At Love's Bidding (2 page)

Miranda smoothed the sale catalog, her eyes darting down the list and descriptions she'd composed and taken to the printer herself. How she'd loved the Chippendale settee with its elegant lines and flawless upholstery. She'd miss the Revere tea service that was selling today, but with Paul's silversmith mark clearly discernible, they'd make a nice commission on it. The priceless artifacts that passed through her hands amazed her. The beauty, the craftsmanship, the history—she sighed. If only she could spend more time alone with the treasures and less time with the pretentious buyers. But her descriptions clearly expressed her appreciation for the fine pieces, and that's what made her valuable on sale day. That's why Father wanted her to escort bidder after bidder down the endless aisles of their warehouse. That's why Mother expected her to smile prettily and tell them what important piece was being offered. That's why she wanted just a moment away from the suffocating masses crammed inside the salon—a moment she'd instead used to savagely assault a couple of young men.

What had come over her?

Her grandfather's voice echoed through the hall as he called for the next offering. What were they selling now? As she led Mr. Wakefield through the back of the salon, Miranda happened to glance at the easel on the stage as Grandfather read the catalog description. Her steps slowed. There must be some mistake.

Forgetting Mr. Wakefield, she stopped and flipped open her copy of the catalog. Page four . . . no, five. The card on the auction table read
Item #109
, but the large portrait on the easel wasn't the Copley that was listed. It was no painting she'd ever seen before. In a daze, Miranda walked closer but stopped at the last row of chairs. The bidders exchanged glances as her grandfather finished reading the catalog description she'd composed. True, it was a portrait of a man wearing a satin waistcoat and lace cravat of the late eighteenth century, but it appeared to be a family portrait, not a masterpiece. Even their clients realized the mistake, as their throat clearing and wagging beards attested.

Miranda's throat tightened. Someone should say something. She looked for her father, but he wasn't in the salon. With a nod of his head and the smack of his gavel, Grandfather opened the bidding. She squinted again at the painting. Could the family have submitted it after the catalog had been published? As much as she wanted to know what was happening, she wouldn't interrupt. Miranda had already humiliated herself enough for one day. The catalog crumpled in her fist. Hopefully there'd be no harm done, because she could not contradict Grandfather before a room full of clients

The gavel fell and her grandfather called out the winning bidder's number. She released a painful breath. This time she
hadn't made a spectacle of herself. She'd passed the test. Mr. Wakefield waited at her heels. She had a job to do. With a quick smile thrown over her shoulder by way of apology, Miranda passed to the other gallery where the Hepplewhite waited.

With her last view of the salon, she spotted the mysterious man from the carriage tucking his number into his waistcoat pocket and departing with a satisfied smile.

Amid the rows of high shelves squatted three tables, positioned to catch the first light of morning. Between sale days the Wimplegate family gathered here to inspect and assess the offerings for future auctions. Besides her meetings with the paper boys, it was Miranda's favorite place to be. Except for today.

“You are in trouble.”

Miranda lifted her head along with her magnifying glass and saw the distorted face of Cousin Cornelius frowning at her through the lens. One monocled eye studied her with the same quizzical intensity she'd expended on the jeweled brooch. She wished he wouldn't fuss over her. Honestly, she wished he didn't think of her at all, especially since he'd started talking marriage.

She lowered the magnifying glass. “The LeBlanc estate?”

Cornelius folded into the empty chair between her and Grandfather. His neck creased against his high starched collar. “The LeBlancs' lawyer is on his way. Monty King claims the portrait was a priceless family heirloom, and LeBlanc had no intention of selling it.”

Grandfather snorted as he finished recording the details of
the saber before him. “He's carting up and selling everything of value that belongs to the LeBlancs—not that I'm complaining at six percent commission, mind you.”

“But how did it get to the block?” Miranda asked. “I never came across it during inventory.” And why hadn't Grandfather realized the mistake? He'd built this business with a razor-sharp memory and a keen eye for detail. How could he have suffered such a lapse in judgment? And on a sale day, of all days?

With steady, blue-veined hands, Grandfather slid the saber into its scabbard. “Someone in the family must have sent it over. I don't see how they can hold us responsible.”

