Page 5

If possible, the third day of the auction of Lord Eldin’s collection seemed even more heavily attended than the day before.

The back drawing room in particular groaned with people crowded in a space that was meant to accommodate about a third of those present.

Gage and I had arrived early enough to claim a place on the south side of the back drawing room nearer to the easel, but we’d had to be content with standing.

For once, I was grateful for the wide gigot sleeves which I despised, yet were so fashionable, because they afforded at least a little more space between me and the gentleman next to me.

My and Gage’s efforts the previous day had met with mixed results.

I had lost the Cipriani as well as Mignard’s picture imitating a painting of the Holy Family by Raphael to bidders who were clearly ignorant of their genuine value, for they’d overpaid.

But I had managed to secure the Guido painting of A Magdalen in Adoration , but I suspected this was only because others were reserving their funds to bid on the Rubens, Raphael, and Titian pieces that followed.

Given my frustration with the auction the day before, I was determined not to lose the Van der Neer landscape today.

It was unlikely anyone else was as interested in the painting as I was, and I hoped my failure to participate in the bidding over what many others had viewed to be the previous day’s most coveted pieces would discourage others from contesting me based solely on my reputation.

In this instance, at least, it would be better if they believed me uninformed.

The manner in which Gage opened and closed his pocket watch multiple times told me the auction was beginning later than advertised.

I couldn’t blame him for his impatience.

It was growing stuffy in the room with so many bodies packed together, and some of our fellow bidders had not bathed as punctiliously as we had.

I remained close to Gage’s side, turning my head periodically to inhale a breath of his freshly laundered indigo blue frock coat and starched cravat.

He smiled in commiseration the third time I did it, evidently recognizing my ploy.

The room seemed to breathe a collective sigh as Mr. Winstanley and his clerk made their way through the crowd toward their posts.

Mr. Rimmer and the sandy-haired fellow followed close behind, wearing protective gloves as they utilized the space which had been roped off for them to carry the artwork back and forth from the front room.

The Van der Neer was one of the last dozen of the sixty or so pictures to be auctioned that day, so I settled in, resigned to the wait.

However, I was surprised by how swiftly I became swept up in the excitement of the bidding.

Standing in the midst of the crowd rather than on its periphery, it was far easier to be drawn into the drama that seemed intrinsic to the process.

The room hummed with speculation as each picture was carried through the door and positioned on the easel.

Then Mr. Winstanley would describe the piece and its merits.

I believed some of these to be exaggerated, but then, of course, the auctioneer’s job was to attain the highest possible bid.

As he called for the opening bid, it always began with the same cool calculation, as those interested in the lot didn’t wish to appear too invested in acquiring it.

But the voices and tension would rise as the bids climbed higher, revealing exactly what the bidders had initially sought to conceal.

Eventually, the supplicants would dwindle down to two and then one, and with the final bid the gavel would fall with a sharp bang that startled the senses even when one was expecting it.

The winner would struggle to conceal his smile just as the losers would thinly veil their discontent with haughty reserve.

However, there was little time to either bask or sulk before the next lot was presented and the process began all over again.

I observed the proceedings with as much detachment as I could, but my feet hurt, and the warmth of the room was beginning to make me perspire.

My mouth was dry, and I wished for a drink of water to at least make the wait bearable, but I knew if we moved from this spot, we would never return to it.

I’d hoped the crowd would thin as the pictures were auctioned off one by one, but at the halfway point there seemed to be even more bidders and spectators squeezed into the space than at the beginning.

Then the auctioneer’s assistants carried in a Teniers painting which generated excitement.

It was composed of a trio of boorish men with a fourth in the background, all amusing themselves outside a tavern.

Though Teniers was not to my taste, I had to admit that the picture was representative of the Flemish Baroque artist’s best work.

Mr. Winstanley also claimed the piece had been one of Lord Eldin’s particular favorites, which, if true, I felt revealed more about the late owner than perhaps he realized.

The bidding opened and swiftly climbed, with numbers being proclaimed from different parts of the room.

“Sixty guineas,” someone called out, and was acknowledged by the auctioneer.

But before another word could be uttered, a terrible crash rent the air.

Like those nearby, Gage and I glanced about us in confusion, trying to ascertain the source of the disturbance.

Had some shelving fallen? Or maybe some paintings had been overturned in the next room.

Only when a harsh creaking noise began and the floor began to undulate alarmingly beneath our feet did I realize what was happening. By then, it was too late.

My heart lodged in my throat as a thick cloud of dust rose up around us. Then the floor dropped out from beneath me, and I plunged downward.

Terror coursed through my veins and screams echoed in my ears, possibly my own. I was blinded by the debris which permeated the air, seeming to swallow me whole. It filled my nose and coated my tongue.

Though the fall could not have lasted more than a few seconds, it seemed much longer.

When I landed, it was hard, jarring every bone in my body.

I didn’t attempt to move at first, too riddled with pain and shock.

I simply lay in the midst of the rubble of wood, plaster, and bindings, sprinkled with broken furniture, artwork, and bodies, struggling to breathe through the miasma of lime and dust. I didn’t dare open my eyes, as I felt the fine particles of debris stinging my skin almost like tiny insects.

As the cascade of wreckage settled, I slowly began to take stock of myself and my surroundings.

My lower back ached dreadfully where it had borne the brunt of my landing.

I hissed in a breath as I moved my left arm, feeling a trickle of blood run down its length from some scrape, but the small amount of the rivulet led me to believe it wasn’t serious.

I’d lost hold of Gage’s arm as the floor collapsed, and I couldn’t feel him beside me now. Fear jarred me back to full consciousness as I blinked open my eyes, squinting into the cloud of dust.

“Sebastian,” I called weakly, as I struggled to sit upright. I heard fabric ripping as one of my sleeves was torn away, having become caught on something. I coughed before crying louder. “Sebastian!”

“Here.”

I felt a hand grope for mine and turned to see Gage slowly crawling toward me.

“Oh, thank God,” I exclaimed, reaching out to embrace him.

The feel of his arms around me made tears threaten.

Or perhaps it was merely the lime and dust. Either way, now was not the time to give in to a spate of weeping. Not when we were still far from safe.

“Are you hurt?” I asked, moving my hands over his torso.

“No.” He coughed. “Nothing serious anyway. What of you?”

“No.”

Of course, I was well aware that neither of us could know this for sure. We could very well have damaged something internally, or a worrying injury could manifest later. But we both understood what the other meant. We weren’t wounded in any way that would prevent us from escaping of our volition.

Another cough shook my frame, adding my hoarse barks to the chorus of rasps, wheezes, hacks, and groans surrounding us.

I could barely see Gage though he was no more than two inches from me, but I could tell that we were both covered in thick powder.

It coated our hair and exposed skin, as well as the torn and shredded clothing still contriving to cover us.

We discovered the others who had fallen through the floor were in a similar state.

Moving gingerly, we made our way through the rubble toward the voices calling out for assistance in extricating themselves, but we soon discovered we had greater worries.

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe in the miasma.

The lime and dust were quite literally choking us, and if we didn’t escape soon, we could very well succumb to suffocation.

However, the doors to the apartment in which we’d fallen, which I judged to be the study below the back drawing room, appeared to either be locked or blocked by debris.

The tone of everyone’s voices rose in fright and distress as the precariousness of our situation became clear.

I feared for a moment that panic might take hold, within myself as well as others.

It took all I had to restrain the terror rampaging through me, making my heart pound within my chest and my desperation for air even greater.

I closed my eyes against the grit now coating my corneas, telling myself to think of Emma.

If I had any hope of making it home to my daughter, I had to remain calm.