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.
“No, Mr. Worchansky,” I cut in. “We are interested in what you know about them. My necklace was passed down through generations, though I’m not aware of its ori
gins. We were hoping that you might have some history on the cufflinks, which appear to be part of the same set.”
Charles remained silent, studying Worchansky carefully.
“It is knowledge that you seek?” the older man asked. “I have spent my life acquiring and learning about each piece that I own. A life’s work that you ask for as plainly as a telephone number.”
“I apologize,” I said quickly. “When it comes to—”
Whipping his cane through the air with impressive speed, Worchansky cut me off and pointed to a statue between two of the windows.
“A Michelangelo. I won it in a card game in my twenties from Viscount Mordimore.” The cane made a whizzing sound as Worchansky found his next target. “That Rembrandt painting—the dowry for my third son’s wife, Eleanora. Born on the wrong side of the blanket, she was still her father’s favorite child.” Worchansky scoffed. “And yet, he was more reticent to part with the painting than his daughter.” Another crack of the cane. “You see the bauble in that case? It has been called many names: The Heart of Lyons, The Raven’s Eye, The Diamond Noose, The Scarlet Death.” The old man stopped to catch his breath.
“You forgot the earliest moniker,” I said, seizing the opportunity. “The Sorcerer’s Prize.”
The folds of skin around Worchansky’s eyes crinkled, pleased with my knowledge of ancient artifacts.
You have no idea, old man, I thought wryly.
“The lore alone makes its worth unattainable for most any man,” I continued.
“Cardinal Wolsey gave it to Anne Boleyn when she gave birth to her daughter,” Worchansky added conversationally, the derision wiped from his voice and replaced by intrigue.
I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I was positive he was testing me. And the fate of the items we’d come to see depended on my performance.
“The daughter, Queen Elizabeth the first, gave the necklace to Mary Queen of Scots as a goodwill gesture. Before later imprisoning her, of course,” I volleyed.
Worchansky’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he quickly recovered his composure. Feeling smug that I’d managed to surprise him with my trivia, I took a moment too long to realize my mistake. The questionably legitimate daughter of Henry VIII and his ill-fated second wife was still known in this time simply as ‘Queen Elizabeth’. The second Queen Elizabeth was not yet born in 1925, and wouldn’t be the heir apparent for quite some time.
“—a wedding present to the Archduchess Maria von Habsburg-Lothringen from King Louis XV,” Worchansky was saying. Evidently, he’d dismissed my remark as a mistake by an American who was confused as to how monarchs were named.
“History, of course, knows her better as Marie Antoinette,” I chimed in automatically, glancing self-assuredly towards Charles. I was acing Worchansky’s test, and a part of me wondered if my companion was impressed.
I was startled to find that the color had drained from Charles’s face, which was devoid of expression. He’d grown mute during my téte-a-téte with Worchansky. His hands were clutched in fists at his sides, gripped so tightly that his fingernails were likely digging half-moons into his palms.
Had Worchansky’s comment about money really insulted him that much? I wondered.
In his defense, the old man had no way of knowing that Charles was exceedingly wealthy. Without the gaudy trappings of the nouveau riche, he looked like any other young man about town.
“Yes, Marie Antoinette, the Austrian who was meant to unite her country with France by marrying the dauphin,” Worchansky picked up. “Instead, she suffered the grimmest fate of all.”
“A royalist smuggled the necklace out of France after her death, because he thought it was too beautiful, too valuable, and had too much history to be destroyed by Robespierre,” I replied without missing a beat, though my attention was divided in too many ways to count.
“His name was Albert Bonneville—” Worchansky started to say.
I held up a finger.
“Her name was Alberta Bonneville,” I corrected with a triumphant grin. “She dressed as a man and helped smuggle French royalists to safety.”
Worchansky shook his head wonderingly.
“The stone changed hands many times after that, eventually ending up in mine through a private auction,” he finished the tale. “It is one of my most prized acquisitions.”
Pride shone brightly in Worchansky’s eyes as a deep sadness filled me. The thought that this man, who loved history as much as any historian on Cyrus’s payroll, would never experience some of the most turbulent, fascinating times yet to come…it broke my heart. Part of me wanted to tell him the rest of the jewel’s history, though I knew it was impossible.
