Hugo cut her off with a dismissive wave. ‘Legal status? We need to get this sold, return this family to its rightful place.’ He turned to Amy, lowering his voice slightly. ‘It’s by a famous maker, what’s his name? Shop ... Store ... something like that. Worth a fortune.’
Amy’s thin face twisted into a rare smile at the idea they might all make some money.
Ernest spoke, his voice now predatory. ‘Hugo, you’ve been misled. Whoever gave you the idea that Paul Storr was the maker? No.’ He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s Victorian. Pretty enough, but nothing special.’
Christina’s fingers drummed against the table – a small gesture that somehow commanded attention. When she met Ernest’s eyes, her gaze was firm. ‘I know silver, Ernest. You know I do.’ She paused, letting the words settle. ‘This is not Victorian, it’s Georgian.’
The certainty in her tone suggested she knew something the others didn’t – something that made Ernest’s opinion irrelevant.
Hugo blinked. ‘I don’t care who was on the blooming throne, is this worth anything? Or not?’
Ernest smiled thinly. ‘Hugo, darling, do hush. The market will decide what this pretty silver piece is worth.’
Undeterred, Hugo pressed on. ‘Christina knows her silver – is this valuable?’
‘It is.’ Christina said.
‘Then we sell,’ said Hugo, beaming at his wife.
Amy raised her hand, ‘Wait. How valuable? Is this the right wayto sell it?’
For once Christina was grateful for her sister-in-law’s words. ‘No. We should get the cup properly authenticated first.’
Ernest locked eyes with Hugo. ‘Weshouldput it in the auction. This house lends its provenance to the piece. That’s the best way to smooth over any doubt about its maker.’
‘Right, yes quite right,’ muttered Hugo.
‘We should wait for Percy to tell us if we can sell it at all,’ Christina continued.
‘Nonsense, we’ve all seen the deed of variation.’ Said Ernest. ‘Let’s not make this more complicated than it is – Hugo what do you want to do?’
‘Sell,’ said Hugo.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Amy her eyes on Christina, ‘you’re the silver expert – what do you think Christina?’
‘Of course, as in-laws, technically speaking, you two don’t count,’ Ernest said silkily.
‘Oh, charming,’ Amy snapped, folding her arms.
‘Doesn’t Hamish get a say?’ demanded Christina.
‘Of course, but since I agree with Hugo, and I’m Flora’s next of kin, even if Hamish didn’t want to sell, it would be two against one. The cup goes in the auction,’ said Ernest.
Christina’s jaw tightened, but her voice stayed calm. ‘Fine. But I’m writing the description – it needs to sound convincing.’
Spotting Tim – the absurdly handsome auctioneer – standing beneath a portrait of Hamish’s Uncle Giles, she strode off to talk to him, but a hand on her arm stopped her. ‘Not so fast,’ said Ernest. ‘Let’s have a wee look first ... make sure you’ve done a fair job, eh?’
She rolled her eyes but handed the cup over. He lifted the lid, turned the piece, examined the hallmarks with exaggerated care. As if she’d even consider desecrating them – altering those delicate de Lamerie marks would be like painting a moustacheon the Mona Lisa. This cup was a masterpiece.
Ernest carried the treasure to a window, held it to the light, running a finger along the scrollwork. She couldn’t help smiling; he was checking to see if it was a fake, if she’d swapped it for a replica. What a compliment. Of course the cup was genuine. The finest silver she’d ever laid her hands on.
When he returned, silent but satisfied, she snatched it back. ‘Happy?’ she asked, then marched across the room before he could answer. ‘Tim,’ she said. ‘Got a last-minute addition for you.’
He straightened. His eyes landed on the cup and seemed to bulge. ‘Oh! Wow. That’s almost as beautiful as its handler.’ He gave her a wink, and she blushed, but stayed professional.
‘Paul Storr,’ she said, handing the silver over. ‘Early nineteenth century. Aristocratic commission. Estimate: seven hundred and fifty thousand. I’ll jot down the description for you now.’ she said.
Tim frowned. ‘That’s a big number. Shouldn’t our silver expert take a look? He’s gone home, but I could get him down again.’
