Denis’s retainer—one of his regular men, not the granite-faced Luigi—opened the door before I could raise my hand to knock on it. Brewster strolled in behind me, staying by my side instead of seeking the kitchens or his fellow bodyguards.
I was led upstairs, Brewster at my heels, to the library where I’d met with Denis on my last visit. As before, he was perusing a book when we entered. He continued to read from it for a moment before he carefully placed a slip of paper in the crease to mark his place and laid the book aside.
“The statue?” he asked by way of greeting.
Used to his abrupt ways, I placed the bag on the wide library table in front of the bookshelves and pulled it open.
“The receipt for the equivalent of one hundred guineas.” I laid the paper on the table. “And a statue of Cupid, or Eros, a known forgery.”
I lifted the alabaster carving from the bag and set it gently next to the paper. Denis came to it at once, a spark of excitement lighting his dark blue eyes. He shielded those eyes from me and bent over the statue, turning it from side to side to examine it.
His shoulders relaxed as though he’d feared I’d brought him the wrong piece. “Excellent.” His voice held emotion—for Denis. “Most excellent.”
“The lists of agents you asked for.” I dug those from the bottom of the bag and set the sheaf of papers next to the receipt. “They were found among the trunk of papers hidden in the back room. Trevisan was happy to send them to me—or rather, to Grenville.” Trevisan was cutting me out of his life, but I imagined he wasn’t happy I knew too many of his secrets.
Denis barely glanced at the list. His rapt attention was all for the statue in front of him.
“At one time, I fancied that the lists had been concealed inside this,” I said, touching Eros’s broken wing. “I wondered if that was why you wanted the thing. I thought to break it open and discover if this was the case.”
Denis straightened up in a rush, alarm flashing across his face before he guarded his expression once more.
“You did not, did you?”
“No, no. I came to my senses.”
Denis lifted the statue to scan it, as though searching for new cracks, then satisfied I’d not harmed it, he set it down and stepped back to admire it. No invitation for me to sit, no lackey gliding in to serve us brandy or coffee.
I had no intention of scuttling away like a hired man, my errand done. “For my troubles, please tell me why,” I said. “You stated that you knew this statue was a forgery, but you wanted it anyway. There must be a reason.”
“There is.” Denis faced me. I thought for a moment he would not answer but he looked directly into my eyes, his holding a flicker of triumph.
“It is indeed a forgery of an ancient Roman statue. A forgery … made by Michelangelo Buonarroti. I thank you for retrieving it for me. Good day, Captain.”
Chapter27
Michelangelo?” Grenville exclaimed as we sat in his drawing room that evening. “Good Lord. What bloody cheek.”
“It is rumored he sculpted forgeries,” Donata said serenely. She sat close by my side on the settee, as though making up for the days when my illness kept us apart. “When he was young and destitute and trying to make his name.”
“A hundred guineas.” I leaned back, sipping the rich coffee I’d miss when we returned to London. “I thought him a fool to pay so much. Now I realize he paid far too little.”
“I wonder if Conte de Luca knew its true worth,” Grenville mused. “He scoffed at it.”
“Yes.” I swirled the dregs in my cup. “I believe de Luca was the sort who understood price but not value. Bonaparte found a good ally in him.”
“Which cost him his life,” Donata said. She did not sound as sympathetic as she might. She squeezed my arm. “And nearly cost you yours.”
I met her gaze, my body warming. I’d missed her while I’d lain alone, swallowing Gautier’s concoctions and trying to read while my fever ran its course.
Grenville cleared his throat. “I must get on with my packing. I am always certain I will forget something vital.” He clattered down his cup and departed from the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Donata moved still closer to me, taking both my hands. “Soon we will be strolling the gardens, enjoying the sunshine. And the moonlight.” Her thumb traced the backs of my fingers.
“Love,” I said softly. “The contessa said something to me when we were trapped in that cell.” I hesitated, while Donata studied me, mystified. “She told me you had lost a child, that she could see it in you.”
I expected Donata to be surprised, to say she must mean nearly losing Anne and then Peter, but her cheeks reddened, and she looked away from me.
“Donata?” She tried to withdraw her hands, but I held them fast. “The contessa was correct?”
