Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
JADEON
London, the city that no longer sleeps.
It is here that I find some solitude, wandering among the crowds until my need for normality subsides.
I love this vibrant capital, more for its culture than anything.
Sometimes Alex likes to come with me. Other times, like on this occasion, he wanted to hang out in the West End and take in a magic show.
My bespoke, perfectly tailored suit—complete with an elaborate waistcoat—might have been a bit much for a quiet evening at one of my favorite haunts, but dressing this way was how I held onto my humanity, in the finest that Savile Row had to offer.
Unable to stay away from Raphael’s portrait for long, I returned to the National Gallery in need of my St. Catherine of Alexandria fix.
I kept the same time and place, a small ritual for my Catherine, always hoping she might eventually meet me here.
I was so completely engrossed with the painting that my trancelike demeanor must have appeared eerie to the other guests who admired the artwork. It certainly drew the unwanted attention of one woman who neared me and studied my expression.
She was fascinated that my focus never strayed.
I assumed she would eventually move on but for the moment, she—like me—was predictably mesmerized by Raphael’s portrait. Turning toward the pretty petite female, aged twenty-five or so, I stared directly at her, hoping it would make her uncomfortable and force her away.
She had a fragile beauty. She held my gaze.
I snapped my head back at the painting, unnerved.
She took a few steps back to survey the portrait more fully.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” She drew closer.
She had a striking presence, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and long, dark hair that framed her face with effortless elegance. Her sun-kissed complexion and poised demeanor gave her a quiet confidence. A seeming calm self-assurance.
My supernatural gift promised even more was waiting to unfold if I let myself soften to this spontaneous meeting with a beautiful stranger.
Still, this was a bad idea.
Silence. I would try that.
“She’s hypnotic,” she said.
I shoved my hands in my pockets.
“You don’t say much, do you?” The pretty girl smiled at me.
“Raphael does capture her essence beautifully,” I said.
“Raphael. What an amazing painter.”
Polite reply, politically correct social behavior. Now go away.
“This must be the best gallery in town,” she said.
“You mean other than the Tate?” I asked. I had made her uncomfortable and felt overly rude. “Do you know her story? The story of St. Catherine?” I asked her.
“Yes. I’m Catholic, so I was breastfed on saints.”
I stared at her, amused that she blushed. Actually, the stranger was gorgeous.
“So was I, raised to adore saints, that is,” I said to ease her discomfort.
“Perhaps that’s why we are drawn to them now.”
“Perhaps.”
“Is this your first time to the gallery?” she asked.
“No, so many other paintings to see.” I checked my watch. “The gallery closes in an hour so you’d better hurry if you want to see everything.”
She furrowed her brow.
I had hit a nerve with my rudeness. I sensed she was not used to men speaking with such disrespect. Interesting, not that I cared though. “Well it’s been nice meeting with you, but I have to go now, Ingrid.” I strolled off, heading into the other room where more paintings awaited.
I was relieved to have extracted myself from the intriguing woman.
There was no room in my life for indulges with dazzling mortals.
On the other hand, perhaps my fascination with her had thrown me. Abruptly, I stopped. A dramatic portrait had caught my eye—Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast. I swallowed hard and looked around the room self-consciously. Orpheus once mentioned he owned the masterpiece.
It astounded me to see it here.
The portrait was of a chilling scene of a regale in the kingdom of Babylon, a striking rendition on an old biblical narrative.
Several guests sat around a richly adorned banqueting table and drank from the sacred vessels stolen from the temple of Jerusalem.
These princes, wives, and concubines of King Belshazzar appeared deeply troubled, startled by the sudden interruption of a blinding vision.
At the center of the painting stood Belshazzar, equally alarmed by the mystical apparition.
Large in the frame, he was dressed in the lavish apparel of a king, his royal crown positioned high upon a generous turban. Defensively he held out his hand and glared wide-eyed in astonishment at the miraculous light that emanated from the hand of God who wrote upon the wall in Aramaic script.
Fascinated, I considered the gallery’s interpretation of the painting.
Belshazzar and his sages had studied the words written from right to left, perturbed that they were unable to interpret their coded meaning.
The prophet Daniel was summoned by the King and deciphered the words for him—Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin—foretelling the fall of the kingdom of Babylon and the death of Belshazzar.
I mouthed the words, “Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin.” I shuddered in reaction to the precise Aramaic: I will bring down the house of Belshazzar.
