Somehow the idea that the curator of the Wawel Castle’s museum professionalism would be on par with the standards Clive Barrow adhered to, or Gérard Caron’s urbane demeanor was one Megan was disabused of even before introductions were complete. To say Jan Peszke came across as imperious to the point of being insufferable would have been overstating things, but not by much.

Henry was able to put his finger on the nub of the problem right off when, upon being shown the portrait, Peszke harrumphed. “It is, indeed, a very pretty picture,” he announced in heavily accented English following a cursory examination. The man, Henry concluded, was a purist of the worse sort, the kind who considered art historians to be separate and apart from True historians. As if to prove this point, if any further proof was necessary, after being asked about the ring the subject in the portrait was wearing, Peszke proceeded to lecture them as if they were first year university students.

“Even when this ring was created, it was quite rare,” Peszke informed Megan and Henry as the two sat side by side across a small conference table from him. “Only people who were in the service of the King were given them, for they told all who saw it that the wearer was a representative of the King, a trusted agent who had had the authority to act in the his name.” Henry, as well as Megan, already knew this. They also knew the design of the ring predated the founding of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, a subject Peszke felt the need to delve into even though it had no direct bearing on the purpose of Megan and Henry’s visit.

“The idea that a Polish king would give such a ring to a foreigner, as you claim, is laughable,” Peszke concluded with an air of confidence.

“And yet he did,” Megan countered in a tone that alerted Henry her patience with the Polish historian was wearing precariously thin.

“Other than this pretty picture of yours, what proof do you have? By your own admission, you do not know who the woman in it is.”

“It’s obvious she’s not Polish.”

“Why obvious?”

“I doubt the artist named the portrait The English Courtesan simply because he didn’t feel calling the Polish Courtesan had the right ring to it,” Megan countered sarcastically.

Rather than being put off by Megan’s growing belligerence, a grin lit up Peszke’s face. “Surely as a woman you appreciate just how important it is to follow fashion trends least other women look down upon you as being hopelessly out of touch by wearing a styles that are passé. I expect women who were members of the English court were no different, wearing Italian inspired fashions when they in vogue, then switching to French when Anne Boleyn became queen. Even here in Poland female members of the Polish court took to wearing Italian inspired gowns for no other reason than to curry favor with Bona Sforza when she married Sigismund I in 1518.”

Unable to contest his point, Megan found herself reduced to doing little more than glaring at the self-assured Polish historian who, believing he had prevailed, took to smirking. Henry, who had kept clear of the exchange up to this point, decided the time had come to intervene, if for no other reason than to keep Megan from saying something that was inappropriate and highly unladylike.

“We appreciate both your time and efforts,” he intoned, causing the two antagonists who had been eyeing each other as if bracing for a fresh go at each other to turn their attention to him. Megan, who was on the verge of abandoning all efforts to reign in her ire, glared at him sporting an expression that all but asked ‘who the bloody hell asked you for your opinion?’ Peszke, on the other hand, was quite pleased the male half of the pair he had spent the afternoon with had finally decided to assert himself by taking the tiresome young woman in hand and allow him to get back to tending other, more important matters.

An attempt by Megan to inform Henry she was not quite finished was cut short without affording her an opportunity to voice her objections to his meddling. Coming to his feet, Henry slipped the portrait back into its padded carrier even as he was thanking Peszke for taking the time out of his busy day to chat with them. “If you happen to come across anything you think might be of interest to us, you can reach us at the Bonerowski Palace hotel where we’re staying, or at this number,” Henry informed Peszke as he was handing him his card. Then, without waiting for Megan to say anything, or more correctly before she had a chance to, Henry took up the carrier the portrait was in, turned to Megan, and cocked a brow. “Shell we?”

Peeved, but very aware there was no point in pressing the matter, Megan huffed. “Fine.” With that, she stood up and marched out the door of Peszke’s office.

Henry said nothing as they made their way out the gates of Wawal Castle and headed toward the Rynek, the center of the old city. Along the way the crisp fall air, brisk pace, and old world charm of Kraków managed to work its magic on Megan who had all but stormed out of the Castle’s museum. It wasn’t until they were in the middle of the city’s market square that she bothered to glance over at Henry. “Why did you do that?”

The temptation to pretend he had no idea what she was talking about was dismissed without a second thought. He had little doubt she was in no mood to be messed about. Instead, he took to looking about as if wondering how best to answer her. “I think if you set aside your pride, which that sorry sod was taking such delight in trampling on, you would have to admit we’d pretty much accomplished all we set out to achieve there.”

Unwilling to concede the point, Megan grunted. “So says the voice of reason and experience.”

“So says the voice of someone who knows when to break contact and withdraw from a fight he has no hope of winning.”

