I shouldn’t have asked why. I don’t know what I expected from him. “We’re talking about this in the morning,” I said, trying to sound like I was the one in charge.
But when I shut the bedroom door behind me I knew. Even as a princess, when it came to Hugh Konnor, I was never in charge of anything, least of all my involuntary emotional reactions.
The smell of coffee pulled me from my slumber the next morning. Even though I was still thoroughly irritated by Hugh Konnor not leaving me alone, there were benefits to traveling with someone who always seemed to know where the coffee pot was.
After visiting the same lovely Italian espresso machine that Hugh had put to work this morning, I found him in the living room, where the remnants of his overnight stay on the couch contrasted with the elegant decor. Although the apartment was a luxurious and extremely expensive piece of real estate, it wasn’t overly large. From this location, Konnor would have immediately heard me leaving the apartment during the night, should I have been brave—or stubborn—enough to try to escape Konnor’s clutches again.
“Good morning,” I said, as a way of announcing my entrance into the salon.
Konnor was studying a pad of paper he’d dug up from somewhere. He looked up distractedly. “Oh, right. You’re up.”
He really had a way of making a girl feel treasured and important.
“Yes, I’m up. And I’m ready.”
“For what?”
“To pick up the pieces of my life again. So if you’ll just let me write Christian a quick email, then we can get started with my plan to convince him to turn himself in.”
But he didn’t immediately hand over my tablet. And he barely acknowledged my presence, let alone that I’d suggested that we take prompt, concrete action.
“Konnor?” I fought the impulse to go over and wave my hand in front of his eyes. Maybe he’d lost his vision and his hearing overnight. Poor thing. Maybe I wasn’t being ignored, he just couldn’t hear or see me.
Yes, I made a lot of excuses for people. It was a problem, I know.
He glanced back and forth between two pieces of paper. “No,” he suddenly said, in that decisive, authoritative way that bodyguards had. “We won’t be contacting Christian just yet.”
“Yet?” I echoed that one, key word. “What are you waiting for? Let’s do this!”
Now I had his full, alert attention. “Do you know what he wants to speak with you about?”
“No, but I’ll ask when I email him back.” I tried to sound breezy and confident about it. Oh yes, it was so straightforward. What do I have to lie about? Not pretty little, innocent Caroline.
Hugh stood, and stretched out his neck as he did so. The movement did nice things to his arms and shoulders, too, not that I was noticing or anything. “Do you know why he came to Varenna to find you?” Now he rolled his shoulders. Like a man who had been stuck on a couch all night long. Poor thing. “Or, for that matter, how he found you?”
“No…” I said carefully. “But again, these are all things I can ask when I have a conversation with the man.” I emphasized the word. Conversation. Simple. Safe. Benign, really.
Konnor shook his head. “There are too many unknowns. I don’t like unknowns.”
I tried not to let my frustration show. “You don’t like me either, but you’re putting up with me because it’s your job.” He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth as if he was going to protest. “Don’t. I get it, okay? The point I’m trying to make is that sometimes we don’t like something but we suck it up and get it done.” I held out my hand, intending for him to place the tablet into my fingers so that I could do the thing that needed to be done.
But no. Because why would Konnor do anything that I wanted him to do? Instead, he handed over one of the pieces of paper he’d been glaring at when I’d walked in.
It was a drawing of the symbol that was tattooed on Christian’s chest. He’d copied the one I’d inked on his palm the day before.
A horizontal diamond with rays extending from the top. I flipped it around. Now the rays were extending from the bottom.
Konnor frowned at the flip. “It goes that way?”
I held it up to my chest, over my right breast, to demonstrate. “On Christian, yes.”
“Does it matter?” Konnor asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Depends on what it is, I guess.”
