“And stashed the Raphael here?” Grenville regarded me with skepticism. “Are you supposing Bonaparte carried it about under his arm and decided this was a good place to hide it?”
“Perhaps not so literally …” I trailed off, gazing at the variety of treasures that littered walls, tables, shelves. “And the painting might be a copy.”
“If so, it’s a damned good copy,” Grenville said. “I’d have to take it to an expert. But it is odd. I’ve found one or two other things that, if they are genuine, are supposed to be in cathedrals in Lombardy and Florence, or in the Vatican.”
“I imagine a thorough inventory of this place will turn up many oddities.”
I felt a tingling on the back of my neck, as I sometimes did when I was close to the truth about something but couldn’t quite grasp it.
“Why isn’t there and inventory already?” Grenville asked. “De Luca was cavalier, but he wasn’t dull-witted. Surely, he’d have kept a note of all these things, even if only to prove what belonged to him if he was burgled.”
“Perhaps Brewster has turned up something,” I said.
We left the room, I giving the Raphael one more glance. I’d never been to Schönbrunn Palace, but I knew it was vast. I wondered if the genuine painting was still there or, if it truly had been stolen, if anyone had noted its absence.
Brewster’s searching methods were more rapid than ours. He’d shifted everything in a ground floor sitting room from one side to the other, examining each piece as he went. His movements were practiced yet careful—he’d never mar something valuable.
“Nothing yet, guv,” Brewster said as we entered, anticipating my question. “He’s got cheap trash mixed in with things worth thousands. Strange chap, weren’t he?”
“Strange is a good word for all this,” Grenville said. “I believe that instead of looking for an inventory, we ought to be making our own.”
“Already started, guv.” Brewster set down a beautiful porcelain vase and strode to a table on the other side of the room.
A sheaf of papers rested there with words scratched on the topmost one in Brewster’s blocky handwriting. A pen lay on the paper, blotches of ink falling from its nib. His list was precise and divided into categories—furnishings, paintings, sculpture, objets d’art, hangings, musical instruments.
“Neatly done,” I said.
Brewster shrugged. “I remember them ledgers when we did the Carlton House job. Denis’s bloke knows how to catalog. Thought I’d do the same.”
Clever of him. He’d found the paper in the writing table, and Grenville and I hunted up more pens and pots of ink. We took the writing things with us and returned to our respective rooms to catalog our findings.
We worked for the rest of the day, taking particular care with the attic room and de Luca’s bedroom, as the most likely place he’d hide confidential information, but turned up nothing. We found no inventories of de Luca’s things or lists of his agents—no papers or letters of any kind, in fact, except innocuous ones, such as a few bills for foodstuffs.
Odd, I thought as we decided to leave off our search that afternoon. Aristocratic gentlemen usually had quite a number of papers. Donata’s father had an office stuffed with them—the earl liked to keep abreast of what happened on his large estate. That we found not even casual correspondence with friends was bizarre.
Tired and discouraged, the three of us helped ourselves to wine in the kitchen then departed. Today the changeable weather gave us sunshine and a few high clouds, with plenty of people, both locals and tourists, walking about under the strains of church bells.
When we reached home, Grenville carried the inventories we’d begun to his desk to lock them away, Brewster sought the kitchens in search of dinner, and I went to the upstairs sitting room Donata had commanded. As she had been last night, she was busily writing letters.
“Good afternoon, Gabriel.” Donata glanced at me fondly when I kissed her cheek. She reached for a thick paper tucked into a cubbyhole. “I have received an invitation from Contessa Trevisan to a musicale at her home tonight. Shall we attend?”
She asked, but I already knew her answer. Whenever Donata did not wish to appear at a gathering she simply never mentioned it to me.
“Trevisan’s mother is hosting it?” I studied the letter with its gracefully exact handwriting. “Will anyone come? I note a distinct prejudice between southerners and northerners here.” We had a similar rivalry in England.
“They will.” Donata took the invitation from me and set it on top of a stack of letters. “The ladies of Rome will wish to be favored by such a highborn woman, and if nothing else, they’ll go out of curiosity to witness any scandal firsthand. It was kind of her to include me.”
“Gisela’s doing, no doubt,” I said. “Also, I believe Trevisan and his mother are curious about us.”
“I agree. Let us remain composed no matter what happens this night. Remember that Conte Trevisan tried to have you arrested and he likely can do so again.”
“I have that thought firmly in my head,” I assured her. “But you wished entry to the house, and now you have it.”
Donata took up her pen. She gently touched my cheek with it, then turned to business. “Excellent. I will send her a reply that we are happy to attend.”
Donata wascorrect when she’d speculated that the society ladies of Rome would not turn down an invitation from Contessa Trevisan. When Donata and I arrived, along with Grenville, who had likewise had an invitation, the street in front of Trevisan’s leased home was choked with carriages, ordinary citizens having to hug the walls as the coaches slid past.
Inside, the house was lit with what must be a thousand candles, sconces glowing on the walls, candelabras and candlesticks filling every niche. I guided Donata up the stairs, the travertine smooth beneath our feet, the lights reviving the faded glory of the place.
