Love and Splendor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 5 (13 page)

Travis frowned but said nothing. He would have preferred her to not be so independent but was determined to let his daughter spread her wings and fly, if that was what she wanted. Life with Alaina must have been hell on Earth. Dani deserved some freedom…and happiness.

Dani could see the spiraling white towers of the Sacré Coeur peeking from behind the corners of the narrow streets. She hesitated, pursed her lips thoughtfully. It was such a gloriously beautiful day that she just had to yield to the temptation of a bit of sightseeing before continuing on to the shop.

She went to the Sacré Coeur, the “Church of the Sacred Heart”, and drew in her breath in awe at the sight of the impressively massive interior, said to be able to hold nine thousand people. There were ornate mosaics, but she was not, at the moment, interested in the decor. Instead, she climbed the steep stairs to the top of the dome where the view offered a miraculous, panorama of Paris and a distance of thirty miles or more in any direction.

Dani loved Paris, and France, and seeing the glorious splendor spread out before her only made her appreciate even more her newfound freedom. Yet, she knew she wanted more.

She thought of Drake, the way he made her feel. Yes, he was a womanizer, no doubt about that, but she liked him, and felt confident that he would not manipulate her as he did his other women. She would make sure of that.

So why, she asked herself with a touch of trepidation, was she filled with such anxiety at the thought of being with him again?

The answer was quite, simple.

Never had she known anyone like him; therefore, there was no precedent, no comparison, no experience to rely on. Truly she was on her own and would be forced to deal with each and every moment of their time together on sheer instinct alone.

Suddenly, Dani laughed aloud, and it was a good feeling, there on the terrace of the Sacré Coeur, with Paris sprawled before her in all its glory. She was not, she acknowledged firmly, afraid of this dashingly handsome Russian. In reality, she was looking forward to what was surely to be an exciting time in her life…no matter the outcome!

The shop was located on Place du Tertre, and Dani was quite proud of the building she had purchased. The space she would be occupying was not very large, but she would expand as her business grew. Young painters lived in the rooms on the floors above, and she looked forward to making friends with them.

She unlocked the front door, and after taking off her shawl, she began an inspection of her inventory. With Kitty’s help and expertise, they had located another antique shop in another section of Paris that was being sold. Not interested in the store’s location, Dani had been able to acquire its contents, for the owner had died, and the heirs were interested in liquidating everything as quickly as possible.

She lovingly viewed her favorite pieces from the purchase: a yellow-flowered pearwood table with intricate carvings; luscious linen hangings from Belgium; Flemish paintings dating back to the 1520s; an 1806 portrait of someone unknown by Sir Henry Raeburn.

There were Japanese cloisonné pieces that several people had heard about and told her at last night’s social that they were interested in buying. It was amazing, she reflected, how the same pieces had probably been for sale for years in the other shop, in another location, but because of her social position, the fact that she was wealthy in her own right, people wanted to buy from her.

Dani walked to where the Monaco paintings were displayed on one wall, which she had delicately covered in pale blue silk to give them the most elegant background. As always, she became transfixed by the crude rendering of the famed Alexandrovsky Palace. There was just something about it, something she could not explain, that held her fascinated. At first, she thought perhaps it was its frame. Roughly made of some kind of woven twigs, it had been rubbed smooth, as though someone had whiled away many hours long after the painting was completed. But why? She shook her head in response to her own question, knew it was not merely the frame. There was just something sad and haunting about the work. The palace was, no doubt, dazzling in reality, but the artist, obviously an amateur, had somehow managed to capture its architectural splendor while at the same time enveloping it in a melancholy aura.

Dani sighed, shuddered, thought how there was something almost frightening there. Yet she adored it, had no intentions of selling it, no matter how high the offer. Soon, she would be going to Austria and would, no doubt, purchase many other paintings to stock her gallery. After the grand opening, the Alexandrovsky Palace painting would be stored away for the future as part of her own personal collection.

She turned at the melodic sound of the bell as the front door opened.