He eyed the paper, which I was still holding with a very serious frown. Most men don’t stare at my right breast with that vague disapproving look. It was discomfiting that Hugh Konnor was doing it, but, I supposed, par for the course with him. Finally, he nodded. “Yes, it matters.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know the man. He’s not a tattoo guy,” Konnor explained with a decided disdain in his voice. “He likes custom-made suits and, back in Drieden, he had someone iron his boxer shorts.”
“People change,” I said, thinking of my life and all the fashion stages I had gone through.
“Sure. One day we’re buttoned-up dukes with law degrees, the next we’re homicidal rebels without a cause.” Konnor lifted a wry brow. “People are who they are. We don’t change. And someone like Christian Fraser-Campbell doesn’t get a tattoo that no one can interpret and that no one can see while he’s running from Interpol.” He gestured toward the paper I had now lowered from my breast. “So what the hell is that and what does it mean?”
I looked at the symbol for a moment and then back at Konnor’s pushed-up sleeves and the tattoos that were visible on his corded forearms. “What do yours mean?”
He twisted his arms and flexed so he could examine his ink. I was sure he wasn’t doing it for my benefit, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the view. “This one’s Latin,” he said, shaking his left arm a little. “And this one’s just numbers,” he muttered about his other arm.
“And presumably they mean something to you as well,” I observed, ignoring the little flutter in my stomach while I gazed at Konnor’s tattoos. It was strangely intimate. When he was on the official job back in Drieden, he was always properly dressed. Cuffs buttoned, jacket on. But here in Italy, he was fitted for comfort and stealth. I kept talking to distract myself from checking out the rest of Konnor’s muscular body—and wondering what else he hid underneath his nearly skin-tight thermal shirt. “I mean, what are tattoos? They’re usually a symbol of something meaningful to a person. A name, a flower…”
Konnor wrinkled his nose at the drawing. “That’s a horrible flower.”
“Or it’s a symbol of some kind.”
“It could be anything. How could we ever know?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a painting over the fireplace that I’d looked at fifty, a hundred times. The Roman—or was she Greek?—goddess Persephone holding a pomegranate as a peace offering to a wolf, while frightened soldiers stood behind her. The painting was by Giulpione, from the sixteenth century. An example of Renaissance art.
Of course. “As a matter of fact, I know someone who could possibly help us.”
Chapter Thirteen
The small, nondescript plaque outside the bell read “Monsignor Francesco Baldoni” in an elegant script. I took a deep breath before I pressed the button, avoiding Konnor’s eyes. He had been against this, against anything that didn’t involve wrapping me in a satin bow and sending me back to Drieden City, to be honest. Since he hadn’t been successful when he tried, once again, to convince me to return to my grandmother’s palace, he had agreed to accompany me to my old professor’s office to inquire if there was any religious or hidden meaning in Christian’s tattoo.
We were shown into Father Baldoni’s studio by a young Franciscan friar who introduced himself as Giovanni. I stumbled as I used the name that Father Baldoni had known me by—Caroline Laurent—my maiden name. My Driedish name. It didn’t feel quite right, but neither would Caroline Di Bern
ardo. Or Lina DiLorenzo.
How many other identities would I have to try on until I found the one that fitted me as I was? It was an uncomfortable question and one I pushed aside as soon as Father Baldoni joined us in his dark, dusty study.
He was a few years older, so perhaps that was why he squinted. Or it could have been my cropped, dyed-black hair, so different from my former long blonde ponytail. “Carolina? Is that you?” he asked in Italian, adding the extraneous vowel at the end of my name, which made it sound so much more feminine. So musical. “Princessa Carolina?”
I greeted him with an embrace—a real one. I had always enjoyed my time here with Father Baldoni, reviewing his huge collection of art and illustrations, listening to him discuss saints and symbols for hours.
“And who is this?” Father Baldoni asked about Konnor.
“A colleague,” I replied. “Who doesn’t speak Italian.”
Father Baldoni scowled. “He’s not an art historian, then. All the world’s art history is in Italy, all the masters are Italian, one must speak the language.”
