He had, he hoped, an appointment with his destiny.
Chapter Seven
Cyril Arpel scrutinized his reflection in the vertical glass beside the front door of the Coltrane mansion. He decided he liked what he saw—a slender, well-proportioned young man of proper height. His dark hair had just the right amount of curl, enough to make him appealing in a little-boy way but with just the right amount of unruliness to be masculine.
He liked his face, also. Clean-shaven, his skin was smooth. Green eyes. A nice Roman nose. A hint of a cleft in his chin.
The gray pinstripe suit he wore gave him the successful aura he deserved, thanks to all the years of struggling to become one of the most respected art dealers in Europe.
He touched the maroon tie. It gave a nice touch, a little hint of roguishness to prevent him from appearing too austere. After all, he was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors, and he intended to stay that way for a long time. An almost perverse smile spread across his lips as he thought of the good times he had at some of the Continent’s most exclusive, and best, bordellos. A wife would only tie him down, and he enjoyed a variety of women.
Of course, no one knew about Cyril’s “other” life. On the surface, in public, he had a reputation for absolute decorum and refinement. Never would he dare for anyone to find out about his wild nights of passionate orgies. That was his secret. He intended to keep it that way.
He touched a white-gloved finger to the bell, took a deep breath, and waited. He, like everyone else in the upper echelon of Paris society, had heard about Mademoiselle Daniella Coltrane, daughter of the respected and wealthy American emissary Travis Coltrane, and her plans to open an art and antique shop in the Montmartre quarter on the Right Bank. And, like all the others who had heard the rumors about her having found a valuable collection of paintings in an inherited château in Monaco, Cyril was anxious to view them. However, he was not about to wait for the grand opening of the shop. Therefore, he had sent an imploring message to Madame Kitty Coltrane herself, requesting a private showing. He knew her well because of her interest in art, felt she would honor his request, had been delighted when she did.
The door opened, and Cyril held out his engraved calling card to the stiff-necked butler. He was motioned inside, left standing only momentarily in the glittering foyer before he was led to a flower-bedecked parlor where Madame Coltrane received him.
He pressed his lips to her extended hand, appreciative of her beauty, as well as that of the room itself. “I had heard you had a stunning home, madame, but I was not prepared for such absolute splendor.”
He stared upward at the ceiling, frescoed with an allegorical composition. The entire room was resonant with French baroque grandeur. The floor was of rich parquet de Versailles. A Russian silver-and-onyx garniture adorned the mantel shelf.
But his attention was captured by a painting by Edouard Manet, which was set off by carved floral swags on the faux-marbre walls. He walked to it and, after a moment of reverent silence, spoke in almost a whisper. “That is ‘Olympia’. He completed that in 1863. However did you come by it?”
Kitty smiled. It was always a pleasure to share her passion for art with someone. “It was a private sale. My husband heard about it in his travels. We went to Strasbourg to buy it.”
A maid in crisp yellow cotton appeared with a silver tray on which were glasses of sparkling Burgundy. Cyril took one, then accepted Kitty’s invitation to join her on the damask lounge before the window overlooking her beloved rose garden.
“You requested a private showing.”
Cyril nodded with enthusiasm. “And I wish to thank you for allowing it. I suppose I do not have to tell you that the treasures you and your stepdaughter discovered in Monaco are the talk of Paris.”
“Actually my stepdaughter found them. And, yes, we are aware of the interest. We’re very excited over the opening of the shop.”
“I can understand why. Tell me,” he urged, “will she allow any of the Monaco paintings to be sold prior to the gallery opening?”
“I doubt it. I think she’d like to have them on display for a time, to generate even further interest in the shop. I doubt she’ll offer them to be sold until sometime next year.”
He flashed a wry smile. “You cannot blame a dealer for trying.”
“Let me get Dani,” Kitty suggested. “She’s set up a little display area in the library, and I’m sure she’d like to meet you and show you the paintings herself. I’ve a late-afternoon tea to attend. Will you excuse me for going?”
