Page 8 of A Figure of Love

Serena had looked at the plans Beech provided and realized that, here again, was another man intent on abusing Lockheart’s trusting nature.

She’d never met anyone quite like the wealthy young merchant prince. He appeared to be completely without interest in human beings, without a sense of humor, and utterly focused on whatever business was at hand. Not only that, but the entire time she spent with him, she couldn’t help feeling she only had a part of his attention. She suspected a greater part of his brain was churning away and functioning on some other—higher?—plane. Indeed, he had the appearance of an artist in the midst of a creative frenzy. Serena had seen the same expression on her artist friends’ faces and felt a similar near-euphoria when visited by the muse, herself. Although Lockheart had not manifested any of the outward signs of artistic obsession—dishevelment, absentmindness, forgetfulness, irritability—he’d maintained the distant stare of a person whose mind was engaged elsewhere.

But, after dinner, that stare had sharpened quickly as they’d begun to study Beech’s oversized sketch of the estate.

Indeed, Lockheart had proved to be a fascinating conspirator on the landscaping plan, even though he had no interest in the results themselves. No, what he had liked had been the mathematics and engineering aspects. Questions of water flow and volume had, in particular, seemed to fascinate him. They had spent most of their time examining the best place to dam and build the lake.

At least two hours had passed before they looked up from Beech’s plans and noticed Sandy had fallen asleep in a chair by the fire.

Lockheart’s silky brown hair stood in furrows, like a freshly plowed field. He ran a hand through his disheveled coif yet again as he surveyed the room—Sandy, the fire, his watch—through distracted gray eyes.

“I had no idea it had grown so late. I believe I have been very uncivil to not offer you tea.”

Serena did not mind. “Perhaps we might order some now and continue with our plans?”

He nodded abruptly and strode to the double doors, his voice a low murmur as he spoke to one of the footmen she’d seen stationed outside the room. His house was staffed like a duke’s. Better than a duke’s actually. Serena’s father-in-law had not enjoyed the luxury of footmen outside his study in several years.

When he returned, Serena was studying an inset drawing of a temple. “They will bring our tea to the document room.” He gestured to a part of the library she had not yet seen. “I should hate to disturb Mr. Featherstone.”

Serena chuckled, and then realized Mr. Lockheart was not laughing. Instead, he was regarding her quizzically, as if wondering why she was laughing. “I daresay artillery could not wake Mr. Featherstone.”

“Ah,” he said, as if suddenly enlightened.

“Do you dine with one another most nights?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

Serena bit back a smile as she followed him toward a room lined with glass-fronted cabinets. He was dreadfully honest and blunt. She could not imagine the havoc he would wreak in a London drawing room or a room full of debutants, if what Sandy had said about him being on a hunt for a wife was correct.

Serena forgot all about Mr. Lockheart’s awkward manner when she stepped into his document room.

“My goodness.” Her voice naturally dropped to a reverential whisper. Dozens of cases filled the room and huge candelabra hung from long chains above each to illuminate the contents. The room blazed with light. She approached the largest case, which sat on a pedestal in the center of the room. Inside the beveled glass case was a very ancient looking leather-bound journal. The writing was in a language Serena knew to be Latin—not that she could read it. But the drawings—oh, they spoke for themselves.

Serena turned to Lockheart who was watching her with an impassive stare, his hands clasped behind his back. “Is that . . ?”

His cool, flat gray eyes swung from her open-mouthed face to the journal and back. “It belonged to Leonardo da Vinci. It is one of his many journals.”

Serena’s breathing had become difficult, as if she was inhaling hot steam.

“Good God.”

He blinked.

“You have Leonardo’s journal—in your house.”

“Yes, that is what I said.”

“But . . . how?”

“I bought it.”

“Who would have sold it to you? Why would anyone be so mad as to sell such a thing? Why would anyone part with such a treasure?”

“For money, Mrs. Lombard.” He said the words with a certainty which gave her a chill. They also put her back up.

“You say that as if money can buy anything, Mr. Lockheart.”

“Everything has a price.”