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Not this time. He would find another way to make the damned alliance.
“No,” Alec said firmly. “That won’t be an issue at all.”
“We need this, Alec. No distractions tonight.”
“Of course.” Rafe moved to leave, but Alec held up his hand. “I’ve a favor to ask before you go. I’m looking for information on Sir Alfred. Whatever you can find. Anything he may have been involved in lately.”
Rafe raised a dark brow. “That’s rather vague.”
Alec rubbed his temples. “Yes, well. I’m not yet certain of what I’m looking for. But I know something’s not right.”
Rafe sat back in his chair. “So, the golden boy has finally seen the light.”
“What thehellis that supposed to mean?”
“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been Sir Alfred’s acolyte, and there have been whisperings about your beloved mentor for twice as long as that. Though it would take a hell of a lot to topple him. I’ve tried to talk about your unquestioning loyalty before, but you wouldn’t hear of it.”
Alec blanched. The conversation Rafe referred to had been over two years ago. After Turkey, when Alec was almost killed pursuing a lead at Sir Alfred’s personal request. It was the only time he had taken a life. It had been entirely in self-defense, but Alec still saw the man’s face sometimes in the dead of night.
“So, tell me: What’s changed?” Rafe prompted.
Alec kept his face blank. “It’s only a hunch.”
Rafe gave him a skeptical look but didn’t press him. That would come later. “I’ll do some digging. Perhaps this London contact can help.” This time they both stood. Alec walked him to the door and they shook hands.
“Good luck tonight,” Rafe said. “And do let me know if you have any more of thesehunches.”
Chapter Thirteen
After Alec closed the bedroom door behind him, Lottie paced back and forth, waiting for her heart to stop skittering. She should have insisted on staying with him, or at leastaskedwho that handsome, dark-haired man was, but she was still reeling from their exchange outside his door. Alec had been holding himself back, straining against some unseen force, but for one brief moment his carefully controlled facade had fallen away again.
Lottie let out a sigh as she stripped off her gloves and removed her hat. She tossed them onto the bed and sat down on the edge. It didn’t appear that Alec spent much time here, as the room was mostly empty. Aside from the bed, there was a small, battered wardrobe, and tucked away in a corner was a piece of furniture shrouded in a dust cover. Based on the dimensions, it was probably a desk. Like the rest of the flat, the room had high ceilings and tall windows. The afternoon sunlight saved the room from looking too dreary. It must have been lovely once, but now the walls were sun bleached, the plaster was chipped, and the tiled floor was scuffed and worn. Why on earth would Alec wish toownthis place? She had caught a glimpse of the Grand Canal through the parlor window, but the view didn’t seem a fair trade for living in a run-down old palazzo.
When her heartbeat had returned to normal, she rose from the bed and pressed her ear against the door. All she could hear was muffled voices. The man must be another agent. And yet Alec had looked terribly put out by his appearance. She gave up on listening and walked over to the covered piece of furniture. A swipe of her finger revealed an impressive layer of dust. Whatever was under there hadn’t seen light in ages. Lottie lifted up a corner and peeked underneath. Her suspicions had been correct. It was a desk. A rather beautiful one.
She glanced cautiously at the door again, then gave herself a shake. It was only a piece of furniture, for heaven’s sake. Not Pandora’s box. Lottie carefully pulled the cover off so as not to release a cloud of dust and revealed a beautiful, black, lacquered writing desk with an elegant gold chinoiserie design painted over the surface. She ran her fingers over the smooth, cool edge. The fine heirloom seemed entirely out of place compared to the rest of the unremarkable furniture. The desk’s surface was empty, but the lone drawer held two small picture frames of a man and a woman.
One was a pencil sketch of Edward Gresham similar to the image that had been used in his collected works; Lottie picked it up to have a closer look. This must have been a sketch the artist composed during one of the sessions for the formal portrait. Edward Gresham had been a handsome devil, and Alec shared his father’s dark hair, strong nose, and powerful jaw.
She replaced the frame and picked up the other, much smaller portrait. A miniature, really. The woman must be Alec’s mother. Lottie had never seen her likeness before. The late Mrs. Gresham had been a simple laundress here in Venice when she met Alec’s father and, at least according to the startling number of poems he had written on the subject, it was love at first sight. Edward Gresham must have had this portrait commissioned after they married. The corner of Lottie’s mouth turned up. How very like him to eschew the convenience of photography for the romance of the painted image.
Mrs. Gresham was, unsurprisingly, strikingly beautiful, with fair hair and hazel eyes. It was easy to see how she could kindle true love in the heart of any man. Lottie squinted and drew the frame closer. There was some kind of inscription along the bottom: Contessa Maria Petrucci.
That name…
It’s a very old, very well-respected family in these parts.
The blood rushed to her face as she stared at the inscription. Perhaps this wasn’t Alec’s mother after all. Lottie scrutinized the woman’s face again. No. The likeness wasn’t as strong as his father’s, but it was there all the same in the color of her eyes and the sensual shape of her mouth. And she certainly matched Edward Gresham’s descriptions of his great love. But if that were true, then she hadn’t been a common laundress at all. She was a noblewoman.
Lottie slowly returned the miniature to its place. There could be any number of perfectly valid, perfectly boring reasons why Edward Gresham hid his wife’s identity, and why Uncle Alfred hadn’t corrected the information even after their deaths. But the simplest—and most salacious—rose to the surface:
Maria Petrucci was never Edward’s wife.
And if that were true, then Alec was illegitimate.
Shuffling came from the other side of the door. Someone was approaching. Lottie quickly replaced the dust cover and returned to the edge of the bed, doing her best to hide her shock. Questions burned in her brain, but she couldn’t ask them. At least not now. If Alec wanted her to know the truth, he would tell her. Wouldn’t he?
The door swung open and Alec entered. He looked tense and agitated, but his eyes immediately softened once they fell on her. How badly she wanted him to share the truth with her. Totrusther.
