Chapter Twelve
“Good morning to you, Mr. and Mrs. Habsburg.” The hotel receptionist nodded at them as they left the hotel the next morning.
Jules tipped his hat. “Good morning to you.”
The Parisian street was a hive of activity—carriages, barrowmen, pedestrians, and a young street artist working on a large canvas.
They strolled toward it. He was painting the hotel.
“C’est excellent, jeune homme. J’imagine que vous serez bient?t dans les galeries.” Jules set his hand on the man’s shoulder and peered closer.
“Merci.” The man smiled at Jules. He had dazzling, blue eyes and wore a blue scarf tied in a knot around his neck.
“It is very good,” Meredith said. “It looks just like the hotel.”
“And he has caught the morning light perfectly. See, the shadows are all in the same direction.” Jules pointed them out, keen for Meredith to learn how to critique a piece of work.
“Yes. Excellent, I see that.”
The young man smiled up at them both.
“I bid you a good day and every success,” Meredith said with a smile.
Her cheeks were a little flushed and she’d smiled all through breakfast. Jules had a very pleasing sense that he’d given her a night to remember. They’d ravished one another a total of three times, learned each other’s bodies late into the night and then again just before sunrise.
It was safe to say it had been a most excellent way to start his day.
“Come,” he said, holding out his elbow. “The salon is not far. We can walk there.”
“I am excited to see what paintings you have your eye on.” She took his offered arm and they made their way east.
“Monsieur Francois Gérard, whom you heard mentioned by Mr. Delaware, is one to look out for. But also some of the old masters from the Renaissance and Baroque might be in residence.”
“And who are the old masters?”
“They are the ones who showed great skill, and mastery, during these times. Leonardo da Vinci, Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Titian, Vermeer.”
“Wow, you have such knowledge for this world.”
“Knowledge you will quickly pick up with that sharp brain of yours.”
“You give me much credit.”
“I know a fast learner when I see one.”
Her cheeks flushed a little more, which was most endearing. “And do you have a favorite of these masters?”
“Caravaggio.” He’d spoken quickly.
“Oh, and why is that?”
“He’s a genius with light. I’ll show you if we see one of his. But it’s him, as a man, that captivates me.”
“Why, was he very pious?”
“No.” Jules laughed. “Totally the opposite. I suppose in modern times we’d call him ‘a scoundrel,’ ‘a ruffian.’”
“Tell me more.” She raised her eyebrows at him.
They turned a corner onto a wider street that was a bustle of carriages.
“He lived in Italy, and while he produced the most exquisite work, quickly too, he was a street fighter, a man with enemies, debts, and a drinking problem that led him to squabble and brawl.”
“A man with two sides.”
“Exactly. An angel with the brush in the day, and the devil with fast fists when the night came.”
“And you associate with that?”
“Whatever do you mean?” He turned to her.
“Well, you don’t have the best reputation around the ton, Jules. I was warned away from you several times.”
“Thank goodness you took no heed.”
“That has yet to be seen.” A flash of sadness crossed her eyes.
He hated to see that shadow of his doing. “We are having a fine time, are we not?”
She sucked in a breath. “Yes, indeed we are.” She paused and pointed forward. “Is that the building we are looking for?”
“Yes, and good, there is no queue.” He hurried their steps, keen to get to the art and also keen to not think of how he would inevitably hurt the sweet woman on his arm.
He really was a scoundrel. Likely even worse than Caravaggio himself, who had led a short and tempestuous life, because in this day and age, Jules should have known better.
They climbed several wide, stone steps and entered the gallery.
A sense of anticipation and excitement gripped Jules.
He had a good idea of what would be here, but there was always the element of the unknown.
A surprise addition. And he loved to be surprised.
Predictability wasn’t in his vocabulary.
“Wow, this is incredible.” Meredith halted in her tracks and looked at the squeeze of paintings on the walls surrounding them. “There are so many.”
“Yes, this is where the new artists are displayed, like the young man we just saw opposite the hotel. They don’t get the luxury of a wall to themselves.”
“Some of them are really good.” She slipped her hand from his arm and walked to the right, her pale-blue gown swishing slightly and skimming the slight curves he now knew only too well.
“You have a good eye,” he said, joining her. “That is very accomplished.”
“And by a woman. Look.” She peered at the signature. “Anne Vallayer-Coster.”
“So it is.”
“I like that.” She folded her arms. “Art shouldn’t be dominated by men. Women are very creative too.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” He smiled at her dogged expression. It would take a braver man than him to argue that point with her.
“And what about this one?” He pointed at an oil painting of Notre Dame.
“It’s beautiful. Where is it? In Paris?”
“Yes.” He loved that she always had a question for him. “And it’s not far from here. If you like, we could take a walk there before we return to London.”
“I would like that very much.”
“Mr. Habsburg, what a pleasant surprise.”
Jules turned at the sound of his name. It was Monsieur Belmont, the owner of the gallery. “Greetings.” He held out his hand. “Fine exhibition you have.”
“And hopefully some fine purchases for you.” The man shook Jules’s hand. His fingers were podgy, much like his face, which was redder than it had been the last time Jules had seen him. His penchant for steak and port clearly wasn’t waning.
“If by ‘fine,’ you mean ‘hard to come by,’ then yes, I hope so.”
“Hard to come by.” Belmont nodded. “You are a man who plays on the edge, am I right?”
“You know me well.” Jules chuckled. “Though please don’t throw me in the same sack as Caravaggio.” He glanced at Meredith.
She smiled at him and his heart beat a little faster for a few seconds. He was enjoying having her with him for this.
