An updated story on Lady Melody’s demise followed, but unfortunately, the firm wasn’t mentioned. The news video showed bouquets already starting to pile up at the gates of Carstairs Manor. If I’d known she was going to die, I probably would have grabbed another souvenir or two, like that Cartier watch. Oh, well—never look back.
“Would you like another sandwich?”
“I’d love it.”
I fixed us each another—adding a little strong, hot mustard to zap up the Brie and beef, and a little swipe of soft butter on the bread. While I worked, Owen opened us each a bottle of beer and poured it into pilsner glasses. We chatted and got to know each other a little.
S I X T E E N
“Where are you from originally?” I asked.
“Short or long version?”
“Short—it’s late.”
“Okay,” he said between mouthfuls, “short version: I’m from Toledo, Ohio. Dad was a dockworker; Mom, a waitress. Both deceased. I went into the army out of high school, got drafted, did a stint as a supply sergeant in Vietnam. Stayed in the service, did tours of duty in Germany and New Jersey, while I completed my college degree.”
“In what?” I asked.
“Well, it’s not exactly a college degree, college degree. It’s in auto repair. But I worked the whole time in supply, and by the time I got out, I’d already set up a distribution network for my first business venture.”
“Which was?”
“Used automobile parts.”
“Handy.” I assumed most of them had been pilfered from the army motor pool. He’d been married three times—always with bad results.
“My first wife was a beautiful girl from Rhode Island. Linda. We didn’t have any money, we both worked all the time. We were always exhausted. She worked the late shift at the Uniroyal plant in Trenton—we lived in base housing at Fort Dix—and one night she fell asleep on the way home and ran off the bridge. Boom. That was it. A few years later, I met Cheryl. By then I’d made some headway in the business and had a little money to spend. Cheryl was everything I ever wanted. Total babe. She was smart, beautiful, a body that wouldn’t stop—she could do things to me . . .”
“Hey,” I said. “Clean it up. This is not a fraternity house.”
“Sorry.” He seemed a little thrown by my tone but picked himself up quickly. “Okay, she was a lot of fun to be with. We had a ball. We got married in Las Vegas, one of those Elvis chapels—one of those silly things you do when you’re a kid—and went to the Grand Canyon for our honeymoon.” Owen stopped and shook his head. “Uh,” he cleared his throat. “Never mind. Anyhow, then I end up with Tina, the bad girl from San Juan.” He looked at me with a wry smile. “I think I’m pretty much done with marriage. And I’m pretty much done with women under forty. I can’t take the dumb-ness anymore.”
“I wouldn’t make any big declarations if I were you.” I laughed. “I think you’ll stick to that plan till about, oh, tomorrow afternoon when some babe will call.”
“You’re probably right. How old are you?”
“Over forty.”
We both laughed.
“Okay, your turn. Where’re you from?”
I told him the authorized version of my life’s story. I left out basically everything that was true, except the part about being from Oklahoma. “My father was head of North Sea exploration for Phillips Petroleum, and we were transferred to London from Bartlesville when I was sixteen. I just never went back.”
“Which way’s the head?” he asked when I was done.
“I can tell you’ve found my personal history absolutely gripping.”
He laughed. “You’re a real fanatic about manners, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Don’t you ever lighten up?”
I shook my head.
“Okay. That was great, Kick, a real cliff-hanger. Which way’s the head?”
“Right down the hall.”
It was shortly before midnight.
When he hadn’t returned after about five minutes, I went to find him. He was in my bedroom, studying the painting over the mantel, a minor Impressionist. A gift from Sir Cramner.
“This room is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I answered.
My bedroom is beautiful, a secure little boudoir wrapped like a gift—top to bottom, head to toe—in salmon pink and champagne paisley, all pulled together in fine pleats to the center of the ceiling and crowned by a Baccarat chandelier with crystal drops the size of hen’s eggs. The gentle, calming paisley is everywhere: on the bed, headboard, and lining the two walls of bookcases which flank the room.
