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, theton’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 LordSebastian’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 meetingsthat must never appear in any official record, and manage information that could topple governments if mishandled.”
It was mostly true, but Uncle Reggie kept the truly sensitive matters to himself. Because he, too, thought she was a gossip? She took a step closer, invigorated with determination.
“I can see you have reservations about trusting me, but I give you my word as a lady that I am entirely capable of discretion when the situation demands it. And frankly, gentlemen, I believe you need my help.”
“Your help?” Lord Sebastian inquired, his eyebrow arching again.
Henri moved closer to examine the painting, her gaze studying the ethereal figure emerging from what appeared to be misty water. “Well, for one thing, I can tell you that this is clearly the Lady of the Lake, Nimue, though some call her Viviane. See how the artist has positioned her hands? She is offering hidden knowledge to the viewer, just as she offered Excalibur to Arthur. But notice the expression in her eyes? There is a sadness there, a foreknowledge of betrayal. Most artists paint her as purely benevolent, but your ancestor understood the deeper mythology.”
