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had ever sent her flowers before. “According to the card, they are from a gentleman that I have just met—the Duke of Bridgewater.”  
    “Bridgewater?” Her papa was open-mouthed with astonishment.
    “Yes, I met him at the exhibition at Somerset House. Why?”
    Papa was diverted by the mention of the exhibition. “Ah, you went. Very good. Did the Verrocchio not look stupendous in the center of the hall?”
    “Yes, Papa, it certainly did, catching every eye, which is exactly what I am afraid of.”
    “Ah, je m’en fiche !” Papa waved off her concern. “You worry too much. But Bridgewater, he sent flowers like a young swain? Though he is rich, he is far too old for you. He’s fifty if he’s a day.”
    “You know him?”
    “But of course. He is one of the last great open-handed collectors of the day. It is he who tried to purchase the entirely of the Orléans collection, and in so doing convinced me to create the Blois collection. He has been, how shall I say, acquisitive about our collection’s as-yet-unseen treasures.”
    “Oh, no, Papa. He did not mention that when we met.” Mignon was suddenly feeling a great deal less flattered.
    “No? But he could not know that he is the one who inspired me, or rather his fortune did. Yet, I find it strange he did not mention that he has a Pontormo, the Portrait of a Halberdier , from the Blois Collection.”
    That sinking feeling that always accompanied her father’s casual talk of the Blois Collection was like a stone in her shoe, tripping her up and weighing her down. “Pontormo’s Portrait of a Halberdier , or your Pontormo?”
    “Mine, naturally. I would never part with an original Pontormo, had I one. But the original is gone—up in flames or scavenged for the gilding on the frame with the rest of my grandfather’s collection when the mob took the chateau.”
    “So you sold a forgery to the most important collector in Britain?”
    “Bah, I hate that word, forgery. The portrait was a magnificent work of art—it still is. Once the duc saw it, he had to have it. He couldn’t praise it highly enough. I took the lease on this house with the proceeds of that sale. Did he not mention our dealings?”
    “Not a word.” The sinking feeling had her entirely submerged, holding her breath under the murky waters of her father’s subterfuge. But she could see enough in those murky waters to realize that the Duke of Bridgewater was likely only after her to gain better access to her father’s reputed collection of art. Or— “Oh, no, Papa. What if he suspects something? What if he found some irregularity in the Pontormo?”
    “Calm yourself.” Papa took her cold hand, and chafed it between his own. “You worry too much. There can be no irregularity. I know my Pontormo. I mixed the paints myself, by hand, from very old, very pure Italian pigments in the antique style. No, no, there is no irregularity. Depend upon it.”  
    Her father could simply not conceive of his own vulnerability—of their vulnerability—or admit that he might have made a mistake.
    “Oh, Papa.” The very thought of Bridgewater’s notice now made her feel so uneasy.
    Papa was entirely unaffected by such qualms. “Will he be at the ball tonight?”
    “The note on the flowers indicated so.” Mignon sighed. All her enjoyment in the evening faded away. How she had much rather stay home now, and avoid it all.
    Papa, however, was far more practical. “Then we had best go and meet him, and find out what is really on his mind.”
    She did not have long to find out—no sooner had their hired sedan chairs deposited them in front of a mansion on St. James’s Square, than they were met by Sir Joshua Reynolds and the Duke of Bridgewater.
    Papa was all bright eyes and shameless encouragement as Mignon made her curtseys. “Gentlemen, let me introduce you to my daughter, my angel Mignon, for she is my greatest treasure.”
    Sir Joshua demurred. “I had the honor of introducing your very