The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  “Stealing or revenge?”

  “Justice.”

  That one throws me. “Even if the means don’t justify it?”

  “Who’s to determine what justifies it or not?”

  I consider that one. “The law?”

  His gaze darkens. “The law is what caused my great-grandmother to be arrested in the first place.”

  My eyes drop at that. He’s right, of course. Even beyond the moral depravity of the Nazis rule of law, there’s something that definitely satisfies my sense of what’s right and wrong at the idea of stealing that painting.

  “I want to show you something,” he says. “Do you mind going for a walk?”

  “I think that’s what this city was meant for,” I say with a smile.

  “Bien.”

  We walk for a while until we get to a bridge covered with locks on either side.

  “Pont des Arts,” André says. “Lovers put them here and throw the key into the river as a sign of commitment.”

  “Sounds like the Brooklyn Bridge. We had to remove them for safety concerns. The city was worried about the bridge collapsing,” I say with a short laugh.

  “Oui,” André says. “They are worried about the same thing here. What does it say when love is so risky?”

  “Isn’t it all about taking risks?”

  He looks at me and smiles, then wraps his arm around my waist. “Real love doesn’t need to be demonstrated with a lock and key, especially when it can be so easily broken by a city employee.”

  I laugh and look around at all the locks bogging the bridge down. The locks are interesting to look at and a nice reminder that there is so much love in the world, but I too have always thought that a lock and key was an odd way to show love. It’s not something that needs to be locked up or protected from others, it should be free.

  We continue around the large building that André tells me is the Institute de France. Our walk takes us past a maze of narrow streets filled with people and buildings that run into each other. It’s so different from the grid pattern of most of Manhattan. I can imagine just wandering around in exploration for hours here.

  We finally end up at another large building that slightly resembles the first.

  “We’re almost there,” André announces. “We’ll go through the park. Jardin du Luxembourg.”

  This park is just as pristine and beautiful as the Jardin des Tuileries. The graveled path takes us past a fountain surrounded by potted palm trees and chairs to sit on. It’s so formal and manicured, I feel like royalty just walking through it. The French certainly know how to do parks.

  André leads me out of the park to the street and walks me down until the fence surrounding the park butts up against a building.

  “This is what I wanted to show you. Do you see the bullet holes?” He reaches out to run his fingers lightly over the pockmarked surface. “This is one of the places where the Battle for the liberation of Paris took place in 1944. Noémie and Victor were dead by then, but I always like to imagine both of them participating in the French Resistance if they had lived.”

  I lean in to read the two plaques, even though they’re in French.

  “The first memorializes the Bombardment of Paris and the Battle of the liberation of Paris. The second one is for Jean Montvallier-Boulonge who died in one of the battles,” André explains. “There are plaques like this all over Paris, memorializing the Resistance and the Jews who were victims. I like this one because it shows the evidence of the battle, almost like I’m there. It reminds me why I do what I do—this and my grand-mére, Celeste of course.”

  I stare down the length of the wall, reminding myself to pay more attention to others in this city to find more plaques like this.

  “Would you like to meet her now?”

  My eyes snap back to André and meet his encouraging smile. “Celeste?” I confirm, even though he could be referring only to her.

  He nods. “We can go back to my apartment. I will call on the way there to make sure she’s available.”

  I feel a mix of excitement and anxiety at the idea. I’m officially meeting Noémie’s daughter, and more importantly, his grandmother.

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Bien. Let’s go then.”

  He texts his driver and by the time we’ve left the gardens, the car is waiting for us.

  I look at the Paris scenery while André chatters in French on the ride back to his place. The tone of his voice sounds encouraging, or maybe it’s just the affection in his voice. He laughs lightly before hanging up.

  I turn to see what the result is and find him smiling at me. The answer is written all over his face and I feel my anxiety grow.

  “She’ll adore you,” he says, reading it on my face. “Relax.”

  I laugh lightly and try to settle back in my seat and enjoy the moment.

  When the car finally stops, I instantly crane my neck to look out the window to see where he lives. The street is beautiful but much busier than Victor Ardant’s former apartment. Trendy shops and cafes line the sidewalk, and young, stylish people stroll down the sidewalks.

  The driver open’s André’s door and I follow him out.

  “Haut Marais,” he announces as he takes my hand to lead me toward the entrance to the building in front of us. This building is a walk-up, but only three flights to the top.

  My curiosity about his apartment is satisfied as he opens the door for me. The decor is modern but masculine, filled with basic but expensive furniture and touches. It could just as easily be a Manhattan apartment in a yuppie meets hipster meets trust-fundie neighborhood in terms of size and feel. All the same, I like it.

  He allows me to explore what turns out to be nothing more than a bedroom and bathroom as well as the kitchen and open area. I suppose that’s all a man who travels the world stealing art really needs.

  I hear the driver bringing in our bags. I suppose that means I’ll be staying here. I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, and not just because of money. As I walk back to the main dining room-living room, I make a reminder to cancel the hotel plans I’ve made.

  Once our bags are planted inside next to the door and the driver is gone, André turns to me with his eyebrows raised. “Shall we?”

