CHAPTER
FIVE
It wasn’t a date.
Finley should have made that perfectly clear. She should have said as much, rather than nodding mutely and walking away. Because really, it wasn’t a date. Was. Not.
It couldn’t be. He thought he was Russian royalty. Royally delusional was more like it.
But what on earth was he doing with a photograph of Anastasia?
The picture was real—Finley was certain of it. She’d seen enough photos from the time period to know a fake from an original. What was more, she suspected it had been taken by the Tsar himself. Nicholas II was an avid photographer and filled albums with family pictures during his lifetime. Maxim’s photo had even been hand-tinted in dreamy watercolor tones of pale blue and green, as had many of the photos in the Romanovs’ private collection. Anastasia’s older sister, the Grand Duchess Maria, had hand-colored a large number of her father’s prints. She’d highlighted clothing, hair color and the medals on her father’s military uniforms. Most of the tinted photographs had been taken during 1918, mere months before the family’s execution. Which meant that if Maxim’s photo was genuine . . .
It could be priceless.
Finley’s heart thumped hard in her chest. She wondered if Maxim could hear it. God, she hoped not.
The picture looked identical to those last pictures of the Romanovs. Finley planned on showing it to one of the archivists at the Louvre, just to be sure. Her colleagues could date a photograph by looking at the thickness of the cardstock, the shape of the photograph’s corners, and countless other miniscule details were all clues. But Finley would’ve bet a year’s salary it was the real deal—she had that gut feeling.
Plus the necklace in the photo looked exactly like a cabochon ruby pendant that had been designed by the House of Fabergé and tucked inside one of the Romanovs’ Imperial easter eggs. The necklace had disappeared sometime after the Tsar’s family went into exile, but Finley had studied enough grainy black-and-white photographs to recognize that ruby pendant anywhere.
The more Finley stared at the ghostly image, the more she was convinced it was Anastasia. She held the priceless treasure close to her heart as she trekked back through the courtyard, past the shimmering glass pyramids, toward the Louvre. Her thoughts whirled with possibilities.
What if she could prove the picture was actually a lost photograph of Anastasia? An image no one had ever seen before? It could be a showpiece, one of the most coveted items in her exhibition. Newspapers all over Europe would cover it. The promotion she wanted would practically be guaranteed.
She could become the first American curator in the Louvre’s history.
But she was getting ahead of herself, wasn’t she? Even if it was real, there was the problem of provenance. Finley couldn’t just stick the picture on the wall and tell everyone it was Anastasia. She’d have to show a history of ownership, and according to Maxim, the picture had been in his family since he was a small boy. There was also the very problematic detail that he’d been told it was a photo of his own grandmother.
He thought his grandmother was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
Royally delusional, indeed.
Finley flashed her employee ID badge and made her way inside the museum with the photograph, feeling almost like a criminal. It wasn’t often people snuck art into the building rather than out of it. But she supposed there was a first time for everything.
The hallways, as always, were thick with afternoon tourists. For once, Finley was grateful for the crowds. Otherwise, she might’ve taken a side detour through the portrait gallery to catch another glimpse at Serov’s painting of Nicholas II. Purely for research, of course. And perhaps for reasons involving her sanity.
She was desperate to rid herself of the absurd notion that Maxim in any way resembled the Tsar. Things were getting too confusing, not to mention a tad overwhelming. She could barely look at the man without feeling as though her heart might beat right out of her chest. All of this would be so much easier if he weren’t so handsome. Or mysterious. Or charming.
He’s just a man. She squared her shoulders and slid her cardkey at the entrance to the decorative arts curatorial offices. An ordinary, nonroyal man.
“Finley.” Madame Dubois was waiting beside Finley’s table when she walked through the door. “Glad you’re back. I only have two hours until my department head meeting. Shall we go over the most recent acquisitions for the exhibit?”
“Yes.” Finley quickened her steps. “Absolutely.”
Her boss looked less than pleased. She’d never get promoted by slipping away midmorning for a secret rendezvous in the Tuileries. Although it hadn’t exactly been a rendezvous. It had been a business meeting.