Drake stepped inside, smiling fondly at the sight of her walking toward him. “As beautiful as I remembered,” he murmured. “I was afraid you were only a dream.”

Dani fleetingly wondered how many other women had heard such a greeting from the stunning Russian, then said, “Welcome to my shop and gallery.”

“Thank you for allowing me a private showing.”

“You may not be so appreciative when you have seen my modest offerings. I’m not fully stocked yet, as you can see, but I think there are some interesting pieces.”

He followed her around as she showed him what was being offered for sale, and all the while he was burning silently with the anticipation of viewing the Monaco discoveries. So long, he had searched. Each time he heard there was a painting of a landscape in Russia, he tried, when viewing it, to display as little interest as possible, lest he arouse suspicion. But this was the first time anyone had discovered a painting of the palace…and that, according to what he had managed to find out, was what he was seeking.

“And here,” Dani was saying with a flourish, for she had deliberately saved the gallery for the last, knowing these were the most intriguing offerings of her modest little shop, “we have the great discovery from the wine cellar of Count deBonnett’s château in Monaco!” She gave him a sweeping bow, then stepped to one side.

Drake moved forward, quietly drawing in his breath and pretending absolute nonchalance. He went from left to right, slowly, studying each painting carefully, trying to hold back, to appear in no hurry whatsoever. He knew, instinctively, that the palace painting would be the very last one displayed.

Then, he was before it and
he knew.

A quick, sweeping look told him what he had prepared himself for—that if, indeed, this was the painting he had been seeking for over a decade, the answer would not leap out at him. The puzzle would not be solved in the blinking of an eye. Meticulous examination would be required…just as the pseudo-artist had intended.

Dani spoke. He heard the sound, not the words. He tore his gaze from the painting, forced a smile, muttered, “Excuse me, what did you say?”

“I don’t know why everyone finds this painting so fascinating,” she repeated.

A chill of foreboding danced over him, but he managed to hold rein on his composure. “Everyone?” he echoed mildly, then feigned disappointment. “I thought I was being given a privileged showing.”

Dani was quick to explain. “Oh, I shouldn’t make such a broad statement. There was only Cyril Arpel. He and Kitty have known each other for a while, and when he asked her for a private viewing, I saw no harm. But I was really surprised when he said he’d like to buy this one. After all, it’s not even a good effort by an amateur, but…” She paused to study the painting once more, then declared, “There’s just something inexplicably captivating about it.”

Drake frowned, turned away lest she see, for it was becoming increasingly difficult to appear complacent when there was a great, nagging roar building within. Why would a renowned connoisseur such as Cyril Arpel be interested in buying a dilettantish offering such as this?

Why, indeed!

He knew that, somehow, Cyril had discovered the secret. How he found out was not as important as whether others knew as well. Then he decided that was not really a factor. Cyril would tell no one, had probably heard by accident. The Czar would keep his word, Drake was sure.

Lost in thought, he did not hear the sound of the bell as the front door of the shop opened and closed, nor was he aware that Dani hurried to respond…nor did he hear her speak when she returned to where he stood, transfixed, before the painting.

“Drake!” She tugged at his sleeve, slightly agitated, for she had called his name several times without response. “Drake, I’m speaking to you…”

He turned, looked down at her without really seeing her, then gave himself a mental shake as he silently cursed for allowing his mind to drift. “I was absorbed in the art, I’m afraid. Forgive me.”

She smiled tolerantly, then offered an apology of her own as she explained she would have to leave him for a few moments. One of the tenants wished to show her something he wanted repaired. Would he mind her going?

He shook his head, eager to be alone, to scrutinize each detail of the Alexandrovsky Palace as closely as possible.

Then, once mere, he allowed himself to drift…back in time…back to the painful memories that would haunt him until the day he returned honor to his family’s name.

Dolskoi Mikhailonov enjoyed a few drops of royal blood flowing through his veins. Two hundred years before him, from 1645 to 1676, a Mikhailonov ancestor had served Russia as Czar Alexei I. Due to the family blood—and money—Dolskoi had been brought up in the Imperial Russian Court amid a life of luxury and devotion to the reigning Czar and his family.