“Yes, I quite agree,” I murmured, with a slight smile at Konnor, who frowned back at me. “But he is helping me with a…documentary,” I finished, borrowing my older sister’s past profession. “We were doing some research and found a symbol that I had never seen before. I was hoping you would be able to identify it.”
As I expected, that immediately intrigued Father Baldoni. He was one of the world’s pre-eminent experts in religious iconography and cryptology, having spent the last fifty years in the shadow of the Vatican, religiously indexing and cross-referencing the vast collections of the Holy See. If anyone knew what this symbol might be a reference to, it was Monsignor Francesco Baldoni.
He drew wire-rimmed reading glasses from the pocket of his woolen cardigan and gave me a smile. “Of course. Let us see what has given you such trouble.”
I had redrawn the symbol carefully on to a new sheet of paper, and I handed it over to him under Konnor’s suspicious eagle eyes, as if a seventy-year-old priest would take my outstretched hand and flip me on to the ground with some Franciscan judo move. Seriously. The man had some trust issues.
I switched to Driedish to tell Konnor, “I studied with Father Baldoni for nearly a year. I think he’s safe.”
Konnor did not look reassured by this but continued his baleful glare at the senior priest. Thankfully, Father Baldoni barely registered Konnor’s watchful animosity, as he had become immediately engrossed in my drawing.
It was just like I had seen on Christian’s torso: a diamond stretched out on the horizontal, with rays extending from the bottom.
“This is it?” Father Baldoni asked. “It is complete?” He gestured to the top. “There is nothing extending from these sides?”
I said no and, “Yes, it is all we have.” Father Baldoni’s eyebrows furrowed. He flipped the page upside down and then back. Then flipped it over, as if the long-lost secret code were handwritten there. It had happened many times, so he said. How many times had he told me, “This is a simple job. Humans are straightforward, and their art is, too. There is nothing new under the sun.”
Except, from the way he was looking at my paper…maybe there was?
Baldoni walked over to a high table and flipped a switch which illuminated the surface. I followed, with Konnor at my back.
“Here.” Baldoni placed the paper on the light table and pointed at the naked top of the diamond. “We would expect more rays here, if this symbolized a sun or a flower of some sort. Perhaps a navigational compass, a directional tool.”
“The lines are similar to those used to represent a holy power,” I suggested, remembering what I learned ten years ago, right here in this study.
Father Baldoni nodded. “True, yes. Such as the Holy Spirit. Although, generally, in a symbol, that would be quite clear. A cross or some other religious icon would be included. This…” He made a very Italian gesture at the horizontal diamond. “This is nothing.”
He flipped the paper ninety degrees so that the diamond was now stretched along the vertical plane. “Now this. This is much better.”
Konnor leaned down into my ear. “What is he saying?” I held my hand up, inadvertently brushing his cheek with the back of my fingers. The contact sent a warm flush through my body. Damn body. I was at the house of a respected Vatican academic. This was no time to get distracted by thoughts of how Konnor’s beard felt soft against my skin.
I had almost missed what Baldoni said, but as soon as he turned the design ninety degrees I saw it, too. “A heraldic shield, perhaps?” I suggested. It was the shape of thousands of coats of arms across Europe.
Father Baldoni nodded. “Yes, exactly.” He pointed at the lines now stretching from the left side of the diamond. “But what are these? Spears? Arrows?” He looked at me as if I had more information, but all I could do was shake my head.
“As far as I know, they are just lines.” I reached out and rotated the paper back. “And it looked like that.”
Baldoni pursed his lips. “It must be incomplete. It looks unfinished.”
I repeated the words softly to Konnor, translating them into Driedish, mostly to be polite. Then I added, “Perhaps the tattoo wasn’t finished?”
Konnor looked back at the design. “And if the lines went all the way around, what would that mean? What is it, then?”
I repeated the suggestions Father Baldoni had made earlier. “A sun or a flower, he says.”
Konnor shook his head decisively. “That’s not Christian.”
