by Teri Wilson
Finley beamed at him. “Bon anniversaire.” Happy birthday.
“Merci.” He returned her smile, then turned his attention toward Maxim.
The priest’s smile faded, and his thick, white eyebrows drew close together. Maxim shifted in his chair. For a moment, he thought this meeting was going to be like talking to Detective Durand. But the clergyman had kind eyes. Far kinder than those of the détective.
He blinked then shook his head. “Je suis désolé. I don’t mean to stare. It’s just that you look very familiar. Much like a friend of mine from many years ago. Your last name is Laurent, is it not?”
Beside Maxim, Finley cleared her throat. Gerard sat perched in her lap with his head swiveling between the two men as if he were trying to keep up with the conversation.
Everything about the meeting felt surreal.
“Oui, Father, it is. Laurent. Maxim Laurent. I apologize for missing our last meeting. I had an accident and was only recently released from the hospital.”
“An accident,” Father Kozlov echoed.
Maxim knew he should elaborate, but he’d been hoping to avoid the subject of his attack. It seemed like he might not have a choice, considering that he’d been in the priest’s office for less than five minutes and the conversation had already come to a standstill.
Finley glanced at him. Since she knew more than he did about why they were here, he was going to be forced to let her take charge at some point. It might as well be now. Maxim gave her an almost imperceptible nod, and she jumped right in.
“Maxim was the man who was attacked two weeks ago at Point Zero. His injuries have left him with some memory issues.”
Memory issues. An understatement if Maxim had ever heard one.
“I see.” Again, Father Kozlov regarded him through narrowed eyes. Then his gaze swiveled back to Finley. “And you are?”
“My name is Finley Abbot. I’m a curator at the Louvre.” It was remarkable how professional she managed to sound while she had a googly-eyed dog sitting in her lap. Maxim wondered if she would always possess the ability to surprise him. He had a feeling she would. “Assistant curator, technically. I’m responsible for the upcoming exhibit on Tsar Nicholas II and Alexandra.”
“Ah, the Romanovs.” The priest’s gaze slid toward Maxim again.
Finley pressed on. “Yes. I mention the Tsar and his family because, due to Maxim’s injuries, he doesn’t remember why he scheduled an appointment with you prior to the attempt on his life. But when he was found, he was carrying a journal with handwritten notes indicating he might . . .”
The priest held up a hand to stop her. “Let me guess. Mr. Laurent, you believe yourself to be the Tsar’s great-grandson.”
Maxim took a sharp inhale.
How could the priest possibly know that?
“I’m right, aren’t I?” The old man gave a slow nod. “You think Anastasia somehow survived the execution of her family, and she went on to make a new life for herself here. In Paris. She married and had a family of her own—a son, followed by a grandson. And now that grandson is sitting in front of me, hoping I can help him prove his identity. Is this what you believe, Monsieur Laurent?”
If Finley hadn’t been sitting next to him, Maxim would have been tempted to stand up and walk right back out the door.
The idea that his grandmother was Anastasia had always seemed unlikely, but never more so than it did right now, sitting inside a Russian church in front of a man who had been alive during the Bolshevik Revolution.
He swallowed. “Yes, Father. I do.”
Maxim wouldn’t have been surprised if lightning came out of the sky and struck him dead. According to what he’d read in Finley’s book, the Russian Orthodox Church considered the Romanovs martyrs. A few sects had even canonized them as saints. Was he speaking some strange sort of blasphemy?
To Maxim’s great relief, and even greater confusion, Father Kozlov’s reaction wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He didn’t kick them out of his office or slam his fist down in righteous indignation.
He simply shrugged and said, “It’s a possibility.”
Maxim was speechless for a second or two. It’s a possibility? This man knew nothing about him. “You think so?”
“I know so.” He nodded. “Your grandmother’s name was Nadia Laurent, yes?”
Maxim’s blood froze in his veins. “You knew my grandmother?”
The priest nodded. “She was the old friend I spoke of earlier. Your grandmother and I were quite close. She used to come to mass here on the high holy days. Did you know that?”
Maxim swallowed. “No, I didn’t.”
What was going on?
Finley had insisted she’d known why he’d come to the cathedral. Had she known about his grandmother’s history with the church, too? Was he the only one who didn’t understand what was happening?
He turned his gaze on her. “You knew about this?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I thought you’d come here about the DNA.”
“The DNA?” Memory problems aside, none of this conversation was making sense. “You mean the DNA from the tests that proved Anastasia died in 1918?”
“Yes, that DNA.” She took a deep breath. “The Russian Orthodox Church believes it didn’t belong to Anastasia.”
“What? Is this true?” Maxim glanced at Father Kozlov for confirmation.
The older man responded with a slow nod. “The Russian Orthodox Church is the only institution that refused to accept the results of the DNA tests that identified the remains found in Ekaterinburg as those of Anastasia and her brother, Alexei.”
He drummed his gnarled fingers on his desk and sighed. “Our position has been ridiculed for years. Scientists, history scholars, journalists, politicians . . . they all mocked us as being out of touch with modern technology. They called our church an archaic institution. They said we were clinging to the past. Some even compared us to Rasputin.”