And when was the last time you’d wanted to kiss a man in the middle of a business meeting? It’s no wonder you’re still an assistant curator.
She squared her shoulders and slid the photo facedown on her desk. “Where would you like to start, madame?”
Her boss’s gaze snagged on the picture. Because of course it did. “What do you have there? Something new?”
Finley’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t prepared to talk about the photograph. Not yet.
“It’s . . . um . . . nothing,” she stammered. “Just a photo that someone alleges is of Anastasia. I’m quite certain it isn’t.”
Liar.
“Really?” Madame Dubois flipped the photo over and bent to examine it. A few of the other assistant curators in the room turned their heads.
Great. Now the photo was a thing. “I’m really not prepared to present it. I haven’t verified its authenticity. And there’s a question about the photograph’s provenance.”
Madame Dubois peered at the picture, then picked it up by its edges using only the very tips of her fingers. She inspected both sides, then looked up. “This could very well be authentic. Have you taken it to the research department to have it tested yet?”
“No, madame. It just came into my possession.”
The senior curator lifted a brow. She almost looked impressed, which was a rarity. “Wherever did you find it?”
Merde. Finley took a deep breath. “A gentleman who attended my presentation last night brought it to me this morning.”
“Was this the gentleman who came by earlier to see you?”
Finley nodded. “Yes. Maxim Laurent.”
Madame Dubois’s gaze flitted from Finley to the photograph and back again. “I see, and where did this Monsieur Laurent get it?”
The room had grown uncomfortably quiet. Finley got the distinct feeling that the other assistant curators were waiting for her to make some ridiculous mistake. These people might be her coworkers, but at the end of the day, they weren’t her friends. All of them wanted the same elusive thing. Full curatorial positions didn’t come along every day.
She swallowed. “The photograph is a family heirloom. It belonged to his grandmother.”
Madame’s eyes narrowed. Finley would’ve given anything for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. “His grand-mère? Who was she? A servant? Someone with ties to the royal household?”
You could say so.
“I’m not sure. As I said, I’m still trying to establish provenance. I hope to clear some things up with Monsieur Laurent later this evening. We have a . . .” Don’t say date. Do. Not. She forced her lips into a smile. “. . . an appointment.”
After what seemed like an endless pause, her boss nodded. “Very well. I’ll expect an update in the morning.”
That gave her less than twenty-four hours to explain Maxim’s existence. Quel challenge. “Oui, madame.”
“This could be quite a find.” Her boss handed her the photograph. Finley transferred it to her desk as though it were a live grenade. “Unless your Monsieur Laurent has contacted you in order to make a claim under the Century Rule.”
Every thought in her head snagged on the words make a claim. She felt sick all of a sudden.
Madame Dubois turned her attention to the treasures that had been carefully catalogued and arranged on the table. “This makes twelve Fabergé eggs in total for the exhibition, oui?” Her gaze moved slowly from one item to the next.
Finley did her best to ignore the panic that had lodged itself firmly in the pit of her stomach. “Yes, twelve. These final four are the most valuable. The Rosebud egg is one of the most well-known Fabergé treasures. It was the very first one Nicholas II gave his wife, Alexandra.”
Finley had gone to the Fabergé Museum in St. Petersburg to collect the masterpiece in person. Even though she’d seen more photographs than she could count of the bejeweled, red-enameled egg, the priceless treasure was more intricate and lovely in person than she could have ever imagined. She still wanted to pinch herself every time she touched it to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. This was real life. Her life. A life she’d managed to build for herself at a time when she’d felt helpless and alone.
She’d done it. She’d bounced back . . . for the most part. And she wouldn’t let anything or anyone jeopardize this life she’d so painfully put back together.
“The Rosebud egg still has its surprise, unlike so many of the others.” Madame Dubois slid on her cotton gloves and gingerly picked up the yellow enamel rosebud that Peter Carl Fabergé’s workshop had fashioned to tuck neatly inside the dazzling red-and-gold egg.