This less than subtle reminder there was a very dark side of the man she was walking next to he had yet to share with her caused Megan to look over at him, wondering whether he was speaking metaphorically or if he had actually found himself in a position where he’d had to flee from a fight before being overwhelmed by a bloody minded foe. Deciding this was not the time or place to delve into that particular subject, she turned her attention to other, more immediate concerns. “Okay, so we know our English courtesan, who probably wasn’t really English at all, was here in Kraków, or at least knew someone who was a member of the Polish court.”

“An important member of the court who had direct access to the King,” Henry added.

“Or Queen,” Megan added. “Even that odious, sanctimonious, little git we wasted an entire morning listening to had to admit Sigismund was never a strong leader, that Bona Sforza was a force to be reckoned with, especially in the 1540s during Sigismund’s declining years.”

With nothing more than a nod, Henry conceded Megan’s point.

“Which tell us what?” Megan asked wistfully.

Before answering, Henry steered Megan toward an open air café where they settled at a table, ordered coffee, and took a moment to collect their thoughts in companionable silence as they watched tourists and residents mingle under the statue of Adam Mickiewicz, a noted nineteenth century Polish romanticist and notorious philanderer. Eventually, when he’d determined the young art historian had calmed down and was ready to listen to an idea he’d been mulling over, Henry turned to the question they had left hanging, the ‘what now?’ of this odd quest they were on.

“What if we’re all wrong about the woman in the portrait? What if she really wasn’t a courtesan, but something else, something very different?”

Not sure where Guy Tinsdal’s faithful dogsbody was going with this, Megan frowned. “Like what?”

Satisfied she was willing to hear him out, Henry eased back in his seat and took up his coffee. “Oh, I don’t know. A spy perhaps?”

“Excuse me?”

“A spy, or at the least an agent for someone who had an interest in knowing what was going on in Poland, England, and Italy, places where our mysterious Renaissance woman seems to have visited.”

The temptation to dismiss such an idea out of hand was forgotten almost as quickly as the thought crossed her mind. Having come to appreciate Henry Hackett was more than an errant boy, Megan was prepared to hear him out. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Henry did not answer right off, turning his attention instead to where an elderly couple, tourists by the way they were dressed, were trying to find someone to take their picture with their camera, a very expensive one by the looks of it, in front of the monument to Adam Mickiewicz, a man who had never been in Kraków. ‘I hope you don’t try that in Italy,’ Henry thought to himself as a scruffy young man took the camera from the elderly couple and fiddled with it while the couple began to argue over where they should stand.

With a loud, audible sigh and shake of his head, Henry turned his attention back to Megan. “Give me an hour or so to mull a few things over, do a little research on the web, and collect my thoughts.”

Not having any better ideas at the moment, and needing some serious alone time, Megan shrugged. “Sure.”

“We’ll discuss this tonight, over dinner.”

“Are we dinning in the hotel again?” Megan asked as Henry was trying to catch their waiter’s attention.

“Yes, but not ours.”

“Oookay,” Megan intoned warily as she regarded him over the lip of her coffee cup as she was preparing to take a sip.

With his mind already wrapping itself about the task ahead, Henry cut to the chase. “The Copernicus. We have reservations at nineteen thirty.”

“Is it fancy?”

“Well, it most certainly isn’t a McDonald’s, if that’s what you mean.”

Realizing she wasn’t going to get a straight answer from him, at least not one that would help her decide what to wear, Megan decided to do a little research of her own. Not having had the opportunity to put some of the advice Silvia Mollini had shared with her, she decided this just might be the perfect time to try something she’d been considering, but had yet been able to muster the nerve needed to try.

With that settled, she watched as Henry settled the bill, stood, and turned his attention to her. “Ready?”

Megan smiled. “Oh yes.”

The moment she stepped out into the lobby of the hotel where they were staying and spotted Henry seated near the entrance, the confidence that had driven her on earlier in the day and as she was dressing evaporated faster than the morning mist. The only thing that kept Megan from pivoting about and beating a hasty retreat back to her room to change was the realization Henry had spotted her and the appreciation a graceful, quick about face was impossible while wearing heels that made her feel as if she were walking on stilts. With no alternative but to press on, Megan gathered up the collar of her coat about her throat, took in a deep breath, and stepped off, muttering under her breath as she went, “Half a league, half a league, half a league forward.”

“I was about to dispatch a search party,” Henry proclaimed as he came to his feet.

“Sorry. I sort of lost track of time.”

“A likely excuse,” Henry snickered. “Well, if you’re ready?”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Megan whispered to herself as she swept past him without meeting his gaze and out the door being held by open for her.

