The decision to meet the art historian hired to unravel the mystery of the portrait in the home offices of Tinsdal’s firm was an easy one for Henry Hackett. Like his boss and the senior officers he served under while with the colors, he always sought to gain a home field advantage when meeting someone he’d be working with for the first time, making the setting as intimidating as he could it in order to test the person without making it too obvious that was what he was up to. To this end he didn’t display the portrait in plain sight as Tinsdal had at his home. Hackett wanted to see just how long it took Ms. Ellsworth to ask where it was and when she could get started, for he was no different than Guy Tinsdal when it came to getting down to business. Small talk, insipid social chitchat, and the people who wasted his time engaging in it bored him to tears.

Having come to expect the offices of Tinsdal’s firm to match the oversized ego she imaged such a man possessed, Megan was quite surprised to find everything about Easley House was quite modest. Even more astonishing to a woman who often had the need to deal with self proclaimed patron of the arts whenever a special event was held at the National Gallery was the way the female receptionist and security guard posted at the reception desk greeted her. In addition to being delightfully amiable, when she informed the receptionist she wished to see Henry Hackett, the female cocked a brow before turning to the security guard stationed behind a waist high glass barrier behind her. “Don’t tell me Henry V is back and already on the clock?” she asked jokingly.

“There’s no rest for the wicked,” the security guard chuckled even as he warily eyeing Megan rummage about in the oversized leather messenger bag she had slung over she shoulder searching for her driver’s license.

As often happened whenever she surrendered her license to someone like the receptionist who proceeded to verify her identity by accessing a computer program connected to the internet, Megan held her breath as she waited to see how they would react. Despite knowing that not every security program spewed out her entire life story, she appreciated one didn’t need to dig too deep into her past to come across things she wished she could put behind her, but had come to accept she never could.

Ignoring the worried look with which Megan was regarding her, after handing her a day pass, the receptionist informed her how she could find the office Hackett was working out of that day before buzzing her through the gate leading to a lift the security guard had to key in a code in order to access it. This, together with the security measures that struck her as being a wee bit over the top for a firm that dealt with commercial real estate, should have clued her in that the deceptively easy going manner of the pair at the reception desk had been something of an act. At the moment, however, her thoughts focused entirely on going over each and every step she would need to take in order to discover whether the unsigned portrait of a young woman known only as the English Courtesan was what Tinsdal thought, ignoring as best she could the inbred skepticism a professional like her harbors when they came across something that seemed to be too good to be true, but hoped it was.

When the doors of the lift opened, Megan was once more taken aback by what she saw. Rather than the modern, almost sterile decor found in the corporate headquarters of most London businesses, the corridor she stepped out into bore a striking resemblance to Guy Tinsdal’s Belgravia mansion. Even after coming to the conclusion she was on the floor where the offices of the firm’s senior executives were located, she found herself impressed by the works of art that were hung along its full length in the same haphazard manner those Tinsdal kept at his home had been. As she made her way toward the office she’d been directed to, Megan had to force herself from stopping and taking a moment to study each and every one she passed. Still, she could not help but swivel her head from one side to the next and back again, doing her best as she went to determine if they were originals or damned good fakes. Only her desire to hurry along to where she expected she’d be at liberty to spend more time examining the portrait she’d be researching kept her from tarrying before some of the more intriguing pieces.

Upon reaching a suite of offices at the end of the corridor, she was whisked along by a comely young woman seated behind a desk in a salle d'attente who greeted Megan with a smile and a wave of her hand. “Henry’s waiting for you in there.”

‘In there’ turned out to be an office that was, like everything she’d come across since taking up the challenge Guy Tinsdal had presented her with, not at all what she had expected. Rather than a place where business was conducted by the sort of no-nonsense men Megan imagined a corporate pirate like Tinsdal would hire to handle whatever dirty little jobs he, himself, had no time for, the office resembled a private room in gentleman’s club. This impression was reinforced by the sight of a man she assumed was Henry Hackett seated in a leather bound chair off to one side rather than at a desk, casually leafing through a book on his lap.

When he perceive the woman he’d be chaperoning for the next few weeks was near enough, he made a great show of giving his head a quick shake and blinking as if he were surprised by her presence. After snapping shut the book in his lap and setting it aside, he came to his feet and offered Megan his hand. “Right on time,” he declared brightly.

