Brilliant (9 page)

S  E  V  E  N  T  E  E  N

“This is an impressive painting.” He got up close to the canvas and squinted at the signature.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, I mean really impressive.”

“Well, you haven’t exactly been in the business of studying impressive art for long, so I wouldn’t categorize you as an expert in much of anything.”

Owen studied me quietly. “Huh,” he finally said. “I don’t impress you much, do I?”

“Well . . . ,” I began.

“No, it’s okay. It’s refreshing.”

“Your ego impresses me plenty. Come on, let’s go back to the kitchen. This room’s not part of the tour.”

I was concerned that he would start to investigate the books. The fact is, I have the one of the world’s most complete private libraries dedicated to all aspects of jewelry and gems, but I have no interest in anyone stumbling across that fact.

Nobody is even vaguely aware of my interest in the field beyond regular business knowledge, and that’s the way it must stay. I don’t even want the subject to come up outside of the office because the risk of exposure, accusation, arrest, jail, trial, and incarceration are real. This is not a game to me—I take it seriously and do it with the highest possible professional skill and standards. My life and I teem with secrets—the left hand is hidden from the right. It never occurred to me in my wildest dreams that a total stranger would ever be in my bedroom. The only people who had been in my flat were Sir Cramner and my housekeeper.

I was horrified that Brace might start looking at the books, which covered jewelry from A to Z. The collection has information about gemstones, from precious: diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and pearls to name a few; to semiprecious: amethysts, aquamarines, coral, opals, peridots, topazes, tourmalines, turquoises, and so forth.

The volumes were bound in varying muted hues of Moroccan leather and served as a peaceful complement to the paisley. Actually, if you paid close attention and opened one of them, say,
The Three Musketeers
, you’d discover it was actually about emeralds. No matter what the titles said, the bindings were the approximate color of whichever gem the book was about.

I also have histories and biographies of jewelers and their establishments, from Crown Jewelers Garrard & Company and Louis Cartier, to Oscar Heyman, Graff, Verdura, Fabergé, and Raymond Yard.

I’ve cataloged important, historic, one-of-a-kind pieces, such as the astonishing
Cambridge and Delhi Durbar Parure
, made for Queen Mary from the Cambridge Emeralds and Cullinan cleavings to wear at her 1911 coronation and subsequent durbar proclaiming her Empress of India. In my opinion, it’s the ultimate of the jeweler’s art.

I have historical references on famous stones, such as the
Koh-I- Noor
, the
Cullinan
, the
Star of India
, the Hope Diamond, and the DeBeers
Millennium Star
. On famous missing stones with romantic, mysterious histories—the
Great Mogul
, the
Darya-I-Nûr
, the
Great Sancy
, the
English Dresden
, and the mythical
Braganza
, or
King of Portugal
, the second-largest stone ever found. I have extensive technical works on cutting and faceting. And I keep lengthy records of the provenance and movement of pieces in major collections, including those originally from the estates of Their Royal Majesties, Queens Victoria, Alexandra, and Mary; the Nizam of Hyderabad and Berar; Merle Oberon; Marie Antoinette; Barbara Hutton; the duchess of Windsor; Queen Elizabeth II, the Queen Mother; and now Lady Melody Carstairs; and a score of other ladies still with us whom my respect for confidentiality and my hope they or their heirs will choose our house when the time comes for their collections to be auctioned prohibit me from mentioning.

Owen picked up a thick volume off my bed table. “What’s this? Russian?”

“Yes.”

“The
Mysterious Missing Romanov Treasury
.” He read the title. “What’s up with this?”

“It’s just something I’ve always been interested in.” He was starting not only to make me nervous, but also a little self-conscious. Aware that I was standing in my bedroom with a relative stranger who was handling one of my fondest books. It was as unsettling as if he were handling me.

“What about all those jewels that are always going on world tour? I thought those were the Russian crown jewels.”

“Those are nothing compared to what’s said to exist.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Look, Owen, let me tell you later. I mean, it’s fairly abstruse, and it’s almost one o’clock in the morning.”

“I can take abstruse. Tell me.” Then, he sat on the edge of my bed, holding my book. I was shocked. “I’m very interested.”

“All right,” I began reluctantly, “but let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll tell you the story.”

“No, tell me here. It’s so comfortable in this room.” His eyes were inscrutable. On one hand harmless, vulnerable. On the other, he exuded such an intense sexuality, I almost felt as though he were hypnotizing me.

What was this? Some kind of wrestling match? It was as though he knew he had touched an important nerve in me and decided to see how far he could push it, see who was in charge. The air in the room crackled with tension. I found myself unbelievably drawn to him, and angry, and defensive. And he knew it. Well, to hell with this. It was my room, and I wasn’t going to let some barbarian with an overload of testosterone turn me into an uncontrollable goofball.

“All right.” I took a seat in an armchair. I lit a cigarette.

“May I have one of those?”

“Surely.”

