Page 15 of Homeport

“Find anything I can use?” Miranda asked him.

“Huh?” He blinked at the page, but didn’t look up. “The villa was completed in 1489. Lorenzo de’ Medici commissioned the architect, but the deed was held by Giulietta Buonadoni.”

“She was a powerful woman.” Miranda pulled up a chair, pushing at papers. “It wouldn’t have been usual for a mistress to own such valuable property. She cut quite a deal.”

“Women of great beauty already hold great power,” he muttered. “The clever ones know how to use it. History indicates she was clever.”

Intrigued, Miranda took a photo of the bronze out of her file. “You can see in her face this was a woman who knew her own worth. What else can you tell me about her?”

“Her name comes up from time to time. But there’s not much detail. Her lineage, for instance, is buried in time. I can’t find anything. The first mentions of her I’ve found so far begin in 1487. Indications are she was a member of the Medici household, potentially a young cousin of Clarice Orsini.”

“So, going with that, Lorenzo took his wife’s cousin for his mistress. Keeping it in the family,” she said with a smile. Richard only nodded soberly.

“It would explain how she caught his eye. Though another source indicates she may have been the illegitimate daughter of one of the members of Lorenzo’s Neoplatonic Academy. That would also have put her into his line of sight. However they met, he moved her into the villa in 1489. By all accounts she was as devoted to the arts as he, and used her power and influence to gather the stars of the era under her roof. She died in 1530, during the siege of Florence.”

“Interesting.” Again, she thought, a time when valuables might have been secreted away. Leaning back, she swung her glasses by the earpiece. “So she died before it was certain the Medicis would remain in power.”

“So it appears.”

“Children?”

“I haven’t found anything on children.”

“Give me a few of those books,” she decided. “I’ll help you look.”

Vincente Morelli was the closest thing to an uncle Miranda could claim. He’d known her parents since before she was born and for several years had handled the publicity and promotions and events for the Institute in Maine.

When his first wife had taken ill, he’d brought her home to Florence, and had buried her there twelve years ago. He’d grieved for three years, then to everyone’s surprise, had abruptly married a marginally successful actress. The fact that Gina was two years younger than his eldest daughter had caused some consternation in his family, and some smirking grins among his associates.

Vincente was round as a barrel with a Pavarotti chest and legs like tree stumps, while his wife resembled a young Sophia Loren, lush and lusty and gorgeous. She was rarely seen without several pounds of Italian gold and winking gems clasped around her throat and wrist or at her ears.

They were both boisterous, loud, and occasionally crude. Miranda was fond of both of them, but often wondered how such an extroverted couple managed to remain in close association with her mother.

“I’ve sent copies of the reports upstairs,” Miranda told Vincente as he filled her small office with his bulk and personality. “I thought you’d want to see the progress, and that way when the time comes for an announcement to the media, you’ll have been able to extrapolate data for the statement.”

“Yes, yes. The facts are simple enough to write, but tell me what you think, cara. Give me some color.”

“My thoughts are we’ve still got work to do.”

“Miranda.” He said it slowly, with a persuasive smile, as he leaned back in the chair that creaked alarmingly under his weight. “Your beautiful mother has tied my hands until all—what is it?—t’s are crossed. So, when I’m able to take this story to the press, it must have impact and passion and romance.”

“If the bronze proves to be genuine, you’ll have impact.”

“Yes, yes, but more. The lovely and talented daughter of the direttrice comes across the sea. One lady to another. What do you think of her? What do you feel from her?”

Miranda arched a brow and tapped her pencil against the edge of her desk. “I think the Fiesole bronze is ninety point four centimeters in height, twenty-four point sixty-eight kilograms in weight. It’s a bronze nude, female,” she continued, holding back a smile as Vincente rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “crafted in the Renaissance style. Testing so far indicates it was cast in the last decade of the fifteenth century.”

“You are too like your mama.”

“You won’t get anywhere with me with insults,” Miranda warned, and they grinned at each other.

“You make my job difficult, cara.” When the time was right, he thought, he’d take his own angles on the press release.

• • •

Elizabeth scanned the paperwork with sharp eyes. Miranda had been very careful with the facts, with numbers, with formulas, with every step and stage of every test. But it was still possible to see where she was leaning, and where she believed she would end.

“You believe it’s genuine.”

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