Elizabeth smothered a giggle.
Claire flapped her hands nervously. “Oh, just open it!”
Jonathan obeyed. The wrappings concealed a large, thick book with a burnished leather cover. Its only ornament was an unusual silver clasp. Embellished with an overlay of gold-wrought feathers, it looked like a bird with a very long tail.
“Venus’s peacock?” Jonathan touched the finely etched metal feathers. “Did you make this?”
She nodded.
“But last Christmas you hadn’t yet seen the villa. How…?”
“You’ll see.”
Moving to a table, he laid the book down and carefully released its clasp. By now everyone had clustered round to see the impressive-looking volume. He opened it to the first page and found there not words, but a picture. A picture he recognized, drawn by a deft and graceful hand, rendered with as much beauty as precision.
He turned the page to find another. And another, and another. “Are these?—?”
“The engravings you brought home to me last year,” Claire said. “And many more besides.”
Jonathan flipped more pages. There were dozens upon dozens of them, depicting every detail of the villa. “How did you do this?”
“Noah helped me contact a Mr. Richard Smirke, whose initials I’d seen on the engravings. When he heard I was making a book for you, he was only too happy to furnish copies of more of his work. I shouldn’t have presumed to use your name, but…”
Jonathan had paused on a close study of the Venus mosaic. “You got the peacock from here.”
“That’s right,” she said with a helpless laugh. “At the time I’d no idea it was your favorite mosaic. I just liked the birds.”
He flipped a few more pages before pausing on a mosaic dolphin. He touched the bottom of the page, where a second set of initials appeared alongside the R.S. for Richard Smirke…
“S.L. for Samuel Lysons.” Closing the book, he finally looked at Claire. “Thank you. It’s thoughtful and absolutely wonderful. I only wish…” He shook his head. “Well, by comparison, my gift to you seems rather silly.”
“Oh!” Blowing out a breath, she grinned. “I’m sure you’re wrong. At any rate, it doesn’t signify. I’m just glad you like the book.”
“I love it.” Now it was Jonathan’s turn to feel nervous, and his gaze slid away from hers, meeting Mr. Evans’s behind her.
The butler nodded and slipped out.
Claire noticed the exchange. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Jonathan thought for a moment how best to explain. “On the Grand Tour,” he began, “one is always assumed to be in the market for art.”
“Oh?” She blinked. “I never realized you were a collector.”
“I’m not,” he said wryly. “But it proved difficult to avoid the frenzy altogether. I felt a particular desire to buy a painting for you—some scene of beauty that might always bring a smile to your face. I considered many pieces—and even purchased a few—but nothing seemed quite right, until…”
As he was speaking, two footmen had entered carrying between them a flat, fabric-draped object nearly as wide as Claire was tall.
“I must warn you,” he went on anxiously, “it’s a bit…different. The others I bought were of the usual sort, French pastoral scenes and Italian landscapes—and should you prefer those paintings, we might certainly hang them instead! In fact, they ought to be hung regardless, for there’s not a thing wrong with them, except they don’t remind me of you.”
“Very well,” she said gravely, though with a glint in her eye. “Is the artist anyone of note?”
“Not much,” he replied, suppressing a smile. Something in her manner made him suspect she knew nothing at all of art. “Neapolitan fellow, I believe. Name of Rivalta.”
“Hmm,” she said importantly. “I cannot say I’m familiar with his work. Let’s have a look.”
“By all means. But really, if you don’t like it?—”
With a dramatic flourish, she threw off the drapery—and the whole chamber seemed as one to freeze.
