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A few moments later, they arrived.

Rather than use the main door, St. John guided them to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the house.

A nervous-looking footman led them through a maze of service corridors, past the kitchens, and up a narrow staircase to the main house. Finally, they emerged into an elegant drawing room where Roth awaited them.

His wife, Lady Roth, stood by his side. Her usually immaculate appearance was disheveled, her dark hair escaping its pins, and a worried glint in her eyes. Despite her obvious anxiety, she stood ready to assist, her chin lifted with determination.

Gideon felt Leila step closer to him, her fingers wrapping around his arm and holding tight. The simple gesture, both possessive and vulnerable, made something hard and aching soften inside him. He shifted slightly, offering his arm more fully, and covered her hand with his.

St. John quickly summarized the purpose of their visit, with Roth listening intently and asking pointed questions when clarification was needed. When they finished explaining, he nodded decisively.

“My portrait gallery is extensive,” he said, already moving toward the door. “If this man moves in society at all, there’s a good chance I’ve painted him or someone who knows him.”

He led them down a long corridor lined with paintings, finally stopping at a pair of double doors that opened into a magnificent gallery. The room was enormous, with soaring ceilings and walls covered from floor to ceiling with portraits. Hundreds of faces gazed down at them, all captured in Roth’s skilled brushwork.

Gideon watched as Leila began studying each portrait carefully, moving systematically from one wall to the next. Her posture was tense, her shoulders hunched in concentration. He could almost feel the frustration radiating from her as she examined each painting.

The men stood back, allowing her to work. Occasionally, one of them pointed out a portrait that might be promising, but Leila dismissed each one with a shake of her head.

“His eyes are similar to this man’s,” she said suddenly, pausing before a portrait of a middle-aged gentleman. She leaned closer. “But the eyebrows are bushier.”

She moved on. Gideon could see her growing more agitated with every shake of her head, her muttered comments becoming more terse.

“His chin is similar to this one,” she said next, halting in front of a portrait of a younger man. Her fingers traced the air, hovering just shy of the painted canvas. “Strong jaw. Cleft chin. But not quite right.”

A third portrait caught her attention—this one apparently sharing the Cardinal’s nose.

Gideon glanced toward Roth and saw the man’s brows draw together in thought. Clearly, something had clicked.

“Wait a minute,” Roth said suddenly, turning and striding away with purpose.

He returned with a leather-bound sketchbook and a handful of charcoal pencils, then walked up to the portrait Leila had studied first—the one with the eyes.

He opened the sketchbook to a blank page and, without preamble, began to draw.

“How much bushier are the eyebrows?” he asked, not glancing up.

Leila moved to his side, her voice urgent as she gave directions, pointing to specific areas and suggesting angles and shapes. Gideon observed her, admiring how focused she was despite the emotional toll this must be taking. Roth’s pencil moved quickly, translating her memories into a likeness on paper.

“The shape of the eye is right,” she said, “but more deep-set. And there were lines, here…”

As Roth added the final strokes, a sudden knock echoed through the house.

Not a polite tap. Not a hesitant rap. But a sharp, urgent pounding.

Everyone in the room froze. Roth’s hand stilled.

Gideon’s stomach tightened. He recognized that rhythm.

“It’s for me,” he said, already striding toward the stairs.

At the front door stood a tall, lean man with sandy hair, a sharp jaw, and green eyes. His coat was damp from the night air, and he looked like he’d ridden hard and fast.

“Ian!” Gideon exclaimed.

Ian stepped inside, his serious expression breaking into a grin. “Glad to be of service again, old friend,” he said, clasping Gideon’s hand. “Though my wife wasn’t pleased to be left in the middle of the night. I’ll be brief.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “I’m still with the Crown, but these days I’d rather be with my family. Marriage changes a man.”