Page 25

In the days following that tender kiss, an ethereal atmosphere enveloped both Philip and Blanche.

It was as if they walked on air, the weight of unspoken feelings lingering between them.

Newly awakened emotions danced beneath the surface, a fragile connection that neither dared to articulate for fear of shattering the delicate illusion.

Blanche truly felt like she was walking on air, and that truly nothing could bring her down.

Her marriage might have been a surprise, but as Penelope had suggested, that did not mean true love could not form.

When Philip surprised her with a private invitation to Mr. Munroe's antiquities auction, Blanche felt as though he had plucked a wish directly from her heart.

It was a gift not only of experience, but of understanding.

He knew her passion for the past, the quiet thrill of discovery that lingered in dust and clay and ancient bronze.

His gesture felt deeply personal, a shared celebration of all that connected them.

As they stepped into that hallowed world of antiquities, Blanche’s breath caught softly in her throat.

Her eyes, wide with scholarly awe, roamed over the dazzling array of relics.

Ancient artefacts—each bearing the weight of forgotten stories—were arranged beneath lamplight like silent sentinels of time.

The air itself seemed tinged with age, perfumed by vellum, dust, and centuries past. She felt as though she had stepped into a reverent hush, a sacred chapel of history.

What a remarkable thing it was to have found a husband who not only understood her passion for the past, but shared in it.

Their marriage, once marred by surprise and circumstance, now shimmered with the glimmering promise of something far more profound.

If they continued to walk this path with equal resolve, could this not become the very love story she had once deemed impossible?

Philip leaned toward her and gestured subtly to a gentleman near the far end of the room. “That is Mr. Munroe,” he murmured.

Blanche turned—and froze.

There was something about the man. The wavy chestnut hair, the genteel posture, the amused crinkle at the corner of his eyes… She had seen that face before. But where?

“Do you know him?” Philip asked.

“I—I am not certain,” she murmured, her brow furrowed. “But I believe I have seen him at my mother’s residence. Though I cannot think how they might be acquainted.”

Philip’s expression remained unreadable, but his gaze remained fixed on Mr. Munroe for a beat longer than necessary. “He is not known in the usual antiquities circles, at least not by reputation.”

Blanche’s unease deepened. She turned back to the artefacts. Her gaze passed over polished obsidian, delicately painted ceramics, a weathered Roman fibula—until she halted, her breath catching in her chest.

There, displayed with quiet reverence beneath a pane of glass, rested an engraved bronze blade and a glazed amphora figurine that stirred another unexpected sense of recognition.

One she had most certainly not been expecting today.

A chill crept through Blanche as she stared, rooted to the spot, her breath caught in her throat.

These were no ordinary artefacts; they were beloved pieces from her late father's cherished collection, long thought lost to time and circumstance.

The artefacts that had not come with everything else when her mother sent her boxes to her new home.

The shock of seeing them displayed for auction by Mr. Munroe, the very relics that held sentimental value beyond their historical significance, sent a wave of dread washing over her.

The engraved bronze blade, its surface etched with the cryptic motifs of a long-vanished civilisation, gleamed under the lamplight with quiet menace.

Beside it, the glazed amphora figure—small, elegant, and unmistakably familiar—stood as a haunting testament to her father's impeccable eye for artistry.

Together, they mocked the notion that they had ever been truly lost.

Blanche’s breath faltered.

The thrill of discovery that had so often stirred her scholarly soul now curdled into something heavy and cold.

These were not mere relics—they were fragments of her past, of moments once sacred, now paraded for sale to the highest bidder.

The blade had once hung proudly in her father's study.

The amphora had graced their mantle, its pale sheen catching the light as she dusted it under his fond direction.

To see them here, severed from their rightful place, was almost more than she could bear.

A knot of dread coiled in her chest as her mind raced with unspoken questions. How had these artefacts—so personal, so cherished—fallen into Mr. Munroe’s possession? What sordid transaction had wrenched them from her family’s legacy and delivered them to this auction hall?

The room, once a haven of quiet reverence, now seemed close and suffocating. The murmur of bids, the soft clink of glasses, and the rhythmic cadence of the auctioneer's voice faded into a dull roar behind the pounding in her ears.

