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Mr. Rimmer had leaned heavily on my title, but if his employer recognized it, he gave no indication. “A pleasure to meet you,” the auctioneer replied perfunctorily. “The auction will begin momentarily.” He pivoted on his heel as he muttered. “ Now , Rimmer.”

Mr. Rimmer offered us a tight smile. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, before following Mr. Winstanley toward the staircase.

Neither Gage nor I spoke as the two men disappeared around the corner, but I suspected my husband was also contemplating the auctioneer’s impatience.

The auction itself wasn’t slated to begin for another twenty minutes, and people continued to arrive, crowding into the entry hall behind us.

The volume of voices had risen, forcing Gage to lean toward me to be heard.

“Where to?’

I realized Mr. Rimmer had been interrupted before he could direct me to the location of the Van der Neer. “Let’s wander through the rooms on this level before making our way upstairs.”

He guided me into the dining room, and we made a circuit of the tables displaying many of the items of virtu which would be up for bidding during the latter days of the fourteen-day auction.

Much of it was undoubtedly fine and possibly of some historical significance, but I was in no way an expert in such things and, to be truthful, largely uninterested.

“I wonder if Mr. Knighton will be sorry to have missed the auction,” I told Gage as we returned to the entry hall to venture back toward the breakfast room.

The door to the room adjoining them, usually a study, was locked, preventing us from making a circuit of the rooms as designed.

“Given he’s somewhat of an expert in antiquities.

” Or so I’d learned during a recent inquiry.

Gage had consulted with him upon occasion on the subject.

“Yes, but he’s more concerned with stonework—busts and statues and such,” he replied, nodding in passing to an acquaintance. “Though the coins and casts might be of some interest.”

The breakfast room was filled with many of the same items, but I was able to locate the landscape I sought.

The catalog had merely described Van der Neer’s painting as “a view in Holland with figures,” and I was disappointed to discover it was not one of his night compositions, with the scene atmospherically lit by moonlight.

But it was an excellent wintry landscape, nonetheless, with skaters on a frozen canal and the first glimmerings of sunset in the clouds.

I was determined to bid on it the following day.

We joined the stream of people climbing the stairs.

A healthy number of people were congregating in the drawing rooms in anticipation of the auction.

I estimated there to have been well over a hundred, all told.

Probably closer to 150. As such, it was difficult to navigate with any ease throughout the space.

Many had already claimed seats in the back drawing room where the actual bidding would take place, but there were also several dozen clustered around the artwork displayed in the front drawing room which was to be put on the block that day.

Happily, the pieces were arranged in the order in which they would go up for bidding, and we joined the queue so that I might examine the pieces I’d found of most interest in ascending order.

“Holbein. Now, here’s an artist you should have in your collection,” I heard someone murmur over my shoulder as I examined the pair of portraits. “Painted kings and queens and more. Look. Even Lady Darby is interested.”

Except I’d just decided the paintings weren’t worth the additional cost Holbein’s name being attached to them would demand.

Truth be told, they were in dubious condition, and I suspected at some point an overzealous conservator might have altered the composition.

But I said nothing of this to the men and woman behind me.

Though I did wonder who the gentleman with the broad, shiny forehead was, as he was obviously advising the couple accompanying him on which artworks they should bid on.

Whoever he was, I found his counsel questionable.

However, moving on to the other pieces, I discovered he wasn’t the only one who had marked my presence and interest. No one was showing the least bit of attention to the Bracklencamp painting of an old woman with a chafing dish until I sidled up to it.

Likewise, the Geddes portrait of a lady with a bird.

And when I ignored the two inferior Van Dycks, it seemed to pull people away from them.

Perhaps I should have been pleased my expertise in this area was being acknowledged, albeit indirectly, but I found myself annoyed.

Continuing through the room, I felt compelled to give each painting the same glancing interest, lest I tip my hand to the others I was intrigued by.

We finished just as the gavel fell to announce the opening of the auction and a Michau landscape was placed on the easel at the front of the back drawing room near the hearth.

Finding the space packed with bodies both standing and seated, we opted to hover in the entrance to a smaller drawing room at the rear of the staircase.

From there, we could still observe the proceedings without wading into the fray.

We would have to arrive earlier the next day if we hoped to claim a space closer to the front.

Mr. Winstanley stood on a stand to the left of the fireplace with a clerk seated at a small table next to him, taking notes on the proceedings.

The auctioneer certainly possessed the commanding presence necessary for such a role, directing the auction with quick, concise words and movements.

Mr. Rimmer and another gentleman with sandy close-cut hair appeared to be in charge of the paintings—setting them into place on the easel and then removing them to a partitioned area where I supposed the winning bidders went to pay for and claim them.

There being a dozen or more lots before the first piece of artwork I intended to bid for, I soon lost interest, wandering deeper into the room to scrutinize the drawers of coins, jewelry, snuffboxes, daggers, pistols, and other small, portable miscellany set within glass-topped cabinets.

A young man wearing a pin on his coat lapel that signified he was an employee of Thomas Winstanley & Sons stood next to the door leading to the staircase, no doubt there to answer questions as well as discourage any light fingers.

I offered him a polite smile as I passed him, bending close to examine a pearl-handled penknife and a bloodstone locket set in gold, before moving on to a small case which contained four silver coins nestled within the larger cabinet.

