by Nora Roberts
“You believe it’s genuine.”
“Every test indicates its age is between four hundred and fifty and five hundred years. You have copies of the computer-generated photos, the chemical tests.”
“Who took them?”
“I did.”
“And the thermoluminescence process. Who conducted it?”
“I did.”
“And the dating by style is also yours. The bulk of the documentation is from your own research. You supervised the chemical tests, testing the patina and metal personally, did the formula comparisons.”
“Isn’t that why you brought me here?”
“Yes, but I also provided you with a team of experts. I expected you to make more use of them.”
“If I run the tests myself, I have more control,” Miranda said curtly. “There’s less possibility of error. This is my field. I’ve authenticated five pieces from this era, three of them bronzes, one of them a Cellini.”
“The Cellini had unassaultable documentation, and excavation records.”
“Regardless,” Miranda said with bubbling resentment. Though she imagined herself flinging up her hands, shaking her fists, she kept her arms quietly by her sides. “I ran precisely the same tests on that piece as I have on this one in order to rule out forgery. I’ve consulted with the Louvre, the Smithsonian, the Bargello. I believe my credentials are in order.”
Wearily Elizabeth leaned back. “No one is questioning your credentials, or your skill. I would hardly have called you in on this project if I doubted either.”
“Then why are you questioning them now that I’ve done the work?”
“I’m commenting on your lack of teamwork, Miranda, and I’m concerned that you formed your opinion the moment you saw the bronze.”
“I recognized the style, the era, and the artist.” As did you, Miranda thought furiously. Damn you, as did you. “However,” she continued coolly, “I conducted every standard test, then retested, and documented the procedure and the results. From these I can form an opinion, and a belief that the bronze currently locked in the safe is a depiction of Giulietta Buonadoni, cast circa late fifteenth century, and the work of a young Michelangelo Buonarroti.”
“I will agree that the style is of the school of Michelangelo.”
“The bronze is too early a work to be of his school. He was barely twenty. And only genius can duplicate genius.”
“To my knowledge there is no documentation of a bronze of this artist that supports this piece as his work.”
“Then the documentation has yet to be found, or it never existed. We have documentation of many of his pieces that are lost. Why not have a piece and not the documentation? The cartoon for the fresco for the Battle of Cascina. Lost. His bronze of Julius the Second, destroyed and melted down, many of his drawings apparently burned by his own hand shortly before his death.”
“However, we know they existed.”
“The Dark Lady exists. The age is right, the style is right, particularly in his early work. He would have been about eighteen when this was cast. He’d already carved Madonna of the Stairs, Battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs. He had already shown genius.”
Considering herself a patient women, Elizabeth merely nodded. “There is no argument that the bronze is superior work and of his style. This does not, however, prove it is his work.”
“He lived in the Medici Palace, was treated like Lorenzo’s son. He knew her. There is documentation that they were acquainted. She was often used as a model. It would be more unusual if he hadn’t used her. You knew this possibility existed when you sent for me.”
“Possibility and fact are different issues, Miranda.” Elizabeth folded her hands. “As you said on your first day here, you don’t deal in possibilities.”
“I’m giving you fact. The formula of the bronze is correct, exactly correct, X rays verify that the tool work is authentic for the era. The clay core and scrapings have been dated. The tests reveal the deep downward corrosion growth. The patina is correct. The bronze is late-fifteenth-century. Most likely the last decade.”
She held up a hand before her mother could speak. “As an expert in the field, and after a careful and objective study of the piece, it’s my conclusion that the bronze is the work of Michelangelo. All that’s missing is his signature. And he didn’t sign his pieces, with the exception of the Pietà in Rome.”
“I won’t argue with the results of your testing.” Elizabeth angled her head. “With your conclusions, however, I hold reservations. We can’t afford to let your enthusiasm weigh on either side. You’re to say nothing of this to any of the staff at this point. And I must insist you say nothing at all outside the lab. If any rumors leak to the press, it would be disastrous.”
“I’m hardly going to call the newspapers and announce I’ve authenticated a lost Michelangelo. But I have.” She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I know it. And sooner or later, you’ll have to admit it.”
“Nothing would please me more, I promise you. But in the meantime, this must be kept quiet.”
“I’m not in this for glory.” Though she could taste it, on the tip of her tongue. She could feel it, tingling in the tips of her fingers.
“We’re all in this for glory,” Elizabeth corrected with a small smile. “Why pretend otherwise? If your theory proves out, you’ll have plenty of it. If it doesn’t, and you’re premature in your statement, you’ll damage your reputation. And mine, and that of this facility. That, Miranda, I won’t allow. Continue the document search.”
“I intend to.” Miranda turned on her heel and stalked out. She would gather up a pile of books, take them back to the hotel, and by God, she told herself, she’d find the link.
At three A.M., when the phone rang, she was sitting up in bed, surrounded by books and papers. The two-toned shrill jerked her out of some colorful dream of sunny hillsides and cool marble courtyards, musical fountains and harpsong.