Cornelius's gaze met hers, and he had every reason to be concerned. Grandfather was his great-uncle, and as a phrenologist, Cornelius took particular interest in family traits. Through his monocle he studied Grandfather's bowed head, which was bare except for a fringe of graying hair wrapped like a thick equator around a shiny globe. Miranda could only imagine how he wanted to get his hands on it and feel for any new protrusions that might explain Grandfather's blunder. If one could really determine a person's character by the bumps on his or her head, as Cornelius claimed, Grandfather would be an easy study.

But no time for study now. The glassed door at the end of the warehouse swung open to admit her father, followed by two men, both of whom appeared to have been mistreating foodstuffs for quite some time. Grandfather and Cornelius rose to their feet.

“This is Mr. Monty King and his assistant—”

“McSwain.” The man's face was shaped like a pyramid with dulled edges. His walrus whiskers twitched with uncertainty as his boss, Mr. King, barreled toward Grandfather.

“You are going to get that portrait back. You had no right to
sell it.” Mr. King's small bald head was of a level with Grandfather's equator, but he leaned forward as if speaking down to him. The profligate folds of his cravat reminded Miranda of a still life she'd seen at the Athenaeum—an apple sitting on a pillow. Only his smooth head had no stem protruding upward.

“We will do what we can,” Grandfather said, “but the LeBlancs share the responsibility. They brought it to us.”

“Did you use the words
LeBlanc
and
responsibility
in the same breath?” Mr. King's jowls continued to shimmy after his head had stopped. “Frederic LeBlanc couldn't name his ships, his wharf, or his captains without help. All he knows is that his picture of dear old Grandpère is missing off the wall. As his solicitor, I insist you return it. You have a month. After that, I'll bring suit against you.”

McSwain produced a small notepad and pencil stub. Holding it at arm's length, his pencil moved. “Take Wimplegates to court,” he said. Then squinting upward asked, “Can you spell
Wimplegate
?”

Mr. King's eyes grew hard. “Leave the note-taking to me.” But instead of cowering, the man bit his fleshy tongue and continued to make letters.

Seeing their rudeness toward Grandfather made Miranda wish for her silver tray. But Grandfather could defend himself.

“Sue us for selling something you brought us? Bah,” Grandfather spat. “You won't win.”

“So what? Just the spectacle of poor Mr. LeBlanc on the stand pining for his family treasure will be enough to ruin you. No one will trust the Wimplegate Auction House after that.”

“Ruin . . . the . . . auction . . .” McSwain flipped his pencil over to erase a mistake.

“Outside,” Mr. King ordered, his apple head growing red.
With a shrug, McSwain stepped out the door and closed it behind him, his pyramid silhouette easily discernible through the frosted glass insert as he struggled with his note-taking.

“Now, listen.” Mr. King rested his knuckles on the table next to the jeweled scabbard. “I know you have records. You'll hunt this down, and I can tell Frederic how helpful you were, but just in case you're thinking that you'd rather the buyer keep his prize, I'm here to tell you that wouldn't be a good idea. Do you understand?”

“We will do what we can,” Father said, “but why threaten us? This was not our responsibility.”

Or was it? Miranda ducked her chin. She'd known it was a mistake. She knew that painting wasn't in the catalog, that Grandfather was confused, and she'd let it sell anyway. If the piece was truly a family heirloom, she couldn't blame them for being upset.

“I don't care whose fault it was,” Mr. King said. “Mr. LeBlanc appreciates me because I get things done without bothering him. Cornelius can tell you that I'm a fair man, and if you do your part, then we'll have no problems.”

She'd never seen her father so angry. He didn't blink, didn't move, but disdain poured out his cold eyes.

Mr. King rapped his knuckles, causing the sword to clatter against the table. “No problems, right?”

From outside the door a hearty “Right, boss” was heard.

“Imbecile,” Mr. King muttered. He straightened. “If we understand each other, I'll take my leave. Truly, I don't want to see this fine establishment go out of business. What would be the point? Just get the painting back.” His small, hard eyes covered each of them in turn. Satisfied that his message had hit the mark, he turned around—a gradual maneuver that took him three
feet—then he flung the door open and hit the feckless McSwain on the head with his hat before they sauntered out of sight.