Maxim thought back to all the times he and Finley had discussed the DNA evidence. From day one, she’d insisted that Anastasia had been executed with the rest of her family nearly a century ago. She wasn’t the only one. Every book, every article, every website that Maxim had pored over said the exact same thing. Maxim knew the drill by now. No one needed to repeat it.
At the start of the Russian Revolution, Bolshevik zealots forced Nicholas II to abdicate the throne. He and his family were forced into exile in Siberia. But a year later, anti-Bolshevik forces moved closer and closer to the location where the Romanovs were being held. Fearing a rescue mission, local authorities ordered the Romanovs to be executed.
Nicholas II, Alexandra, and all five of their children were awakened in the middle of the night and taken to a basement. Their captors told them they would be posing for a photograph to be used as proof that the royal family was still alive. Instead, they were gunned down by at least a dozen men. Then those men stabbed anyone who was still breathing after twenty excruciating minutes of constant gunfire.
The executioners tried to burn the remains, then poured acid on the bodies and buried them in an abandoned mine shaft, where they wouldn’t be discovered until 1991. Scientists used the DNA of Britain’s Prince Philip, whose grandmother was Tsarina Alexandra’s sister, to identify the bodies as members of the Romanov royal family.
But two of the bodies weren’t there with the others. Alexei’s and, of course, Anastasia’s.
In 2007, archaeologists found a second grave nearby. Bone fragments from the site were identified as belonging to the two missing children.
Maxim could’ve recited the facts in his sleep. He might not remember his own past, but he’d spent enough time studying the Romanovs in the past few weeks to know what had happened to them.
Finley turned toward him. “Genetic experts studied the remains for two solid years. They used mitochondrial DNA f
rom the tiny bits of bone they were able to recover. The results didn’t show just a strong correlation, but a perfect match.”
If she was trying to explain why she’d never mentioned the church didn’t accept the DNA findings, she didn’t need to. A perfect match was a perfect match.
Since the day Maxim had walked out of the hospital, he’d immersed himself in Russian history. In between his encounters with Finley, he’d read everything he could get his hands on about the Romanovs. Not one article had mentioned the church’s opinion on the DNA testing.
“It’s okay, Finley,” he said quietly.
He didn’t blame her. Why would she mention it? He still wasn’t sure he sided with the church himself. Father Kozlov had yet to provide any kind of explanation for refuting the evidence.
But this means it’s possible. If the church is right, I could be a direct descendant of the Romanov royal family.
Maxim glanced at Finley and wished he knew what she was thinking. Her gaze was glued to her wrist, where his grandmother’s bracelet hung from her delicate arm. Until then, he hadn’t realized she’d put it on.
We need to talk about your grandmother’s bracelet.
“Monsieur Laurent, you’re probably wondering why the church was so insistent about not accepting the testing of the 2007 remains.” Father Kozlov leaned back in his chair, waiting.
Maxim nodded.
He did wonder about that. He also wondered why this 101-year-old Russian Orthodox priest whom he’d never met before was being so candid. Or why he was even giving Maxim the time of day.
Just how well had Father Koslov known Nadia Laurent?
The priest leveled his gaze at Maxim. “We didn’t accept the results because we knew the real Anastasia had survived. We’ve known as much for years . . . since the very beginning, in fact. Once she escaped, she had to go somewhere. Somewhere far, far away from Russia. So she came here. To Paris. To Cathédrale Saint-Alexandre-Nevsky.”
Maxim gripped the arms of his chair. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. For weeks now, he’d been searching for answers. Praying for them. Now that he’d finally found the most important answer of all, he was having trouble accepting it.
“My grandmother,” he whispered.
“Yes, you’re absolutely correct. I’m talking about your grandmother. She came here seeking asylum and we gave it to her. We also gave her a fresh start . . .” The priest paused. Smiled. “. . . as Nadia Laurent. If the story she told us all those years ago is true, you’re not actually a Laurent, Maxim. You’re a Romanov.”
The journal wasn’t a product of delusion, after all. It was real. All of it.
Je suis Maxim Romanov.
CHAPTER
* * *
TWELVE
Questions.
So many questions.
They were spinning in Finley’s head so quickly that she couldn’t seem to actually ask any of them.
How had Anastasia escaped?
How had she managed to get all the way from Russia to Paris?
Had Maxim’s parents known the truth about who she was?
How had the church managed to keep her identity a secret for all these years?
And most importantly, what about the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, who’d been the Tsar’s mother, and grandmother to Anastasia? The Dowager Empress hadn’t been with her son’s family in exile. After the Bolshevik Revolution, she’d spent the remainder of her life in London and Denmark, staunchly refusing to believe that the Romanovs had actually been killed.
Wouldn’t the real Anastasia have contacted her grandmother? Had the Dowager Empress known Nadia Laurent? Did she believe Maxim’s grandmother was the real Anastasia?
Anastasia had survived. The church had helped her start a new life, and now her grandson was sitting beside Finley. Finley had kissed him.
Twice.
She’d made out with Anastasia’s grandson.