Disoriented, she blinked against the glare of the lights she’d left burning and groped for the phone.
“Pronto. Dr. Jones. Hello?”
“Miranda, I need you to come to my house as soon as possible.”
“What? Mother?” She stared bleary-eyed at the bedside clock. “It’s three in the morning.”
“I’m perfectly aware of the time. As is the assistant minister who was awakened some twenty minutes ago by a reporter who demanded to know the details of the lost bronze by Michelangelo.”
“What? But—”
“I don’t choose to discuss this over the phone.” Elizabeth’s voice vibrated with cold and barely suppressed fury. “Do you remember how to get here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll expect you within thirty minutes,” she said, seconds before the phone clicked.
Miranda made it in twenty.
Elizabeth’s home was small and elegant, a two-story dwelling typical of Florence, with its yellowed ivory walls and red-tiled roof. Flowers spilled out of pots and window boxes, and were cared for religiously by the maid.
In the dark, the windows gleamed, bright stripes of light leaking through the louvered blinds. It was roomy, as Miranda recalled, an attractive arena for entertaining. It would have occurred to neither mother nor daughter to share the space while Miranda was in Florence.
The door was wrenched open before she could knock. Elizabeth stood, neatly groomed and perfectly presented in a peach-colored robe.
“What happened?” Miranda demanded.
“That’s precisely my question.” Strict control was all that prevented Elizabeth from slamming the door. “If this was your way of proving your point, of exerting your expertise, or of causing me professional embarrassment, all you accomplished was the last.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Miranda hadn’t taken time to tame her hair, and scooped an impatient hand through it to shove it out of her eyes. “You said a reporter called—”
“That’s correct.”
Straight as a general, Elizabeth turned and strode into the front parlor. A fire was laid, but had yet to be lighted. Lamps blazed, shooting shine from polished wood. There was a vase of white roses on the mantel, and nothing else. The colors were all soft, all pale.
Part of Miranda’s mind registered what it always did when she stepped inside this, or any, room in the house. It was more showcase than home, and just as cool.
“The reporter, of course, refused to reveal his source. But he had quite a bit of information.”
“Vincente would never have gone to the press prematurely.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed coolly. “Vincente would not.”
“Could the plumber—what was his name—have talked to a reporter?”
“The plumber couldn’t have provided him with photos of the bronze, with test results.”
“Test results.” Because her knees were suddenly loose, Miranda sat. “My tests?”
“Standjo’s tests,” Elizabeth said between her teeth. “Despite the fact that you conducted them, it remains the responsibility of my lab. And it’s the security of that lab that has been breached.”
“But how . . .” It hit home then, the tone, the look in her mother’s eyes. She rose slowly. “You think I called a reporter and fed him information? Secured photos and test results?”
Elizabeth merely studied Miranda’s furious face. “Did you?”
“No, I did not. Even if we hadn’t discussed the ramifications, I would never undermine a project this way. It’s my reputation on the line as well.”
“And it’s your reputation that could very well be made.”
Miranda looked into Elizabeth’s eyes and saw the opinion had already been formed. “You can go to hell.”
“The reporter quoted from your report.”
“Straight to hell, and take your precious lab with you. It’s always meant more to you than your own flesh and blood.”
“My precious lab has provided you with training and employment, and with the potential for reaching the top of your field. Now, because of haste and stubbornness and ego, my professional integrity is in question, and your reputation may very well be ruined. The bronze is being transferred to another facility today.”
“Transferred?”
“We’ve been fired,” Elizabeth snapped, then snatched up the phone that rang on a table beside her. Her lips thinned, and her breath hissed through them once. “No comment,” she said in Italian, and hung up. “Another reporter. The third who’s reached me on my private number.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Though her stomach was jumping, Miranda spoke calmly. “Let them transfer her. Any reputable lab will only verify my findings.”
“That’s precisely the kind of arrogance that put us in this position.” Her eyes fired such icy temper that Miranda didn’t notice the strain or dark circles under them. “I’ve worked for years to reach this point, to build and maintain a facility that is without question among the finest in the world.”
“This won’t change that. Leaks happen even in the finest facilities.”
“They don’t happen at Standjo.” The silk of Elizabeth’s robe swirled as she paced. The matching slippers made no sound as they trampled the pink roses blooming on the carpet. “I’ll begin repairing the damage immediately. I expect you to avoid the press, and take the first available flight back to Maine.”
“I’m not leaving until this is finished.”
“It is finished, for you. Your services are no longer required at Standjo, Florence.” She turned back to her daughter, her face set, her tired eyes chilly and direct. “Your security clearance will be voided.”
“I see. A quick execution without a trial. I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said half to herself. “Why am I?”
“This isn’t the time to indulge in drama.”
Because her nerves were raw, Elizabeth indulged herself and moved to a cabinet for the brandy. There was a dull drumming at the base of her skull that caused her more irritation than pain.
