So did Serena. She’d run behind on her current sculpture, too distracted by her brief clutch with her employer to risk working on expensive marble. Instead, she’d studied the submissions she’d solicited for the other four sculptures. While she would have liked to provide all the work, she knew it was not only unrealistic and unwise—variety in art was always to be desired—it would also be selfish. She’d sent her ideas to the Royal Academy, as well as to several of her fellow sculptors. It was good to spread the wealth.

“And will you sculpt, Mrs. Lombard?”

This unprecedented display of curiosity from the normally uninterested man surprised her. “I may, it depends if the muse cooperates.” She could see her words intrigued him and she explained. “It is best not to work unless I am able to give all my attention to the piece at hand. Anything less than total concentration is a recipe for disaster, and lots of ruined, expensive materials.”

“I have recently seen one of your pieces.”

“Oh?”

“An Egyptian piece.”

“You saw Seshat?”

He nodded.

Serena could hardly believe it. “That was an anonymous commission. I was paid in advance,” she gave him a wry smile, “which is very unusual in the art world.” She bit her tongue, dying to ask him where he’d seen it.

“I found the piece to be. . . mesmerizing.”

Again he had surprised her—and pleased her. Her cheeks burned as she looked up, shy at his praise. “Thank you. It was a difficult commission because I never knew how the owner felt about the piece.” It was as much fishing as she felt comfortable doing.

“I do not think she would mind me telling you that she treasures it.”

She? Twin flares of pleasure and jealousy burnt inside her. Was it his lover? And why would a person wish for such anonymity? How was it that everything about this man seemed to be shrouded in mystery?

“If it is not too—” he paused, as if searching for the correct word, the hesitation not characteristic of him. “Intrusive, I would like to know something of the process of sculpting.”

The degree of pleasure his question generated should have frightened her, instead, she was just gratified by his show of interest.

“My father trained me as his father had trained him, which is to say in the manner of most sculptors. You begin with years of molding and casting and then move along to some of the less-critical parts of a master’s work.” She smiled. “I am more of a craftsman than artist, I’m afraid. I have never seen the spark of genius in my work.” She shrugged. “But it gives me joy all the same.”

“How does one recognize a spark of genius?”

“Ah, that is the question. I could not describe it, but I know it when I see it.” She thought how she might communicate what she meant. “The sketchbook you have in the glass case—the one belonging to Leonardo, do you recall his drawings toward the back of the journal?”