Unlike her meeting with Tinsdal, Megan was not near as self conscious, for Henry Hackett was a worker bee, not the über boss. As such, in her eyes they were equals. Still, she could not completely let her guard down, for dealing with men in a one-on-one situation like this was still a bit awkward for someone like Megan who had not quite managed to master all the rules governing how men and women working together were expected to follow. When she reflexively averted her eyes to escape the fixed, searching gaze Hackett was holding her in, they fell on the cover of the book he had set aside. Unable to help herself, she smiled. “I see you found Peter Silverman’s book.”

“I didn’t exactly find it,” Hackett countered, pleased that she had spotted the book Tinsdal had given him. “I was all but ordered to read it by the boss.”

Megan nodded as she pulled her hand away. “Be that as it may, I expect you now have a good idea what my efforts will entail.”

“As good as anyone who’s never done something like this can, I expect,” he replied in an offhanded manner as he used this opportunity to study the woman before him. She was taller and much younger than he had expected. While she was not what anyone would consider pretty, the hint of makeup she was wearing nicely highlighted her best features, which in Hackett’s mind were her grey eyes that almost matched the color of the blazer she wore over a white blouse with a notched collar festooned with delicate white embroidery. Her otherwise drab attire was counterbalanced by an amber pendant hung from a silver chain and an amber butterfly pin in a silver setting fastened to the lapel of her blazer.

For her part Megan found herself somewhat underwhelmed by the man before her, for she had expected someone who held a position she had been led to believe Henry Hackett held need to be… Well, she concluded when she couldn’t quite put her finger on the words she was searching for, if he was going to be of any help to her, he needed to be more than what see was seeing.

This perception, and the conclusion it led to, was something Hackett took great pains to cultivate, for unlike the men he worked for, either as part of Guy Tinsdal’s personal empire or when in the service of Queen and country, he had found it was always best if the people he need to deal with underestimated him, at least in the beginning. Having come across far too many men in positions of authority who failed to measure up to their own hype, Hackett adhered to the dictum set forth by von Moltke the Elder that stated a staff officer should appear less than he was. And if Henry Hackett was anything, he was a good staff officer, which made him invaluable to Tinsdal.

Having spent as much time sizing up the man she’d be working with as she felt she needed to, Megan turned her attention to the next item on her agenda; examining the portrait of the English Courtesan which was, she quickly realized, no where to be seen. “Well, unless there is something you feel we need to go over, if you don’t mind I would like to get started.”

Pleased the woman he’d be responsible for was eager to get on with it, Hackett nodded. “Yes, of course. How would you like to proceed?”

Intimately familiar with the established protocol used when dealing with a case like this, steps that would have been obvious to people who were just as passionate as she was when it came to the history and preservation of fine works of art, Megan found herself confused by Hackett’s question. After blinking, she gave her head a quick shake, then took to staring at him quizzically. When he did nothing but return her stare as he waited for her to reply, ever so slowly she came to the sad conclusion his question had been a serious one, causing her to sighed. This, she told herself, wasn’t going to be easy. “If it’s at all possible, I would like to examine the portrait.”

The grin that lit up Hackett’s face was due as much to an expression of exasperation the young woman made no effort to mask as an appreciation she was as Tinsdal had described her, an eager, no-nonsense young woman. “Ah! Yes, of course. Right this way Ms. …”

It took a moment for Megan to realize the man who was supposed to be helping her had either had forgotten her name or, even more disconcerting, didn’t know it. Once more she didn’t bother trying to hide her frustration she felt over being saddled with such a dolt. “Ellsworth,” she snipped in a haughty, dismissive tone. “My name is Megan Ellsworth.”

“Yes, I know. What I was hinting at, Ms. Ellsworth, was how would you prefer I address you?” Hackett explained in an offhanded manner.

Yet again, Megan found herself caught off guard. Was this man being serious, she wondered as she returned the fixed stare he was holding her in as he waited her answer.

When she didn’t respond straight away, Hackett chuckled. “Meaning no disrespect, Ms. Ellsworth, I think it would make working together far easier and, I dare say, more enjoyable if we were on a first name basis.”

“Um, yes. Right,” Megan stammered as she again averted her gaze in an effort to avoid the manner with which Hackett was regarding her. He was right, of course, she concluded as he led her out of his office to another room where she hope the portrait was. Even Clive Barrow, a man everyone at the National Gallery referred to as ‘The Prof’ behind his back because of the manner with which he dealt with his underlings allowed her to use his first name, a rare privilege that not only made working with him easier, but alerted others at the National Gallery that she ranked among ‘The Chosen Ones,’ young art historians he considered to be gifted, trustworthy, and loyal to a fault. “Megan, if you wish,” she finally muttered as she gave Hackett a quick glance out of the corner of her eyes.

