The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (39 page)

Gaige’s expression was approving as he gave me wink.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Which would be what, exactly?”

“Bondage, animals, and anything involving whipped cream.”

I raised my eyebrows in question.

“I hate sticky stuff.
So
not sexy.”

WHEN I EMERGED
from our front door twenty minutes later, my clothes changed and hair pinned back, Charles wasn’t waiting on the sidewalk as expected. Taking a few hesitant steps down the street, I looked to see if he was waiting in a car nearby. No dice.

I was just about to go back inside and call Charles, when I spotted him through the front window of the hat shop. He was inside, pretending to browse the insanely overpriced collection of headpieces while a flustered Naomi hovered nearby. The customs agent appeared to hang on his every word, though she said few in return. I watched their exchange from the sidewalk, gazing through the storefront like a voyeur.

As though he sensed my presence, Charles shot me amused glances as he selected a gauzy lavender nightmare. Fashion-forward Naomi was trying to convince him that the peacock blue fascinator she held in her hands was a much better option.

Only half-listening to her sale’s pitch, Charles discreetly gestured for me to join him inside. I shook my head, tapping my wrist to hurry him along. Taking my cue, he pointedly glanced between the two hats, silently asking my opinion.

I pointed to Naomi’s choice, giggling in spite of myself.

Charles squinted his eyes and shook his head in question.

I curled my arm behind my head and waved it around, miming a feather blowing in the wind. A formidable-looking man in a business suit stopped, one hand poised to push open the door to the hat shop, and glanced curiously between the store window and me. Embarrassed beyond belief, my cheeks flushed scarlet as my hand fell to my side.

Laughing at my poor charades skills, Charles selected the blue hat and went to the counter to pay, though his hands were empty when he emerged.

“Sorry, I had to do something while I waited for you. Loitering on the sidewalk in front of your townhouse was drawing funny looks,” Charles told me when he joined me outside.

“Where’s your pretty new bobble?” I asked cheekily.

“Being wrapped and sent to my mother.” Taking my hands in his, Charles leaned in, as if to kiss my cheek. Instead, he whispered in my ear, “You are ravishing.” His lips brushed my skin as he spoke, sending a jolt of electricity down to my toes.

Flushing from both his touch and the unexpected compliment, all I could muster was a breathy, “Thank you.”

“This way.” Charles offered me his arm. “I parked two blocks over, so your uncle would not see my vehicle.”

“How very clandestine of you,” I declared as we set off, earning me a quiet chuckle.

When we arrived at Charles’s vehicle, my eyes grew wide in appreciation.

Generally speaking, I was not a car girl. The private transportation vehicles of my time didn’t interest me in the least. Few people even owned a transpo anymore, since the public systems were lightning fast and more convenient. With a single body style that came in only three color options—silver, black, and white—the interior amenities and upholstery materials were all that separated the inexpensive models from the luxury ones.

Of course, this had not always the case. At one time—particularly
this
time—cars were rare things of beauty that could act as a status symbol to declare wealth and social standing, like plumage on a peacock. And the one Charles led me to was definitely not your standard Tauosaki Electrorail Transpo.

Judging by his mode of transportation, Charles DuPree was a man of means and a member of the upper class. Not a surprise, really. His clothes, manners, and overall persona suggested as much, though it was hard to be sure since the other planets in Rosenthal’s galaxy did not all calculate their worth in a conventional fashion. Many had more caćhe than cash, and more intellectual value than inherited wealth.

Charles DuPree evidently had it all, including a 1925 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Riviera Town Car.

“Do you like it?” he asked as I stared, holding the front passenger door open for me to climb inside. My eyes were still as wide as the Rolls’ white-walled wheels. Charles laughed uncomfortably, as though embarrassed by the opulence.

Reeling in my jaw, I smiled neutrally. My own adoptive father was supposedly a businessman with his fingers in many lucrative pies.

“It is a beautiful machine,” I replied easily. “I haven’t seen this model yet in Baltimore.”

Charles eased the door closed and jogged around to the driver’s side. As the engine purred to life, I marveled at the smooth, quiet hum. Even compared to the electric, solar, and hydrogen cars of my own time, it was impressive.

Once I got past fangirling over the car, the thirty-minute trip to Montrouge flew by with easy conversation.

Locating M.L. Worchansky’s street address took equally as long, making me wonder how people survived before navigation systems and smart-driving vehicles. After many slapdash turns and circuitous routes, we finally arrived at a picturesque home in the center of town. With flower boxes in the windows and a terrace overlooking the busy street below, the residence matched my ideal of comfortable French pseudo-suburban living for the time period.

An man in an impeccable butler’s uniform answered our knock. His French greeting was heavy with a German accent. As if to set the servant at ease, Charles slipped seamlessly into the man’s native tongue.

“Is Mr. Worchansky in?” he asked, my Rosetta translating the hacking and gacking sounds.

“Whom may I say is calling?” the butler replied.

“My name is Charles DuPree and this is my friend, Anastasia Prince.” Charles gestured to me as he spoke my name. “I called ahead, Mr. Worchansky is expecting us.”

“Very good, sir. This way, please.” The butler stepped aside, gesturing us into the foyer.

We followed him down a hallway with vast ceilings and marble floors to a large sitting room near the back of the house. Floor-to-ceiling curtains hung from polished brass rods, the cream-colored fabric tied back with twisted ropes of brown silk to allow the late afternoon sun to light the room. The furniture, though obviously well-made and of recent design, appeared worn, as though used for its intended purpose and not merely as decoration. As I took in the room, ringed with chestnut tables holding various artifacts atop pedestals, I couldn’t help but linger on the incredible artwork surrounding me.

