down the corridor, one that only a select few were allowed to enter—a place where he kept the majority of the furniture and art he had acquired over his years in India. The drapes were drawn, a blazing fire and several candles setting the brightly-decorated room aglow. The opulent grandeur of his collection clashed with the smooth architecture and classical decor of the rest of the house, but it was all the more beautiful for that fact.
Rich tapestries hung from the walls, striking hues of red, gold, royal blue, and purple mixing in a divergence of geometric and floral patterns. Thick, plush rugs of a similar style muffled her footsteps as she side-stepped heavy cabinets and tables—some of carved brass, others lacquered a shiny black, and one of marble with inlaid, hand-painted tiles. Every surface displayed a wealth of curiosities. A collection of golden candlesticks here, a brass spittoon there, a cluster of ceramic elephants with jewels for eyes. Three hookah pipes stood in one corner of the room, towering structures made of silver, jade, and copper with painted glass bowls.
The centerpiece of the entire room was the massive portrait hanging over the hearth, and it was to this painting that Calliope went. She was always drawn to it, the image immortalized with a gilt frame captivating her now as it had the first time she’d lain eyes on it.
With her father standing at her side, reverent eyes turned upward, she soaked in the stunning visage of her mother. Calliope’s own features showed themselves on the canvas—the large, dark eyes, the sharp nose and high cheekbones, the mouth with the upper lip slightly plumper than the lower. Her skin had been depicted as a deep, rich copper, only a bit of the black, glossy hair visible along the edge of the gold-embroidered odhani head-covering. She’d been painted in the style of dress most suitable for a noble lady of Bengal, the full-length of the portrait showing a woman of petite height and slender frame draped in an opulent red and gold peshwaz—the garment fitting snug in its bodice before flaring open at the waist to reveal the matching, tapered breeches and slippers.
Unlike the portrait of Diana’s mother, which graced the drawing room downstairs where visitors were brought to take tea, her mother’s portrait was entombed away from prying eyes—meant only for those who had known and loved her. The viscount had ensured she understood that the portrait wasn’t hidden away because he was ashamed of his first wife, but because he hadn’t wanted to share her with anyone else.
As a child, Calliope had spent hours staring at the portrait and imagined her mother walking through the pleasure gardens that filled the corners of her memories, laughing and turning her face up toward a blazing sun. There was little of her short time in India left in her recollections, though whenever she thought of her mother and those gardens, a warmth and happiness fell over her that could not be denied. Her mother had loved her—Calliope felt that without even being able to recall her saying it.
“Vedah was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen,” her father said, his voice low as if speaking too loudly would chase away the lingering spirit of his first wife. “And she wasn’t only beautiful. She was strong and brave, and very much interested in the machinations of the imperial court. You and your care for the plight of the poor and abandoned … it comes from her, you know. She would be so proud of you.”
“Would she?” Calliope whispered, reaching out to caress a small ceramic pot resting on the mantel. All the things gathered here had belonged to her mother—a mother-of-pearl comb, face-paint pots, a jade brooch—all of it gathered as a shrine of sorts. “I often wonder how she might have fared in this world.”
“She would have reigned over the ton like a queen,” he replied with a short huff of laughter. “She would have had the men eating from her palm and the women clamoring for her friendship—for to fall out of Vedah’s favor was to be made to feel as if one had been cast into the seventh circle of Hell. She had a fiery temper, but she was rarely ever wrong. Her quarrels with me were often justified.”
“I’m certain she couldn’t have stayed angry with you for long.”
“I had my ways,” he murmured, eyes twinkling and lips quirking into a sad smile. “Returning here to take up the title