Page 23 of Royally Romanov
CHAPTER
FIVE
It wasn’t a date.
Finley should have made that perfectly clear. She should have said as much, rather than nodding mutely and walking away. Because really, it wasn’t a date. Was. Not.
It couldn’t be. He thought he was Russian royalty. Royally delusional was more like it.
But what on earth was he doing with a photograph of Anastasia?
The picture was real—Finley was certain of it. She’d seen enough photos from the time period to know a fake from an original. What was more, she suspected it had been taken by the Tsar himself. Nicholas II was an avid photographer and filled albums with family pictures during his lifetime. Maxim’s photo had even been hand-tinted in dreamy watercolor tones of pale blue and green, as had many of the photos in the Romanovs’ private collection. Anastasia’s older sister, the Grand Duchess Maria, had hand-colored a large number of her father’s prints. She’d highlighted clothing, hair color and the medals on her father’s military uniforms. Most of the tinted photographs had been taken during 1918, mere months before the family’s execution. Which meant that if Maxim’s photo was genuine...
It could be priceless.
Finley’s heart thumped hard in her chest. She wondered if Maxim could hear it. God, she hoped not.
The picture looked identical to those last pictures of the Romanovs. Finley planned on showing it to one of the archivists at the Louvre, just to be sure. Her colleagues could date a photograph by looking at the thickness of the cardstock, the shape of the photograph’s corners, and countless other miniscule details were all clues. But Finley would’ve bet a year’s salary it was the real deal—she had that gut feeling.
Plus the necklace in the photo looked exactly like a cabochon ruby pendant that had been designed by the House of Fabergé and tucked inside one of the Romanovs’ Imperial easter eggs. The necklace had disappeared sometime after the Tsar’s family went into exile, but Finley had studied enough grainy black-and-white photographs to recognize that ruby pendant anywhere.
The more Finley stared at the ghostly image, the more she was convinced it was Anastasia. She held the priceless treasure close to her heart as she trekked back through the courtyard, past the shimmering glass pyramids, toward the Louvre. Her thoughts whirled with possibilities.
What if she could prove the picture was actually a lost photograph of Anastasia? An image no one had ever seen before? It could be a showpiece, one of the most coveted items in her exhibition. Newspapers all over Europe would cover it. The promotion she wanted would practically be guaranteed.
She could become the first American curator in the Louvre’s history.
But she was getting ahead of herself, wasn’t she? Even if it was real, there was the problem of provenance. Finley couldn’t just stick the picture on the wall and tell everyone it was Anastasia. She’d have to show a history of ownership, and according to Maxim, the picture had been in his family since he was a small boy. There was also the very problematic detail that he’d been told it was a photo of his own grandmother.
He thought his grandmother was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
Royally delusional, indeed.
Finley flashed her employee ID badge and made her way inside the museum with the photograph, feeling almost like a criminal. It wasn’t often people snuck artintothe building rather thanoutof it. But she supposed there was a first time for everything.
The hallways, as always, were thick with afternoon tourists. For once, Finley was grateful for the crowds. Otherwise, she might’ve taken a side detour through the portrait gallery to catch another glimpse at Serov’s painting of Nicholas II. Purely for research, of course. And perhaps for reasons involving her sanity.
She was desperate to rid herself of the absurd notion that Maxim in any way resembled the Tsar. Things were getting too confusing, not to mention a tad overwhelming. She could barely look at the man without feeling as though her heart might beat right out of her chest. All of this would be so much easier if he weren’t so handsome. Or mysterious. Or charming.
He’s just a man. She squared her shoulders and slid her cardkey at the entrance to the decorative arts curatorial offices.An ordinary,nonroyalman.
“Finley.” Madame Dubois was waiting beside Finley’s table when she walked through the door. “Glad you’re back. I only have two hours until my department head meeting. Shall we go over the most recent acquisitions for the exhibit?”
“Yes.” Finley quickened her steps. “Absolutely.”
Her boss looked less than pleased. She’d never get promoted by slipping away midmorning for a secret rendezvous in the Tuileries. Although it hadn’t exactly been a rendezvous. It had been a business meeting.
And when was the last time you’d wanted to kiss a man in the middle of a business meeting?It’s no wonder you’re still an assistant curator.
She squared her shoulders and slid the photo facedown on her desk. “Where would you like to start, madame?”
Her boss’s gaze snagged on the picture. Because of course it did. “What do you have there? Something new?”
Finley’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t prepared to talk about the photograph. Not yet.
“It’s... um... nothing,” she stammered. “Just a photo that someone alleges is of Anastasia. I’m quite certain it isn’t.”
Liar.
