"You must pardon my confusion," I said, shaking my head. "Who is Kallista?"

Mr. Hargreaves smiled. "I believe that is what he called you in"-again the pause-"private."

My eyebrows lifted in amazement. "He never called me Kallista." I didn't mention that the form of address he used most frequently was, in fact, Lady Ashton, albeit in a somewhat ironic tone.

"It is how he always referred to you," Mr. Hargreaves said quietly. "I assumed it was a pet name. Excuse my impertinence, but I believe he preferred it to Emily."

"I see. And the villa?"

"It's on Santorini, one of the islands in the Aegean. I suggest you go in the spring, when the weather is fine, although Ashton always considered winter there a vast improvement over England." He stood up and walked toward me. "I must apologize again. I can only imagine how difficult it is for you to be reminded of him. Using his familiar name for you was thoughtless of me."

"On the contrary, it doesn't bother me at all," I said, still not sure what to make of this habit of my husband's. "For all I care, you may call me Kallista if you prefer it to Emily." I looked directly at Mr. Hargreaves and smiled. He was quite handsome, his dark, wavy hair tousled, contrasting with the perfect elegance of both his clothing and manner. "That is, of course, should our acquaintance become familiar enough to merit the use of Christian names."

"You are as spirited as Ashton described you," he said, flashing a smile. "I shall leave now. Your solicitor has all the papers concerning the villa. As I said, I promised your husband I would ensure that you see it. When you are ready to make the trip, I shall take care of all your arrangements."

I gave him my hand, which he kissed quickly. I watched from the window seat as he sauntered down the steps to the street and across Berkeley Square.

As always after meeting any of Philip's family or friends, I felt overwhelmed. I could not share their grief; I did not know the man. Yet here Colin Hargreaves stood and suggested that Philip actually talked about me. What on earth could he possibly have had to say? My mind reeled. Kallista? Greece? As far as I knew, Philip had few, if any, interests beyond hunting. I had little reason to doubt Mr. Hargreaves, who had stood as best man at my wedding. He and Philip were friends from their early days at school, and Philip always spoke highly of his integrity. Before I could think further on the subject, the butler interrupted me again. My parents awaited me in the drawing room.

"My dear, you really must keep the curtains drawn in the front of the house," my mother scolded, true to her new mission of attempting to reestablish dominance over me.

"Philip has been dead for more than a year and a half, Mother. I can hardly live without natural light indefinitely."

"Prince Albert left this life nearly thirty years ago, and our queen still respects his memory. You would do well to follow her example." My mother, quite possibly Queen Victoria's staunchest supporter, looked critically around the room. "I know Philip was a bit eccentric, but now that he's gone, you surely could update this room. It is as if it is only partially furnished."

Philip had no taste for the cluttered excess currently in favor and had furnished his house accordingly. After our wedding he was delighted to learn that I shared his opinion on the subject. He obligingly removed several of the larger mounted animal heads from the public rooms, and I agreed to leave the remainder of the house untouched.

"In one breath you tell her to mourn the man, in the next to change his house. Really, Catherine, I think you should leave the child alone." My father, whom I had always considered a silent ally, smiled at me reassuringly. "I don't like to be unpleasant, but it is insupportable to me that she should have to be in mourning longer than she knew Ashton."

My mother gasped. "I will pretend that I never heard you say that. You must think of her future. She's young and very rich, not to mention the daughter of an earl. After a suitable period of mourning, she will be able to make an excellent marriage." My mother looked at me. "I have already heard your name mentioned by the mothers of some of the most eligible peers."

"I'd rather not lose my money to the upkeep of someone else's family estate," I said with a sigh. "Besides, why should I marry again? I rather like widowhood." My father laughed until he caught my mother's withering glare.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course it's much too soon to think of such things. Your heart is still breaking." My mother rang the bell. "You need some tea." I suffered through a cup of the oversweetened beverage she forced on me and avoided any conversation that might prolong their stay. At last I bade my parents farewell, cringing as my mother ordered the butler to have the drapes on the front windows closed. Davis, a consummate professional, gave her a reassuring nod but did nothing without first consulting his mistress. I instructed him to leave them open.