“But when will a vote be held?” a deep voice to my right muttered in frustration.

“Patience,” the gentleman with him counseled. “The club’s next meetin’ is no’ for another fortnight.”

“But canna a special meetin’ be called?”

“No’ on such short notice. No’ for somethin’ like this.”

“Balderdash!” the man exclaimed. “I’ve waited long enough, Jamieson.”

I’d continued my examination of the drawers, attempting to ignore their conversation, but at this display of temper I couldn’t help but look up and mark them.

The angry fellow glared down at his companion from his superior height, his face flushed and medium brown hair in need of a comb.

He resisted all attempts by the older man dressed in black he’d called Jamieson to calm him.

“I ken weel ’twas Eldin who blocked my membership,” he declared loudly, drawing even more interest from those around him.

He poked the white-haired Jamieson sharply in the chest with his finger.

“The blackguard! Weel, he’s been dead and in the ground for nigh on ten months noo. And I’m tired o’ waitin’.”

“Come noo, Innes. There’s no cause for that,” interrupted another gentleman, punctiliously dressed in a dark brown tweed coat, waistcoat, and trousers.

“You stay oot o’ this, Smith,” Innes growled, storming from the room and knocking his shoulder into mine in the process.

I gasped, but he paused barely long enough to utter an apology before continuing on his way. I scowled at his back, rubbing my shoulder where it smarted.

“Are ye injured, madam?” the gentleman in black asked. Now that I could see the manner in which his white cravat was tied and paired with his sober black attire, I could tell that Jamieson was most likely a clergyman. Possibly a retired one, judging from his age.

“No,” I replied. “Just a little sore.”

“Kiera,” Gage murmured anxiously, having been drawn to my side.

“There’s no cause for concern,” I hastened to reassure him. “Truly.”

“I really must apologize for Mr. Innes’s rudeness.” Reverend Jamieson sighed and shook his head. “I dinna ken what came over him.”

“Greed, pure and simple,” Mr. Smith scoffed before returning to the auction.

I could hear Mr. Winstanley’s resonant voice announcing the next lot.

Reverend Jamieson didn’t dispute this assertion, nor did he seek to explain further, forcing me to ask questions.

“What club is he so eager to join?”

“The Bannatyne Club.” He arched his chin proudly. “?’Tis a publication society aimed at printin’ rare works o’ Scottish relevance. ’Twas founded by Sir Walter Scott, among others.” A pleat formed in his brow. “Includin’ Lord Eldin.”

Who for one reason or another had blocked Mr. Innes’s membership. Or so Innes believed. Though it wasn’t immediately apparent to me why he was so anxious to join. Unless he had a text of Scottish interest he wished them to publish. Or the club did more than print rare books.

I peered up at Gage to see if he might know, but his focus appeared to be directed at me.

Jamieson began to back away. “I shall let ye return tae the auction,” he said with a little bow.

Gage nodded to him. “Do you wish to stay?” he murmured, shepherding me toward the auction room.

“Yes, of course.”

Gage appeared as if he might argue, but then thought better of it.

A swift glance at my catalog told me there were still three lots before the Cipriani I was intent on possibly acquiring.

That is, if the price wasn’t driven too high.

The landscape of a scene from The Tempest must have hung in the smoking room or some similar noxious environment, for it required some careful cleaning, though I suspected a lovely piece lay beneath.

Disinterested in the pictures that came before, my mind began to wander back to Innes’s outburst and the Bannatyne Club.

I knew there were any number of gentlemen’s clubs located in Edinburgh and London, not just the more famous ones like White’s, Brooks’s, and Boodle’s, but I’d never heard of the Bannatyne Club.

In and of itself, that was not odd. I’d probably not heard of half the clubs in existence. Still, I was curious.

“What do you know of the Bannatyne Club?” I asked my husband, pitching my voice just loud enough that hopefully he might hear it but no one nearby would mark it.

He didn’t turn to acknowledge me, keeping his gaze focused on the proceedings before us, but I could tell by the slight pursing of his lips that he’d heard me and whatever he knew was not complimentary. In fact, it might be downright scandalous.

“That bad?” I prodded when fifteen or twenty seconds passed and still he hadn’t answered.

“No, just…” His lips pressed together, as if he was reluctant to speak. “I’ve heard some of their revelry-making can get out of hand. Word is the deceased even broke his nose after he fell down a staircase during one of their whisky punch–soaked meetings.”

Now I understood that Gage’s reticence was less about the club’s activities, for nearly every gathering of gentlemen was bound to boast a flowing bowl of some kind of spirit-laden punch, and more to do with a desire not to speak ill of the dead, in his own home, no less, during the auction of his collection.

Nevertheless, it did rather cast Lord Eldin and his intimates in a different light.

I knew of him only as a solicitor and a Lord of Session, as well as apparently an art collector.

I supposed the image of him as a judge on the bench imbued him with a rather more sober demeanor than perhaps he’d possessed.

Whatever the case, the notion of such venerable gentlemen indulging in drunken revels so extreme they resulted in injury did not make a favorable impression on me, no matter how august the personalities involved.

By no means was I a prude or a teetotaler, but there was such a thing as moderation.

But then again, having viewed the breadth of Lord Eldin’s eclectic collection, moderation didn’t seem to be something he’d aspired to in any area of his life.