Elspeth slumped into a chair, trying to look unbothered, but her lopsided grin and reddening face gave her away.
Tina glanced over at her, this fierce and radiant girl, full of feeling, full of promise. She deserved more than secrets and the half-life Tina had been trying to hold together.
Hamish was already moving toward the bread bin to makeElspeth her breakfast. Tina smiled; he knew where it was now. If he’d known two years ago, they would never have argued; he would never have investigated her past and discovered her secret. Would his reaction to her confession have been the same? She hoped so.
‘Eggy bread, love?’ He offered.
Remembering his last attempt at that dish, Tina rose. ‘Let me do it. Cinnamon or chutney?’ she asked Elspeth with a smile.
‘Obviously cinnamon,’ Elspeth said, rolling her eyes at Hamish.
Tina took out bread, fetched eggs and milk from the fridge, all the while thinking about this strange, flawed, precious family of hers. She had nearly lost them to silence. She wouldn’t again. They would take their time over breakfast, and then they would drive Elspeth to Langford Manor. Both her parents. Together. United in love. After that, she and Hamish would go to the auction.
And whatever happened there – whatever truth was finally dragged into the light – she knew she wouldn’t face it alone.
Thirty-nine
The cream marquee billowed and snapped in the stiff Devon breeze, its canvas walls shuddering against the guy ropes with each gust. Beneath the shifting canopy, the crowd churned – dealers with eagle eyes, wealthy collectors with silk scarves and sharp smiles, curious villagers keen to bag a slice of Brambleton history.
The air inside had grown stifling. Though the breeze tugged at the canvas, the heat of hundreds of bodies trapped beneath it was enough to turn the space into a sauna. Tina could feel sweat sliding down her spine, soaking into the waistband of her skirt, but her focus remained fixed on the crowd ahead – scanning desperately for Percy.
Where the devil was he?
She threaded her way through the throng, the heavy bag on her shoulder forcing her to constantly twist and pivot as bodies pressed close. Every brush of a shoulder or elbow tightened the coil of anxiety in her stomach, the bag’s bulk making her clumsy as she manoeuvred it around jutting elbows and swinging arms. She shuffled past Ivy, smiling as she recalled their last meeting, where she saved the retired vicar from splurging church money on fake silver. Wearing a voluminous yellow dress, Ivy sat beside Trish, who had left her father in charge of Prosecco & Prose. ‘I’m hoping to get some antique teacups for the café,’ she explained.
‘Plenty of those,’ replied Tina,and you’re safe buying them,not worth faking. Somewhere behind her, a catalogue slipped from someone’s hands and flapped loudly to the ground. A woman tutted. A phone rang. A man laughed too loudly.
Tina pulled out her phone, fingers slick against the glass. No signal. Or rather, just enough to taunt her withcalling ...before it fizzled out, and the screen went blank. She jabbed at the buttons in frustration, redialled, and lifted it toward the tent’s ceiling, as if an extra inch might conjure reception. Still nothing. She lowered it with a groan and glanced toward the auctioneer’s rostrum, a raised dais positioned near the back of the tent, ringed by tables laden with treasures soon to be sold.
Mounted beside the rostrum, a digital display blinked relentlessly: 11:48. The lot number remained blank for now, but the red LED digits pulsed the warning.
Twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes until the auction began. Twelve minutes until they committed the loving cup – Lot 179a – to the sale.
Earlier, Tim had admitted under questioning that he and his father aimed to power through the early lots at nearly 100 per hour. But once they hit the important silver, the pace would drop dramatically – closer to 30 lots an hour, if they were lucky.
Tina had immediately registered to bid, intending to slow the auction. The house fund would cover her if she got a little too enthusiastic with her bidding paddle.
The display tables groaned under the weight of porcelain and silver. Lot tags fluttered lightly in the breeze like little white flags of surrender, waiting for their new home.The loving cup stood beneath a glass dome – three-handled, mid-eighteenth century, its engraved surface softly burnished by age and secrets. Stunning. Tina wondered how many silver experts had hurtled down the M5 to Devon for a last-minute viewing and recognized the work of the master silversmith, Paul de Lamerie.
She turned, scanning the tent again. No sign of Percy.
And then, as if summoned by her dread, another familiar face slid into her peripheral vision – one she’d rather not have seen.
‘Well, well,’ came the drawl, oily with disdain. ‘Still pretending you’re welcome in this family.’
Tina gritted her teeth. Hugo, leaning lazily against a display stand, cradling a hip flask in one hand. Despite the early hour, his cheeks were red, his eyes watery. His linen blazer had seen better days, and the shirt beneath it gaped open at the neck, faintly stained with something dark.
Marmalade lay slumped at his feet, tongue lolling, tail giving an occasional lazy thump against the coir floor matting. The dog looked up at Christina with vague recognition, then let out a tired huff and rested his chin on his paws.
‘You’re drunk,’ she said flatly. ‘Again.’
‘Yes, but to quote Oscar Wilde, in the morning I’ll be sober. You’ll still be responsible for losing the family wealth.’ He took a swig from his hip flask, eyeing her over the rim as he did. He stoppered the flask, then smirked. ‘I give it a week before Hamish realises what you are and walks.’
A voice cut in. ‘That’s enough.’
She didn’t need to turn. That voice had the polished steel of a Tudor courtier – sharp, unhurried, and wrapped in loyalty. Hamish stepped beside Christina, taking her hand in his. Marmalade thumped his tail again, rising to his feet and wagging uncertainly between the two brothers.