It wasn’t until they had arrived at the restaurant and he was helping her off with her coat that the meaning of her statement back in the lobby became clear. Having become accustomed to her less than spectacular taste in clothing, Henry was quite taken aback when, free of her coat, Megan slowly turned and faced him.

Working for Guy Tinsdal often times required Henry to mingle with a class of people a man with his background and no nonsense, workaday tastes would not have associated with if given a choice. So the sight of a woman in a little black dress was nothing he hadn’t seen before. What made him pause was the shy innocence the art historian before him radiated. Everything about her, from the way she stood there, waiting for him to say something, to the way her eyes nervously darted nervously about in an effort to avoid meeting his steady, unflinching, gaze was inexplicably captivating.

Already self-conscious, Megan could not help but cast a quick glance to her left, then her right in an effort to see if their behavior was causing a scene before turning her full attention back toward Henry. “Ah, Henry. Is something wrong with this?” she asked indicating her dress with a quick flick of her hand.

Ever so slowly, he shook his head. “Not – one – single – thing,” he replied as a Cheshire Cat grin lit up his face.

Feeling like Little Red Riding Hood must have while being eyed by the Big Bad Wolf, Megan cleared her throat. “Well then, shell we?”

“Most definitely, we shall.”

It took a full glass of wine and an overly protracted perusal of her menu to calm Megan’s jangled nerves. Even then, as soon as their waiter had taken their order and she had downed the better part of a second glass of wine, she still felt like a cat someone had set down on a hot stove. “So,” she chirped in an effort to snap Henry out of the trance he seemed to be lost in as he stared at her across the table as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Ready to share your thoughts on why you think our courtesan is a spy?”

Suddenly aware of just how obvious his staring had been, Henry blinked several times. Taking up his own glass of wine, he used the time it took to gulp it to collect himself. “Yes, well, as I was saying earlier today, I’ve come to the conclusion our English Courtesan, if in fact she was English, was so much more.”

Devilishly pleased with the way she had been able to unnerve the here-to-fore unflappable Henry Hackett and embolden by the wine, Megan decided to try something she’d seen in an old Audrey Hepburn movie. Ever so gracefully she planted her elbows on the table and clasp her hands together before gently laying them against the side of her cheek. Sporting a half smile and an attentive, owlish gaze, she stared across the table at Henry. “I’m listening,” she cooed huskily.

Convinced she was toying him, but not knowing how to put an end to it, or even if he wanted to, Henry decided to do his best to ignore Megan’s little act and press on. “I am convinced the items the subject took great care to be depicted with, and the detail with which the artist replicated them were not only meant to inform the viewer who she was, but to communicate a message.”

“What sort of message?” Megan asked with an affected breathiness.

‘Not the sort you’re trying to send,’ Henry thought to himself as he paused to refill their wine glasses before continuing.

“I believe our girl is attempting to tell the people she was working for, controllers in modern parlance, here is where I have been and what I have accomplished.”

“How?”

Having regained his footing, Henry was able to lay out his case in much the same way he did when putting forth his justification for lunching a raid on a terrorist stronghold when Queen and country found themselves in need of his services. “As your dear friend in the Wawel Castle pointed out, the ring bearing the crest of the Kingdom of Poland makes it clear our girl was able to not only get close to the King and Queen, one of them trusted her. If she had been given a specific task to accomplish by her handlers, once she had she would need someway of telling them she had succeeded.”

Fascinated by the case Henry was laying out, Megan dropped her little act. Easing back in her seat, she took up her wine glass. “Go on.”

“The books, the one sitting on the table, was printed in 1553 and the one she’s holding open in her lap not only tells us where she has been, but when.”

Unsure of what those tidbits of information hinted at, Megan tilted her head to one side and frowned. “Of what use could that be?”

“The book in her lap was first printed in Venice at a time when the various powers struggling for supremacy in the eastern Mediterranean were enjoying a rare and uneasy peace. In addition to recovering from their last go at each other, everyone with an interest in the region would all want to know who their foes during the next round would be, which allies could be relied upon when called on, and what everyone was doing to prepare for it.”

“Why Venice?” Megan asked as she was raising her glass to her lips she’d taken such great care to accentuate with an alluring, kissable red lipstick.

“What better place than a seaport like Venice to work from, where ships from all around the Med and Black Sea put in, bringing news, rumors, and ideas from all corners of the world. And then there were the publishing houses, owned and operated by men who were free to print books written by some of the most important and influential people of the day without the heavy hand of a repressive church or suspicious autocrat censoring them. In the mid 1500s a full quarter of all the books in circulation in Europe were published somewhere in the Venetian Republic.”

“And the other book, the one published in England?”

Realizing he had the upper hand in this strangely seductive exchange for the first time that evening, Henry allowed himself something of a grin as he reached out for his wine glass. “The date the book was published is what is important.”