Stop thinking about the kiss! Kisses. Plural. Finley’s face grew unbearably hot. She blurted out a question, if only to stop her mortifying inner dialogue. “Did Nadia Laurent ever contact Maria Feodorovna?”
Father Kozlov leaned forward with his hands clasped on his desk. “Yes. The jewels Anastasia had hidden inside the bodice of her dress protected her from bullets during the execution. A lower-level Bolshevik soldier smuggled her out of the building in the chaotic aftermath of the shooting. She traded the jewels for passage to Paris, and waited to contact her grandmother after she arrived here at the church. The two of them exchanged letters until the Dowager Empress’s death in 1928. The Dowager believed Nadia was indeed Anastasia, but feared for her safety. They both thought it best for them to remain apart.”
Finley’s throat grew thick. How incredibly sad.
She wrapped her arms more tightly around Gerard. She needed something to hold on to while she processed everything she was hearing. Something solid. Something real. Gerard burrowed into her chest, and she searched Maxim’s face.
What must he be thinking right now? She couldn’t even imagine. For all practical purposes, the priest had just told him he was a Romanov.
He was royalty.
Finley should have found it impossible to believe, despite what the church had to say on the subject. She didn’t, though.
She’d known. Somehow, some way . . . deep down, where it mattered . . . she’d known all along.
“How can we be sure?” Maxim asked. His voice had lowered an octave, and his eyes had gone dark. Serious. Regal.
A little chill went up Finley’s spine.
“You need a DNA test,” Father Kozlov said.
“How do we get Prince Philip to agree to that?” The prospect seemed daunting, at best.
And when had she started thinking of this entire royal mystery in terms of we?
“We don’t have to,” the priest said. “The church still has a copy of the original DNA test. I’ll need to get an order signed by the other church leaders. Once that’s in place, you can be tested and your profile can be compared to Prince Philip’s.”
“You have his DNA profile on file,” Finley heard herself say. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience.
Her gaze slid toward Maxim. In a matter of days, he could prove that he’s the Tsar’s sole living heir.
Or not.
“We do.” Father Kozlov turned his gaze toward Maxim. “I’m assuming you’d like to proceed?”
“I do.” He glanced at Finley.
She smiled and nodded. Not that he needed her permission, but she knew what he was thinking. She was thinking about the same thing—the Century Rule.
Hello, royal boyfriend. Good-bye, career.
What was wrong with her? Maxim was not her boyfriend. A few rogue kisses didn’t constitute a relationship. If anything, the fact that Maxim was probably an actual Romanov made her even more determined to keep her distance. He was going to get her fired. She was sure of it.
Yet here you sit, right beside him, wearing his grandmother’s bracelet.
“I’ll contact the other church leaders right away. If all goes well, we can arrange for a DNA test as early as tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Oh God. Finley’s remaining time at the Louvre could probably be tallied in hours now, rather than days.
“One more thing,” the priest added. “Do you have a birth certificate?”
Maxim nodded. “Yes, I found it in a file just the other day when I was going through the things in my grandmother’s . . . in my . . . apartment.”
“Good. You’ll need it for the DNA test. Until then, I suggest you keep it someplace safe.”
“I understand.” Maxim stood to say his good-byes.
Finley scooted Gerard out of her lap and rose from her chair, but her legs were shaky. She swayed on her feet.
Someplace safe.
&n
bsp; She’d brushed off Maxim’s concerns before, but now she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been right. As heir to the Romanov fortune, he’d be worth millions. Maybe even billions.
Her gaze strayed to the bruise on his temple. She thought of the others—the ones hidden from view—and her breath grew shallow.
Was Maxim in danger?
Was she?
“It was nice to meet you both. À bientôt.” Father Kozlov escorted them out of his office, back toward the hall that lead to the cathedral’s grand sanctuary.
Finley managed to say good-bye, despite her looming panic attack. When Father Kozlov tried to bend down to give Gerard a parting pat on the head, she lifted the dog off the floor for better access. The priest grinned and rubbed Gerard behind the ears while he praised him in a long stream of Russian words.
After he’d gone, Finley looked up to find Maxim staring down at her with the same grave expression he’d worn in the bookstore, right before he’d left her.
“You look distinctly displeased for someone who just discovered he’s Russian royalty,” she said.
She might be on the verge of freaking out, but Maxim didn’t need to know that.
“Finley.” His gaze narrowed, penetrating straight to her core.
Okay, maybe he already knew.
She was afraid. And apparently she couldn’t quite hide it. But she wasn’t about to walk away. Not now. Things had gone too far. She was involved, whether he liked it or not.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You should probably know that the charms on the bracelet you gave me are long-lost Imperial Russian treasures.”
His brows rose by an almost imperceptible fraction. Finley was 100 percent certain he was only a breath away from ordering her to go home—alone—but the corner of his mouth tugged into a hint of a smile. He reached for her free hand, and gently lifted it.
The bracelet made a dainty tinkling sound as he turned her wrist for inspection. The ruby eggs and the pavé diamonds on the tiny crowns dazzled beneath the cathedral’s soft candlelight.