I spun, seized Grace’s arm, and pulled her behind me.
“Garrett!” she yelped as she stumbled.
“Stay back.” I was already moving toward the fireplace, scanning for a weapon. An iron poker leaned against the stone. I grabbed it. It was light, but the hook would do the real damage. I positioned myself between Grace and the front door. “Jean! Get out!”
Jean appeared from his study, frowning. “What are you doing?”
“The man who accosted Grace at her café. He found us.”
Jean’s eyebrows rose, and instead of running for his room or the back door, he approached the window. “That’s Dmitry.”
I tightened my grip on the poker, still holding Grace behind me. Had I been wrong to trust Jean? “I don’t like this, Jean.”
He moved to the door, one hand heading for the doorknob, the other palm facing out, as though to calm me. “Galahad, Dmitry is the expert I contacted about the egg. I’ve known him for fifteen years. He’s legitimate.”
“Garrett?” Grace’s hold on my forearm was tight, and her voice wavered as she spoke. “We should hear him out.”
Unless he had a gun, a stun gun, or backup hiding somewhere, I could handle the situation. Ididtrust Jean. He’d proven himself during our years in Afghanistan, and while the manhadtouched Grace without her permission and gotten into a shouting match with Tristan and me, he had intel Grace wanted.
“All right.” I nodded to Jean, who opened the door.
Dmitry stepped inside, and his gaze landed on me and the poker immediately. He stopped. “Ah.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t lower the poker. “Ah.”
“Thank you for coming, Dmitry.” Jean stepped between us, his hands spread wide. “It would appear you’ve met Galahad and Grace?”
He lifted his hands to attempt to prove he wasn’t a threat. “I have.”
I pointed the poker at him. “You grabbed her and called me a—what was it you said?”
“Those were mistakes.” Dmitry’s English was accented but clear. “Ones I deeply regret.”
One of Grace’s hands slid up my arm, and she whispered to me, “I want to find out about my grandmother.”
I held my position. Watched Dmitry’s face. Watched his hands. He wasn’t reaching for anything. Wasn’t tensing to move. I lowered my weapon, but didn’t put it down. “Start talking.”
Jean ushered Dmitry toward the worn leather chairs. I stayed on my feet, while Grace sat on the sofa near the fireplace. After a moment, I moved to stand beside her. Close enough to reach her if things went wrong.
Close enough to see the hope in her eyes.
“I’m a private investigator,” Dmitry said. He settled into his seat like someone who’d been taught to never slump, his shoulders and knees square. “I specialize in art recovery. Eight years ago, a family in Prague hired me to find a missing Fabergé egg.”
“The Hen with Sapphire Pendant?” prompted Grace, giving away too much detail already.
Jean gestured to the kitchen. “Would anyone like coffee? Or snacks?”
Grace and Dmitry nodded to the old archaeologist, while I kept my eyes on the Russian.
Dmitry returned his focus to Grace. “I was contacted by the family of Marcel Dubois, who was a key figure in the French Resistance during the occupation in the early 1940s.”
Grace leaned forward slightly. I tracked the movement, noted the way her fingers had curled around the arm of the sofa. She was buying every word. As I would have expected her to.
“The family told me the egg was in their possession in Marseille as late as 1944,” Dmitry continued. “Marcel gave it to a woman named Delphine?—”
Grace sucked in a quick breath.
“—who was traveling to England. He said it was for safekeeping, as he feared for his life.”
