Ernest leaned back, watching her think. ‘You and I both know how valuable it is. The craftsmanship’s unmistakable ... alive, vibrant, everything Flora never grasped. She spent decades faffing about with her blooms, completely blind to its value. But I knew it was a de Lamerie. I’ve always known.’
That should have been her cue to hold her tongue, but, reminding herself his goal was to restore the Pemberton fortune, she said, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And while I’m sure you’ll be devastated to sell it, once authenticated, that cup will solve everything. You just need the right auction, with a top house, maybe in New York.’
‘Absolutely not. The right auctioneer is Hartwell & Sons, at Brambleton Manor.’
She gasped, her mind running fast now – slotting things together. Finally, she understood his scheme. Why had she ever credited Ernest with being altruistic? Ernest always knew the value of the cup; the only reason he gave it to her was to get it out of sight of the auctioneers while the catalogue was printed, so he could introduce it as a late auction lot after they “discovered” Flora’s deed of variation. The deed that Flora herself couldn’t contradict because, conveniently, she too had been disappeared, as out of sight as the cup itself.
A late auction lot meant no publicity. No online buyers, no telephone bids from international collectors and museums. Ernest would buy it himself for a knockdown price. And then– only afterwards – he’d have it authenticated properly. By a top London auction house. And when it finally went under the hammer again – authenticated, admired, spotlighted by one of the top auction houses – he’d make millions. Not for the Pembertons, but for himself, Ernest Macarthy, no doubt vanishing into whatever offshore nest of accounts he’d been quietly feathering for years.
She looked at him, her eyes bulging. He was planning every move three steps ahead. She wasn’t an accomplice anymore. She was a pawn.
Ernest looked at her. The glint in his eye saidcheckmate.
Something primal stirred within her. Whatever happened, she could not let that cup out of her hands. She took a gulp of wine, her resolve firming. If anyone deserved the proceeds from the loving cup, it was the family – not some calculating stepfather with a talent for forgery. The cup may not be hers to keep, but it certainly wasn’t his to steal.
She met his gaze. ‘You’re quite right, you know. The cup was once a de Lamerie. But when you gave it to me, you told me to give it a new hallmark. Hester Bateman. That was your instruction.’
A look of horror crossed his face. ‘No, you haven’t ...’
She smiled and took a sip of wine.
He pursed his lips. ‘No. You wouldn’t do that. Bring it back.’
‘I said I’d restore it.’
‘You said,’ Ernest leaned forward his voice softening, ‘you’dhandleit. That meant something.’
She looked away, buying herself a moment. ‘Whether it’s Bateman or de Lamarie, I don’t believe it can be sold. It’s a protected asset.’
He smirked. ‘No, Christina. Itwas. My dear wife fixed that for me.’
‘The variation deed.’ Christina kept her voice even. ‘It’sgenuine?’
Ernest held her gaze, but his eyes wavered.‘Och aye.’
Got you, she thought. Pressure always brought out the Glaswegian in him.
‘How convenient.’
Silence lay between them like a glass wall: clear, cold, and impossible to ignore. Christina listened to the pull and slap of waves against the stone of the harbour wall. She couldn’t return the cup to Ernest. She decided to play for time. ‘I’m not holding it ransom,’ she said. ‘I’ll return it. Once I’ve finished the work.’
Ernest lifted an eyebrow. ‘Still polishing, are we?’
‘There’s a tiny dent that needs fixing.’ It was a lie. But he couldn’t be sure. ‘And the Hester Bateman hallmark needs one more application of tarnish.’
‘Careful lass,’ he said, a glint of iron in his voice. ‘Don’t forget I’m the one who knows that your little sideline – the hallmarks, the replicas – is fraud. But you’re well versed in that aren’t you. The apple never falls far from the tree.’
Christina’s stomach lurched, but she picked up her glass, calm and steady. ‘You gave me the cup because you didn’t want it discovered by Hartwell’s silver expert. You wanted it out of the house until you’d walked Hugo and Hamish through the charade of discovering the variation deed.’
He didn’t deny it. His smile returned – cool and razor-thin. ‘Bring the cup back and I’ll forget about “the Great Matter”.’
For once, there was the glint of truth in his eyes. Christina gave a tight nod, and Ernest’s smile broadened. She knew he wouldn’t hassle her, not now she had agreed to return it. Anyway, he would want the cup admitted to the auction at the last possible moment to minimise the chances of Hartwells or any viewers spotting its true value.
She stood, smoothing her skirt, her voice still low. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Ernest.’
‘Aye, I always have been.’ he tossed back his whisky, then added, ‘Word of advice: don’t try and play against me.’
She felt the familiar flutter of anxiety, but underneath it, something harder had taken root. Ernest thought he’d won, that she was just another pawn on his chess board, helpless, cornered, ripe to be sacrificed.
