Spotting Ernest holding papers in one hand, Tina instinctively stepped closer to Hamish.
The auction clerk set a box down carefully on the table. ‘Lot 179a,’ she said briskly.
Ernest pulled back the flaps, smiling triumphantly. He lifted the loving cup, holding it up. Toby stepped forward. ‘Finest lot I’ve ever auctioned, I hope you’re pleased with her sir.’ Taking Hamish’s hand, Tina pulled him closer to the table. ‘I just wantone last look,’ she said.
Despite the fading light, the cup gleamed; its surface chased with rococo shells and swirling foliage. Paul de Lamerie’s touch: bold, exuberant, unmistakable.
Over her shoulder, Hamish whispered, ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Then Ernest’s voice lashed out. ‘What the hell is this?’
Silence. A wine glass somewhere in the back shattered, unnoticed.
‘This is a bloodyforgery!’
The word landed hard, slicing through the air.
Tina didn’t move. She watched horror sweep across Ernest’s face, while hers remained calm.
‘Ye sold me a fake!’ he barked at Toby, waving the cup like a weapon. ‘This isnae whit ah bid on!’
‘Mr Macarthy, you stood up and declared, in front of everyone, that it was a reproduction. You got what you bid for,’ replied Toby.
Ernest opened his mouth. Closed it. His face reddened. ‘Naw, ah didnae!’ Then he wheeled round, eyes blazing. ‘She’s switched it! Search that woman! She’s got the real yin!’
He lunged forward. Hamish stepped in front of Tina, both arms out. ‘You’re not coming near her.’
Tina didn’t flinch. She stepped around Hamish and reached out calmly and took the cup from Ernest’s hands. She felt the weight of it; she gazed at the three scrolling handles rising seamlessly from the bellied body. ‘You have to admit,’ she said, ‘the craftsmanship’s impressive. Really skilful. That’s my very last “restoration”,’ she said with a sardonic smile. ‘I commissioned it myself, but I made it just for you, Ernest.’
His lip curled. He glared at Toby. ‘Itoldyou this is a reproduction.’
The fury in his eyes was volcanic – burning and bitter – but hehad nothing to complain about. He’d built the stage for his own downfall. Ernest stalked off, muttering curses under his breath, the forgery cradled like a bomb with no pin.
Tina let out a long breath. Her knees felt suddenly soft.
‘You switched it,’ Hamish said, wonder in his voice.
‘I switched it,’ she repeated. ‘I didn’t know how I was going to manage that. I hoped to find a moment after the auction, but when I saw the handlers stumble ...’
‘You magnificent, devious woman.’ He said, beaming at her.
She turned to him, tears blurring her vision, laughter rising beneath them like sunlight through water. ‘Why are you so happy when you don’t care about money,’ she asked.
‘No, money doesn’t matter to me,’ he agreed, brushing hair from her cheek. ‘But I care about you. And about Ma. And both of you care about that cup.’
Christina smiled. ‘I used to avoid conflict like the plague. I thought staying quiet meant staying safe. But this ... this was worth fighting for.’
Hamish chuckled. ‘Defrauding Ernest? It’s quite a fun little hobby.’
They stood together as staff closed boxes behind them; the marquee emptying to shadows and silence. A breeze lifted the canvas flap; somewhere beyond the hedges, an owl hooted.
‘Where is the real cup?’ he asked.
She patted her bag. ‘Do you want to see it?’
‘Later,’ he murmured, pulling her close. ‘First, let’s fetch Elspeth from Langford, then go home.’