Cyril politely rose. “Of course, and I’m sure I will enjoy your stepdaughter’s company. Charm, no doubt, runs in the family,” he added with a small bow.
Kitty demurely thanked him for his compliment and was almost through the door when she suddenly whirled about. “You will be receiving an invitation soon. To give our friends a private showing prior to the public opening, Travis and I are hosting a reception and ball in the Jardin des Tuileries. We do hope you will be able to come.”
Cyril knew in that moment that nothing would keep him away. A social event in the breathtaking gardens directly behind the spectacular Louvre Palace was not to be missed if one was fortunate enough to be invited. He also knew that a Coltrane affair was always lavish, always the high point of the social season.
When he was alone once more, Cyril discreetly moved about the room examining the splendid furnishings. He was wealthy in his own right, was not intimidated by such opulence but merely wanted to compare it with his own. Material things, he felt, were not truly important in life, but he happened to like them, intended to have the best of them.
He paused before a sculpture with a Carrara marble base, absently wondering where the beauty had been acquired.
He dared to run his fingertips down the delicate lines of the Allegrain, a woman with a water jug held almost sensuously against her breast.
There was, he grimly, silently, acknowledged, something he did not have…something he wanted, had to have, if he were to achieve total success in his life, his career.
In order to reach that coveted pinnacle that would acclaim him as the absolute connoisseur in Europe, perhaps even the world, he had to make a discovery!
He had to discover something truly valuable, rare, perhaps even priceless.
He had traveled extensively, lived for a time in many countries—Austria, Germany, Russia, even Italy and Greece. When something came along, he would know it.
Enviously, he thought of Mademoiselle Daniella Coltrane and her discovery. That had been a stroke of luck, had nothing to do with knowledge, perception, ingenuity. But had he, Cyril Arpel, discovered the hidden cache of valuable paintings, it would have, no doubt, launched him all the way to the moon in terms of being hailed by his peers.
“Monsieur Arpel. Bonjour.”
He turned quickly at the sound of the sweetly soft voice, was at once struck speechless when he found himself looking at the most incredibly beautiful young woman he had ever seen.
Long, golden-brown hair. Soft, cinnamon eyes, limpid in their loveliness and fringed with long, thick, curling lashes. Skin almost as alabaster-smooth and white as the sculpture he had just touched. A perfectly shaped nose, slightly, saucily tipped. Lips almost petulant, pink and moist.
She was wearing a gown of pink cotton, overlaid in delicate white lace. Her hair fell softly to perfect shoulders. He could see that the body beneath the dress was molded to perfection, and he almost gasped at the thought of such a sight.
Dani cocked her head to one side, slightly puzzled. The man had not spoken, merely stared as though in a trance. “Monsieur? You are Monsieur Arpel?” she added, a touch of doubt in her tone.
“Uh, yes.” Cyril began to recover. God, she was beautiful. He had never been dumbstruck by the sight of a woman; he had seen thousands, bedded perhaps hundreds, but never, had his lusty, hungry eyes feasted on such a sight as she.
He quickly crossed the room to bestow a kiss upon her fingertips. “Forgive me. You startled
me. I dared to touch the Allegrain, and I felt like a naughty child when you caught me.” He grinned affably, pretended anxiety. “You won’t tell on me, will you?”
Dani laughed. At once, she could see that Cyril Arpel was a welcome change from the austere types she had met thus far in the art society of Paris. He had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and she found him handsome as well. “No, I won’t tell. I admit I have to do the same when I’m around something I find attractive.”
“You are very kind to allow me a private showing of your Monaco discovery. I feel quite honored.”
Dani shrugged. While it had been a thrill to find something supposedly valuable, something that was giving her much publicity for the impending opening of her gallery, she could not share the enthusiasm of others. She just was not, she privately acknowledged, that intensely interested in art. Dancing, particularly ballet, was her true love. The gallery, the antique shop, that was something to while away the hours, give her a hobby, as it were, an interest.
