More of hers. The guilt accumulated, piece by piece, hardening into something fixed.
The lot numbers climbed. The bidders were eager. The lies gleamed under the lights. Tina stood toward the back, shoulder to shoulder with silver dealers, collectors, and curious locals, all craning their necks as the auctioneer tapped the microphone with theatrical flourish.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ called Toby, his voice smooth but commanding, ‘we now turn to Lot 179a.’
A ripple of excitement shot through the crowd. Some leaned forward. Others started whispering.
Tina’s heart hammered as the assistants wheeled the plinth forward. The loving cup sat gleaming beneath the spotlights like something venerable. She could almost hear the swish of polishing cloths, past and present.
The auctioneer paused. A theatrical beat.
‘This item has caused quite a stir,’ he said. ‘A rare three-handled loving cup in silver gilt, intricately chased and with aristocratic provenance, and’ he paused, glancing at the catalogue, ‘possibly by Paul Storr.’
From across the tent, Tina saw Hugo smile, clearly enjoying the sense of grandeur.
The auctioneer gestured towards the front row. ‘A magnificent example of a master silversmith’s work. Interest has beenconsiderable. Shall we start the bidding at fifty thousand pounds?’
Tina could barely breathe. The crowd rustled like dry leaves in wind.
‘Sixty thousand ... seventy ... eighty thousand pounds – do I hear ninety?’
Hands rose. Wealthy collectors, silver dealers. They saw the loving cup, and they recognized what it was. All were hungry to buy the cup for a fraction of its value, all vying to own a slice of history. She spotted Ernest, his suit immaculate, a bidding paddle in his hand, yet to raise it.
Her ears sang.
‘Ninety thousand . . . one hundred thousand pounds . . .’
And then, like a hammer on a silver ingot, a voice rang out, clear and commanding. ‘Stop!’
Forty
A hush fell. Heads swivelled. Toby looked momentarily stunned.
Ernest stepped forward, paddle 47 clutched in his hand. ‘That cup is not by Paul Storr. It’s a reproduction.’ Ernest strode toward the rostrum, his paddle raised in accusation.
The marquee erupted into chaos.
Tina’s mouth went dry. She hadn’t seen this coming, and she scolded herself for forgetting Ernest’s style – always three steps ahead. But somewhere, deep beneath the terror, she told herself to stay calm.
Ernest’s voice carried clearly over the din. ‘I’m an authority on Paul Storr, Mr Hartwell. This piece is a fake, decorative, but not an original by the famous silversmith!’
The crowd buzzed with excitement and confusion. Toby looked thunderous, his carefully planned sale derailed by a second dramatic intervention.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Hamish in a hoarse whisper.
Tina leaned closer. ‘He’s doing this deliberately. I created interest by using Paul Storr’s name; experts have spotted what it really is. Now Ernest’s fighting back. He knows as well as I do, that Lot 179a is a genuine work by Paul de Lamerie. But by forcing an announcement that the lot is repro, that will make people question if it is a fake – and they’ll be reluctant to bid at all, let alone anywhere near the cup’s true value. Ernest will buy it for a song, then sell it on for a fortune.’
But Hamish wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to the display tables; his eyes fixed on a pair of Tudor miniature portraits. Tina knew that look – the same obsessive focus he brought to his research. Then she recognized the miniatures – the pair that should be hanging in the Manor’s library.
‘Those shouldn’t be in the sale,’ he hissed. ‘They’re family portraits. Ernest must have slipped them into the auction as another late lot. I can’t have our relatives hanging on strangers’ walls.’
Tina stared at him in disbelief. Despite Percy’s failure to save the cup, and Ernest’s current skullduggery, Hamish was fixating on his ancestors. So much for last night’s promise to spend less time in the sixteenth century.
‘How much money have we got saved, darling?’ His voice was distant, already calculating.
‘Fifty thousand,’ Tina replied automatically.The house fund.
As Toby called for order, Hamish slipped away through the crowd, heading for the registration desk with the determined stride of a man about to bid his wife’s dreams away on some dead Tudor nobles. The money Tina had set aside for a fresh start was about to vanish. And oddly, it didn’t matter. If buying back those portraits made Hamish happy, Tina couldn’t think of a better use for the house fund.