Father Baldoni looked up at that response. “Christian?” He echoed, misunderstanding the word and interpreting it as a Franciscan priest would. “No, this is no Christian symbol.” He scratched his chin and tilted his head, as if he saw it in a new light. “Perhaps…” he mumbled to himself as he moved toward a bookshelf.
“Giovanni!” He shouted his clerk’s name, and the young man reappeared so promptly I had to assume he had been waiting just outside the office door. Father Baldoni asked for some reference items and then started paging through a text he had selected from a shelf. “There.” He motioned toward a page he had found.
“Pagan runes?” I guessed, looking at the page of assorted lines and triangles in various configurations. The priest confirmed that I had guessed correctly.
He pointed at one, a diamond, but again it was vertical. “But it is the wrong direction. If you are correct,” he said, with the distinct insinuation that he believed my description of the symbol was wrong or incomplete.
Giovanni returned with several more books, and the two of them began discussing various cultures around the world. I heard the names of Native American tribes, African civilizations, and more, but when I met Konnor’s eyes I knew he had been right. None of this fitted with the Christian Fraser-Campbell we knew—the one with the starched shirts and shiny shoes, the one who had been engaged to a princess. Maybe I had misinterpreted the tattoo. Maybe it had been only the first round of what was going to be a far more intricate and obvious design.
“What are they talking about now?” Konnor asked, clearly getting frustrated at a debate he couldn’t decipher.
“They’re discussing Egyptian hieroglyphics,” I muttered under my breath.
“Right.” Konnor’s mouth made a grim line as he snatched my sketch from the light table and pounded it on the table under Giovanni and Baldoni’s noses. “This has nothing to do with Africa. It would be something connected to Drieden, or Scotland, or a fucking huge amount of money.”
Giovanni apparently knew enough Driedish for his eyes to go round as he looked between Konnor and the design of Christian’s possibly incomplete tattoo. I went ahead and translated for Father Baldoni—leaving out Konnor’s crude choice of vocabulary, of course. I didn’t think it was appropriate to talk like that to men of the cloth.
After a beat, Father Baldoni n
odded slowly. “Yes. I think you have solved the puzzle.” He then began to walk to another bookshelf.
“What’d he say?” Konnor asked me.
When I saw what book Father Baldoni pulled off the shelf, I could tell Konnor truthfully, “You may be right.” I nodded at the symbol on the cover of the book Father Baldoni carried. It was the square and compass that had represented Freemasons for over a thousand years.
Father Baldoni placed the book next to the piece of paper and he, Konnor and I compared them. The Freemasonry symbol was not a closed diamond, like the one I thought I had seen on Christian’s chest, but it was more horizontal than vertical. We continued looking through the illustrations and, when we found the symbol of the open eye that had radiant beams extending from it, the combination was the closest thing we could find to what I had drawn from memory.
“I am not as familiar with these symbols as others,” Father Baldoni finally had to admit. “The church and Freemasonry…” He made another quintessential Italian shrug that said it all. “However, I have a colleague at the University of St. Andrews who has researched the society extensively.” Father Baldoni picked up the paper. “May we make a copy to send to him and get his opinion?”
After Giovanni had scanned my drawing and written down Konnor’s phone number and my email address, we prepared to leave. Father Baldoni kissed me on the cheek then took me by the upper arms and said, “I was so devastated to hear about your loss. I prayed for the soul of your husband.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“And this one,” Father Baldoni’s eyes flicked up to Konnor’s stony face. “Be careful with this one. He looks at you like a tiger would watch his prey.”
Of course, I didn’t translate that for Konnor. I wasn’t sure I’d want to hear his opinion on that.
Chapter Fourteen
Konnor insisted on returning to the apartment right away, and I agreed reluctantly. Rome was a beautiful, ancient city, but it was also full of thousands of international tourists, many of whom might recognize me, even with my unflattering dark hair. My goals to discover the truth about Christian would only be hampered if I attracted the attention of every European paparazzo.
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