Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  “Ah.” He let out a sigh as she set the undraped bronze on the counter. “Bella, molto bella.”

  “A fine execution.” Richard pushed his glasses back into place and squinted at the bronze. “Simple. Fluid. Wonderful form and details. Perspective.”

  “Sensual,” Giovanni said, bending to look closely. “The arrogance and the allure of the female.”

  Miranda cocked a brow at Giovanni before giving her attention back to Richard. “Do you recognize her?”

  “It’s the Dark Lady of the Medicis.”

  “That’s my opinion as well. And the style?”

  “Renaissance, unquestionably.” Richard reached out with a tentative finger to stroke the left cheekbone. “I wouldn’t say the model was used to represent a mythical or religious figure, but herself.”

  “Yes, the lady as the lady,” Miranda agreed. “The artist portrayed her, I’d guess, as she was. From an artist’s standpoint, I would say he knew her, personally. I’ll need to do a search for documents. Your help would be invaluable there.”

  “I’d be happy to help. If this can be authenticated as a major piece from the Renaissance period, it will be quite a coup for Standjo. And for you, Dr. Jones.”

  She’d thought of it. Indeed, she’d thought of it. But she smiled coolly. “I don’t count my chickens. If she spent any amount of time in the environment in which she was found—and it appears she did—the corrosion growth would have been affected. I’ll want the results of that, of course,” she added to Giovanni, “but I can’t depend on it for true accuracy.”

  “You’ll run relative comparisons, thermoluminescence.”

  “Yes.” She smiled at Richard again. “We’ll also be testing the cloth, and the wood from the stair tread. But the documentation will make it all the more conclusive.”

  Miranda leaned a hip on the corner of the small pickled-oak desk. “She was found in the cellar of the Villa della Donna Oscura, secreted under the bottom tread of the stairs. I’ll have a report on the details we know at this point for the three of you. The three of you and Vincente only,” she added. “Security is one of the director’s top concerns. Whoever you require to assist you must have A-grade clearance, and the data you give them must be kept to a minimum until we’ve completed all tests.”

  “So, for now she’s ours.” Giovanni winked at her.

  “She’s mine,” Miranda corrected with a slow, serious smile. “I need any and all information on the villa itself, on the woman. I want to know her.”

  Richard nodded. “I’ll start right away.”

  Miranda turned back to the bronze. “Let’s see what she’s made of,” she murmured.

  A few hours later, Miranda rolled her shoulders and eased back in her chair. The bronze stood before her, smiling slyly. There were no signs of brass or silicon bronze, no platinum, none of the metals or materials that weren’t used in the Renaissance in the sliver of patina and metal she’d extracted. The bronze had a clay core, just as a piece of that era should have. The early testing of the corrosion levels indicated late fifteenth century.

  Don’t be hasty, she ordered herself. Preliminary tests weren’t enough. So far she was working in the negative. There was nothing out of place, no alloy that didn’t belong, no sign of tool work that didn’t jibe with the era in her visual exam, but she had yet to determine the positive.

  Was the lady true or false?

  She took time for one cup of coffee and some of the pretty crackers and cheese Elise had provided for her in lieu of lunch. Jet lag was threatening, and she refused to acknowledge it. The coffee, strong, black, and potent as only the Italians could brew, pumped through her system, providing a caffeine mask over fatigue. She’d crash eventually, Miranda knew, but not for a little while yet.

  Placing her hands over the keyboard, she began hammering out the preliminary report for her mother. It was as strict and dry as a maiden aunt, thus far devoid of speculation and with very little personality. She may have thought of the bronze as a puzzle, a mystery to be solved, but none of the romance of that found its way into her report.

  She sent the report via e-mail, saved it on the hard drive under her password, then took the bronze with her for the last test of the day.

  The technician had little English and entirely too much awe for the daughter of the direttrice for Miranda to find comfortable. Miranda conjured up an errand, and sent her off for more coffee. Alone, she began the thermoluminescence process.

  Ionizing radiation would trap electrons in higher-energy states in the clay core of a bronze. When heated, the crystals in the clay would give off bursts of light. Miranda set the equipment, taking quick notes on each step and result in a notebook. She took the measurements of those bursts, logging them in, adding them to her notes as well as for backup. She increased the radiation, heated the clay again, to measure how susceptible it was to electron trapping. Those measurements were carefully logged in turn.

  The next step was to test the radiation levels from the location where the bronze had been discovered. She tested both the dirt samples and the wood.

  It was a matter of math now. Though the accuracy of the method was hardly foolproof, it was one more weight to add to the whole.

  Late fifteenth century. She had no doubt of it.

