“I need your help,” Lorenzo implored, his lean face earnest in the low light of the drawing room. “I have tried for years to find a clue amongst these letters, but nothing. You are English. You might notice something that I cannot.”
Sebastian Markham and his Italian friend had been working together for a year or more now, forming a lucrative partnership to trade in art to the titled and wealthy visiting Florence.
So successful had they been that he had long since stopped collecting his annuity from his brother, the great and lauded Duke of Halmesbury.
It had been a brilliant day when he had relinquished his allowance, no longer beholden to his arrogant older brother.
The great philanthropist who refused no plea for help …
unless it came from his younger brother, in which case he was a coldhearted bastard.
Sebastian gritted his teeth and willed the thought of his cursed brother to recede.
The fly in the ointment was that Lorenzo was obsessed with his family history.
Specifically, what had happened to his ancestor, Matteo di Bianchi, whom Lorenzo claimed had been a talented apprentice at the side of Sandro Botticelli before being taken on at the workshop of the Renaissance Man, the Master of all Arts—Leonardo da Vinci.
That had been before Matteo was commissioned by Englishmen for some sort of grand cathedral and left Italy, never to return. He had left behind a family legend of greatness never realized, and the mystery of what had happened to Matteo’s work.
“What does this Regis Aeterni mean—Eternal King? These people who commissioned him … could they have been entangled with this king of yours, Henry the Eighth? Perhaps they are the ones who encouraged Henry to break from the Catholic Church and declare himself as the divinely sanctioned ruler of Britain? I am not an expert in English history, but you grew up as one of the elites. The son of a duke. You might note something I do not.”
Sebastian stretched out his legs and raked a hand through his mane of hair. It was time to get it cut, but he enjoyed the untamed appearance that greeted him in the morning. It was tangible evidence that he had walked away from the past to forge his own path. To be his own man.
“Just read them. Point out a clue. Anything that might unravel this ball of thread.”
Sebastian huffed, responding with reluctance, “It has been three centuries since Matteo sailed from Italy, Lorenzo. Why expend your energy on this? Do you not appreciate the life we lead? We live in the greatest city in the world, surrounded by the art from the Masters. What does it matter?”
“It matters, mio amico ! Matteo was destined to be a Maestro —a Master—I tell you! This Regis Aeterni did him foul! My family has long awaited the discovery of his work. The recognition he deserved as an artista ! A great artist! A man of extraordinary talent.”
There was despair in the black eyes of his closest friend, an appeal for help reminiscent of the one which Sebastian had once made to the duke.
Sebastian did not like to think of that time, but he felt the echo of despair.
Even after five years away from home, it still irked him that his grand ducal brother had not seen fit to wield his power in Sebastian’s favor.
He did not wish to encourage his friend’s preoccupation with the past, but it was difficult to ignore a plea for help when the favor was so easy to grant.
Sebastian would read the letters, find nothing of import about a minor artist’s departure three centuries earlier, and appease his good friend with his assistance.
Perhaps then Lorenzo would finally come to peace and leave this family mystery buried in the past where it belonged.
So Sebastian relented.
“Give them to me, then.”
MID-AUGUST 1821, LONDON
Lady Filminster’s words still haunted Harriet. Ever since she had met the silly chit on the street, who had brushed her hand and uttered her curse, Harriet had been unable to think of anything else. It was as if a spell had been cast.
First, her Peregrine Balfour had deserted her to marry a country mouse with no fashion sense.
Then, her Brendan Ridley had married a ridiculous debutante flibbertigibbet who had uttered those dreadful words. The words that haunted not only her sleep, but her waking moments, too.
Not that she was sleeping very much. She tossed and turned all night, and none of the gentlemen pursuing a place in her bed held any appeal because of the shrew’s tormenting condemnation.
I wish you the boundless joy of truly connecting with another person.
How dare she? Lily Ridley was a foul-mouthed demon.
Of opening your heart to another and finding that you care more about them than your own self.
Harriet knew that only pain and betrayal could come from opening one’s heart.
I wish you a strong young husband …
Husband! She needed no man in her life telling her what to do.
… and healthy children.