She beckoned him to follow. “I am happy to oblige. My stepmother tells me that you are one of the most renowned art dealers in all of Europe. I will be interested to hear your interpretation and opinion of what we found in Monaco.”
One of the most renowned dealers. Her words burned within him. Let me make a discovery of my own, and I’ll be the most renowned, Cyril vowed silently, fiercely.
They entered the library, which, Cyril decided, was apparently furnished in the taste of Monsieur Coltrane, whom he knew to be, on the occasions he had been in his company, a rugged sort. Oh, he possessed all the social graces necessary for his important, respected position, but there was an air about him that hinted he would be much happier on the back of a horse, or some other unappealing activity, as far as Cyril was concerned.
At the far end of the room, amid the rows and rows of books arranged on hand-rubbed mahogany shelves, the paintings were displayed on easels.
Cyril began his inspection reluctantly. Suddenly, paintings, however valuable, were not on the top of his list of priorities. The captivating Daniella Coltrane was.
She gestured to the paintings. “Here they are. Take all the time you want.”
Cyril moved forward. It was for moments such as these that he had studied so diligently, had learned how to view with close scrutiny.
Perhaps ten minutes passed in silence. Finally, Cyril announced that he especially liked the Rousseau and explained why. “He was able to show nature as a wild and undisciplined force, and it earned him the admiration of many of France’s leading Romantic painters and writers.
“He did not exhibit regularly until 1831,” he went on to explain. “Then in the forties he settled in the village of Barbizon where he worked with the likes of Jean-Francois Millet and Charles-Francois Daubigny.”
“They were known as the Barbizon school,” Dani put in. “It was during the period when Rousseau produced tranquil pastorals such as this.”
Cyril was impressed and said as much. Dani smiled. “I have my stepmother to thank for what little I know about art. I’m afraid it isn’t exactly my forte.”
“Oh, I rather think your forte would be just about anything you wanted it to be, my dear.”
Letting his compliment pass without comment, she offered refreshment, hoping he was not in a hurry to leave.
Cyril was about to accept, also wanting to linger, when suddenly he realized he had been viewing five paintings, not six, as he’d heard had been discovered in Monaco. Almost accusingly, he asked, “Where is the other painting? Did you sell it?”
“No. I’m not selling any of them for the time being,” she replied. “I didn’t think you would be interested in seeing the other one. It can’t be of any value.”
He drew in his breath, let it out slowly. Lord, didn’t these amateurs realize that it was the truly great paintings that slipped right by them, because they did not have the expertise, the knowledge, to know a valuable work of art when they saw it?
Somewhat exasperated, he implored, “May I see it, please? Allow me to be the judge.”
Dani shrugged. Let him see for himself that it was worthless. She went and got it from where it was stored in a cabinet, then held it out to him. “See for yourself, monsieur.”
“Oh, please call me Cyril,” he murmured airily, taking the small framed canvas and walking to the window to view it in daylight.
Suddenly, creeping fingers of excitement began to work their way up his spine. He could feel his flesh start to tingle.
Was it possible that this was the missing Alexandrovsky painting?
For long, tense moments, he stared at the picture of the famed Alexandrovsky Palace, which was located in Russia, south of Saint Petersburg.
He could not afford to take any chances.
Cyril Arpel knew that if there was the remotest possibility that this was the painting sought by those closest to the Czar himself, then he had his discovery…the find that would establish him as the greatest connoisseur of art in the entire world.
Few, he thought excitedly, knew the secret behind the painting, for the scandal behind it had been discreetly dealt with. There was no way that Dani, or Kitty Coltrane, could have the slightest inkling of what was in their possession. Yet, he reminded himself anxiously, Dani had removed the painting from the collection.
Struggling to keep an edge from his voice, he inquired, “Do you know this scene?”
She shook her head. “No, but it looks like a very lovely palace somewhere.”
He studied her eyes. There was no hint that she was hiding anything. She probably knew nothing, except that the painting was not the quality of the others, might take away from their true beauty.