"Very good, madam. If I may?" He continued as soon as I nodded permission. "I must inform you that I've had to let one of the footmen go. A parlormaid, entering the library to dust, saw him rifling through the viscount's desk."

"When did this happen?"

"Yesterday afternoon, madam. The maid was reluctant to come forward. Apparently the man was looking for something he could sell to repay gaming debts. I have searched his room and found nothing. Perhaps you could check to see if anything is missing?"

"Thank you, Davis. I shall check the contents of the desk right away," I said, knowing full well that I had no idea what ought to be in it.

I returned to the library, where, after a cursory glance through the unremarkable contents of the desk, I started searching the shelves for books about Greece and found volume upon volume: histories and classical literature in both the ancient language and translation. Until now I had assumed that these were vestiges of Philip's studies at Eton and Cambridge. I flipped through several of them, not knowing what I wanted to find. Frustrated with my complete lack of direction, I picked up a guide to the British Museum. The book fell open to a page that held a carefully folded note written in a hand I did not recognize. "Your present course of action has placed you in grave danger." The page it marked described a vase on which there was a painting of the great hero Achilles killing the queen of the Amazons. Grave danger indeed.

I examined the note closely. The paper was heavy, the type that an artist might use in his sketchbook, but it bore no indication of the identity of either sender or recipient. Very odd. I sighed, unsure of what to do. After rereading it I placed it in Philip's desk, where I sat, suddenly overcome by a feeling of ominous unease. I rang for tea, hoping the genial beverage (without my mother's too-liberal use of sugar) would soothe my nerves. It was some time before I was able to turn my attention back to the book from which the note had fallen, but eventually I found myself engrossed in its descriptions of the museum's magnificent artifacts. Suddenly, on a whim, I summoned my carriage. I wanted to see them myself.

Naturally I had not mentioned Greece or the villa to my parents, and I smiled as I approached Great Russell Street, Wondering what my mother would think if I were to set up house in Santorini for the rest of my years. How long would I have to wear half mourning there? I fluffed my black striped skirts and entered the museum, immediately asking if someone could show me the Greek antiquities. A wealthy widow quickly learns that great institutions long for her money; knowing this, I anticipated a thorough and enjoyable tour.

As I waited for what I hoped would be a knowledgeable guide, I looked around the hall, wondering why I hadn't visited the museum in so long. My father had taken me periodically when I was a girl, but once my education transferred to the hands of my mother and a legion of governesses, I was limited to pursuing those things considered essential by society matrons. Consequently I became fluent in French and Italian and able to speak passably in German. I could sing and play the pianoforte, though not well. In the visual arts, I excelled at drawing, though I never moved to watercolors, preferring the feel of pencils to that of the artist's brushes. Embroidery, etiquette, and household management became second nature, but my mother did not want me to receive anything that could be construed as a classical education. A good wife, she believed, should not think too much for herself. Before I could mull further on the shortcomings of my schooling, a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman interrupted my reverie.

"Lady Ashton, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Alexander Murray, Keeper of Greek and Roman Antiquities. My colleagues inform me that you are interested in viewing our collection." I gave him my hand and murmured something appropriate.

"Please allow me to express my condolences on the death of your excellent husband," he continued. "He visited us frequently; the entire department was shocked to learn of his demise. We are immeasurably grateful for the artifacts he donated to us during his lifetime. I presume you would like to see those pieces first?"

I hardly knew what to say. I had never known Philip to set foot in the museum, but I realized that fact in itself to be meaningless. Clearly I knew even less about the man than I suspected. As Mr. Murray led me through gallery after gallery, my thoughts divided between my husband and the wondrous objects I viewed. Philip had given the museum several stunning Greek vases. One in particular struck me: a large vase showing three women standing before a young man who held an apple.