Beside her, Philip noticed the sudden shift in her bearing—the rigidity of her spine, the tremble in her breath. He turned; brow furrowed with concern.

Blanche’s voice, when it came, was no more than a whisper. “Those are from my father’s collection,” she said, her eyes fixed on the display case. “They were thought lost. I’ve been searching for them since the day I left my mother’s house.”

Philip's eyes widened in understanding as the gravity of the situation unfolded. "Are you certain?"

"Utterly."

His hand found hers, grounding her, steadying her.

And then she saw him—Mr. Munroe. A tall man with wavy brown hair, a congenial smile, and the unmistakable air of someone comfortable in shadows. Something flickered in her memory. She had seen him before. Not in a museum, nor at a scholarly function.

At home.

Not her current home, but her mother's.

Weeks ago, after the archaeology lecture with Penelope. He had passed her on the steps, tipped his hat with a familiar smile.

The truth dropped like a stone in her stomach.

She remembered, too, what Leopold had said about a strange man coming to see their mother. About private meetings. Could this be him?

Her breath caught. A cold certainty settled over her: Mr. Munroe had acquired her father's artefacts not through scholarly channels, but through her mother.

"Philip," she murmured, panic rising in her throat, "I believe my mother sold these. Without telling me."

As Mr. Munroe stepped forward and began the auction with a genteel flourish, the room hushed into reverent murmurs. Blanche, however, heard none of it. She stood rooted in place, stricken, as the truth took shape before her.

Her mother had known.

Had lied.

Had allowed her to search in vain, to cling to hope, while quietly relinquishing the remnants of her father’s legacy to a stranger.

The weight of it crashed over her like a rising tide. It was time to face the truth—before it drowned her entirely.

A cold shudder coursed down her spine as the implications settled in her bones.

Her mother, always the paragon of decorum and poise, had cloaked herself in grace while weaving a deception so devastating, Blanche could scarcely breathe beneath it.

These artefacts—these cherished echoes of her father's passion—had been reduced to little more than bargaining chips in some undisclosed game of ambition or disdain.

Philip, attuned to the silent unravelling beside him, glanced down and saw the anguish etched upon her face. His grip on her hand tightened—steady, reassuring—anchoring her to the present even as her past slipped from her grasp.

Blanche stood unmoving in the midst of silk gowns and murmuring voices, but inside she was hollowed out. Grief clashed with disbelief, and her voice, when it came, was barely audible above the rustle of conversation.

"What am I to do, Philip?" she whispered, the words caught somewhere between despair and disbelief. "My inheritance is being sold before my very eyes. And I can do nothing but watch as my father's memory is dismantled, piece by piece."

Philip's expression hardened; his jaw set with quiet resolve.

Without another word, he slipped an arm around her waist, shielding her from view as he steered her gently but firmly from the room.

Away from the glinting relics that once held meaning.

Away from the prying eyes and half-curious stares of those who would never understand what this moment cost her.

She allowed herself to be led, though each step away from the artefacts felt like a betrayal in itself. Her father would never have left them behind. But what choice did she have?

Outside, the night air rushed to meet her, sharp and cold against her overheated skin. Blanche drew in a trembling breath, though it did little to quell the storm within her. Philip’s presence, solid and unyielding, was the only thing keeping her from collapsing into the weight of her grief.

He said nothing as he guided her to the waiting carriage. No platitudes. No reassurances. Just a hand at her back, steady and warm.

"Come," he murmured softly, helping her inside. "Let me take you home."

Blanche allowed herself to be led, though she barely registered the movement. Her limbs felt foreign, her body hollowed by grief. Each step was taken not by will, but by necessity. She had lost the ability to do anything else.

Inside the carriage, the silence settled thickly between them, broken only by the muted rumble of wheels over cobblestone and the occasional creak of polished wood.

Philip watched her closely, the pain etched across her face sharper than any blade.

She did not cry, but sorrow radiated from her in heavy waves.

And then, after a long, aching silence, Blanche turned to him with quiet resolve.