He got up off my bed and came over. I handed him a cigarette and held the lighter for him. His hand touched mine. It was like being stroked with warm velvet. And it was not an accident.

It took every ounce of self-control for me not to jump or pull away. I forced myself to be steady. I closed the lighter and set it on the table. “You aren’t actually coming on to me, are you, Owen? Because if you are, I have news for you: stop.”

He had the grace to laugh. “Sorry. That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it. I apologize. There’s just something about this room. And you. I feel like I’m talking to Princess Grace or something.”

“Get a grip, son. You’ve had too much champagne.”

“I really am interested in the Russians, Kick.”

“All right. Then sit down in that chair over there and prepare to be educated.”

He ignored me and resumed his place on the bed. All right, suit yourself, I thought. I refuse to be riled.

“According to legend, Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna— mother of Czar Nicholas, from whom she was estranged because of a dispute with Rasputin—took the lion’s share of the monarchy’s crown jewels with her to the Crimea, where she stayed for two years, theoretically under the ‘protection’ of the White Bolsheviks. She and her entourage escaped to England in April 1919, with two large leather-bound trunks, one said to contain her personal jewelry, which was substantial, and the other the treasury of crown jewels. But when she arrived, the trunk with the crown jewels had vanished. The household rumor was that she’d entrusted them to one of her guards, and he’d disappeared with her permission and instructions.”

“Where are they now?”

“Nobody knows.”

“How do you know?”

“Sir Cramner Ballantine told me. He insisted one day the man would emerge and Ballantine & Company would be auctioneers of the Romanov Treasury.”

What I didn’t tell Owen was that Sir Cramner had told me this story on that first afternoon in the suite at Claridge’s, and the thought of it was so inspirational to him, and captivating to me, we’d pulled the covers over our heads for the umpteenth time. Ballantine & Company was still waiting for that great day, and whatever secret made Sir Cramner confident it would arrive had died with him. But the possible existence of such an extraordinary stockpile waiting somewhere, in a cellar, or attic, or bank vault, lying and waiting for more than eighty-five years, just waiting for the light of day to touch it and set it ablaze, had mesmerized me from that moment forward.

“What do you think made him so sure? And why is it making you blush?”

“What?!” I couldn’t help but laugh—the memory of that afternoon so long ago still made me happy. Me in those hot pink patent leather boots amused me so much I almost blurted it all out. “I don’t know what made him so sure. Possibly he received a message from the Dowager Empress, or else he made it up. I don’t know.”

“Thanks for telling me.” He closed the book and caressed it, and it was as though I felt his hand on my cheek.

E  I  G  H  T  E  E  N

The silence sat heavily on both of us. This was the sort of moment that in the movies, people can’t take the pressure anymore and rip each other’s clothes off, and go after each other like dogs.

What on earth am I saying?

We waited.

“Cool ceiling,” Owen said. He was lying on my pillows, arms crossed behind his head. He was like a schoolboy, a child, trying to get a reaction.

“Thank you.”

My bed (I bought the mattress from the Four Seasons Hotel), has six especially soft down pillows and makes me feel like a princess. I wasn’t at all pleased to see a fornicating barbarian enjoying them, but I decided to respond with tried-and-true wartime tactics regarding how invadees successfully neutralize invaders: Don’t let them see what’s important. My face was blank.

“Are you almost done in here, Owen?” It was a schoolteacher’s voice.

“Nice carpet.”

“It’s a rug.” A faded Aubusson I’d grabbed for the reserve price from the estate of a Lady covered my bedroom floor.

If anyone were looking, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing they might notice about my bedroom is that there are no family photos, for reasons I’ve already explained.

Except for one picture, I took it a couple of years ago in St. Rémy at the Café des Alpilles. There was a young man, an American, who looked to be in his early thirties. Happy, well-adjusted, with a young woman who loved him. He was loved. He looked like what my son would look like. If I had a son. That afternoon, I posted myself on all the Internet adoption sites, just in case he or she might need me for some reason, some medical emergency or something. I’ve never heard anything from anyone.

“Who’s this?” Owen picked up the picture.

“My godson.”

“Huh.” He got to his feet, leaving a deep indentation in my silk satin puff and breaking the spell. “Well, I’m on my way. Thanks for the break. We’ve got a lot to do starting Monday.”

“I know. Again, congratulations. This was an unbelievable coup— obviously meant to be. Sir Benjamin never could have pulled it off.”

“Coming from you, that’s high praise. It’s just the first step, but it was an important one. Now the real work begins.” Owen stopped at the front door. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Going to visit friends in Scotland.”

“Really? Where?”

“Outside of Edinburgh.”

“Have a good one. See you Monday.”

I was so glad he was gone, I thought I was going to faint. I’d had a close call of some sort, but I wasn’t quite sure what.

