Two determined women four hundred years apart. One mysterious statue. And a bombshell that could change history.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Secret Courtesan by Kerry Chaput, which releases on February 10th 2026.
Art historian Mia is running out of time to prove her theory that the sculptor of an unearthed erotic statue was a courtesan erased from history – a scandal no one will believe. Chasing through Venice, she tracks down hidden details of Sofia, a powerful courtesan who seems to have left a trail of sex-fueled art buried across the city, but Mia’s now being followed, and even her boss might be in on the lie.
Meanwhile, in 1609, Sofia defies Venice’s unfair laws to create illicit art that could ruin her future. Her aspirations to become a great artist go up in flames when her patron’s wife steals her work and threatens her lover.
Four hundred years later, it’s up to Mia to discover the truth, but now she’s uncovered a world of art theft that could leave her ousted – or, worse, right in the crosshairs of the most powerful crime family in Italy, who will stop at nothing to force her to authenticate the famous statue. Mia’s only hope is to prove Sofia’s existence before everyone involved silences them both forever.
The sun has set on another Friday. My authentication letter and press release land in my inbox just moments before I shut my laptop for the evening. All standard and expected, though the last sentence lingers like a bad taste.
I’ll give orders to prepare your new office as soon as I receive
the signed documents. —Dr. Wright.
Strings. There are always strings.
Once more, I stand at the foot of the marble statue with thoughts of time. Months or years a man chiseled and sanded because the world allowed him to indulge his creative soul. Someone commissioned him. Supported him. Promoted his notions of greatness.
“Dr. Harding, you normally don’t leave this early.”
My heart skips, but I remain collected, refusing to be upended by his black glasses and chin dimple. “I’ve lived in the archives for weeks, so tonight, I’m letting my hair down.” I touch my bun and know returning to my flat for an early bedtime is no one’s idea of letting loose.
“Brilliant,” he says with a smile. “I’m sure you heard Dr. Byron this afternoon berating your, well, everything.”
I lift my hand. “Thank you, Dr. Beckett, but I’m fine. I’ve been called every name you can imagine.” My childhood nickname, Mia Trashy, rises to the surface, but I force her down with a shove. My trailer park days are over. “I did appreciate you throwing your tea bag at his face though.”
“Dr. Byron may insult my choice of jumpers, but I won’t stand for him disrespecting a colleague.”
I look at his chest. His firm, round in all the right places chest. “Your jumper? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Please, you could see this from space.” He swings his arms at his sides. “My niece picked it out. I promised to wear it, and I am a man of my word.”
Mia, you’re near the finish line. Don’t do something stupid, like swoon over his adorable dimple and love for his niece. “Why today?”
“It’s my birthday.”
I click my heels together and dip my head, like a proper nerd. “Well, happy birthday, Dr. Beckett.”
“You can call me Noah.” His eyes sparkle. His hair falls somewhere between brown and red, while his lips flame a perfect bright pink. I stare at him a beat longer, avoiding the reality that threatens to suffocate me. The pause holds me hostage. I look for something to say but no words seem to appear, so I turn toward the door, and he blurts out, “Fancy a pint?”
The depths of his good looks rattle my brain, but I don’t date professors or researchers. I only date non-academia types, and I do it very, very poorly. I check the clock ticking in the hallway.
“It’s just a pint, Dr. Harding.” He places his hand on his chest. “With a man in an embarrassing jumper.”
Don’t do it, Mia. No. Absolutely not. “Okay.” Good grief, I have no willpower.
We walk a block to the closest pub, which is at least three hun- dred years old. The steep roof and cross gables suggest Queen Anne style, but the turret adds a delightfully gothic touch. I’ll miss this. I love dating buildings from their architectural details.
Noah must notice my distraction. “Wait until you see the interior. Nottingham alabaster abounds.” He opens the door and pulls out my chair as I curse myself for feeling a rush of heat in my belly when he smiles.
In a dark corner near a roaring fire, I decide the best approach is to focus on work. “What draws you to the Italian artists?”
He sips his Tennent’s Lager. “I spent a summer in Florence and became one of those insufferable blokes who attended art lectures and droned on about da Vinci’s inventions.”
A summer in Florence. Must be nice. “Inspiration. I like it.”
“What about you?”
I sip my stout to fill the thick silence. The truth seems appropriate here. “It was the opposite.” Noah tilts his head. I could offer many Freudian theories as to why I long to prove women are strong and capable, but I stick to what he’ll understand. “While you admired the Vitruvian Man, I focused on the Renaissance facts that made me want to scream. Like how women couldn’t stand by windows, lest they inflame the carnal desires of men. Or how women were banned from wind instruments for how they’d twist their faces in unattractive ways.”
He forces a swallow. “I don’t remember learning that.”
“Once I heard it, I couldn’t unhear it.”
This is about the time men’s eyes glaze over. Feminism is a super-hot topic, generally landing me back home well before sexy time with a bag of Ruffles and a rewatch of Downton Abbey.
“I’m glad I didn’t work on Byron’s article,” he says.
Solidarity. He’s trying to connect with me. “Why is that?”
He shrugs. “Call it a hunch.”
I crack my knuckles hidden in my lap. Nothing gets a historian hotter than a research scandal. “You know I can’t talk, but I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
He scratches his jaw, slow and deliberate. “All the internet hype around Armani.” He shakes his head. “It would cloud my head, you know?”