Most of the Imperial eggs originally contained “surprises”—tiny objects that fit inside the eggs when they were closed. Photographic evidence showed that the surprises were usually tiny diamond crowns or pendants. Such small items were easily lost or stolen, and few remained.
“The yellow rosebud surprise has never been separated from the Rosebud egg, but the rosebud itself opens up as well. At one time it contained a diamond-and-ruby crown, as well as a cabochon ruby pendant. They’ve both been lost for years.” Finley took a deep breath. Could the lost pendant be the same one in Maxim’s photograph? What if it was somehow in his possession?
She needed to calm down. He didn’t know what happened to the necklace—he’d already said so. Besides, the idea that he could have lost Romanov treasures lying around his flat was crazy.
And something about the sound of the Century Rule gave her a very bad feeling. As much as she dreaded the answer, she couldn’t go another minute without asking what exactly it was. “Refresh my memory about the Century Rule, s’il vous plaît?”
Several of the assistant curators looked up. One of them, Maurice, frowned and shook his head.
Message received. I’m the American, the odd girl out.
She squared her shoulders. She did belong here, damn it. She’d spearheaded a major exhibit at the Louvre. She’d just signed books at Shakespeare and Company. She was no idiot.
“The Century Rule is a French regulation providing restitution for families and individuals who have been victimized by government policy.” Madame Dubois sighed mightily. “This is the kind of thing you should be familiar with, Finley. Surely you’ve heard of it.”
Maybe she was an idiot after all. “Does this have anything to do with returning art that was stolen by the Nazis during the Holocaust?”
Finley was well aware of the Washington Conference Principles, an agreed-upon set of guidelines followed by the United States and most European countries for returning Nazi-confiscated art to its prewar owners or their heirs. Several important pieces of art, such as Gustav Klimt’s Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, had been removed from museums in recent years and returned to heirs of families who’d had art confiscated by the Nazis. The art world reeled every time it lost an important painting, but it was only fair to return the work to its original owner, or at least Finley thought so.
“Oui, the Century Rule was instituted here in France after so many claims were made on notable pieces. Put simply, it’s a statute of limitations. A family has one hundred years to claim ownership of artistic treasures confiscated by a governing body. Once a century has expired since the art was seized, the remaining heirs give up any and all of their rights.” Madame Dubois nodded. “I only bring it up because the one-hundred-year anniversary of the Romanovs’ execution is coming up soon.”
Finley’s knees wobbled.
“What would happen if someone stepped forward and purported to be a direct descendant of the Romanovs?” It took superhuman strength for Finley to keep her voice steady. Maxim couldn’t possibly know about this French rule, could he? He barely remembered his own name. Being up to date on French legislation didn’t seem like it would be a priority after what had happened to him.
Unless he was lying.
Madame Dubois peered at Finley over her glasses. “If the claim was made while all of this art was on French soil, it would be catastrophic. The government would prevent us from returning the pieces to the institutions that loaned them until the identity of the claimant was verified.”
Every drop of blood in Finley’s body pooled in her feet. She had to lean backward against the edge of her desk to prevent herself from slumping to the floor.
This can’t be happening. I’m supposed to get promoted, not single-handedly bring down the most famous museum in France.
If Maxim thought he was Anastasia’s grandson, did he also think he was going to waltz into the Louvre and take away all the Romanov treasures?
Of course he did.
He wasn’t some beautiful, brooding mystery. He was a con man. How could she have been so stupid?
Madame Dubois smirked. “Thankfully, the days of all the fake Anastasias are over. As you well know, many women claimed to be Anastasia in the decades following the Bolshevik Revolution. None of them were real, obviously. I was being tongue-in-cheek about the Century Rule, Finley. The Romanovs died out in 1918. We have nothing to worry about. You know that as well as I do, right?”
“Absolutely.” Somehow Finley forced the word out of her mouth, even though it was probably the biggest lie she’d ever uttered in her life.
Nothing to worry about?
She had everything to worry about, starting with Maxim Laurent.