Did I mention he is a monstrously handsome bachelor? He is Italian, of course, with the darkly romantic Latin looks that young English ladies like, and English gentlemen envy. The count is the younger son, with no expectation of inheriting his papa's palazzo in Venice. At least I think it is in Venice, although he once mentioned his papa had sent him wine from his vineyards in Tuscany. Perhaps the Borsinis have more than one estate.

Brodagan used to call him a “twister,” and say he was too “cute” for me, which was her way of saying he was angling for my poor five-thousand dowry. I was quick to remind her he had painted the Prince of Wales, and was not likely to need my pittance. But I think her dislike really softened to adoration when he began honoring her with a burlesque flirtation.

I tidied up the blue room while waiting for Brodagan and Steptoe to clear away my studio. I had dropped a bottle of linseed oil on the carpet of the blue room, which meant some furniture re-arrangement to conceal it. I made a mental note to have Steptoe remove the carpet from Uncle Barry's room. It is impossible to paint in a carpeted room. I would splurge and have linoleum laid down.

I meant to leave the windows uncurtained, have the walls painted a severe white (which Borsini said reflected the light well), and make the room as professional-looking as ten pounds could contrive. A second easel was definitely on my shopping list. Mrs. Chawton could use it during the lessons, and in the interim, I could have two paintings going at once. When Uncle Barry and I visited Borsini's studio at Aldershot, he had not less than four easels occupied.

At five and twenty, I have ceased thinking of marriage and decided to devote my life to my first love-art. Borsini feels the only reason the world has so few successful lady artists is marriage. Art is a full-time career. How can one devote all her attention to it when she must be worrying about children, meals, and entertaining her husband's colleagues? Borsini has noticed a great improvement in my work. My palette, he said, was too light. His own sparkles with the jewel tones of ruby, emerald, sapphire, and topaz, but somehow I cannot find these rich hues in the human face.

With time to spare, I began a sketch. The quantity of self-portraits in my collection does not denote self-love, but a shortage of models. When I am alone, I often sit in front of the mirror and sketch myself, as Rembrandt did. The hand must be trained to do what the artist wants, and like any other craft, practice makes perfect. I pulled the chair close to the mirror, propped my sketchpad on my knee, and studied the familiar face in the mirror.

I doubt there are many ladies who are as familiar with the lineaments of their face as I. Borsini is kind enough to tell me I have a classical face, which is not quite accurate. He has that easy Latin way with a compliment. My face is the proper Grecian shape, however, and my green eyes well spaced. I have lately taken to arranging my black hair in a Grecian knot, more for convenience than to ape the Greeks. It is really the nose that falls considerably short of the classical ideal-or perhaps I should say, falls long. Venus had not such a long nose, nor such wide lips.

My mentor tells me it is the straying from the ideal that confers that peculiar uniqueness of true perfection. I know well enough that “perfection” does not encompass such a far straying from the ideal as my own features. I have been called pretty, never beautiful-except by Borsini.

Time has a way of flying by when I am at work. I was vaguely aware of boxes being carried down from the octagonal tower, along the hall, and up the other staircase to the attic. When Brodagan's towered head appeared at the door, she said, “It's teatime, melady. Your studio is cleared away, if ye'd care to cast a glance at it. I'll not drag my poor old legs up them stairs again. Seven trips, it took. I don't know how in the world I did it. You have the youth still. You can take a run up."

"Thank you, Brodagan,” I said, and set aside my sketch to dart up the narrow staircase. Brodagan is not much interested in her salary, but she is greedy for praise.

Steptoe was still there, just opening the dresser drawers. Our butler is our only English servant. Mama brought servants with her from the old country when she married, and has replaced them with other Irish servants as they retired or passed away. Steptoe has a polite contempt for all of them except Brodagan, whom he fears. He is of middle years and medium stature, with brown hair just turning gray. I can scarcely write his name without adding Brodagan's favorite adjective for him, “uppity.” Steptoe was used to work for the local nobility, Lady Weylin.

"Shall I clear away your late uncle's linens, madam?” he asked. Steptoe always called both Mama and myself “madam."

"Yes, put all his clothing in boxes. I shall have it taken to the poorhouse.” Even Mama would not insist on keeping old clothing.

