Page 41

But vain the assistance that riches bestow,

The rapture that beauty imparts,

To soften the painful reflections of woe,

Or banish distress from our hearts.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

S ebastian stepped into the Scott townhouse, the sizable painting secure in his grip.

Though it was not heavy in the conventional sense, it bore the full weight of his past, of his emotions, and of the mysteries it might reveal.

He had no use for it—no desire to keep it—but the moment he had held it in his hands again, he had known precisely where it needed to go.

Lorenzo was already waiting in the library, his dark brows furrowed as he paced with restless energy. When he spotted Sebastian, his sharp gaze locked onto the painting, and his entire posture shifted from impatience to barely contained exhilaration.

“You have it,” Lorenzo breathed, his voice thick with anticipation. He crossed the room in a few swift strides, barely sparing Sebastian a glance before reaching for the painting with near veneration.

Sebastian relinquished it easily, stepping back as Lorenzo cradled the wooden panel in his hands, tilting it toward the light from the tall windows.

“ Dio mio , Matteo’s brushwork … Look at the layering, the depth!

” His fingers traced the edge of the frame, his eyes alight with admiration.

“She is even more magnificent than I imagined.”

Sebastian folded his arms, watching as Lorenzo drank in every detail, his joy palpable.

The painting was a masterpiece of quiet legend, its rich pigments lending vibrancy to the scene. Painted on wood, the four-foot-square panel depicted a woman standing in a moonlit lake, her form half-shrouded in the silvery mist rising from the still waters.

She was the Lady of the Lake from Arthurian legend, timeless and ethereal.

Dressed in flowing robes of pale silver, the fabric rippling as if caught in an unseen breeze.

Her auburn hair cascaded in waves over one shoulder, glinting with golden highlights where the artist had captured the illusion of light.

But it was her expression that drew the eye—an enigmatic, knowing smile that hovered at the corner of her lips, as though she held a secret she would never fully reveal.

One delicate hand was raised, her slender fingers pointing toward the dark water below.

The lake’s surface was eerily smooth, reflecting the faint glow of a hidden moon, yet the shadowy depths hinted at secrets concealed beneath—secrets waiting to be discovered.

Was it a treasure? A long-lost truth? The painting did not say, only invited the viewer to wonder.

The background was lush with flowers and verdant foliage, painted in exquisite detail.

White lilies floated on the water, their pale petals luminous against the dark reflections.

Wild roses climbed up a twisted oak on the right, their petals tinged with the same deep crimson as the Lady’s lips.

Fireflies dotted the dusky air, casting faint golden specks of light against the cool twilight hues.

There was a sense of serenity, yet also an aura suggesting the unseen.

A hidden depth. The longer one looked, the more it pulled, as though the Lady herself were issuing an invitation—to step closer, to peer into the darkness, to uncover whatever lay beneath the surface.

Perhaps that invitation was more than symbolic.

“She reminds me of Harriet,” Sebastian murmured, half to himself.

Lorenzo, who had been studying the fine strokes of the Lady’s flowing gown, glanced up. His eyes flicked between the painting and Sebastian before one dark brow arched. “Ah,” he said knowingly.

Sebastian exhaled sharply. “Which is why I could not keep it years ago. But now it belongs with you, Lorenzo—Matteo’s masterpiece.”

Lorenzo studied him for a moment, then nodded, his fingers skimming over the delicate contours of the Lady of the Lake’s face. “I will treasure it,” he said simply.

Sebastian nodded, pleased with his accomplishment.

But as Lorenzo continued his study, a slight frown tugged at the artist’s lips.

Something was wrong. Lorenzo leaned in, his expression shifting from admiration to curiosity, then sharpened.

His fingers brushed over a particular section of the paint, assessing.

Sebastian frowned. “What is it?”

Lorenzo did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned toward the doorway. “We need sunlight. Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, Lorenzo strode through the house, carrying the painting as if it were a holy relic.

Sebastian followed him through the back hall, out across the lawn, and into the garden shared with the miniature estate next door.

The crisp winter air bit at his skin, and the midday light, though thin, would suffice.

Lorenzo set the painting against the stone bench that sat at the foot of the large ornate urn, which was bare of flowers for the season. Along the perimeter of the walled space, silent stone gods watched as Lorenzo angled the painting to catch as much sunlight as possible.

Sebastian watched, bemused, as his friend produced a fresh handkerchief from his pocket and, with delicate precision, wiped at a seemingly unremarkable section of the painting. The handkerchief came away with color on its pristine whiteness.

Sebastian leaned in. “What are you doing?”

Lorenzo huffed. “This oil—it is not oil.”

He wiped again, more firmly this time. The sheen of the supposed varnish dulled beneath his touch, revealing a slightly different texture underneath. His eyes gleamed with excitement.

“It is tempera,” Lorenzo murmured in awe. He straightened, staring down at the painting as if seeing it for the first time.

Sebastian blinked. “Tempera?”

Lorenzo turned to him, his expression alight with understanding.

“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.”

Sebastian’s sense of intrigue heightened. “Are you saying there is something beneath this painting?”

Lorenzo’s lips curled into a slow smile. “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.”

Sebastian stared at the Lady of the Lake once more, at her enigmatic expression, at the way she pointed down toward the water. A guardian. A keeper of secrets.

And now, perhaps, they were on the verge of discovering what those secrets were.

He stood with his arms crossed, watching as Lorenzo delicately brushed at the surface of the 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 Lady of the Lake.

“See here,” Lorenzo murmured, more to himself than to 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.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, glancing between his friend and the painting. “You truly believe there’s a hidden message?”

“I know there is,” Lorenzo answered, his voice tinged with excitement.

“The sixteenth-century Masters were clever, Sebastian. They used layers like this to obscure secrets, sometimes to protect 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.

Sebastian took a step closer. His pulse quickened, curiosity warring with impatience.

If Harriet had not kept the painting, if he had never demanded it back, they would not be here now, peeling away centuries of secrecy.

His mind returned to the morning he had discovered it hanging over Harriet’s bed. If?—

“I say, what are you gentlemen up to?”

Sebastian started, instinctively adjusting his stance. Beside him, Lorenzo straightened abruptly, his fingers pausing mid-motion on the painting. Both men turned toward the voice.

Standing a few feet away was a young woman, poised and composed, with strikingly familiar features. Honey-brown hair, amber eyes, a confident posture, and an expression that was both amused and mildly assessing.

“Lady Campbell?” Sebastian asked, recovering, his voice tinged with wariness. He thought the viscountess was in Scotland with her husband.

The woman smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “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.”

Sebastian exchanged a look with Lorenzo, whose expression was still one of cautious surprise. But then his Italian friend shrugged and beckoned the young lady forward, apparently willing to share his enigmatic finding with her. Lorenzo did dearly love to explain art to a willing pair of ears.

Miss Bigsby 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 Lorenzo had been rubbing with his handkerchief. “Whatever could you be looking for?”

Find out what happens when audacious Henri tries to help Lorenzo in his quest. After encountering a mysterious lord, a rescue turns into a kidnapping that may unlock a great passion in The Hidden Lord .