Before I went to bed, I removed the diamond from Lady Melody’s engagement ring, dropped its platinum setting into the smelter, where it melted, and returned the stone to the safe. I picked up the bracelet and ran it across my arm one last time. I could feel its history seep into my blood, intoxicating me. I’d never possessed a piece of such importance. I ran it along my cheek, across my lips and down my neck, and across my breasts. I’d never felt such pleasure, or love. The bracelet was mine. From now on, I would call it the Queen’s Pet.

The next morning, I checked my e-mail, as I did every Saturday morning, to see if there had been any inquiry from the adoption sites. And, while I waited for the line to connect, my heartbeat stepped up and I held my breath, knowing there would be no message but hoping all the while that I would be wrong. Maybe today would be the day.

It wasn’t. I took a breath and signed off. It’s okay. I don’t know what I’d do if I did hear, and it made me happy to know that my son or daughter was all right. Didn’t need to find me. Had no emergencies that needed one of my kidneys or a piece of my liver, or a lung, or my heart. The fact is, I would give any or all of them just for a message. Sometimes I wondered if my child had a child, but I tried not to think about it too much. Not to think about if perhaps I had a whole family out there somewhere wondering about me, too.

I slipped my tiny laptop into my purse, and with my hair tucked under a gray wig, took the Underground to Heathrow and caught the first flight to Geneva, where I deposited several high-quality gemstones, along with Lady Melody’s diamond solitaire, in my safe- deposit box. I spent the night in a pretty lakefront room at L’Hôtel du Lac, had a very satisfying cheese fondue for dinner around the corner with a crisp Swiss Riesling, went for a brisk morning walk along the frozen lake, and was back in London in time for lunch, where it was rainy and cold.

The afternoon was spent in my workroom, completing the pairs of curved rows that served as the frame settings for the Kashmir sapphires in the necklace. I turned all the overhead lights on high, switched on the facing pair of high-intensity fluorescent lights on my Meji microscope, which had a magnification power of 45x, and went to work. The room was silent but for the soft hum of the air- conditioning and occasional remarks, encouragements, and observations I made to myself.

Each curved row had eight baguettes of graduated size from roughly a little less than one-quarter carat to approximately three- quarters carat. Every curved row pair was slightly different because the central sapphires were of different sizes—ranging from seven and one-half carats to 11.1 carats. I was working on Frame Number Eight. I took a small platinum ingot and rolled it to two millimeters of thickness. Then I sliced off two, 6.5-millimeter-wide strips, making several steady passes rather than a single deep cut, and very carefully coaxed them into their slightly tapered, curved shape. I measured constantly, and when I was satisfied the shape and proportion were exact, I laid the baguettes in place in their preassigned order. Once they were all properly positioned, I pressed them hard onto their platinum beds, where the culet, or bottom point, of each diamond made its own distinctive imprint.

A jeweler’s bench has dozens of implements, many of them appearing to be identical, but in fact each one is specialized to its task. There are buffs and burs for finishing and polishing, pliers, tweezers, and torches, and about fifty different gravers for cutting and shaping. My gravers were the finest available, made of the hardest Swiss steel and, therefore, able to keep their blade longer on platinum, which was the metal I preferred to work in.

The back of a piece of good jewelry should be as beautiful and interesting to look at as the front—that is where quality and workmanship present themselves. The visible area of the stones on the back should be almost as large as the front. The smaller the visible area, the poorer the craftsmanship, and generally the poorer the stones and the metals. Platinum is hard and light, demanding to work with. It requires patience, precision, and talent, and its rewards are multifold in the way it almost invisibly presents and holds stones. Most top jewelers, when they cut through the metal to seat a stone, have a trademark shape—spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, circles, squares, triangles, ovals, and so forth. Mine was a shamrock. By the time a piece is complete, the original cut-through shape is no longer visible, but if it is subjected to intense expert scrutiny, sometimes, it’s said the signature can be identified. I don’t believe it.

I turned the first indented bed over and began to cut. The wooden knob handle of the scalpel-sharp knife graver was familiar and solid in my hand. The work was slow and painstaking. Once the cut-throughs were done, the stones were seated and the metal slightly heated and softened and cajoled into making a beautiful, secure bed. Then I folded the sides up and cut off the excess platinum, tucking it down so it formed just the tiniest lip along the girdles of the baguettes, securing them in place. The light that came up through the diamonds, and reflected off them, was magical and mysterious. The workmanship was indistinguishable from the original.

My concentration was absolute, and by evening, I’d completed all the pairs of curved rows. The physical toll that kind of concentration and bright light exacts is painful. My neck and shoulders were practically paralyzed, and my eyes burned so badly, it hurt to blink. I put away the necklace, reracked the tools, and tidied the room. Then, before closing up for the night, I took the Queen’s Pet out of the safe and held it to my cheek. It sizzled. I sizzled. Prince Albert and I smiled at each other. It was like having a secret lover. I kissed him good night before tucking the bracelet away.

It was pitch-black and freezing cold in the kitchen, so I turned on the fire, poured myself a huge scotch, made a large bowl of popcorn, wrapped myself up in a cashmere throw and watched TV mindlessly until it was time to go to bed.