  I bite my lower lip and follow him the couch where a laptop is settled on the coffee table in front of it. He sits down next to me and opens it to log on.

  My breath is stuck in my throat as he opens an app and dials her number. When her face appears, the first thing that strikes me is how green her eyes are, a perfect match for the woman in the painting. There are other traces of Noémie in her, mostly the long nose and full lips. With her white hair and finely lined regal face I can almost picture what her mother would have looked like had she lived the long, adventurous life that her daughter apparently has.

  “Bonjour, Grand-mère,” André says with a smile.

  She returns a smile, eyes crinkling at the side to fill out the laugh lines. “André,” she says, looking at him with fondness before turning to me. “And you must be Brielle, or should I call you Elle?”

  “Um,” I say, blinking in surprise before twisting my head to look at André.

  “Oh, there are no secrets between us, ma cherie,” Celeste says. “My grandson has taken a keen interest in you since…well since before he even met you. I can certainly see why,” she finishes, shooting a smile his way.

  Her face softens and she turns back to me. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. After so many conversations with Georgette, I feel as though I already know you. She’s a very impressive woman.”

  I’m surprised at how quickly that affects me, a wave of intense emotion forcing tears from my eyes. I sniff and wipe them away.

  “It’s okay to cry. You’ve certainly been through a lot, none of which you deserved. I certainly wish things could have gone differently.”

  “I understand why André did what he did,” I assure her.

  “I’m afraid I deserve some
of the blame as well. He only continues to work for Hélène at my behest.”

  “So he told me,” I say, feeling my mood lighten again.

  “Since I know the story, I am going to leave you two to talk,” André interjects.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, watching him rise from the couch and grab his keys.

  “A surprise,” he says with a grin and a wink.

  My curiosity is piqued, but not as much as it is for the woman filling the screen before me. There’s so much to discuss, but as André says, we have all the time in the world.

  I turn my attention back to Celeste. “So, tell me what you and Georgie talked about.”

  That gets a laugh out of her and I feel a story coming on. I slip out of my shoes and cross my legs on the sofa, settling in.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  André

  The sun is settling down in the sky when I step foot out of the apartment. I smile, thinking of the plans I have for the night. It’s slightly cliché and absurdly romantic, but one’s first time experiencing the Eiffel Tower at night should be memorable.

  Besides, I still have a lot to make up for.

  My first stop is to the boulangerie on the corner to buy some bread. Before I’ve made it to the front of the line that’s already formed I feel my phone vibrate with a message. I frown and pull it out to read.

  You are wanted.

  Grand-mère, the one I had hoped to avoid for as long as possible, has summoned me. As much as I’d like to ignore it, Hélène is my only link to the Werwolf Order. If she’s requesting to meet with me, that can only mean that they suspect something. Very inauspicious timing.

  The only thing keeping the complete sense of dread from filling my stomach is the fact that they certainly wouldn’t announce themselves this way if they wanted to kill Elle or me, they would simply do it.

  I step out of line and make my way to the nearest metro station. Hélène lives in Marais, only a few blocks from Victor’s former residence. Marie and Gabriel made quite a bit of money in Argentina, buying up property that Hélène sold before coming to live in Paris. I’ve often wondered why she bought the place where her mother was nearly killed, only to leave it unfurnished and vacant. I can only assume it was for the same reason that her mother held onto Noémie’s painting for so long: spite.

  Her current residence is just as spacious and expensive, furnished and decorated in an old style that harkens back to the days before “Paris became overridden with undesirables.” I find the ornate details and overly plush furniture to be nothing more than ostentatious.

  The front door buzzes one second after I’ve pressed the button announcing my arrival. I take the stairs up to her penthouse floor, using the time and exercise to both collect my thoughts and release my anxious energy.

  I try the door and find it unlocked, so I enter without announcing myself.

  “In here, André” I hear her voice call out.

  I mentally put on the same mask I always use when I’m with her. By now it’s automatic and used often enough to be impenetrable.

  Until today.

  I stop as soon as I see who is sitting on the armchair nearest Hélène, who sits on the couch facing me.

  “Bernard Gaultier.”

  “I see that there is no need to introduce the two of you.”

  “I’m quite familiar with him,” Bernard says, his icy blue eyes crystallizing with disdain as he glares at me.

  Although a hundred questions are running through my head, I keep my mouth firmly shut as I settle in the armchair on the other side of the couch. So he is part of the Werwolf Order after all. I shouldn’t be surprised, despite what a facade he maintained during my interactions with him back in New York two years ago. Not to mention him deliberately making my job more difficult.

  “Bien,” Hélène says with a perfunctory smile. It disappears when she turns to face me.

  At almost eighty years old, she could easily pass for someone twenty years younger. Wealth, leisurely living, and a preference for the pale skin that comes from a life living in out of the sun have certainly helped. It’s papery thin, showing the veins lying just underneath. Her once blonde hair is now nothing more than stray, white strands held back in what little of a bun she can manage.

  “We have some concerns about your conduct lately, André.”

