Chapter 1
“Ye shall see wonders and hid things.”
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur
Miss Henrietta Bigsby reread the page for the thousandth time.
Uncle Reggie was in the country, attending a house party for the holidays.
Her mother, as proprietress of the preeminent stone manufactory in all of England, if not the world, was managing a large order.
Her twin, Maddy, was away in Scotland with her new husband, touring his estates, and Henri was … bored.
Her work as private secretary to Uncle Reggie, a former member of Parliament and now political advisor to Westminster, kept her active and occupied, but now that she had all this time on her hands, Henri found herself chewing on a recent remark from her mother.
The words still echoed in her mind from the night of Madeline’s nuptials, held right here in the walled garden where she currently sat.
“Henri is not good at keeping secrets.”
Eleanor Bigsby had laughed, unaware she had shaken Henri to her core. Being a perfectionist in all things, it was appalling to realize she had a reputation for gossip. Hardly an admirable trait!
Which was why it had been sitting heavy on her soul while she wrestled with what to do about this hitherto unsuspected character flaw. Henri was competitive by nature, and it did not sit well that she was inferior in this regard.
Sighing, she put the book beside her on the bench and leaned her head back against the large stone urn, which was the centerpiece of the walled garden.
Truly, she wished she could have discussed the matter with Maddy before her departure to Scotland, but Henri had been busy preparing Uncle Reggie for his trip to the country, and it was only after his departure that she had had time to herself.
She was dismayed by how frequently she had been mulling such an inconsequential remark, but surely, there must be some way for her to break the habit while she found herself with too little to do during the holidays?
Bah, why can I not shake these thoughts? It has been weeks since Mama’s comment! If only Maddy had not left so suddenly, then we might have discussed this.
The scrunch of heavy footsteps on the garden path alerted her that she was being joined by at least two of the residents from the property next door.
This garden was shared with the Baron of Blackwood, who resided with his family on the matching estate and who had numerous houseguests of late.
She wondered if she should announce her presence when she heard the quiet thud of something heavy being placed down.
On the garden bench on the other side of the urn, perhaps?
A deep and cultured voice she did not recognize broke the silence of the winter afternoon.
“What are you doing?”
The voice of an Italian gentleman responded. “This oil … it is not oil.”
There was a pause, then the Italian continued. “It is tempera.”
“Tempera?”
The Italian explained with a bemused tone.
“Artists sometimes used this technique to hide things. Tempera is an egg-based paint. Messages. Secrets. It can be layered over oil to conceal what is beneath. But the nature of the paint, the way it dries, the way it absorbs light, it does not behave quite the same way.”
“Are you saying there is something beneath this painting?”
Henri arched her brows. What fresh intrigue was this?
Then, realizing what she was about, she winced. Perhaps she did have a personality flaw. Nevertheless, she rose to her feet and hesitated again about announcing her presence.
“That is exactly what I am saying. But only parts of it. Matteo wrote to his sister to point the way to this painting. And in this painting, he left a message. When we remove the tempera, we reveal the true oil beneath.”
Henri walked around the urn and realized she was looking at Lord Sebastian, the towering blond brother of the Duke of Halmesbury.
Both brothers had the appearance of warriors descended from Valhalla to walk amongst mere mortals, and there could be no mistaking the family resemblance.
He stood with his arms crossed, watching as a tall, lean Italian man delicately rubbed at the surface of a painting with his handkerchief, his dark brows furrowed in concentration.
The afternoon light bathed the garden, filtering through the bare branches of the trees and lending an almost ethereal glow to the painting.
“See here,” the Italian murmured, more to himself than to Lord Sebastian, as he swiped another careful stroke over the lower portion of the painting.
“The tempera layer is fragile, prone to flaking when dry. But look beneath it, the colors are richer. Deeper. Oil paint. And I suspect something more.”
Lord Sebastian exhaled sharply, glancing between his friend and the painting. “You truly believe there is a hidden message?”
“I know there is,” his companion answered, his voice tinged with excitement.
“The sixteenth-century masters were clever, Sebastian. They used layers like this to obscure secrets. Sometimes to mask knowledge, sometimes to conceal messages meant only for a particular viewer.” He wiped again, and beneath the faded film of tempera, something more distinct began to emerge.