“It is in Russia. About twenty-two kilometers from Saint Petersburg. I know it well, because I have lived and studied in Russia.”
Dani’s interest was aroused. “Tell me about it,” she urged.
He began to explain. “Catherine the Great commissioned an Italian named Quarenghi in 1792 to build a palace for her grandson, who later became Alexander I. It was known as the Alexander Palace, later called the Alexandrovsky Palace.”
He paused to sneer at the painting, then said critically, “This doesn’t do it justice. Actually, it is an insult to the elegance of Alexandrovsky.”
Dani nodded, but murmured, “I rather like it. There is something hauntingly beautiful about it, a uniqueness I can’t describe, and—”
“I want to buy it!” he interrupted, eyes wide and shining.
At once, Dani held out her hand for it, shook her head vehemently. “No. It’s not for sale. None of the paintings are for sale. I intend to use them for publicity, for display, for everyone to enjoy for a while, and then I will sell them, but not this one.”
Cyril felt a wave of panic, began to stammer. “But—but, my dear. You can see this is poor quality. It will only shadow the others.”
“Then I won’t display it with them,” she said matter-of-factly, still holding out her hand.
Cyril’s fingers tightened around the frame, and he pressed it against his chest. “It means something to me,” he lied. “Sentimental, you know. I will give you a good price.”
Dani sighed, slightly perturbed. “It is not for sale.”
Cyril had to have the painting. He was one of only a few people who knew the secret, and he wasn’t even supposed to know, would not know, were it not for eavesdropping on a conversation between the famed Russian goldsmith Peter Carl Fabergé, and one of his sons at the opening of their Odessa store one year before.
He had wandered away from the mingling, ogling crowds, as was his custom, and boldly gone beyond the gold velvet drapes separating the store proper from the workrooms. He wanted to see not what was offered to the general public but the creations that would be presented for private sale, to royalty.
He had found a tiny room where he marveled over a Chinese marriage cup, carved in mutton-fat jade and mounted in oxidized silver by Fabergé. The rim was engraved with a pattern of
lines and dots, and the two handles were stylized jaguar heads, each revealing cabochon amethysts within open jaws formed of leaf motifs.
It was beautiful, and there was a countess in Lyon who would pay a fortune for it, he knew.
He was about to boldly seek out Carl Fabergé and make an offer for the piece. Then he heard voices, stood back to listen…and heard the conversation that revealed to him the secret of Alexandrovsky Palace and the painting he now held in his trembling hands!
Dani was losing her patience. The man was behaving strangely. “If you will give me the painting, I will put it away and have refreshments served,” she stated evenly, almost coldly.
Cyril hated to hand it over to her but knew he had no choice. For the moment, her mind was set against selling it, and to continue to attempt to persuade her to change her mind would only risk arousing her suspicion as to why he wanted possession of it so badly.
Breathing in deeply, with nostrils flaring, he silently vowed that he would eventually have it…would stop at nothing to get it!
He forced a smile to dry, nervous lips. “Well, if you change your mind, please let me be the first to make an offer. Memories, you know,” he added with a flippant shrug.
When they were back in the parlor once more, enjoying glasses of champagne, Cyril turned his attention to another matter—his infatuation with this stunningly beautiful creature. “Your stepmother tells me there is to be a grand social to celebrate the opening of your gallery and shop. I would be honored if you would allow me to escort you.”
Dani groaned inwardly at the thought of the planned event. Oh, what a heated discussion that had been with her father and Kitty when they approached her with the idea. Yes, she could see having a simple reception, but a ball? With an orchestra and all the trimmings? She had accused them both of wanting to put her on display, like a debutante, for God’s sake. “Stop trying to plan my life for me,” she had angrily protested. “Stop trying to find a husband for me! I don’t want a husband! I don’t want marriage. I don’t want a debut into society. All I want is to be left alone to make my own decisions!”
Love and Splendor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 5 Page 6