  Savonarola had been preaching against luxury and pagan art during that period, Miranda mused. The piece was a glorious kick in the ass to that narrow-minded view. The Medicis were in control of Florence, with the incompetent Piero the Unfortunate taking the helm for a short period before he was expelled from the city by King Charles VIII of France.

  The Renaissance was moving from its early glory, when the architect Brunelleschi, the sculptor Donatello, and the painter Masaccio revolutionized the conception, and the functions, of art.

  Coming from that, the next generation and the dawn of the sixteenth century—Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, nonconformists searching for pure originality.

  She knew the artist. Knew in her heart, her gut. There was nothing he had created that she hadn’t studied as intensely and completely as a woman studies the face of her lover.

  But the lab wasn’t the place for heart, she reminded herself, or gut instinct. She would run all the tests again. And a third time. She would compare the known formula for bronzes of that era and check and recheck every ingredient and alloy in the statue. She would dog Richard Hawthorne for documentation.

  And she’d find the answers.

  three

  S unrise over the rooftops and domes of Florence was a magnificent moment. It was art and glory. The same delicate light had shimmered over the city when men had conceived and constructed the grand domes and great towers, had faced them with marble mined from the hills and decorated them with the images of saints and gods.

  The stars winked out as the sky turned from black velvet to pearl gray. The silhouettes of the long, slender pines that dotted the Tuscan hillsides blurred as the light shifted, wavered, then bloomed.

  The city was quiet, as it was so rarely, while the sun inched upward, misting the air with hints of gold. The iron gates over the storefront newsstand rattled and clanged while the proprietor yawned and prepared for the day’s business. Only a few lights shone in the many windows of the city. One of them was Miranda’s.

  She dressed quickly, facing away from the stunning canvas that was quietly painting itself outside her hotel room. Her mind was on work.

  How much progress would she make that day? How much closer would she come to the answers? She dealt in facts, and would stick with facts, no matter how tempting it was to leap to the next level. Instincts couldn’t always be trusted. Science could.

  She bundled her hair back in a clip, then slipped on low-heeled pumps to go with her simple navy suit.

  Her early arrival would guarantee her a couple of hours of working in solitude. Though she appreciated having experts at her disposal, The Dark Lady had already become hers. She intended for every step of the project to bear her stamp.<
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  She held her ID up to the glass door for the heavy-eyed guard. He left his coffee and breakfast cakes reluctantly, and shuffled over to frown at the card, at her face, then back at the card. He seemed to sigh as he unlocked the door.

  “You’re very early, Dottoressa Jones.”

  “I have work.”

  Americans, as far as the guard was concerned, thought of little else. “You must sign the logbook.”

  “Of course.” As she approached the counter, the scent of his coffee reached out and grabbed her by the throat. She did her best not to drool as she scrawled her name and noted the time of arrival in the log.

  “Grazie.”

  “Prego,” she murmured, then started toward the elevator. So she’d make coffee first, she told herself. She could hardly expect to be sharp before she’d had at least one jolt of caffeine.

  She used her key card to access the correct floor, then entered her code once she was at the security post outside the lab. When she hit the switches, banks of fluorescent lights blinked on. A quick glance told her everything was in place, that work in progress had been tidily stored at the end of the workday.

  Her mother would expect that, she thought. She would tolerate nothing less than neat efficiency in her employees. And in her children. Miranda shrugged as if to shift the resentment off her shoulders.

  Within moments she had coffee brewing, her computer booted, and was transcribing her notes from the evening before onto the hard drive.

  If she moaned at the first taste of hot, rich coffee, there was no one to hear. If she leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, smile dreamy, there was no one to see. For five minutes she allowed herself to indulge, to be a woman lost in one of life’s small pleasures. Her feet slipped out of her practical pumps, her sharp-boned face softened. She all but purred.

  If the guard had seen her now, he would have approved completely.

  Then she rose, poured a second cup, donned her lab coat, and got to work.

  She retested the dirt from the site first, measuring the radiation, running figures. Once again she tested the clay that had been carefully extracted. She put a smear of each on a slide, then made a third with the scrapings of bronze and patina, and studied each under the microscope.

  She was studying her computer screen when the first of the staff began to trickle in. It was there Giovanni hunted her down with a fresh cup of coffee and a delicately sugared roll.

  “Tell me what you see,” she demanded, and continued to study the colors and shapes on the screen.

  “I see a woman who doesn’t know how to relax.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed gently. “Miranda, you’ve been here a week now, and haven’t taken an hour to yourself.”

  “The imaging, Giovanni.”

  “Ah.” Still massaging, he shifted so that their heads were close. “The primary decay process, corrosion. The white line there indicates the original surface of the bronze, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “The corrosion is thick on the surface, and it grows downward, deep into the metal, which would be typical of a bronze of four hundred years.”

  “We need to pinpoint the rate of growth.”