Lord Sebastian took a step closer, clearly curious.
Henri could not see the painting well with both men obscuring her view, so she decided it was time they noticed her presence.
“I say, what are you gentlemen up to?”
Lord Sebastian started, instinctively adjusting his stance. Beside him, his friend straightened abruptly, his fingers pausing mid-motion on the painting. Both men turned toward her.
“Lady Campbell?” Lord Sebastian queried, recovering first, his voice tinged with wariness.
Henri grinned. “Ah, no. I fear you have mistaken me for my twin.”
She stepped forward, hands tucked into the folds of her stylish spencer.
“Miss Henrietta Bigsby, at your service. I live next door. We share this garden with the Scotts.”
Lord Sebastian exchanged a look with his friend, whose expression was still one of cautious surprise. But then his friend shrugged, apparently willing to share his enigmatic finding with her.
Henri stepped forward and tilted her head, her gaze drifting over the painting.
“My, what a beautiful piece. But I suspect you two are more interested in what is beneath the surface, are you not?” She leaned down to examine the section the Italian had been rubbing with his handkerchief. “Whatever could you be looking for?”
She observed the flicker of mistrust that returned to the gentleman’s face, a look she knew well as Uncle Reggie’s private secretary.
Gentlemen visiting his townhouse were often startled to find a lady managing his political correspondence, but Henri had learned their ways.
A lady’s wit and beauty, she found, could disarm even the most skeptical man.
Her face lit with a radiant smile, a charming dimple appearing on her right cheek. His gaze softened, captivated by the sparkle of her amber eyes beneath delicate lashes. His mouth parted slightly, as if he were dazed by her warmth.
Beyond his friend’s shoulder, the duke’s brother arched a fair eyebrow in quiet rebuke at her subtle arts, unmoved by her allure.
But Henri had heard he was courting Lady Harriet Slight, the ton’s celebrated auburn widow, whose beauty far outshone her own.
It mattered little. It was his companion who was her focus.
“Signor Lorenzo di Bianchi,” he said, offering a courtly bow, his misgivings fading under her charm. Henri took her duties with Uncle Reggie seriously, navigating the skepticism of men unaccustomed to a lady in political circles with grace.
“Lorenzo di Bianchi,” she repeated, savoring the musical flow of his name. “How perfectly romantic. And you must be Lord Sebastian?” She dropped a curtsy in response to Lord Sebastian’s brief bow before turning back to his friend. “And this painting. Is it yours?”
“Si, in a manner of speaking,” Signor di Bianchi replied, his voice revealing his fervor for the subject at hand. “It was a creation of my ancestor, Matteo di Bianchi. A master painter of the Renaissance who studied under the great Leonardo himself.”
Henri’s eyes widened with genuine interest. “A student of da Vinci? How extraordinary! Uncle Reggie—my great-uncle, Mr. Reginald Wells—would be absolutely fascinated. He has quite a passion for art.”
At the mention of Wells, Lord Sebastian straightened. Henri caught it immediately.
“You know of him?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Mr. Wells is known in certain circles,” Lord Sebastian told his friend. “A man of considerable political influence.”
“Indeed he is,” Henri agreed, her smile never wavering.
“And I am his private secretary. I handle his correspondence, manage his appointments, and keep his secrets.” She paused meaningfully, concealing the slight pinch of guilt at her shameless maneuvering.
Lorenzo di Bianchi had a secret, which meant she now had an opportunity to prove her mother wrong.
She could seal her lips, and she had kept Uncle Reggie’s secrets when it truly mattered.
Although she had a feeling that sometimes he wished for her to spread certain news to the other secretaries. His own maneuverings. “All of them.”
Her guilt sharpened at the untruth.
The Italian’s face was a picture of discomfort and propriety warring. “Miss Bigsby, this matter … it is not exactly …”
“A proper subject for a lady’s ears?” Henri finished sweetly.
“Gentlemen, I assure you, working for Uncle Reggie has exposed me to far more scandalous secrets than whatever mystery you are uncovering in that painting. I handle correspondence between ministers who despise each other, arrange meetings that must never appear in any official record, and manage information that could topple governments if mishandled.”