Unable to come up with anything resembling a guess, Megan frowned. “What’s so important about the date?”

“Edward VI, an avowed protestant died that year.” Pausing, Henry too a sip of wine. “When Henry VIII died in 1547 Edward was nine years old, which meant a regency council established to rule until the boy reached his majority. Edward Seymour, 1st Duke of Somerset was named Lord Protector of England and head of that council. His appointment set in motion a conflict between him and his brother, Thomas Seymour, Lord Admiral of the Royal Navy. This power struggle was exasperated by a series of rebellions. The most serious were those fueled by religious zealots seeking to achieve dominance for their chosen faith. Others were minor uprisings motivated by peasants either seeking agrarian reforms or attempting to stifle them. And of course, there were foreign wars.”

“Of course,” Megan cooed seductively as she took advantage of a slight pause to mess about with Henry. “We mustn’t forget those.”

Try as hard as he could, Henry found himself unable to ignore the way Megan was behaving. Whether she was simply having fun at his expense, or there was more at play here than he was prepared to deal with at the moment was impossible to tell. What was crystal clear to him was the young woman he’d met but a month ago was evolving.

“Um, yes, of course,” he muttered. “Well, as you can well imagine, this all created a period of unrest and chaos in England, particularly when Mary, Katherine of Aragon’s daughter became queen and set about doing her best to undo the religious reforms Henry VIII and Edward VI had set in motion, earning her the moniker of Bloody Mary. This continued well into the reign of Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen.”

As she listened, it began to dawn upon Megan there was so much more to what they were doing than simply trying to find out who had painted a portrait Guy Tinsdal had purchased on a whim. She was so taken in what Henry was laying out that the sudden appearance of their waiter with their meal caught her by surprise.

As if by mutual consent, both Megan and Henry decided to set aside the business of the day and devote themselves to enjoying their meal and, in their own way, each other’s company. For Henry, this meant using every opportunity that came his way to glance across the table at a woman who was becoming more intriguing with each passing day. Megan, on the other hand, found herself recalling an old joke a friend of hers had shared with her concerning how one goes about letting someone of the opposite sex know they were interested. It started by asking how two porcupines mated. The answer, her friend had declared brightly, was obvious. Very carefully.

Sleep did not come easy to Megan that night. As she was shedding her dress and removing her makeup, she found herself dwelling on the way Henry had behaved earlier that evening. Despite not having been a date, not in the conventional sense, everything about the way she had acted and he, much to her own surprise, had responded told her dinner, and the walk back to their hotel afterwards, had been more than another meal shared with a coworker. The question she could not answer at the moment, one that was bedeviling her, was whether this was simply a one off affair of no lasting import and that everything would go back to the way things had been between the two of them before this evening or…

Unable, or more correctly, unwilling to finish that thought, Megan turned her mind to other things. After pulling on a well worn, unadorned light grey cotton nightdress that came to her knees, she settled down at the desk in her room, fired up her laptop, and began to make notes, detailing some of the points Henry had made during dinner. When she was finished with that, she pulled up the outline they had been using as a guide in organizing their efforts and began to merge the new ideas with previous notes she had made.

Sometime just after midnight, when she was finished with this, she paused to look over her efforts. It was then that what had been nothing more than a checklist she had been dutifully following suddenly took on an entirely different appearance. Rather than a roadmap used to guide their efforts, the outline was beginning to become something very different. But what?

Easing back in the straight back chair, Megan crossed her arms as she took to staring at her computer screen. Glancing over to where the portrait was sitting as it sat every night, propped upright on a collapsible tabletop easel, her eyes fell on the books that Henry had mentioned. The books were no longer stuff thoughtlessly included by the artist in order to add a little color to the piece. They were keys, hidden clues that he was convinced would unlock the door to discovery, discovery of who, and in the artist’s mind, what the woman in the portrait was.

As if struck by a bolt of lightening, Megan sat upright. The outline on her computer screen wasn’t an outline, not any more. It was a table of content to a book, a book that had yet to be written, a book she realized she needed to write. Lurching forward, she took to beavering away, opening a fresh page and reordering bullet points into well defined chapter headings. Once finished, she turned her attention to the notes she had reworked, using them to sketch out a brief description of what would be in each chapter.

With an urgency that bordered on being manic, she labored away through the night, stopping only when the pale light of a fresh, early fall dawn began to peek through the partially open curtains of her room. She was about to finish up by saving what she had done when she realized she had one more thing to do. Moving the cursor to the top of the first page, she typed out a title, one that drew upon a comment that had irritated her a scant twenty-four hours before but now, seemed to sum up the very point she would try to make.

Slowly, almost reverently she tapped each key. When she was finished, she smiled the smile of a confident and very content professional as she read to herself what she had just written;