Page 3 of The Courtship Trap
“I need your help,” Lorenzo implored, his lean face earnest in the low light of the drawing room. “I have tried for years to find a clue amongst these letters, but nothing. You are English. You might notice something that I cannot.”
Sebastian Markham and his Italian friend had been working together for a year or more now, forming a lucrative partnership to trade in art to the titled and wealthy visiting Florence. So successful had they been that he had long since stopped collecting his annuity from his brother, the great and lauded Duke of Halmesbury.
It had been a brilliant day when he had relinquished his allowance, no longer beholden to his arrogant older brother. The great philanthropist who refused no plea for help … unless it came from his younger brother, in which case he was acoldhearted bastard. Sebastian gritted his teeth and willed the thought of his cursed brother to recede.
The fly in the ointment was that Lorenzo was obsessed with his family history. Specifically, what had happened to his ancestor, Matteo di Bianchi, whom Lorenzo claimed had been a talented apprentice at the side of Sandro Botticelli before being taken on at the workshop of the Renaissance Man, the Master of all Arts—Leonardo da Vinci.
That had been before Matteo was commissioned by Englishmen for some sort of grand cathedral and left Italy, never to return. He had left behind a family legend of greatness never realized, and the mystery of what had happened to Matteo’s work.
“What does thisRegis Aeternimean—Eternal King? These people who commissioned him … could they have been entangled with this king of yours, Henry the Eighth? Perhaps they are the ones who encouraged Henry to break from the Catholic Church and declare himself as the divinely sanctioned ruler of Britain? I am not an expert in English history, but you grew up as one of the elites. The son of a duke. You might note something I do not.”
Sebastian stretched out his legs and raked a hand through his mane of hair. It was time to get it cut, but he enjoyed the untamed appearance that greeted him in the morning. It was tangible evidence that he had walked away from the past to forge his own path. To be his own man.
“Just read them. Point out a clue. Anything that might unravel this ball of thread.”
Sebastian huffed, responding with reluctance, “It has been three centuries since Matteo sailed from Italy, Lorenzo. Why expend your energy on this? Do you not appreciate the life we lead? We live in the greatest city in the world, surrounded by the art from the Masters. What does it matter?”
“It matters,mio amico! Matteo was destined to be aMaestro—a Master—I tell you! ThisRegis Aeternidid him foul! My family has long awaited the discovery of his work. The recognition he deserved as anartista! A great artist! A man of extraordinary talent.”
There was despair in the black eyes of his closest friend, an appeal for help reminiscent of the one which Sebastian had once made to the duke. Sebastian did not like to think of that time, but he felt the echo of despair. Even after five years away from home, it still irked him that his grand ducal brother had not seen fit to wield his power in Sebastian’s favor.
He did not wish to encourage his friend’s preoccupation with the past, but it was difficult to ignore a plea for help when the favor was so easy to grant. Sebastian would read the letters, find nothing of import about a minor artist’s departure three centuries earlier, and appease his good friend with his assistance. Perhaps then Lorenzo would finally come to peace and leave this family mystery buried in the past where it belonged.
So Sebastian relented.
“Give them to me, then.”
MID-AUGUST 1821, LONDON
Lady Filminster’s words still haunted Harriet. Ever since she had met the silly chit on the street, who had brushed her hand and uttered her curse, Harriet had been unable to think of anything else. It was as if a spell had been cast.
First,herPeregrine Balfour had deserted her to marry a country mouse with no fashion sense.
Then,herBrendan Ridley had married a ridiculous debutante flibbertigibbet who had uttered those dreadful words. The words that haunted not only her sleep, but her waking moments, too.
Not that she was sleeping very much. She tossed and turned all night, and none of the gentlemen pursuing a place in her bed held any appeal because of the shrew’s tormenting condemnation.
I wish you the boundless joy of truly connecting with another person.
How dare she? Lily Ridley was a foul-mouthed demon.
Of opening your heart to another and finding that you care more about them than your own self.
Harriet knew that only pain and betrayal could come from opening one’s heart.
I wish you a strong young husband …
Husband! She needed no man in her life telling her what to do.
…and healthy children.
Children! They were loud and cumbersome and demanding of constant attention.
And I wish you a long and full life …
Her life was plentiful, especially when there was no husband or children to ruin it!
… filled with laughter, Lady Slight.