I lingered before the painting and wondered yet again why after all these years Catherine had not approached me. She knew where we lived. She could easily have visited if only for a moment. She must have known I had pursued her relentlessly. Did Daumia still keep her prisoner?
I was lost in thought.
“Excuse me?” That pretty woman again. She had followed me.
Reluctant to engage I offered a polite smile and headed for the next room.
“How did you know my name? You called me Ingrid, and I never told you my name.”
She was right. I chastised my carelessness. I studied her face, gauging my response. The twinkle of gold caught my eye.
Thank God for that.
“Ingrid, see.” I pointed to her namesake necklace.
Ingrid blushed. “Boy, do I feel—”
“It’s a beautiful name,” I said.
“May I inquire on yours?”
“Jadeon.”
“That’s unusual.” Ingrid followed my gaze toward a gentleman who was walking toward us.
I recognized Mr. Teddington.
“Lord Artimas,” Mr. Teddington greeted me. “I was informed you were here tonight. How do you like the position of your painting?”
“Good evening, sir. Thank you for giving her such an excellent position.”
“It is indeed our pleasure. Such a masterpiece deserves to be presented as such. Thank you for allowing the National Gallery to exhibit her.”
Ingrid pulled out of her handbag a postcard and turned it around. “You own this painting?”
“Yes.” I tried to figure out why she seemed overly fascinated with this fact. She appeared lost in thought.
“Ingrid, meet Mr. Teddington,” I said. “He’s the senior curator. Mr. Teddington, this is Ingrid.”
Mr. Teddington and Ingrid shook hands.
“How long have you had Belshazzar’s Feast within your collection?” I asked him.
Mr. Teddington appeared to think on this for a moment. “I believe it arrived just after your Raphael was presented, certainly within a week.”
My head spun. Orpheus was playing with me. “Do you happen to have the name of the gentleman who it belongs to?” I asked.
“Like yourself, he’s a private collector. He did mention to me that he owned a club in Belgravia. I believe he said that it was on Chesham Place. Does that help?”
“The name of the club?” I asked.
“It’s named after the painting—Belshazzar’s.”
I hoped they’d missed my reaction and cleared my throat. “Please excuse us, Mr. Teddington, we have a prior dinner engagement,” I said and guided Ingrid out of the room and through the long corridors until we reached the gallery foyer.
“That man will talk me into giving up my entire collection if I’m not careful,” I said, smiling though my heart pounded. Orpheus had positioned the painting in order to get my attention.
He was keeping track of me.
Ingrid frowned. “I believe art should be enjoyed by everyone.”
“Of course.” I hung my head thoughtfully.
“You have more paintings hidden away?”
“It has been a delight.” I shook Ingrid’s hand. I headed for the gallery exit. “Enjoy the rest of your tour.”
“So dinner’s off, then?” she called after me.
I turned toward the fresh-faced woman.
Ingrid blushed. “You just escorted me to the door.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“I would love to talk more about Raphael. I didn’t mean to be forward,” Ingrid said. “It’s just that you seem so knowledgeable about art and it’s such a refreshing change from my world.”
She was certainly convincing. I tried not to stare but my gaze wandered over her figure.
Her eyes reflected that she had noticed. “Perhaps you’re like me and don’t get out much,” she said.
I smiled. “I would very much like to take you out to dinner.” I tried to shake off this sudden desire.
Ingrid beamed.
No, this wasn’t supposed to happen, and yet, I found myself gesturing for her to exit the doorway first, unable to resist stealing a few more moments with this mesmerizing stranger.
I hailed a taxi to the Strand’s Savoy Hotel.
On our arrival, I escorted Ingrid to the hotel’s restaurant, Simpson’s in the Strand.
The ma?tre d’ informed us that her attire of black trousers and leather jacket were unsuitable to dine at The Grand Divan.
I offered my apologies to Ingrid. I had no idea that such rules were enforced.
It was unusual for me to frequent these places.
With a firm hand, I led Ingrid down the long corridor to the stores and small booths within the hotel lobby.
The fact that she was uncomfortable made me wonder what it was about overpowering her that gave me such a rush.
We entered the Versace store. Guessing her size, I took a dress from the rack and held it against her. Replacing it, I found another more suitable outfit.
“This one,” I offered her.
Ingrid glanced at the price tag.
“Consider it a gift,” I said.
“I can’t possibly.”
“Really, I insist.”
“Perhaps there’s another restaurant that’s not so fussy about—”