it was very unusual. A sensual study of a golden-haired man, rather scandalously undressed and bathed in candlelight. Henry Fuseli was quite taken with it as well."
That certainly wasn't Corinna's. Which meant Sean was finished with this discussion. "Nothing went the way you said it would, Hamilton. Nothing went as planned."
The man cocked his head, then added a wee smidge of white to a brown blob on his palette. "What could possibly have gone so wrong?" he asked, mixing the colors together idly.
"Everything," Sean said in clipped tones. "To begin with, all of London believes I'm you."
"What?" His attention finally snagged, Hamilton whirled to face him. "How the devil did that happen?"
"Lincolnshire asked me to take him to a ball, promising to keep my identity a secret. My identity as you, you understand. Once there, however…"
It took a good five minutes to explain everything—five minutes during which Hamilton put down his palette, dropped heavily to the threadbare sofa, and finally, inevitably, exploded.
"You bloody son of a bitch! You were instructed to keep the old man happy and stay out of society entirely! Given that you didn't keep your end of the bargain, I'll be damned if I'll keep mine. Deirdre will never see her divorce. She'll bear the next Lincolnshire earl if it's the last thing she does—and with any luck, she'll die in childbirth, so it will be."
Sean had expected no less. Neither was he surprised when Hamilton stalked out of the studio.
Resigned, he drew off his coat and cravat, unfastened the top button on his shirt, and slowly lowered himself to the sofa to wait for Corinna to arrive.