“Twelve panels,” Signor di Bianchi breathed, running his fingers along the joints. “Matteo was trained by da Vinci himself. The master was famous for his mechanical devices, hidden compartments, sliding panels …” His voice grew more excited. “If Matteo learned these techniques and if he wanted to hide something …”
Henri watched, fascinated, as he began pressing gently along the edges of each panel. “You think each panel corresponds to one of the knights?”
“It is precisely the sort of puzzle Matteo would create,” Signor di Bianchi said, his fingers playing over the surface in examination. “Renaissance artists often built secret mechanisms into their work. Not just for hiding things, but as a demonstration of their engineering skills learned from masters like Leonardo.”
There was a soft click as he pressed a particular sequence along the third and seventh panels. A small section shifted slightly.
“Ah! Here we are,” he exclaimed, extracting an aged parchment from the hidden compartment. “Matteo was indeed his master’s pupil.” The last was said with a smug pride as he unfolded the page with reverence, his hands steady despite his obvious excitement. “A sketch! And look … there are numbers and letters marked below the drawing. But if this anagram refers to Malory’s work …”
Henri peered at the parchment sketch. “They could be a cipher,” she suggested. “Uncle Reggie has shown me several examples from medieval manuscripts. Often they correspond to specific passages or chapters.”
“You think these numbers might reference locations inLe Morte d’Arthur?” Lord Sebastian asked, looking over Signor di Bianchi’s shoulder at the sketch.
“It is entirely possible,” Henri replied. “Uncle Reggie would know for certain. His Caxton edition is quite comprehensive, and he’s made extensive notes on all the various symbolic references and?—”
She stopped suddenly, realizing what Lord Sebastian was suggesting.
“You want me to involve Uncle Reggie in this,” she said slowly, the disappointment keen that she was not enough. But no matter, she would prove she could help in her own right.
“Could you?” the Italian asked, hope evident in his voice. “Miss Bigsby, if your uncle’s Caxton edition could help decipher this sketch, it might lead me to paintings that have been lost for centuries. My family’s entire legacy depends on recovering Matteo’s work.”
Henri felt a flutter of genuine excitement. Here was a mystery worthy of her attention, a secret that mattered to someone, and an opportunity to prove she could be trusted with important information. It was exactly what she had been hoping for.
“Uncle Reggie is still away in the country for the holidays,” she said thoughtfully. “But I have access to his books. Perhaps we can examine his Caxton edition and see if these cipher marks correspond to anything meaningful.”
“We would be most grateful,” Lord Sebastian replied warmly.
“There is one condition,” Henri added, brimming with mischief. “I insist on being included in whatever adventure thisleads to. I refuse to simply facilitate access to Uncle Reggie’s library and then be dismissed like a proper young lady who has done her duty.”
Signor di Bianchi laughed, the sound rich and delighted. “Miss Bigsby, something tells me dismissing you would be quite impossible.”
“Indeed it would,” Henri agreed cheerfully. “Now then, shall we wrap this painting and visit Uncle Reggie’s townhouse? I believe we have a mystery to solve, and I find myself most eager to begin.”
“Indeed, but I think for propriety’s sake we shall follow you in one of the baron’s vehicles,” Lord Sebastian responded. “I assume you have some sort of chaperon arrangement for your work with Mr. Wells.”
Henri nodded. “I have a lady’s maid who accompanies me.”
While the men lifted the painting, Henri felt a thrill of anticipation. For the first time in weeks, she had a genuinely interesting task to occupy her mind. And, perhaps, if she was very careful with Lorenzo di Bianchi’s secrets, she might prove to herself and her mother that she could indeed be trusted with matters of discretion.
The winter afternoon was growing cold, but Henri felt wonderfully warm as they made their way back toward their neighboring houses, a true adventure about to begin.
OXFORD, EARLIER THAT DAY
The key turned easily in the lock, just as Horace had promised it would in his final letter. Lord Gabriel Strathmore, the Viscount of Trenwith, stepped across the threshold of the narrowtownhouse on Holywell Street, his boots echoing hollowly in the empty entrance hall. The familiar scent of old books, pipe tobacco, and lavender sachets should have been comforting, but instead, it squeezed his heart. A reminder of what had been stolen from him through a single violent event.
“My dear boy,”Horace had written in that last correspondence,“should anything happen to me, you must know that I have left the house to you. It is not much, but it has been a sanctuary for learning, and I can think of no one better suited to preserve that legacy. There are matters we must discuss when next you visit …”
But there would be no next visit. No more discussions about Arthurian symbolism over evening tea. No more pedantic corrections of Gabriel’s Latin pronunciation, delivered with that wry smile that had been the closest thing to familial affection Gabriel had known since his parents’ death.
Horace Pelham was dead, murdered during what the local constabulary had dismissed as a break-in gone wrong. The old man had been struck down in his own study, his attacker leaving him unconscious on the floor where he never regained consciousness. Horace had been buried before Gabriel could even reach English shores.
Gabriel moved through the narrow corridor toward the study, his jaw clenched against the surge of emotions threatening to break through his carefully maintained composure. Anger, grief, and a hollow ache warred within his chest. He had learned long ago to master such feelings, to lock them away where they could not be seen or used against him. A lesson taught by a grandfather who had found a five-year-old’s tears unseemly, and reinforced by years of military service where sentiment was a luxury no officer could afford. His diplomatic work had only served to strengthen his stoic nature while increasing his sense of isolation.
The study door stood ajar, and Gabriel pushed it open with steady fingers despite the turmoil within. The room was in disarray—books scattered across the floor, papers strewn about, desk drawers hanging open like accusatory mouths. This was no random theft. Someone had been searching for something specific.
Gabriel pulled Horace’s final letter from his coat pocket, reading again the passage that had haunted him during the journey back from the Continent.
A most peculiar young woman visited me yesterday. Miss Metcalfe, she called herself. Well-schooled in Arthurian legend, though far too young to have gained such knowledge through proper study.