“Of course not, Mr. Habsburg. What a rogue Caravaggio was, indeed. But please, come through to the back room.” He smiled at Meredith and pulled out a key. “Both of you. I would be most enchanted.”
“Thank you.” Meredith nodded and cupped her hands, hiding the fake wedding ring. Was she embarrassed of it now?
Jules pressed his lips together and followed Belmont with Meredith at his side.
Once in a small room with a heavy door leading to the rest of the gallery, Belmont indicated a dark painting of a battle scene complete with horses, finely dressed cavalrymen, and the dead and dying underfoot.
Jules recognized it instantly. It was a Francois Gérard and the painting for which Mr. Delaware was no doubt on the hunt.
“How did that end up here?” he asked Belmont, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.
“It was at the Palace of Versailles. But of course, with the revolution, these things find new homes.”
“Of course.” Jules nodded and tapped his chin with his finger. “New homes.”
“It is rather grizzly.” Meredith studied the lower half of the painting.
“Probably best not to worry yourself,” Belmont said to her.
“I am not worried. It is a painting, and beautifully done. I’m just not sure I’d enjoy it hanging over me while taking afternoon tea.”
Belmont raised his eyebrows. “You have a point, young lady.”
“How much do you want for it?” Jules asked.
“I am expecting two hundred.”
“A lot.” Jules continued to tap his chin. “For a painting with suspect transit from a palace.”
Belmont frowned. “That is the art world now.”
“The art world is more dangerous than ever before.” Jules paused. “Especially if art is stolen.”
Belmont glanced at the entrance to the room. “Stolen from whom, though? The palace was sacked by Napoleon and his army.”
“Yes, but a king sits upon a throne again. Is this not his artwork?”
“He has not asked for it.” Belmont huffed.
“Because likely, he does not know of its existence.”
Belmont twisted his lips and his jowls wobbled. He frowned at the painting and then at Jules.
“But I will make you an offer.” Jules leaned close to him. “I will pay you one hundred and fifty, and I will give you my word that it will never be connected to you should questions be asked.”
Belmont’s eyes bulged. “How can I be sure you will not utter my name?”
“You have my word.” Jules held out his hand.
“Plus, I will pay you cash today, and you can have it delivered by one of your staff to room nineteen at our hotel. It must be securely wrapped in brown paper and string and you will tell no one of our arrangement. Absolutely no one.” He stepped up to the painting and studied the signature and the brush strokes.
He held in a smile. Definitely an original, definitely a painting on which he could double his money back in London; unless he wanted to keep a piece of history for himself, that was.
Meredith was looking at him with wide eyes.
“You do not approve?” he asked her and then he wondered why he wanted her opinion.
“It is not my place to approve or not. This is your business.”
“I wish you to be honest.” He hoped she wouldn’t judge him for taking something looted during a revolution. He was paying good money for it—his own money—after all.
She studied him and tipped her head. “All right, if you must know, I preferred the street painting we saw of our hotel. It is prettier.”
Jules laughed, relieved it was a simple answer for once. “Oh, my love, you are so right, but people with deep pockets don’t pay money for pretty; they pay for the signature at the bottom.” He pointed to it. “And this is a very fine signature.”
“I am still learning.” She nodded at Belmont. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“And you too. Miss…?”
“Meredith Jones.” She turned and left the room.
Jules’s mouth dried a little. She’d appeared happy to be Meredith Habsburg the day before, but it seemed that had changed. As the morning moved on, if felt like she’d ceased being his.
He’d have to fix that situation. Fast.
“Good sir, thank you for your custom,” Belmont said. “I will ensure this painting is in your hotel room within hours.”
Jules handed him some cash. “The rest upon delivery.”
“As it should be.”
“And one more thing. If a Mr. Delaware asks after me or any Francois Gérard works, plead ignorance. I haven’t been here and you have no works by the artist.”
“Understood.”
Jules caught up with Meredith, who was walking through a gallery with dark-green walls.
She stopped beside a large painting of a knight on a fabulous white horse. His armor was exquisite and his sword glinted in the sun. He was surrounded by people, villagers, and behind him were low hills and cropped fields.
Jules’s heart stuttered.
“Who is this by?” Meredith asked without looking at him. “I can’t see a signature.”
“I… I have no idea.”
“It’s beautiful, and the crest, on the horse’s cover, it is a double-headed eagle. Shouldn’t that mean something?”
“Yes, it’s the House of Habsburg.”
“Oh…I…didn’t know.”
“And this is a painting I’ve heard of but never seen. The artist never signed it, but apparently, the duchess’s godfather, the King of France at the time, had it commissioned.”
“It’s beautiful.” Meredith let out a sigh of admiration and leaned closer. “Truly incredible. The colors, the faces of everyone, the knight and the duchess he’s meeting for the first time… I’m guessing that is the case.”
“Yes, he’d just ridden from Vienna to marry her.”
“It’s captured something…as though they’ve fallen in love at first sight.”
Jules reached for her hand and squeezed. “I agree and…” He swallowed a lump of emotion. “And I have to have it.”
“But you’ve just bought a painting—”
“That I will likely sell for a handsome price. This one, I will keep for myself. It is my ancestry.”
“A distant ancestry.”
“A bloodline is a bloodline.”
“Maximilian walked away from a pregnant woman many years ago in your family tree,” Meredith said. “Is it something you will always hold on to?”
“As my father did?”
“And when will that resentment, that bitter sense of injustice, die?”
He frowned and turned away, searching for Belmont as an excuse to end the uncomfortable line of questioning. “Ah, kind sir.” He held up his hand to a member of staff. “I will take this one too.”