Dolskoi’s father, Serge Mikhailonov, had faithfully served Alexander I during the waning years of his rule, then went on to devote himself to his successor, Nicholas I. Serge was killed in the Crimean War with England, France, and Turkey. But, during the time Serge served his Czar, Dolskoi was growing up looking to the Czar’s son, Alexander II, as an older brother. Despite the thirteen years’ difference in their ages, the two were inseparable, and Dolskoi called the Winter and Summer Palaces of the royal family home.

The Czar ruled Russia from the Baltic city of Saint Petersburg, situated on a river marsh in a northernmost corner of his empire. So great was the imperium that dawn came to the Pacific coast while the sun set on the western borders. Scattered throughout one sixth of the land surface of the globe were the Czar’s thirty million subjects—Slays, Baits, Georgians, Jews, Germans, Uzbeks, Tar-tars, and Armenians.

The Czar, it was said, could do no wrong. He was called the
Batiushka-Tsar,
the Father of the Russian people, and a Russian proverb decreed: “It is very high up to God! It is very far to the Tsar!” The Czar was considered to live in a place nearer heaven than Earth.

The royal family favored Saint Petersburg, called the Venice of the North. It was considered European not Russian. The architecture, morals, and styles were thought to be of Western influence. Italian architects, brought over by Peter the Great over a hundred years before, had left their mark in huge baroque palaces, situating them between sweeping and broad boulevards.

Saint Petersburg was a northern city where Arctic latitudes played tricks with light and time. Over baroque spires and frozen canals in winter the strange fires of the aurora borealis danced. Summers were as light as winters were dark, with nearly twenty-two hours of daylight.

But it was not in Saint Petersburg that young Dolskoi Serge Mikhailonov and the next Czar of Russia dreamed of spending their time. The Alexandrovsky Palace was where they loved to be. Built by Quarenghi in the years 1792 to 1796 by Catherine II for her grandson, Alexander I, Dolskoi and his mentor spent every moment possible there.

Alexander II ascended to the throne in 1855, upon the death of his father, Nicholas I. He was then thirty-seven; the man considered his closest confidant, Dolskoi Serge Mikhailonov, was only twenty-four.

It was six years later, in 1861, that Czar Alexander earned the title of Liberator when he emancipated the serfs. Freedom, however, did not produce food, and when the black earth cracked and burst open with drought, and famine came with the withering of grain while still on the stalk, the peasants grumbled and unrest began in the kingdom.

Meanwhile, Dolskoi was enjoying his position of prestigious servitude to his Czar and found himself eagerly pursued by eligible young ladies of court. However, it was not blue blood that won his heart…but blue eyes.

Annine Beaumonde was a seventeen-year-old ballerina who had come from France to study at the Imperial Ballet School in Saint Petersburg. She was small, vivacious, with a full bosom, arched neck, supple body, silky-dark hair…and the bluest eyes Dolskoi had ever seen.

One look, and he fell hopelessly in love.

Annine could not help but be impressed to have the attention of one of the handsomest and most famous of Russian bachelors. When he proposed, she put aside her dreams of becoming one of the greatest prima ballerinas the world had ever seen.

But only for a short while.

Once the excitement of a wedding so large and lavish as to be the social event of the season faded, Annine quickly became bored. She was an orphan, had been raised in poverty, working her way through the ranks of ballet through sheer drive and God-given talent. One might think that she would have loved the luxury of being married to so wealthy a man as Dolskoi Mikhailonov. She had servants to answer to her every whim. The best dressmakers came to make for her the finest of gowns. She had furs and jewels. She could sleep until noon, receive her hairdresser, then languish all afternoon sipping tea, vodka, or doing anything she pleased. She could attend the Imperial Ballet at the magnificent blue-and-gold Maryinsky Theater every night, then bundle herself in furs and ride in bright red sleighs noiselessly through the glistening white snow to the Restaurant Cuba for refreshment and dancing.