“Too bad,” Hackett shot back. “I was hoping for something more creative, like Mags or Meggie.”

“Megan will do nicely, thank you,” she sniffed as they continued along.

“Megan it is,” Hackett declared crisply as he was opening the door leading to a small, private conference room located at the opposite end of the building from the one Megan had first been directed to. So caught up in her own thoughts and thrown off her game by Hackett’s manner, she never suspected this arrangement, like the setting where she had met the man next to her, had been engineered to provide him with an opportunity to find out just what kind of person she was before she became lost in her quest to find out if the portrait was what Tinsdal hoped it was.

The scene that greeted her had been staged with the same meticulous forethought and preparation with which Henry Hackett did everything. The works of art normally found in the small conference room adjacent to Guy Tinsdal’s office had been removed, least they proved to be a distraction to Ms. Ellsworth. The lighting had also been rearranged so as to draw attention to the portrait, which was set upon a tabletop easel in on the center of the small conference table from which the chairs had been moved away, save one. Even the room’s lighting had been changed out. The usual cost effective, energy efficient florescent lights had been replaced by blubs with a color rendering index rated to provide illumination that was more natural, akin to daylight.

Hackett’s efforts had not been for naught. The moment Megan stepped into the room and laid eyes on The English Courtesan, she came to a full dead stop. Gone was the look of exasperation over the way things had played out so far that morning she had made no effort to hide. In its place was a cool, steady gaze, one that told Hackett the young woman at his side had slipped into what his mates in The Regiment referred to as target lock.

Having accomplished all he had hoped to during his initial encounter with the tall, plainly dressed art historian, he decided the time had come for him to step aside and let her get on with the task at hand. To that end he stepped back and took a seat in one of the conference room chairs set against the wall.

Megan took no notice of what Hackett was doing as she stood there, forcing herself to evaluate the portrait as a whole rather than rushing right up to it and studying the fine details she hope would betray its creator.

Following her first viewing of the portrait at Tinsdal’s mansion, she had spent hours in the achieves of the National Gallery as well as the Rewley House Library in Oxford where she not only studied up on da Vinci’s techniques, but also went over the record of all portraits attributed to him. While doing so, she had drawn up a timeline of his life in her notebook, an old style wire bound note book that required the use of a pen set to paper, for Megan was very much a traditionalist like her mentor, a man who had never been able to master the intricacies of battery powered notebooks. Her timeline was more than a litany of where da Vinci had lived and the length of time he was in residence at each, it included a full listing of the great master’s patrons and all known apprentices he had mentored during his life. Thus prepared, she believed she was more than ready to see if The English Courtesan measured up to the great master’s exacting standards few have ever equaled.

Ever so slowly, she moved closer to the portrait, one half-step at a time, pausing every so often whenever an aspect of the work that had caught her eye demanded she take a moment to study and mentally catalog it before proceeding. Only when she could move no closer because she had bumped into the edge of the table did she take a moment to absentmindedly slide her oversized bag off her shoulder, set it on the table, and fish out her notebook and a magnifying glass. Never once did she take her eyes off the portrait as she was preparing to examine it in greater detail, for she was just as intrigued by the subject of the portrait as she had been at Tinsdal’s home.

The serene expression of the young woman known only as the English Courtesan betrayed a quiet confidence the artist had been able to capture with such incredible accuracy that Megan found herself waiting for the subject’s chest to rise and fall as she, the subject in the portrait, took in a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out as an untutored model sitting for art students often did. It was a silly thought, yes, but one only a great master, one such as da Vinci himself, was able to evoke in Megan.

“Who are you?” Megan whispered to the young woman in the portrait as she found herself forgetting for the moment that it was the name of the artist, and not the subject of his work of art, that she was supposed to be looking into. Never once did Megan bother to look behind her to where Henry Hackett was sitting, watching her every move, asking himself the same question of the young art historian seated across the room from him.

The book mentioned in the text by Peter Silverman is Leonardo's Lost Princess. It Chronicles the efforts to uncover the mystery behind the portrait known as La Bella Principessa and served as a guide in the telling of this story.