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Sebastian swallowed hard.

The reason his painting had come to mind was because it was the painting.

Matteo di Bianchi had been the unsigned talent behind the brushstrokes that had determined Sebastian’s very fate.

Apparently, his own great-great-great-great-grandfather had been connected to the Regis Aeterni, the very organization Lorenzo sought to unravel.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, his fingers closing over the letter.

Curse the small, entangled world of the British aristocracy. Fate, it seemed, was the cruelest of mistresses indeed.

CHAPTER 1

In vain I seek to calm my mind,

And reason’s aid implore;

For still, alas! I find

Thy image haunts me more.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

* * *

December 8, 1821, London

Sebastian drummed his fingers against the arm of his padded chair, doing his best to keep his voice hushed in respect for their host’s home. He and Lorenzo had arrived in England a mere ten days prior along with their Italian friends, Marco and Angelo Scott, after Marco had recently revealed that he was the heir to an English baronet. Sebastian imagined he and Lorenzo should move into the duke’s townhouse now that Marco had wed the day before, but the thought of being in such proximity to his older brother simply extinguished any impulse to be considerate to the Scott household.

So he and Lorenzo remained, likely exhausting their welcome, especially when they continued to quarrel with such regularity. Drawing a deep breath, he restated his position in Italian. There were footmen in the breakfast room beyond the connecting doors to be mindful of.

“You must be patient, Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo spun on his heel to face him with a scowl, throwing out his long, lean arms in an effusive gesture that spoke to his ebbing patience. Not that Lorenzo was patient at the best of times.

The truth was that they were at a standoff. Lorenzo had managed to convince Sebastian to come to London, but now that he was here, he had no desire to meet with the woman who had possession of the painting that Lorenzo was so desperate to view. His friend’s obsession to uncover the truth about his ancestor had reached new heights in the past month, matched only by Sebastian’s growing reluctance to approach the widow.

“We have been here an eternity! Our friend has met a maiden and married, while you continue to delay!”

An eternity was hyperbole. Only ten days, but Lorenzo was agitated, so Sebastian stifled a grimace of guilt. Their flourishing partnership was fraying while his friend was growing ever more frustrated, but Sebastian growled, mindful of the servants in the next room as he replied in his accented Italian.

“The time is not right.”

Lorenzo sucked in air deeply, his exasperation evident in every line of his tall form.

“The time is never right! What is it about this … this … this bit of muslin that has you hiding under the stairs like a schoolboy?”

Sebastian straightened at this, narrowing his eyes in warning. Harriet was no bit of muslin, and he would not tolerate any insult to her in his presence.

“Take care how you speak!”

Lorenzo shook his head emphatically, his rapid Italian rising in volume to Sebastian’s discomfort as he cast a glance toward the doors. Grabbing a spindly chair from the corner, Lorenzo dragged it over to plop down with an earnest expression.

“No! Not this time, Sebastian! You keep delaying, and it is unlike you to behave so cowardly. We need that painting if I …”

Lorenzo broke off, his expression that of defeat. Sebastian knew it was momentary, and his friend would not let this matter go, but how was he to explain the torment of losing the woman he loved? How long had it taken him to carve out a sliver of peace in Florence? He did not wish to think on the dark days when he had left London in a heartbroken rage so many years earlier. When he had fled his past and what could not be because he had been powerless to overcome the rigid constraints of polite society in pursuit of his heart’s desire.

If not for Florence, Sebastian well believed he would have just kept running until he had found the edge of the earth and cast himself into the infinite abyss. His return to London was as difficult as he had anticipated. Perhaps more so.