Centuries from now, when your bones are dust and your soul is finally at rest, it will change hands again and again, I thought, mentally reciting it as if he might hear and understand. Later known as the Black Ruby of Shanghai, it will be a gift from China’s Prime Minister to American president Livia LeCroix at a global summit in Cameroon. This gesture will serve as a symbol of the Chinese-American alliance post-World War III.
Five hundred years from now, it will be one of seven enumerated items banned for retrieval by all five syndicates. It is one of the few sacred pieces that belongs within history.
“Mr. Worchansky, if I may ask, what is your point?” Charles interjected, becoming restless beside me. His words pulled me from my musings. I shot him a pointed look, a silent chastisement for his rudeness.
Worchansky’s gaze frosted over as it transferred to my sulky companion.
“My point, young man, is this: all of the objects in this room tell a story. They have history that began long before I was born, and their legacies will continue long after I die. This makes them more valuable than I can say. The cufflinks you have come for also have a story, and I have not heard it yet. Until I do, there is nothing you can offer me in exchange.”
Worchansky settled back in his chair and surveyed the room’s possessions lovingly. He’d mentioned a son earlier, but the items in that room were his real babies, his legacy.
Inhaling deeply, I made a decision. I made the offer before the logical part of my brain could stop me.
“What if I find out their story?” I asked.
The old man quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.
“I will learn where they came from, who owned them, and whatever else you like,” I continued, my desperation coming through loud and clear. “All I ask is to see them today, and for you to share any information you do have. In exchange, I promise to return with the answers you seek.”
Worchansky drew back. I feared he was going to refuse me.
Charles placed a hand between my shoulder blades, trying to quiet the anxiety inside of me. He threaded the fingers of his free hand with mine and squeezed.
“Mr. Worchansky, sir, I am sure there is some agreement we can reach,” Charles said, his tone turning deferential.
Apparently, witnessing the depths of my despair had affected him. When I met Charles’s gaze, I saw determination. He would stop at nothing to help me. He wanted answers, too. The adoption story would remain a questionable point in his history without them. Somehow, with just the appearance of a pocket watch, Charles had become as wrapped up in my quest as I was.
Worchansky’s focus remained on me.
“I am an old man, Ms. Prince. Eighty-two next month. My heart is bad. My lungs are worse. How do I know you will learn the story before I die?”
I held his gaze. “I give you my word.”
After all, even if it took my entire lifetime to learn the story, I could return to him before his death.
Silence hung in the air like the mushroom cloud after a nuclear blast. I half expected all of us, or at least Mr. Worchansky, to keel over before the old man made a decision. Finally, without saying a word, Worchansky raised his cane and brought it down upon the floor three times. The loud thumps echoed through the silent room, followed by the appearance of his butler in the doorway.
; “Sir? You called for me?”
The elderly man’s face was still so maddeningly expressionless. In that moment, I fully expected him to ask for us to be escorted to the door. The inevitable parting words, “Do not come back,” would be repeated in French, German, and English to ensure comprehension. Maybe even Pig Latin.
Was my only lead truly a dead end?
Evidently, Charles shared my concern. He stood resolutely from the couch, reaching for my hand to pull me with him.
“Please bring in Tutankhamun’s case,” Worchansky said loudly. Though the words were directed to his butler, the formidable man never once broke eye contact with me. I found it more than a little ominous.
Exchanging uncertain glances, Charles and I eased back down onto the couch.
When the butler returned moments later, he carried a reddish-brown clay box in his hands. Hieroglyphs marked the sides and an image of Tutankhamun was carved into the lid. The box alone was worth a fortune in my time. Many of the syndicate’s wealthier clients collected Egyptian artifacts.
The butler presented the case to his employer, but Worchansky pointed to me. “For Ms. Prince,” he said.
“Wasn’t that found recently?” Charles asked, his voice a mix of awe and incredulity. The butler set the box in my lap, and Charles reached over to gently run his finger over the engraving on top.
“Indeed. Howard is a long-time friend of mine. He gave me this as a gift for my eightieth birthday, just after he found King Tut’s final resting place,” Worchansky replied with a wide smile. “Isn’t it just remarkable?”
My heart was in my throat, my hands trembling as I took in the Pharaoh’s box. While a small part of me wanted to examine and appreciate it, I was mostly anxious to open it and discover what lay inside.
What if the cufflinks aren’t a match? What if all of this was for nothing?
One glance at Worchansky put those fears to rest. His smile reminded me of the one Molly wore whenever she brought me back a present from one of her runs—something she knew I’d love.
The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) Page 35
