Chapter 1

1

As he slowly turned in a circle, studying the room he had been ushered into, Matthias Deverell felt a small frisson of amusement shoot through him. If he hadn’t already known the woman he was calling upon was a member of the demimonde, this room would have certainly given away her status. The design touches ranged from Moorish to chinoiserie, all fashioned as decadently as possibly. Unfortunately, the effect was not harmonious.

The woman, when she entered, was similarly dressed, her clothes far too lavish for the early hour and far too provocative to be accepted in polite society. Matthias wondered if she was hoping to entice him, in which case she was about to be sadly disappointed.

“Signore Deverell. To what do I owe thees-a great pleasure?”

Matthias barely kept from wincing. Did she think that atrocious Italian accent was actually fooling anyone? He shrugged the question off. It was unlikely that the men she associated with minded. After all, he didn’t care about the supposed writing talent of the handsome young poet who benefitted from his patronage. “Signora Gracci,” he nodded, using the name she had adopted for herself at some point. “I believe you were acquainted with my father, the late Marquess of Caver.”

“Ahh, si!” She immediately smiled, “I should have known. You look-a very much like heem. And because he was my old friend, youmay call-a me Isabella.” This was said with a simper as if she were granting him a great favor.

Good lord, was this what men had to put up with if they wanted a bit o’muslin on the side? Matthias was thankful his preference lay in another direction. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Izzy, Miss Greene?”

The simper and flirtation abruptly disappeared. “What do you want? I’ll summon my footmen.”

Matthias had taken note of the extraordinarily large servants when he entered. No doubt they were very effective at escorting out any troublesome visitors. “Not to worry. I have no intention of letting your true name be known to anyone. I only have some questions about my father.”

“Caver? He died years ago, and I only entertained him briefly.” She looked alarmed. “Now, see here! I heard about how he died, but that wasn’t me! I was in Venice. I can—”

“I’m hardly concerned with rumors about how he died,” Matthias lied, ignoring the dubious expression on her face. He wasn’t about to share his suspicions of murder with the likes of her. “I am here about any gifts he may have given you.”

“I’ll not deny your father was generous.” Isabella lifted her chin defiantly. “But if you’re here to say he gave me family heirlooms, and the new Marchioness wants them back, then that’s her bad luck. You’ll just have to tell your wife—”

“I’m not the Marquess,” Matthias interrupted her again.

“Second son?” Her tone was dismissive.

“Bastard.”

An elegant dark eyebrow rose and for the first time she actually looked interested. “Your mother was the Countess of Windstone.”

“She was,” Matthias said shortly. “You can keep any trinkets my father may have given you—that’s no concern of mine. I only want to know if he ever gave you anything made out of cast iron.”

“He did.” She sounded very perplexed. “I thought it very strange at the time. It’s a ring—a hoop.”

“Of cast iron,” Matthias stated, not bothering to keep the urgency out of his voice.

“It’s pretty enough, I suppose,” she shrugged. “What with all the decoration on it. But really, what do you do with something like that? Most people who see it think nothing of it.”

“Most people?”

“Well, Clarence was very insistent.”

“Clarence…?”

“Esmond.”

Matthias gritted his teeth, biting back the automatic snarl that name provoked in him. It was Clarence Esmond who had brought forth the documents that had tarnished his father’s name. It was one thing for the rakish Marquess of Caver to have expired in the arms of a courtesan, but it was another for him to be involved in treasonous activities, which was what the papers suggested. Although the Marquess had died shortly before Napoleon’s exile to Alba, the documents had only come to light after the battle of Waterloo, and in the two years since, whispers about the Marquess’ activities on the Continent had taken a much darker turn. None of it was enough for polite society to actually shun the Marquess’ family, but Matthias was determined to find out the truth behind those whispers, one way or another.

The answers, he was certain, lay in the cast iron globe found next to his father’s dead body. A globe which was actually a well-disguised safe. A globe which could not be opened unless all the pieces were correctly assembled.