Gabriel found himself back in the cold entrance hall, his small traveling case still sitting where the footman had left it.Mr. Dutton checked his pocket watch with the same detached efficiency he had shown throughout the dreadful journey from Gabriel’s former home.
“Come along, boy,” he said quietly. “The carriage is waiting.”
As they stepped outside into the freezing wind, Gabriel turned back once to see his grandfather standing in the distant library window, watching their departure with the same cold expression. Uncle James stood beside him, already turning away as if Gabriel had ceased to exist the moment he left the room.
The carriage door closed with a final, condemning click, leaving Gabriel with the terrible understanding that he was truly unwanted. He pressed his face against the worn leather seat and wept for everything he had lost. His parents, his home, and now even the hope that family might provide some comfort in his sorrow.
Gabriel knew he would have to learn to bury such feelings deep, where they could not be seen. But that afternoon, as the wheels rolled away from Trenwith Abbey forever and Mr. Dutton pointedly paid him no mind, he cried himself into exhausted sleep and dreamed of his mama’s gentle hands smoothing away his tears.
CHAPTER 1
“Ye shall see wonders and hid things.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
DECEMBER 20, 1821, LONDON
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 ona 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 heardthe 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. Theafternoon 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.”