  “Specifically what it is you are doing with Brielle Christopher. You assured us, she is no longer interested in the painting.”

  “I don’t recall assuring you of anything,” I say to Bernard with a hard edge to my voice.

  Bernard coughs out an incredulous laugh. “Do you honestly think I would have allowed myself to be exposed to the likes of you? In retrospect, a wise decision considering you couldn’t manage to do the job you were expected to do.

  “Why do you think I didn’t file an insurance claim? Why do you think I pressured the DA to encourage a plea deal with Brielle instead of taking this to trial? Why do you think I didn’t testify?”

  “So you still have the real painting?”

  “I do, and once you accomplish what is expected of you, we will try another attempt at stealing it. I get rid of a damning piece of history, and your dear sweet grandmother has it back in her family estate.”

  It’s only by sheer force of will I remain seated and calm at that statement.

  “This was just one of the many reasons you have remained on the outer circle. I’ve tried, really I have, André, but it isn’t easy, even if they do owe me for—” Hélène stops, her jaw tightening and eyes dropping to the floor in shame.

  “Owe you for what?” I inquire, suddenly very interested in what she has to say.

  “If you were part of the inner circle you would know,” Bernard answers for her, a gleam in his cold eyes and a taunting smirk on his face.

  “Bernard,” she snaps.

  “Hélène,” he replies in a sardonic tone.

  There’s a slight narrowing of her gaze toward him. I observe the two of them carefully until it becomes painfully apparent that the power dynamics lean heavily in his favor.

  Interesting.

  “Perhaps if I had been told why I was to steal the painting in the first place, I would have done exactly as instructed.”

  “You were hired to do exactly as instructed,” he growls. “And you failed.”

  “The painting was a fake.”

  “That was irrelevant for your purposes.”

  “I don’t steal fakes.”

  “You steal what we tell you to steal, André,” Hélène says in some attempt to settle the argument.

  I don’t give in that easily. She of all people should know this.

  “I slashed the painting in an attempt to get to the real one. Either Bernard—” He glares at the casual use of his first name. “—would admit it was a fake and produce the real one, or he would pretend to have it repaired and replace it with the real one.”

  My eyes harden slightly as I look directly into his. “Or he would confess that he never owned the real one at all.”

  “André, this…stunts of yours, recklessly detouring from your obligations are not doing you any favors with the Order. Insulting Laura Wincroft was not a wise move. She was not happy about that.”

  “Only one step removed from blackmail, which I imagine she was even more unhappy about,” I reply, reminding her of how the esteemed Mrs. Wincroft came to be in our employ in the first place. “Considering what we used to blackmail her, I would have thought you of all people wouldn’t care.”

  “Her husband is one of our biggest contributors to the cause, André. How long do you think it would take for her to whisper in his ear that he should temper his support?”

  “Not to mention your interactions with me,” Bernard interjects.

  “I apologize for that,” I say in a heavily sardonic tone. “Though you did manage to make my job harder by firing me.”

  A dry smile comes to his face. “Do you honestly think I’d keep you on after so publicly hu
miliating me? Besides, it seems you bounced back well enough.”

  “Ah yes, Mrs. Wilcroft. Apparently someone higher in the Order’s hierarchy than even you.”

  Bernard is ready to pounce, but Hélène steps in, once again trying to calm the waters.

  “Back to the situation with Brielle Christopher. Two years ago, you killed one of our own in order to protect us, or so you claim.”

  “So you don’t trust my word that she no longer has any interest in the painting?”

  “Why else would she come to Paris, where she knows one of my primary residences is?” Bernard demands.

  “To get revenge on me, the one who framed her.”

  “Killing her would have been a simpler solution,” Bernard says, as though discussing options for dinner.

  “And then you’d have the diaries to contend with,” I say, trying to calm the lurch in my stomach that comment caused. “The diaries, for which I have yet to discover the location.”

  “Which is all the more suspicious,” Hélène says, giving me an assessing look.

  “I had one week with her, two years ago,” I point out. For me, it was one week that meant something meaningful. Hopefully for them, not enough time for me to win her over and learn all her secrets.

  “And your interactions with her today?”

  “So you’ve been watching me after all.”

  “Of course we have,” Bernard snaps. “Did you honestly think we would trust you with her again? Unsupervised?”

  “I’m working her, trying to find the location for the diaries. Killing her may just end up triggering something that allows them to fall into the wrong hands…hands that may result in the very thing you don’t want to happen.”

  “You seem awfully thrilled with the idea—or have you forgotten what legacy you’re a part of? Really, André, a negro?”

  I feel a sudden rush of rage at the disgustingly derogatory French word she’s used, but I stifle it for Brielle’s sake.

  “They’re mud-people, subhuman trash,” Bernard says, piling on.

  “And yet, you hired her,” I say.

  “Hiding in plain sight is important,” he says, as though that’s the obvious answer. “Obviously, I had no idea what she was when I took her on. She and the other one I employed, another trash race, were both mildly competent and, more importantly, kept away any suspicion about where my loyalties really lie. The difference is, I know how to maintain boundaries.”