He began lifting shirts from the top drawer while I strolled around the room, seeing it in my mind's eye with the bed gone, the curtains down, the floor covered in linoleum, and the walls painted a bright, reflecting white. When I turned back to Steptoe, he was holding a small leather bag, dangling from his fingers by a cord.

"What is that, Steptoe?” I asked.

He handed it to me. “It rattles, madam,” he said.

I loosened the string and shook the contents out into my palm. The sunbeam slanting through the windows caught the object in my palm and reflected a myriad of iridescent rainbows. A muted gasp hung on the air as I gazed in disbelief at the object. I searched for the clasp and held it to catch the sun's full beams. It was a beautiful diamond necklace.

From a chain of smallish diamonds, a large sunburst of larger stones suspended at the front. I am not familiar with the terminology of diamond cutting, but I could see there were various shapes and cuts of stones in the sunburst, some of the stones quite large.

Uncle Barry had no fortune. He paid his board from his company pension. “Where on earth did he get this?” I asked.

For a wonderful sixty seconds I thought uncle had made his fortune in India after all. Some prince had given him the diamonds as a reward for saving his life. Uncle told many such wonderful tales. The nawabs, it seemed, had no notion of the value of gems. In that sixty seconds I had set out on a tour of Italy to study the masters, with Borsini as my guide. Mama and I would hire an Italian villa, and visit Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance. We would float in a gondola down the Grand Canal in Venice to the Palazzo Borsini.

Steptoe came and peered closely over my shoulder. He cleared his throat and said, with a sly look, “It looks very much like the necklace Lady Margaret Macintosh reported stolen five years ago, madam."

"Stolen! Good God! You mean to say Uncle Barry was a thief!"

"That would not be for me to say, madam, but it is certainly the same necklace, or one exactly like it."

Chapter Two

I ran downstairs as fast as my legs could carry me, to find Mama waiting impatiently at the tea table. She lifted the pot and began pouring as soon as she saw me. I ran, gasping, and held the necklace out for her to see.

She blinked in confusion. “What is that, Zoie? Where did you get it? Why, it looks like-diamonds!"

"It is. Steptoe says it is Lady Margaret Macintosh's stolen necklace."

Mama's fingers flew to her lips to stifle a gasp. She looked around, to see no spies were listening. “Where did it come from?” She drew back against the sofa cushions, refusing to touch it.

"It was hidden in Uncle Barry's dresser. He was a thief, Mama! What shall we do with this?"

"Are you sure it is hers?"

"Steptoe says it is. You have a look at it."

She steeled herself to touch it then. She turned it this way and that in her fingers, with a troubled frown. “I fear he is right. Steptoe would know. Butlers always know everything. And you recall he worked as head footman at Parham for several years. He would have seen it any number of times."

Parham is the estate of our neighbor, Lord Weylin. When he is not at London, he lives there with his widowed mama, a social whale amidst the minnows of the area. Until Lady Margaret's death a year ago, she also lived at Parham to keep her sister, Lady Weylin, company.

Five years ago, Lady Margaret's diamond necklace was stolen. As its loss coincided with my uncle's arrival at Hernefield, it began to look as though Uncle was nothing else but a thief.

"I wonder if Barry made a habit of this sort of thing,” Mama said fearfully. “I mean to say, it is odd that he should steal just this one necklace."

"Don't say such things, Mama!” I exclaimed, and sank to the sofa. As soon as I caught my breath, I saw she was right. I was mortally afraid to return to the tower and look in other drawers, but if Uncle Barry was a thief, it was best to know the worst. “I shall go upstairs and search."

Mama had drawn out a handkerchief and was fanning herself, as befitted a Fragonard lady. “I shall stay here and catch my breath. Oh dear, whatever shall we do? You know I never had but a waxen head, Zoie. You must decide what is to be done."

I gave her hand a reassuring pat and darted back up the two flights of stairs to the octagonal tower. Steptoe had been seized with the same idea as Mama and myself. He had opened all the drawers of both dresser and desk and rooted through them. They stood open and disarranged.

"There does not appear to be any further booty, madam,” he said, relishing that offensive “booty."

"Keep looking. All his jackets and boots-everything will have to be searched. Let me know if you find anything."