There was an impressively large Monet that sprawled across three adjoining canvases, along with several paintings by Picasso, Cézanne, and Dali. One day, many of the pieces would find homes in the most famous galleries in the world. The particularly bizarre gargoyle that was squatting beside the fireplace—a menagerie of animals combined into a single figure with the face of a fox, horns of a goat, talons of an eagle, and the stunted arms of a velociraptor—caught my eye and drew me in. Eventually, it would join its twin outside of Cliffman Brother’s World Bank in Manhattan. All in all, we were surrounded by masterpieces and relics that were incomparable throughout history. Worchansky had the most impressive collection of art I’d ever been in the presence of.

“Please wait here,” the butler told us, gesturing to the sitting area.

I reluctantly abandoned my circuit of admiration and joined Charles on one of the sofas, as he thanked the butler.

Once we were alone, Charles took my hand and ran his thumb over it in small, soothing circles. Apparently, my anxiousness was painfully evident. Though I was hit all at once with the fact we were mere minutes from possibly finding out about my past, looking around the room quieted my fears. Worchansky was clearly a collector. If he was anything like the collectors I’d encountered in my time, he’d be enthusiastic about telling the stories of his acquisitions.

“Just stick to the story and we will be fine,” Charles coached me.

“I can do that,” I told him solemnly.

He squeezed my hand reassuringly, and I found his concern adorably endearing.

Charles tucked a lock of auburn hair behind my ear, trailing his thumb across my cheekbone. Golden curls framing his face, pupils dilated, gaze soft, smile small and genuine, he looked like the most beautiful of all angels. His other hand slid around my back, pulling me into him. Through the thin fabric of my day dress, I could feel the warmth of his fingers on my back. Though it was meant to be calming, the lazy trail he was running up and down my spine made my pulse pound. Charles bent until our lips were nearly touching, then his curved into a wicked smile.

Definitely a fallen angel,
I thought, right before me kissed me.

A thumping noise sent us springing apart. Another thump, thump was accompanied by a soft chuckle, and I turned to find an elderly man ambling into the room. A cane topped by a two-headed eagle aided his journey, the source of the thumping sound.

I wiped my mouth, though Charles’s kiss was not something I wanted to erase.

“My apologies,” Charles began in German.

The old man waved a gnarled hand at us like a claw swiping the air.

“I have never been one to stand in the way of young love,” he said in English, his accent faint and hard to place. His milky blue eyes twinkled knowingly.

“Oh, no, we’re merely friends” I said, hurriedly, sticking to our story.

The man, presumably Mr. Worchansky, laughed harder.

“I had a ‘friend’ once. That Trudy was a special girl,” he said, breathing heavily as he trudged into the room. “Had more spirit than a gelding, and did not mind it when the going was rough. She loved the adventures as much as I, and never complained when we had to stay in an unsavory inn or beg a night in a farmer’s barn. Our travels through Africa even led to spending a week with the Makhee tribe, and she pitched right in with the rest.”

Even as I listened with rapt interest, I hurried to help him to his seat.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” he continued as I placed my arm around his hunched torso and guided him forward. Pointing his cane, he indicated the worn armchair closest to the roaring fire. “Ah, yes, this is perfect, my favorite seat in the house.”

There was a handmade quilt hanging over the back of his seat, which I unfolded and tucked around his lap.

“You are too kind.” He patted my hand affectionately. “Now, tell me why is it you two youngsters have come to visit. I do so enjoy the company, but I suspect there is something particular that you have come for?”

I looked uncertainly at Charles, wondering if he’d neglected to tell Worchansky what we were interested in, or if the elder man had simply forgotten. With a reassuring wink to me, Charles stood and extended his hand to Worchansky.

“Charles DuPree, sir. And this is—”

“Your friend from America, Anastasia Prince,” Worchansky finished for him. “No need for pleasantries, son. And no need for my native tongue. I am aware of who you are, and of course you know who I am, since you came to my door. What I do not know is why. And, please, have a seat.” He jabbed his cane again, this time in the direction of the couch. “People hovering over me makes me feel sick and feeble.”

Stifling a giggle, I followed orders. Charles, obviously derailed by Mr. Worchansky’s lack of decorum, looked to me.

“Mr. Worchansky, we are here about a Bonheur’s piece you purchased,” I began, watching him closely for some sign of recognition. Much like Cyrus, the man’s poker face could’ve easily doubled his wealth in Monte Carlo. “Do you recall purchasing a set of sapphire cufflinks with gold filigree?”

The old man set his cane across his lap and massaged the eagles’ heads.

“My mind is sharp as a dagger, dear—it is only my body that needs a whetstone. I know exactly what you’re referring to.”

Without conscious thought, my hand went to my locket. Worchansky followed my movement with his keen eyes. Interest flickered in his cataract-affected gaze.

“Oh, I see,” he continued, his gaze locked on the necklace. “Were you hoping to purchase them and reunite the set?” Worchansky chuckled good-naturedly. “I’m afraid I have the grave misfortune of informing you that it will not be possible. Those pieces are very valuable to me, and I daresay you cannot afford them.”

Baited, Charles’s tone turned cool and detached. Evidently, he was not accustomed to being denied. “Name your price, sir.”

The testosterone in the air was suffocating. Death by an overdose of male hormones was not the way I wanted to go, so I quickly tried to diffuse the situation. Charles seemed to be forgetting that we were here solely for information.