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This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
The Chateau de Rappoltsweiler had retained the old German name for Ribeauville through the Alsace border discrepancies of 200 years. It was perched on a slope that graduated slowly to the Rhine River half a mile east near the German border. Closely clumped trees kept the mammoth hall from clear view until Reuben let the car climb the cobble drive that wove deep into the thick forest. As this cleared, ornamental trees lined the stone roadway within the manicured lawns. Their leaves were full and heavy with a summer array of late blooming lilacs and orchid-colored flowers.
Lauren was vaguely aware of the scented breeze that rode into the car as the hall held her attention. The slate blocks raised almost five stories, although accommodating only four levels inside with extended ceilings. The masonry had withstood its share of siege and assault, and had seen the ruin of its east wing during the last century—ruination to the patient, persistent enemy of Time. The wing had been repaired, but not as originally structured. Where the old gray stone had crumbled now stood a newly completed solarium and extensive patio of copper, glass, and polychrome marble.
Lauren only caught a short glimpse of this last attachment as the car circled before the white stone entrance. For a moment, she sat in awe of the whole estate. The balanced octagonal towers were capped by conical roofs and cobalt banners, enclosing a menagerie of architectural tastes from the fifteenth century. Where styles blended, a machicolation ran the length of the lowest roof line, topping narrow slot-like windows. Higher up the openings were larger and given to more detail, framed by ivy laden trellises and modern balconies.
A valet met the car as it stopped before the chateau entrance. Lauren stepped from it and followed Carlos up the wide steps, containing the urge to gape as the hall seemed to grow before her very eyes as they entered with Reuben.
"Ah, Dr. Sheldon? Yes. I am pleased you accept our invitation," a tall, burly man said loudly as he appeared at Carlos' side in the entryway. The curator took the Duke of Anjou's outstretched hand heartily. "I am Barclay Gustalav. We will do nicely without the formalities until the auction, yes? Your protégé?"
Carlos smiled genuinely. "Lauren Gates."
"Welcome to the Chateau de Rappoltsweiler," Gustalav said with a brief nod to her, his smile quick. He turned back to Carlos before Lauren could speak. "At least, for the present. Once it is in Edmund's possession, I cringe to learn what he will call it." He spoke quickly in French to a houseboy who had appeared and the young man hurried away with their luggage. Gustalav turned to Reuben. "I thank you for meeting the Doctor. Herr Langstraudt has left messages for you, I believe."
Reuben nodded before taking his leave. "Doctor. Mademoiselle."
Carlos and Lauren followed their host down the slate stone entry that hung with fringed banners, a few bearing faded heraldry.
"Edmund is your nephew," Carlos recalled.
"I will admit that," Gustalav said begrudgingly, his large frame expanding in a sigh, filling his sports coat to the seams. "It is no secret, my disapproval of him. You may have heard of his extreme dalliances." He looked to Lauren, but her attention was on the chandelier of Austrian crystal under which they passed.
Carlos smiled, shaking his head and pocketing his glasses. "Lauren doesn't keep up with the tabloids."
"One of few." Even the Duke's lower tone seemed to echo off the tall walls and ceiling.
A woman's contemptuous voice could be heard from a distant parlor and Gustalav abruptly changed direction into a second hallway. They passed through another anteroom and a smaller hall before their host entered a parlor overlooking a southern garden.
"You will excuse me if I avoid Madame Chatillier for the moment," the Duke said with a nod to the woman's muted voice several rooms behind them. "You will meet her soon enough. At dinner tonight. Please, be seated."
Lauren sat beside Carlos on the tapestry-covered sofa. He and Gustalav accepted a glass of sherry from a maid who appeared immediately from seemingly nowhere. Lauren declined when the silver charger bearing several sherry drinks was presented to her and the maid left the room with a wave of the Duke's hand.
"I know your interest is in the illuminations," he said to Carlos, "but there are a great many other valuables to be considered. I am open to offers on nearly every item on the estate. I want nothing of great value to fall into Edmund's possession."
Lauren was surprised at the Duke's bluntness. She expected some sort of lead up to discussion of the auction's potential.
"I don't understand your passion to part with such a rare and varied collection," Carlos said. "My friend Marlon Vistoli conveyed your eagerness, but I found it difficult to believe—"
"I am very eager, indeed," Gustalav broke in heatedly, suddenly irate, face darkening. "My fool nephew inherits the hall on his twenty-fifth birthday. Less than two months. He is a spendthrift and a child of the ego, with no eye for beauty—or breeding—as his last scandal too well proved. I have spent the last three years fighting the court to keep the chateau out of his hands, but I've only detained the inevitable.
"As his guardian I postponed his inheritance when he was of age. I thought he would spend a year, two, of the high life, then see the hall as I do." His gaze went to the seaport painting on the opposite wall when he noticed Carlos glance at it. "Claude Lorrain, 1639. You think it should be on the west wall, I know," he said with a sigh. "My decorators tell me every year. But I like it here."
Carlos nodded in agreement. "The natural lighting serves it well."
"My view also." Gustalav shook his head. "Edmund has no appreciation for history or beauty—of any kind. I cannot keep the hall from him. I know that. But I will not allow such treasures to be damned with it. He'll probably sell it. Another hotel, or novelty for a bored, wealthy American celebrity." He nearly spat the last, and then remembered his guests. "My manners, my pardon . . ."
"We are not bored, nor wealthy," Carlos told him with a laugh. "We are not easily offended." He sighed, placing his untouched sherry on the ivory, empire-style table. "I sympathize with your intolerance, friend, if I may be so bold. I, too, would be inclined to find suitable homes for cherished work." He looked again to the painting. "Have you approached the Louvre?"
Gustalav smiled and nodded. "I have been promised its keep." He looked to Lauren. "If you ride, the horses are at your pleasure. They would appreciate the attention."
"Thank you, your Lordship," she said.
The shrill, grouching voice of Madame Chatillier grew closer.
"Brace yourself, Doctor," Gustalav said lowly in English.
A look of tolerance slipped over the Duke as two women came through the doorway. With them also came a wash of stagnating lavender, exuding predominately from the younger.
Gustalav and Carlos rose.
"Doctor, Mademoiselle Gates, may I present Mesdames Chatillier and Poussin," Gustalav introduced in French.
Madame Chatillier's tone somehow managed a quivering flatness. Her French was cool and precise as she spoke with Carlos, and Lauren decided she would avoid future meetings with the robust woman if at all possible. She stood at the presentment and pushed a formal smile into place. Madame Poussin was a younger cousin of Chatillier, slight and wane, like a bloodless flower that had been too long in the shadow of a wall.
Lauren made a conscious effort not to wrinkle her nose at the wilted smell as she shook Madame Poussin's limp hand.
"Oh, Doctor," Madame Chatillier said, wringing her thick hands, a feigned worried look covering her fleshy face, "I have the most pressing concern to discuss with you . . ."
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