Seeing a stranger in my kitchen had startled me, but seeing one in my bedroom caught me completely off guard. Invitations to my bedroom were tougher to come by than invitations to commoners to spend Christmas at Balmoral. Virtually impossible. This would never do.
S E V E N T E E N
“This is an impressive painting.” He got up close to the canvas and squinted at the signature.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No, I mean really impressive.”
“Well, you haven’t exactly been in the business of studying impressive art for long, so I wouldn’t categorize you as an expert in much of anything.”
Owen studied me quietly. “Huh,” he finally said. “I don’t impress you much, do I?”
“Well . . . ,” I began.
“No, it’s okay. It’s refreshing.”
“Your ego impresses me plenty. Come on, let’s go back to the kitchen. This room’s not part of the tour.”
I was concerned that he would start to investigate the books. The fact is, I have the one of the world’s most complete private libraries dedicated to all aspects of jewelry and gems, but I have no interest in anyone stumbling across that fact.
Nobody is even vaguely aware of my interest in the field beyond regular business knowledge, and that’s the way it must stay. I don’t even want the subject to come up outside of the office because the risk of exposure, accusation, arrest, jail, trial, and incarceration are real. This is not a game to me—I take it seriously and do it with the highest possible professional skill and standards. My life and I teem with secrets—the left hand is hidden from the right. It never occurred to me in my wildest dreams that a total stranger would ever be in my bedroom. The only people who had been in my flat were Sir Cramner and my housekeeper.
I was horrified that Brace might start looking at the books, which covered jewelry from A to Z. The collection has information about gemstones, from precious: diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and pearls to name a few; to semiprecious: amethysts, aquamarines, coral, opals, peridots, topazes, tourmalines, turquoises, and so forth.
The volumes were bound in varying muted hues of Moroccan leather and served as a peaceful complement to the paisley. Actually, if you paid close attention and opened one of them, say, The Three Musketeers, you’d discover it was actually about emeralds. No matter what the titles said, the bindings were the approximate color of whichever gem the book was about.
I also have histories and biographies of jewelers and their establishments, from Crown Jewelers Garrard & Company and Louis Cartier, to Oscar Heyman, Graff, Verdura, Fabergé, and Raymond Yard.
I’ve cataloged important, historic, one-of-a-kind pieces, such as the astonishing Cambridge and Delhi Durbar Parure, made for Queen Mary from the Cambridge Emeralds and Cullinan cleavings to wear at her 1911 coronation and subsequent durbar proclaiming her Empress of India. In my opinion, it’s the ultimate of the jeweler’s art.
I have historical references on famous stones, such as the Koh-I- Noor, the Cullinan, the Star of India, the Hope Diamond, and the DeBeers Millennium Star. On famous missing stones with romantic, mysterious histories—the Great Mogul, the Darya-I-Nûr, the Great Sancy, the English Dresden, and the mythical Braganza, or King of Portugal, the second-largest stone ever found. I have extensive technical works on cutting and faceting. And I keep lengthy records of
the provenance and movement of pieces in major collections, including those originally from the estates of Their Royal Majesties, Queens Victoria, Alexandra, and Mary; the Nizam of Hyderabad and Berar; Merle Oberon; Marie Antoinette; Barbara Hutton; the duchess of Windsor; Queen Elizabeth II, the Queen Mother; and now Lady Melody Carstairs; and a score of other ladies still with us whom my respect for confidentiality and my hope they or their heirs will choose our house when the time comes for their collections to be auctioned prohibit me from mentioning.
Owen picked up a thick volume off my bed table. “What’s this? Russian?”
“Yes.”
“The Mysterious Missing Romanov Treasury.” He read the title. “What’s up with this?”
“It’s just something I’ve always been interested in.” He was starting not only to make me nervous, but also a little self-conscious. Aware that I was standing in my bedroom with a relative stranger who was handling one of my fondest books. It was as unsettling as if he were handling me.
“What about all those jewels that are always going on world tour? I thought those were the Russian crown jewels.”
