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shame.’’

    ‘‘Blarney,’’ Hamilton mimicked in disdain. ‘‘No one will ever find out. Lincolnshire is incapacitated and housebound. Furthermore, he’s a heartless blackguard, so who the hell would give a care whether he’s hoaxed? He banished my family to the backwoods of Ireland when we should rightfully have been living the high life in London.’’

    It was a litany Sean had heard practically since birth, not only from Hamilton himself but from both of the man’s parents. They’d been none too happy to find themselves living among Irish rabble, but they’d been given no choice. Lincolnshire had ordered his younger brother to oversee his foreign interests, and the man had had no other means, short of lowering himself to common labor, to support his wife and child. He’d wanted to be a deacon or dean or archbishop, but Lincolnshire had refused to pull the necessary political strings. He’d been willing to serve in the military, but Lincolnshire had refused to buy him a commission.

    Who was going to complain if such a heartless old man’s nephew tricked him?

    Sean stood in the museum’s busy lobby, fighting his better judgment. Though he’d normally refuse to lie to a dying man—or to any decent man, for that matter— perhaps the mean old earl had it coming. But more than that, Sean loved Deirdre. He didn’t want to see her forced back to Hamilton’s bed or living in sin with Daniel Raleigh. And he knew that if he didn’t agree to Hamilton’s plan, the self-centered cur would never free his sister.

    ‘‘This won’t interrupt your routine,’’ Hamilton promised. ‘‘You’ll have to move to Lincolnshire’s Berkeley Square town house for a couple of weeks, but you need only sleep there at night. You can tell the old man you must paint during the day and go off to do your usual work. It shan’t affect Delaney and Company at all.’’

    ‘‘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.

     

Chapter 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