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returned guardedly. ‘‘Mr. . . . ?’’

    ‘‘Delaney,’’ he said smoothly. ‘‘Sean Delaney, at your service. And this,’’ he added, indicating the taller man, ‘‘is my good friend Mr. John Hamilton. Having noticed you sketching, he wished to be introduced to a fellow artist. You’ve heard of him, I presume?’’

    Had she heard of him? Corinna’s sketchbook and pencil fell to the floor as her jaw dropped open. Everyone had heard of John Hamilton, the renowned, reclusive painter of landscapes. She turned to him, positively stunned. Her Greek god was John Hamilton—John Hamilton!—and he’d requested an introduction. To her , Corinna Chase, possibly the most un renowned artist in all of London.

    ‘‘Mr. Hamilton,’’ she gushed, ‘‘I cannot tell you how much I admire—’’

    ‘‘Please stop,’’ he interrupted, bending to scoop up her supplies. He straightened and, with a roll of his gorgeous emerald eyes toward Mr. Delaney, handed the items to her. ‘‘I’m sorry, but I’m not John Hamilton.’’ His lilting accent was distracting. The deep, melodious Irish voice didn’t quite mesh with the Greek physique. ‘‘I’m Sean Delaney. And I’m afraid my brother-in-law here—the real John Hamilton—has a horrible sense of humor.’’

    ‘‘Now, Hamilton.’’ The other man dolefully shook his head. ‘‘There’s no need to hide your identity from this charming young lady.’’

    ‘‘It’s your identity in question, and you hide it from everyone.’’ The Greek god drew a line in the air that traced the other man from head to toe. ‘‘You’ll note he’s the one dressed in artistic style,’’ he pointed out to Corinna before brushing at his own, much plainer clothes. ‘‘I am merely a common man of business.’’

    ‘‘Please forgive Mr. Hamilton.’’ Mr. Delaney—or perhaps he was Mr. Hamilton—raised a brow toward Corinna. ‘‘He’s much too self-effacing.’’

    ‘‘Blarney!’’ the Greek god shot back. ‘‘You’re a dunce, Hamilton.’’

    Corinna had observed a tennis match once, and she now felt like that little ball bouncing back and forth between the two men. She didn’t know which one to believe. But since she didn’t expect to see either of them ever again, she figured it didn’t signify.

    While they’d volleyed, she’d regained her senses enough to remember Mr. Hamilton was a member of the committee that chose artwork for the Summer Exhibition. That was what truly mattered.

    She clutched her art supplies to her chest. ‘‘I’m an oil painter myself,’’ she told both of them, praying one really was John Hamilton. ‘‘I am here sketching the marbles to learn anatomy so I can improve my technique for portraits. It is my fondest hope that one of my canvases will be selected for this year’s Summer Exhibition.’’

    ‘‘I am certain Mr. Hamilton will vote for it,’’ the shorter man assured her gravely.

    ‘‘I will not.’’ The Greek god’s fists were clenched, and his Irish lilt came through gritted teeth. ‘‘I mean, he won’t. Or perhaps he will, but I am not Hamilton.’’

    ‘‘Pshaw.’’ The other man waved a smooth, graceful hand. ‘‘He’s—’’

    ‘‘Corinna!’’ She looked away to see her sisters hurrying near, the pram squeaking its way toward her. ‘‘I’m sorry we took so long,’’ Alexandra said. ‘‘Are you finished yet?’’

    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 started, 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