“Those are nothing compared to what’s said to exist.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Look, Owen, let me tell you later. I mean, it’s fairly abstruse, and it’s almost one o’clock in the morning.”
“I can take abstruse. Tell me.” Then, he sat on the edge of my bed, holding my book. I was shocked. “I’m very interested.”
“All right,” I began reluctantly, “but let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll tell you the story.”
“No, tell me here. It’s so comfortable in this room.” His eyes were inscrutable. On one hand harmless, vulnerable. On the other, he exuded such an intense sexuality, I almost felt as though he were hypnotizing me.
What was this? Some kind of wrestling match? It was as though he knew he had touched an important nerve in me and decided to see how far he could push it, see who was in charge. The air in the room crackled with tension. I found myself unbelievably drawn to him, and angry, and defensive. And he knew it. Well, to hell with this. It was my room, and I wasn’t going to let some barbarian with an overload of testosterone turn me into an uncontrollable goofball.
“All right.” I took a seat in an armchair. I lit a cigarette.
“May I have one of those?”
“Surely.”
He got up off my bed and came over. I handed him a cigarette and held the lighter for him. His hand touched mine. It was like being stroked with warm velvet. And it was not an accident.
It took every ounce of self-control for me not to jump or pull away. I forced myself to be steady. I closed the lighter and set it on the table. “You aren’t actually coming on to me, are you, Owen? Because if you are, I have news for you: stop.”
He had the grace to laugh. “Sorry. That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it. I apologize. There’s just something about this room. And you. I feel like I’m talking to Princess Grace or something.”
“Get a grip, son. You’ve had too much champagne.”
“I really am interested in the Russians, Kick.”
“All right. Then sit down in that chair over there and prepare to be educated.”
He ignored me and resumed his place on the bed. All right, suit yourself, I thought. I refuse to be riled.
“According to legend, Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna— mother of Czar Nicholas, from whom she was estranged because of a dispute with Rasputin—took the lion’s share of the monarchy’s crown jewels with her to the Crimea, where she stayed for two years, theoretically under the ‘protection’ of the White Bolsheviks. She and her entourage escaped to England in April 1919, with two large leather-bound trunks, one said to contain her personal jewelry, which was substantial, and the other the treasury of crown jewels. But when she arrived, the trunk with the crown jewels had vanished. The household rumor was that she’d entrusted them to one of her guards, and he’d disappeared with her permission and instructions.”
“Where are they now?”
“Nobody knows.”
“How do you know?”
“Sir Cramner Ballantine told me. He insisted one day the man would emerge and Ballantine & Company would be auctioneers of the Romanov Treasury.”
What I didn’t tell Owen was that Sir Cramner had told me this story on that first afternoon in the suite at Claridge’s, and the thought of it was so inspirational to him, and captivating to me, we’d pulled the covers over our heads for the umpteenth time. Ballantine & Company was still waiting for that great day, and whatever secret made Sir Cramner confident it would arrive had died with him. But the possible existence of such an extraordinary stockpile waiting somewhere, in a cellar, or attic, or bank vault, lying and waiting for more than eighty-five years, just waiting for the light of day to touch it and set it ablaze, had mesmerized me from that moment forward.
“What do you think made him so sure? And why is it making you blush?”
“What?!” I couldn’t help but laugh—the memory of that afternoon so long ago still made me happy. Me in those hot pink patent leather boots amused me so much I almost blurted it all out. “I don’t know what made him so sure. Possibly he received a message from the Dowager Empress, or else he made it up. I don’t know.”
“Thanks for telling me.” He closed the book and caressed it, and it was as though I felt his hand on my cheek.
E I G H T E E N
The silence sat heavily on both of us. This was the sort of moment that in the movies, people can’t take the pressure anymore and rip each other’s clothes off, and go after each other like dogs.
What on earth am I saying?
We waited.
“Cool ceiling,” Owen said. He was lying on my pillows, arms crossed behind his head. He was like a schoolboy, a child, trying to get a reaction.
