Page 26 of The Beloved Escapade

Unless.

The idea arrived whole. It did not assemble itself politely out of parts. It simply stood up inside her, fully formed and shocking, and her breath went short at the sight of it.

It was outrageous. Beyond outrageous. It was the sort of thing that got a woman whispered about in three counties. Mama would take to her bed for a month. Papa would arrive within the week with a solicitor and a physician, uncertain which she needed more.

Lucy examined the idea from every side, the way Bessy examined fish in a market, and found it sound.

Well then, she thought. Swim.

She turned around. Signor di Bianchi stood in the doorway of the hidden room with the light behind him, one hand still resting on the swung shelf as though it might be a dream that required holding, his dark eyes moving over the shelves, the drawings, the marble, with an expression so hungry it was nearly grief. He was already leaning forward, already crossing the threshold, three hundred years arriving at a doorway all at once.

Lucy stepped past him, took hold of the shelf-edge with both hands, and swung the door shut.

The clunk of the mechanism seating itself was enormous in the quiet. The carved vines closed over the dark. The library was only a library again, handsome and innocent, two stories of books minding their own business, and Signor Lorenzo di Bianchi stood staring at the wall where the room had been with his mouth actually hanging open.

For a moment, he appeared to be attempting several languages at once and failing to complete a sentence in any of them.

“Signorina.” His voice came out with great care, the careful voice of someone addressing a person standing on a ledge. “Signorina … You have shut the door.”

“I have,” Lucy agreed. Her heart was hammering so hard, she marveled that her voice came out level. It did, though. It came out wonderfully level. The heat of her own blood rushed in her ears.

“There is a room, signorina. Behind that door is a hidden chamber.” His hands rose, spread, encompassed the impossible. “Do you understand what is behind that door?”

“Better than you do, I suspect,” said Lucy. “It was my uncle’s.”

Then he took a step toward the shelf. Lucy took a step sideways and arrived in front of it, her back to the carved vines, her hands folded at her waist in the attitude of a woman prepared to discuss the weather indefinitely.

He stopped and stared at her. He frowned at the wall behind her. A muscle in his jaw flexed in a slow, incredulous movement.

“Signorina Carroway. Forgive me. I think there has been some misunderstanding. I have offended you. Yes? Somewhere in this morning, I have offended you. It is entirely possible, for my friends tell me I do it the way other men breathe. Tell me the offense, and I will apologize on my knees, in two languages, and then, per favore, per l’amor del cielo, we will open the door.”

“You have not offended me in the least.”

“Then why?”

“Because,” said Lucy, “before we go one step further, signore, you and I are going to come to an agreement.”

That stopped him altogether.

She watched the word agreement land, watched him turn it over, watched the confusion in his face give way to something warier and more attentive. He drew himself up. He clasped his hands behind his back, where she suspected they went when he did not trust them, and regarded her as though he was revising his entire morning.

“An agreement,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You wish to negotiate?”

“I do.”

Something in him eased fractionally, and she saw why at once and could have laughed. He thought he understood now. He thought he had found the familiar country. Terms. Business. The one language spoken everywhere.

“Signorina.” He came a step nearer, earnest, both hands open now, presenting his good faith upon them. “Of course. Of course. You are right to raise it, and I am ashamed I did not raise it first. I saw the room, you understand, I forgot everything, I forgot my own name. Whatever is found in this house is yours. This goes without saying, but I will say it, I will sign it. The property, the contents, every paper, every stone. Yours. I ask only to study what is here. And for that privilege …” He took a breath, and she could see him reaching for the largest number he had ever said aloud. “… name your figure. I am not a rich man by English standards, but I am not poor, and there is nothing I possess that I would keep back from this. Name it.”

“I do not want your money.”

He blinked. Recalculated.

“Credit, then. Recognition. When the work is published—and it will be published, signorina, for what is in this house will be studied for a hundred years—your name stands with mine on every page. First, if you like. Discovery is credited to the house of Carroway, in every⁠—”