Page 8 of Royally Romanov
Her voice didn’t waver a bit when she started her presentation. “Thank you for coming. It’s good to see that so many of you are interested in preserving the memory of the Romanovs. July 17, 2018 will mark the one hundredth anniversary of the execution of the Tsar and his family. My book and the upcoming exhibit at the Louvre were designed to remember this important centenary.”
Finley then launched into a discussion of the artifacts that had been recovered from the Tsar’s various palaces, from the Empress Alexandra’s lone pearl earring to the Fabergé pieces the family so famously commissioned—a hot pink enamel snuff box, an eagle broach made as a souvenir for Alexei’s baptism, and of course the collection of decorative Fabergé eggs.
When the time came, she barely mentioned the family’s execution by the Bolsheviks. Instead, she closed by discussing a delicate white blouse she’d convinced the Foundation of Russian History to loan to the Louvre for her exhibit. The piece was in pristine condition. Not one of its pearl buttons was missing, and the embroidery was breathtakingly detailed. Most notably, though, the blouse had belonged to the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
Finley still couldn’t believe she’d managed to get her hands on it. “The blouse is my favorite piece in the collection. I hope you all come to see it when the exhibit opens later this week at the Louvre’s Mollien rooms.”
A hand went up from one of the back rows.
“As-tu une question?” Do you have a question?Finley craned her neck to peer over the heads of the audience members closest to her.
“Oui,”said a deep, masculine voice—the sort of voice Finley never would have imagined might ask a question about a girl’s embroidered blouse.
The man stood. His dark gaze bore into her, and a flutter of nerves made a rapid return. “How can you be sure the blouse belonged to Anastasia?”
Finley’s mouth grew dry. He was awfully handsome, despite a rather angry-looking bruise on his left temple. A brooding sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that made her forget what she was doing standing in front of fifty-plus people in one of the most beloved bookshops in the world.
Focus.
Oh, right. The Romanovs. Anastasia. The blouse...
She cleared her throat. “It’s the sort of blouse a young, aristocratic girl in Russia would wear during the time period. Although Anastasia had three sisters—Olga, Tatiana, and Maria—we have provenance placing the garment as Anastasia’s.”
“Provenance?” He lifted a brow.
Something about him seemed familiar, although Finley couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She was certain she’d never seen him before. She’d been preoccupied with her exhibit lately. And the book, obviously.
But she wasn’t blind, and she would’ve definitely remembered meeting a man who gave her serious Mr. Darcy vibes. Well, if Darcy had been a Russian-history enthusiast. “Provenance is any kind of documented evidence that helps establish an object’s authenticity. In this case, it’s photographic evidence.”
He frowned, and somehow he managed to look even hotter with a scowl on his face. “So you have pictures of Anastasia wearing the blouse?”
She held up a finger. “One photograph. But the blouse is easily identifiable.”
“I see.” He nodded, but made no move to sit down. Or smile, for that matter.
“Did you have another question?” This was getting weird. Or maybe she was just imagining things. Scott had spooked her with his warnings about walking around alone at night. She didn’t have any reason whatsoever to feel unsettled by a handsome stranger at her own lecture.
He stared at her for a moment without saying anything. The audience began squirming in their chairs.
Definitely weird.Trèsweird.
“No,” he finally said. “Merci.”
Finley took a few more questions, but as she answered them, her gaze kept flitting back to the man in the back row. Every time she caught a glimpse of him, he had his head down. It almost looked as if he was taking notes on what she was saying, but she couldn’t be sure. The room was too crowded to get a good look at him once he’d sat down.
Quelpity.
When she finished answering questions, Finley took a seat at the crooked little table Scott had set up by the store’s antique cash register. She signed books as Scott handled money and stamped the inside cover of each hardback with the store’s seal—a circle encompassing the Bard’s face, surrounded by the wordsShakespeare and Company, Kilometer Zero Paris.
She told herself she didn’t care if the brooding man from the back row purchased a book or not, but when she looked up and saw him staring down at her with serious blue eyes, a nonsensical ribbon of relief wound its way through her.
Super professional, Finley.
What had gotten into her?
She gripped the pen in her hand hard to keep it from shaking. “Thank you for coming. How shall I inscribe your book?”
He frowned again, as if she’d asked him a complicated math problem rather than his name. “Maxim.”