“It’s going to take quite a bit of work to put Standjo back on an even keel after this. And there will be questions, a lot of questions.” With her back to Miranda, Elizabeth splashed two inches of brandy into a snifter. “It would be better for you if you aren’t in the country when they’re asked.”
“I’m not afraid of questions.” The panic was creeping in now, sneaking slyly up her spine. She was to be sent away, The Dark Lady taken from her. Her work questioned, her integrity shadowed. “I didn’t do anything illegal or unethical. And I’ll stand by my authentication of the bronze. Because it’s right. Because it’s real.”
“For your sake, I hope so. The press has your name, Miranda.” Elizabeth lifted her brandy in an unconscious toast. “Believe me, they’ll use it.”
“Let them.”
“Arrogance.” Elizabeth hissed out a breath. “Obviously you haven’t taken account that your actions will reflect on me, personally and professionally.”
“You thought of it,” Miranda shot back, “when you brought me here to verify and corroborate your own suspicions. You may head Standjo, but you don’t have the qualifications for this kind of work. You wanted the glory.” Miranda’s heart hammered painfully in her throat as she stepped closer. “You sent for me because I share part of your name, and your blood, however much we both regret that.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. The accusation wasn’t inaccurate, but neither was it complete. “I gave you the opportunity of a lifetime, because of your qualifications, and yes, because you’re a Jones. You’ve damaged that opportunity, and my organization in the process.”
“I’ve done nothing but what I was brought here to do. I’ve spoken to no one outside the organization, and to no one in the organization who didn’t meet with your clearance specifications.”
Elizabeth drew a calming breath. Her decision had already been made, she reminded herself. There was no point in discussing it further. “You will leave Italy today. You will not return to the lab, or contact anyone who works there. If you don’t agree, I’ll be forced to terminate your position at the museum.”
“You don’t run the Institute anymore, and neither does Father. Andrew and I do.”
“If you want that situation to continue, you’ll do what I say. Whether you believe it or not, I’m trying to save you embarrassment.”
“Don’t do me any favors, Mother. We wouldn’t want to spoil your record.” Banished, was all she could think. Cut off from the most exciting work of her life, and sent away as powerlessly as a child ordered to her room.
“I’ve given you your choice, Miranda. If you stay, you’ll do so alone. And you will no longer be welcome at any Standjo facility, including the New England Institute of Art History.”
Miranda could feel herself begin to shake, from both fear and rage. Even as she heard the inner screams of that fear and rage echo in her head, she spoke quietly. “I’ll never forgive you for this. Not ever. But I’ll go, because the Institute’s important to me. And because, when this is over, you’ll have to apologize, and I’ll tell you to go to hell. Those will be the last words I ever speak to you.”
She took the snifter out of her mother’s hand. “Salute,” she said, and tossed back the brandy defiantly. Setting the snifter down with a crack of glass against wood, she turned and walked out. She didn’t look back.
four
A ndrew Jones was thinking of marriage and failure as he sipped Jack Daniel’s Black, straight up, from a short glass. He was well aware that everyone who knew him thought it was long past time for him to turn the page on his divorce and move on.
But he didn’t feel like moving on. Not when it was so comforting to wallow.
Marriage had been an enormous step for him, and one he’d considered carefully even though he’d been wildly in love. Making that commitment, turning an emotion into a legal document, had given him many sleepless nights. No one on the Jones side of the family had ever made a successful run at marriage.
He and Miranda called it the Jones curse.
His grandmother had outlived her husband by more than a decade and had never—at least in her grandson’s hearing—had a good word to say about the man she’d lived with for thirty-odd years.
It was hard to blame her, as the late and unlamented Andrew Jones had been infamous for his affection for young blondes and Jack Daniel’s Black.
His namesake was well aware that the old man had been a bastard, clever and successful, but a bastard nonetheless.
Andrew’s father preferred digs to home fires, and had spent most of his son’s childhood away from home, brushing ancient dirt from ancient bones. When he was in residence, he’d agreed with everything his wife said, blinked owlishly at his children as if he’d forgotten how they came to be in his line of sight, and locked himself for hours at a time in his office.
It hadn’t been women and whiskey for Charles Jones. He’d committed his adultery and neglect with science.
Not that the great Dr. Elizabeth Standford-Jones had given a shit, Andrew thought as he brooded over what he’d intended to be one friendly drink at Annie’s Place. She’d left the child-rearing to servants, run the household like a Nazi general, and ignored her husband as sublimely as he had ignored her.
It always made Andrew shudder to imagine that at least twice, these cold-blooded, self-absorbed people had tangled in bed long enough to conceive a couple of children.
When he was a boy, Andrew had often fantasized that Charles and Elizabeth had purchased him and his sister from some poor couple who’d wept copiously when they traded their children for rent money.
When he was older, he’d enjoyed imagining that he and Miranda had been created in a lab, experiments conceived out of science rather than sex.
But the sad fact was that there was too much Jones in him for it not to have come down naturally.
Yeah, he thought, and lifted his glass, old Charles and Elizabeth had tangoed one night thirty-three years ago and conceived the next generation of assholes.