“Thank you.”
My bed (I bought the mattress from the Four Seasons Hotel), has six especially soft down pillows and makes me feel like a princess. I wasn’t at all pleased to see a fornicating barbarian enjoying them, but I decided to respond with tried-and-true wartime tactics regarding how invadees successfully neutralize invaders: Don’t let them see what’s important. My face was blank.
“Are you almost done in here, Owen?” It was a schoolteacher’s voice.
“Nice carpet.”
“It’s a rug.” A faded Aubusson I’d grabbed for the reserve price from the estate of a Lady covered my bedroom floor.
If anyone were looking, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing they might notice about my bedroom is that there are no family photos, for reasons I’ve already explained.
Except for one picture, I took it a couple of years ago in St. Rémy at the Café des Alpilles. There was a young man, an American, who looked to be in his early thirties. Happy, well-adjusted, with a young woman who loved him. He was loved. He looked like what my son would look like. If I had a son. That afternoon, I posted myself on all the Internet adoption sites, just in case he or she might need me for some reason, some medical emergency or something. I’ve never heard anything from anyone.
“Who’s this?” Owen picked up the picture.
“My godson.”
“Huh.” He got to his feet, leaving a deep indentation in my silk satin puff and breaking the spell. “Well, I’m on my way. Thanks for the break. We’ve got a lot to do starting Monday.”
“I know. Again, congratulations. This was an unbelievable coup— obviously meant to be. Sir Benjamin never could have pulled it off.”
“Coming from you, that’s high praise. It’s just the first step, but it was an important one. Now the real work begins.” Owen stopped at the front door. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Going to visit friends in Scotland.”
“Really? Where?”
“Outside of Edinburgh.”
“Have a good one. See you Monday.”
I was so glad he wa
s gone, I thought I was going to faint. I’d had a close call of some sort, but I wasn’t quite sure what.
Before I went to bed, I removed the diamond from Lady Melody’s engagement ring, dropped its platinum setting into the smelter, where it melted, and returned the stone to the safe. I picked up the bracelet and ran it across my arm one last time. I could feel its history seep into my blood, intoxicating me. I’d never possessed a piece of such importance. I ran it along my cheek, across my lips and down my neck, and across my breasts. I’d never felt such pleasure, or love. The bracelet was mine. From now on, I would call it the Queen’s Pet.
The next morning, I checked my e-mail, as I did every Saturday morning, to see if there had been any inquiry from the adoption sites. And, while I waited for the line to connect, my heartbeat stepped up and I held my breath, knowing there would be no message but hoping all the while that I would be wrong. Maybe today would be the day.
It wasn’t. I took a breath and signed off. It’s okay. I don’t know what I’d do if I did hear, and it made me happy to know that my son or daughter was all right. Didn’t need to find me. Had no emergencies that needed one of my kidneys or a piece of my liver, or a lung, or my heart. The fact is, I would give any or all of them just for a message. Sometimes I wondered if my child had a child, but I tried not to think about it too much. Not to think about if perhaps I had a whole family out there somewhere wondering about me, too.
I slipped my tiny laptop into my purse, and with my hair tucked under a gray wig, took the Underground to Heathrow and caught the first flight to Geneva, where I deposited several high-quality gemstones, along with Lady Melody’s diamond solitaire, in my safe- deposit box. I spent the night in a pretty lakefront room at L’Hôtel du Lac, had a very satisfying cheese fondue for dinner around the corner with a crisp Swiss Riesling, went for a brisk morning walk along the frozen lake, and was back in London in time for lunch, where it was rainy and cold.
The afternoon was spent in my workroom, completing the pairs of curved rows that served as the frame settings for the Kashmir sapphires in the necklace. I turned all the overhead lights on high, switched on the facing pair of high-intensity fluorescent lights on my Meji microscope, which had a magnification power of 45x, and went to work. The room was silent but for the soft hum of the air- conditioning and occasional remarks, encouragements, and observations I made to myself.
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