Yes, I do know. Dr. Byron has always struck me as a megalo-maniac, but even narcissists can perform accurate research. “I prefer the halls of obscurity to the Reddit history forums.”
“Besides,” Noah swirls his glass. “It’s a mystery what happened to Armani when he cracked.”
“And Caterina’s disappearance was so—”
“Mysterious.” Noah leans across the table with a disarming smile. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “There’s something else.”
This is a history nerd’s version of dirty talk. I raise my eyebrows and lean my weight forward as my heart pounds in my chest. “Do tell.”
“It’s not authenticated. Remnants of a letter from a seventeenth century Turkish prince discussed an Armani creation.”
He’s reaching. Is that what I’m doing? “Venice hosted plenty of powerful rulers, and one of them saw the statue. That’s not too odd.”
“Except.” He shrugs his shoulders up high to his ears. “That creation had two torsos.”
Our statue is broken on the back half. This theory is just far- fetched enough to be intriguing. “I’m gonna need another beer.” I look over my shoulder, but Noah touches my arm.
His eyes sparkle, aflame with the fire’s reflection. “That would mean The Estasi’s other torso has broken off and could be anywhere in Venice.”
The nutty smell of dark ale wafts into the air as I roll the hour- glass pint between my fingers. “Or the letter is nonsense.” My cheeks burn, usually a sensation that indicates a rare find. Must keep my wits sharp. But that’s very hard to do with his fingers still resting on my wrist.
“That’s why Dr. Byron didn’t include it.” Noah tips his head sideways, slowly trailing his fingers away from me. “He didn’t need to. There’s no record of this ruler ever traveling to Venice. Besides, that prince dabbled in art and had a reputation for fabricating wild stories.”
The clay was obviously broken, and the jagged edge that starts at the woman’s hair shows damage. But it isn’t obvious that there was another person carved behind her. Still, I can’t let on that I also question everything about this statue. “And this alone makes you doubt Dr. Byron’s research?”
“That and the man’s galaxy-sized ego. He blathered on for talk shows and had a writeup in The New York Times. He shook Sir Elton John’s hand for Christ’s sake.”
“He was in the spotlight for a hot minute there.”
Noah removes his glasses, and I find his naked face quite adorable. “You’re skeptical of his research,” he says. “That’s why you haven’t published your conclusions yet.”
I don’t deny it. I don’t agree either. Suspicion sat like a stone in my gut well before I took this assignment. Everything would be easier if I were wrong. Still, a strange comfort settles in my bones at the thought I may not be the only mistrusting one. “My job is to validate Dr. Byron’s research, not comment on his ego.” I rub the back of my neck and signal the waitress for another round. “Come Monday, the museum will release my findings, and I’ll be on the red eye for Los Angeles.” To a promotion that will pay for the late rent on my studio I just had to have in Venice Beach. I’m willing to ignore a hunch because of material things. Who am I?
His neck elongates like my neighbor’s cat when it eyes a bird—on alert and slightly offended. “You can’t sign that authentication.”
I loosen a bobby pin from jabbing into the base of my head. “There’s nothing to hold me back.” Nothing that I can prove, anyway.
Noah slides his glasses back in place, then props his hands on his thighs. “So, let’s find something.”
“That’s not how research is done,” I say. But his wavy ginger hair makes me want to blow the lid off how things are done. Tell him, Mia. You’re dying to.
“Listen, Byron’s work is satisfactory. We both know it.” He curls his knuckles against his cheek to conceal the conversation from any curious pubgoers. “What if we find something even bigger than anyone could imagine?”
Oh, how I long to say yes. I’m in no hurry to return home, filling my Amazon cart and listening to friends and lovers celebrate at the bistro outside my window. Initially, I considered the proximity to action a selling feature of the apartment, but their laughter has become one of the loneliest sounds imaginable. “Is this all to take down Byron?”
“I didn’t get the Sotheby’s contract, and I’m far more qualified than him.” Noah leans back in his chair. In this light, his sweater almost looks a sexy crimson. “History has been scripted by men like Byron. When is it our turn for the spotlight?” He rocks on the back legs of his chair, then leans forward again onto the table. “I’m quiet and polite, and that never gets me anywhere. Let’s explore unearthed secrets and ignored truths.”
Talk dirty to me, Noah.
He checks his glasses for alignment, unwittingly mastering the sexy professor gaze. “Well, what do you think?”
I think I must overcome this annoying hesitation and jump at the chance to earn everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s not as if I had a choice in the matter. He catches me spinning my pearl earring as I stall.
“Let me ask this.” He stretches, extends his arms, and places his hands behind his head. “What if you didn’t sign it today? What if you discovered cause to question Byron?”
There’s no harm in indulging him. “Then I’d ask for more time to interview subjects and track his sources.” Saying out loud what I’ve already secretly considered sends a chill up my neck. “The outcome of my assignment was implied and holding it up would put a target on my back. It would take one hell of a find to stop this train.”
Noah throws on his jacket and tosses a few bills on the table. “We better start straight away, then.”
He can’t be serious. “You want to spend your birthday in the archives for the minuscule chance we’ll discover something major in the next forty-eight hours?”
“Hell yeah, I do.”
I’m two beers in, and Noah’s excitement is infectious. Two more days. Maybe I’ll finally quiet that questioning voice that threatens to upend my career. I toss my bag over my shoulder, suddenly unconcerned that my hair twist has come undone. “To the archives, Dr. Beckett.”