Children! They were loud and cumbersome and demanding of constant attention.
And I wish you a long and full life …
Her life was plentiful, especially when there was no husband or children to ruin it!
… filled with laughter, Lady Slight.
Laughter was overrated. For years, she had practiced her laugh before she had allowed herself to do so in polite society. Only once she had cultivated the perfect little titter.
If she were back on that street with Lady Filminster, she would throw the tiny baroness’s maledict back in her face and scream a counter-curse.
“You are a coldhearted bitch, Lily Ridley,” Harriet mumbled, turning over to stare at the drapes.
Morning had arrived. Again. And Harriet admitted the truth—it was no good.
No matter how many assurances she uttered to herself, no matter how long she walked, or how many glasses of wine she drank, or events she attended, or company she enjoyed, the words returned to taunt her in the dark hours of the early morning.
And the lit hours of the afternoon. And the gray hours of dawn when the sun rose to mock her for her state of misery where nothing provided solace from the regret and guilt.
She had with great deliberation encased her heart in ice years ago.
Now the ice was melting, and the resulting beats were the deepest of agonies.
There was no undoing what she had done, nor her selfish endeavors since that time.
Even if she could undo the past five years, what use was recovering her heart if it was shattered beyond repair?
Regret for her past behavior was becoming a constant companion, and Harriet was growing desperate to find relief.
Rolling on her back and staring at the crown moulding that framed her ceiling, she lay in her soft bed, which might as well have been a bed of coals for all the comfort to be found, and she racked her mind.
It could not be too late for her to change her course. She was yet young.
But how?
She tried to think if there was anyone she could speak to, dismissing the glib acquaintances she had spent her time with these past few years. Nay, she needed someone who had overcome the mistakes of their own past to carve out a sliver of happiness.
And, to her surprise, someone came to mind. An unlikely but estimable 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 splintered 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 painful 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 pleased to see her.
Which was unfortunate for him, because when Harriet set her mind to a task, it was difficult to thwart her.
Sebastian was in his bedchamber in their rented rooms, reading the numerous letters from Matteo to his sister.
A painstaking task due to the spider-like scrawl penned in a mixture of Tuscan Italian and Latin.
It was evident 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 bewildering 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 engrossed in the mysterious work he was undertaking.
Sebastian returned the current letter to the leather portfolio and drew out the next with a weary sigh. He estimated he had another ten or more years of correspondence to read. Mildly entertaining from a historical aspect, but mostly numbingly tedious to wade through.
Deciding this would be his last for the evening, Sebastian smoothed out the aged paper on the desk, the words inked in Italian long faded.
15 th September, 1515
My dearest sister,
I have completed my greatest work to date!
Here in England of all places. Maestro Botticelli himself would be most impressed to witness The Lady’s Hidden Secret, which could rival his Birth of Venus for the exquisite and elusive nature of its subject.
Maestro da Vinci would be enraptured to witness the discretion of her riddle.
Sebastian frowned, the words evoking a vivid recollection of a sublime painting that had once captured 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 arranged with the butler to have it hung in his bedchamber.
It was that very painting that had ignited his passion for art.
The very reason he had come to Florence.
The reason he had remained, with the painting still in his possession—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 portrayed by the talented hand of the artist.
For a moment, Sebastian was lost in the memory of the first time he had stumbled upon the painting and how it had utterly bewitched him.
He blinked rapidly, shaking 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 locked onto the looking glass that hang above the desk, which doubled as his washstand.
In it, he saw the reflection of a man of thirty, with a mane of bronzed hair and irises the color of storm clouds.
Broad shoulders spoke of strength and vitality.
His Italian friends jested 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.
Three centuries earlier, the first Duke of Halmesbury had been granted his title and taken possession of his Wiltshire lands, amassing 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 manor.
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 shaped his very fate.
Apparently, his own great-great-great-great-grandfather had been affiliated with the Regis Aeterni , the very organization Lorenzo sought to unravel.
Sebastian exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening over the letter.
Curse the compact world of the British aristocracy—fate, it seemed, was the cruelest of mistresses indeed.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2 (Reading here)
- Page 3
- Page 4
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