  “Never easy,” he said. “And she was in a damp basement. The corrosion would have grown quickly there.”

  “I’m taking that into account.” She removed her glasses to pinch out the pressure in the bridge of her nose. “The temperature and the humidity. We can calculate an average there. I’ve never heard of corrosion levels like this being faked. They’re there, Giovanni, inside her.”

  “The cloth is no more than a hundred years old. Less, I think by a decade or two.”

  “A hundred?” Irritated, Miranda turned to face him. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. You’ll run tests of your own, but you’ll find I’m right. Eighty to a hundred years. No more.”

  She turned back to the computer. Her eyes saw what they saw, her brain knew what it knew. “All right. Then we’re to believe that the bronze was wrapped in that cloth and in that cellar for eighty to a hundred years. But all tests indicate the bronze itself is a great deal older.”

  “Perhaps. Here, eat your breakfast.”

  “Um.” She took the roll absently and bit in. “Eighty years ago—the early part of the century. World War One. Valuables are often hidden during wartime.”

  “True enough.”

  “But where was she before that? Why have we never heard of her? Hidden again,” she murmured. “When Piero Medici was expelled from the city. During the Italian Wars perhaps. Hidden, yes, that could be accepted. But forgotten?” Dissatisfied, she shook her head. “This isn’t the work of an amateur, Giovanni.” She ordered the computer to print out the image. “It’s the work of a master. There has to be some documentation, somewhere. I need to know more about that villa, more about the woman. Who did she leave her possessions to, who lived in the villa immediately after she died? Did she have children?”

  “I’m a chemist,” he said with a smile. “Not a historian. For this you want Richard.”

  “Is he in yet?”

  “He is ever punctual. Wait.” He laughed a little, taking her arm before she could hurry away. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Giovanni.” She gave his hand an affectionate squeeze, then drew hers away. “I appreciate the fact that you’re worried about me, but I’m fine. I’m too busy to go out to dinner.”

  “You’re working too hard, and not taking care of yourself. I’m your friend, so it’s up to me.”

  “I promise, I’ll order an enormous meal from room service while I work at the hotel tonight.”

  She touched her lips to his cheek just as the door opened. Elise lifted a brow, mouth tight in disapproval.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. Miranda, the director would like you to come to her office at four-thirty for a discussion of your progress.”

  “Of course. Elise, do you know if Richard’s free for a moment?”

  “We’re all at your disposal.”

  “That’s exactly what I was telling her.” Obviously immune to frost, Giovanni grinned, then slipped out of the room.

  “Miranda.” After a brief hesitation, Elise stepped farther into the room and shut the door at her back. “I hope you won’t be offended, but I feel I should warn you that Giovanni . . .”

  Darkly amused by Elise’s obvious discomfort, Miranda merely smiled blandly. “Giovanni?”

  “He’s brilliant at his work, a valuable asset to Standjo. But on a personal level, he’s a womanizer.”

  “I wouldn’t say so.” Head angled, Miranda slipped on her glasses, tipping them down to look over the copper tops. “A womanizer uses. Giovanni gives.”

  “That may be true, but the fact is he flirts with every female on staff.”

  “Including you?”

  Elise’s well-arched brows drew together. “On occasion, and I can tolerate that as part of his personality. Still, the lab isn’t the place for flirtations and stolen kisses.”

  “God, you sound like my mother.” And nothing could have irritated Miranda more. “But I’ll keep that in mind, Elise, the next time Giovanni and I toy with having wild sex in the chem lab.”

  “I have offended you.” Elise sighed, lifted her hands helplessly. “I only wanted to . . . It’s just that he can be so charming. I nearly fell for it myself when I first transferred here. I was feeling so low, and unhappy.”

  “Were you?”

  The ice in Miranda’s tone had Elise straightening her slim shoulders. “Divorcing your brother didn’t make me jump for joy, Miranda. It was a painful and difficult decision, and I can only hope it was the right one. I loved Drew, but he. . .” Her voice broke, and she shook her head fiercely. “I can only say it wasn’t enough for either of us.”

  The gleam of moisture in Elise’s eyes brought Miranda a hard tug of shame. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It happened so quickly. I didn’t think you gave a damn.”

  “I did. I still do.” She
sighed, then blinked back the threatening tears. “I wish it had been different, but the fact is that it wasn’t, and isn’t different. I have to live my life.”

  “Yes, you do.” Miranda shrugged. “Andrew’s been so miserable, and it was easier for me to blame you. I don’t imagine the breakup of a marriage is ever one person’s fault.”

  “I don’t think either of us was very good at marriage. It seemed cleaner and even kinder to end it than to go on pretending.”

  “Like my parents?”

  Elise’s eyes widened. “Oh, Miranda, I didn’t mean—”