Surely, this ancestor did not intend his clue to be impossible to solve?
The Italian grew agitated as each attempt failed. Henri could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands moved restlessly when he was not actively writing or pointing. There was something almost desperate in his determination, as though this quest represented far more than mere curiosity about a family legacy.
What demons drive a man to search so relentlessly for answers about the past?
“Perhaps,” Henri ventured after their latest attempt yielded nothing but gibberish, “the code requires a different key entirely. The Twelve Worthiest Peers might be the starting point, but not the solution itself.”
Signor di Bianchi ran his hands through his dark hair. “You may be correct, Miss Bigsby. But what other key could Matteo have intended? He pointed to this book specifically for the clue, no?”
As the room grew tense with disappointment, Henri sat back with a huff of defeat. “I am sorry. I had hoped Uncle Reggie’s book would provide the answer you seek.”
Signor di Bianchi looked up at her then, and she saw a flash of vulnerability beneath his determined exterior. “The fault, it is not yours, Miss Bigsby. Perhaps I have been too eager, too hopeful that the solution would be so simple.”
As the clock chimed four, both gentlemen began to gather their things with obvious reluctance. Lord Sebastian assisted in cautiously folding the sketch, while Henri returned the Caxton edition to its proper place on the shelf.
“We are grateful for your efforts,” Lord Sebastian said as they prepared to depart. “Though the afternoon has not yielded the results we hoped for.”
Signor di Bianchi bowed politely as they said their farewells. “If you discover any other approach we might try, please, do not hesitate to send word. This mystery, it has consumed my thoughts for many years.”
Henri assured him she would and saw them to the door, Miss Dulwich dutifully accompanying her. As their carriage disappeared into the December afternoon, she felt a peculiar mixture of dashed hopes and resolve. She had failed to help with the Italian’s mystery, but the failure only made her more eager to prove herself capable.
The remainder of the afternoon passed in routine correspondence. She had arranged to receive Uncle Reggie’s political associates in his absence, managing the daily business that could not wait for his return from the country. Two secretaries called on behalf of their employers— one seeking clarification on a parliamentary vote scheduled for the new year, another requiring Uncle Reggie’s opinion on a proposed trade measure.
Henri handled both matters with efficiency, her mind only half-focused on the familiar work. The other half continued to puzzle over the mysterious sketch.
She was addressing a letter to the secretary of a prominent MP when Thompkins appeared in the doorway.
“Miss Bigsby, Lord Trenwith has called. He asks if he might have a word.”
Her quill stilled above the page. Lord Gabriel Strathmore. She felt that familiar flutter of awareness that always accompanied his visits.
“Of course. Show him to the drawing room. I shall be along directly.”
Henri set aside her correspondence and checked her appearance in the small mirror above Uncle Reggie’s desk. Her morning dress was still fresh, her honey-brown hair neatly arranged despite the afternoon’s work. She pinched her cheeks to bring color to them and smoothed her skirts before making her way to the drawing room.
The viscount stood before the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece as he stared into the flames. He had removed his greatcoat and gloves, and his sandy brown hair was slightly mussed from his now-absent hat. There was something in his posture. A tension she rarely observed in his usually friendly demeanor. He had the appearance of a man carrying the weight of the world on those admittedly impressive shoulders.
“Lord Trenwith,” she said, stepping into the room. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He turned at her voice, and Henri was struck by the darkness in his hazel eyes. There was none of his usual easy charm, none of the subtle flirtation that typically colored their interactions. Instead, he seemed almost … haunted.
What shadows are chasing you today, my mysterious lord?
“Miss Bigsby.” His voice was warmer than his expression. “I trust I am not intruding? I was passing by and thought I might call to offer season’s greetings to your household.”
Henri tilted her head, studying him with growing concern.
“That is very kind of you,” she said. “Though I fear Uncle Reggie is still in the country for the holidays. He is not expected to return until after Twelfth Night.”
Something flickered across the viscount’s features. Disappointment? Relief? Henri could not be certain, but she had the distinct impression that his reaction was not entirely genuine.
“Ah. Of course. I should have realized he would be away from Town during the holidays.” Lord Trenwith moved away from the fireplace, some unnamed tension filling the room in a way that was uncharacteristic. “Perhaps I might impose upon your hospitality for a cup of tea? The afternoon is rather cold, and I find myself reluctant to return immediately to business.”
Henri gestured toward the comfortable chairs arranged near the fire. “Certainly. Miss Dulwich, would you be so good as to ring for tea?”
As they settled themselves, Henri covertly studied Lord Trenwith’s profile. He seemed different this afternoon. Less controlled, more vulnerable somehow. There was a tightness to his jaw that spoke of strain, and she noticed the way his hands rested with studied casualness on the chair arms, as though he were consciously preventing them from betraying some inner agitation.
“I trust your Christmas preparations are proceeding well?” she ventured, pouring tea when a servant entered with the tea service.
