Prologue #3
And, to her surprise, someone came to mind. An unlikely but admirable confidant to be sure.
The person in question was not a friend, but now that she had thought of him, she knew he was the one person who could advise her on how to ease the torment in her fractured soul.
The dogs of gossip may nip incessantly at his heels, but he had walked his path with fortitude and seemed to have found the elusive joy she had sought these many years despite the darkness of his past.
Calling on him would be a bitter pill to swallow, but if it eventually cured what ailed her, it would be well worth it.
However, one thing was for certain. The gentleman in question would not be happy to see her.
Which was unfortunate for him, because when Harriet set her mind to something, it was difficult to thwart her.
* * *
Sebastian was in his bedchamber of their rented rooms, reading the numerous letters from Matteo to his sister.
A laborious task due to the spider-like scrawl written in a mixture of Tuscan Italian and Latin.
It was plain that this Matteo fellow had worked for the great Leonardo, if the secretive nature of his letters was anything to go by.
Having read a year’s worth thus far, full of Matteo’s cryptic allusions to the great work he had been commissioned to do and the perplexing dealings of the association he served, Sebastian could confidently attest that he had no notion of what this Regis Aeterni was about.
Only that they seemed to be well connected, possessed far too much wealth and far too little sense, and that Matteo had been utterly absorbed in the mysterious work he was undertaking.
Sebastian returned the current letter to the leather portfolio and drew out the next with a heavy sigh. He reckoned he had another ten or more years of correspondence to read. Mildly entertaining from a historical standpoint, but mostly numbingly tedious to wade through.
Deciding this would be his last for the evening, Sebastian carefully laid out the aged paper on the desk, the words inked in Italian long faded.
15th September 1515
My dearest sister,
I have completed my greatest work to date.
Maestro Botticelli himself would be most impressed to lay eyes on The Lady’s Hidden Secret, which could rival his Birth of Venus for the exquisite and allusive nature of its subject.
Maestro da Vinci would be enraptured to witness the discretion of her riddle.
Sebastian frowned, the words stirring a vivid recollection of a breathtaking painting that had once seized his imagination.
A masterpiece, unsigned, that he had discovered in the attics of his family home, Avonmead.
As a youth, he had been so enthralled that he had asked his father if he might have it for himself.
His father had agreed, and Sebastian had instructed the butler to have it hung in his bedchamber.
It had been the work that had kindled his passion for art.
The very reason he had come to Florence.
The reason he had remained, until the sight of it became too painful to bear, and he had sent it away as a final gift.
A farewell to the one who was too like the angelic yet deceitful beauty rendered by the talented hand of the artist.
For a moment, Sebastian was lost in the memory of the first time he had laid eyes upon the painting and how it had utterly bewitched him.
He blinked rapidly, casting off the past before it could awaken old wounds. With renewed focus, he turned back to the letter, only to freeze at a single line.
A great lord, a descendant of the Norse gods themselves, remarked that it was a masterpiece and insisted he keep it safe at his estate in Wiltshire.
Sebastian’s head shot up.
His gaze fixed upon the looking glass hanging above the desk that doubled as his washstand.
In it, he saw the reflection of a man of thirty, with a mane of bronzed hair and eyes the color of storm clouds.
Broad shoulders bespoke strength and vitality.
His Italian friends teased that he had descended from the halls of Valhalla to toy with mere mortals, towering over them as only a great Viking god could do.
And three centuries earlier, the first Duke of Halmesbury had been granted his title and taken possession of his Wiltshire lands, accumulating a treasure trove of fine art, much of which had been placed into storage when Avonmead had been built atop the foundations of that duke’s estate.
Sebastian swallowed hard.
The reason his painting had come to mind was because it was the painting.
Matteo di Bianchi had been the unsigned talent behind the brushstrokes that had determined Sebastian’s very fate.
Apparently, his own great-great-great-great-grandfather had been connected to the Regis Aeterni, the very organization Lorenzo sought to unravel.
Sebastian exhaled slowly, his fingers closing over the letter.
Curse the small, entangled world of the British aristocracy. Fate, it seemed, was the cruelest of mistresses indeed.