Miranda ran her fingers over the rubies in the brooch before her. Between her father and grandfather, they could fix this. No one was more capable than they, but even the clever Wimplegate men needed a moment to catch their breath. Cornelius was the first to recover.

“I'll talk to him. Father and Monty were childhood friends. Maybe he can convince them not to prosecute our relatives.”

“We aren't that close of relatives,” Father growled.

“We could be closer.” Cornelius nudged her foot beneath the table.

Miranda pulled away, irritated as always whenever their possible union was discussed. “Now is not the time.”

“When is?” He leaned across the table, blocking her view of her father and grandfather. “Taking care of this little mistake could be my wedding present to you. Even if Father isn't thrilled about Mother's poor relations, he wouldn't hesitate to speak up for my fiancée.”

Poor relations? There had to be another way.

“We must get it corrected before word gets out.” Grandfather took up the sword again and bounced it in his palm. “Do you really think your father could get somewhere with them?”

Cornelius beamed. “He wouldn't let anything happen that would mar the joy of my nuptials.”

Before he could touch her again, Miranda choked out, “Have we looked at the register? If the bidder had a number, he had to have a name.”

“The bidder's ticket led nowhere,” Father said. “False name, false information. Only the money was real.”

The black carriage. Miranda's chair squawked as she spun it
around. “But I saw the man who bought the painting. He wore a black suit, had a trimmed beard, and a hat . . .”

Her cousin shook his head. “You just described every man on the streets of Boston.”

“But he came with a woman. I would recognize her. Maybe not her features, but her attitude, the way she made me feel. She was warning me, censuring me . . .” Come to think of it, perhaps Miranda should consider before going any further. What danger could the woman have foreseen?

“Write down what you remember,” Grandfather said. “Perhaps she'll reappear at tomorrow's sale. We'll be on the lookout for her.”

“She doesn't have the painting. Not anymore.” Miranda's father pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “Mr. Wakefield happened to overhear our mystery buyer at the cargo desk after the sale finished. He shipped one moderately-sized crate on the westbound.”

“To New York?” Cornelius asked.

“Even farther. Hart County, Missouri.”

Grandfather whistled. “Never heard of it.”

“Neither had the shipping agent. It'll change rail lines in New York and then again in St. Louis. After that is anyone's guess.”

“Then it's gone.” Miranda fingers curled around the bauble. How she wished she'd had the courage to speak up. After staying at Grandfather's side throughout Grandmother's illness and death, why had she let him down now?

“Why didn't you tell Mr. King your information?” Cornelius asked.

“Because I don't trust him,” Father said.

“He's one of my patients,” Cornelius said, “and has an obvious excrescence in both agreeableness and conscientiousness.”

“Have you found those traits displayed beyond the lumps on his skull?” Father asked.

Cornelius elevated his thin nostrils. “As I said, my father and Mr. King frequent the same clubs. Given the right circumstances . . .”

Miranda's nails dug into her palms. She'd always assumed she would marry Cornelius—so busy was she with the family business that she hardly knew any other young men—but as she got to the age that it was actually possible, she'd begun to resist. As far as his threatening to withhold help, that was the wrong tactic. She might hate making a choice, but she resented having them made for her.

“Do we know where in Hart County it's going?” Grandfather asked.

“Maybe we do.” Her father opened the envelope and fished out a slip of paper. “I've had the telegraph wires buzzing this morning, and my efforts have been rewarded. It appears there's an auction house in Hart County. At least it's a place to start.” He slid the paper across the table.

“Do they have it or not?” Cornelius asked.

“They wouldn't have it yet, but we mustn't tell them what we're looking for,” Father explained. “It's an auction house. If they know we're desperate to get the piece, they'll make us pay dearly. Better to act uninterested in that particular item and buy it back unopposed.”

Even a novice knew better than to disclose one's intent at an auction, but Cornelius rarely dirtied his hands at their place.

“Where is Hart County?” Miranda asked. “Could there be many antiques there? Enough to keep an auction house in business?”

Her father shrugged. “Fine estates have lined the Mississippi
for years, especially around St. Louis. And not only is there an auction house in Hart County, but it's also for sale. The owner telegraphed me to give me a bid.”

“We could buy the whole auction house?” Her grandfather clapped his hands together. “How much?”

“I don't think it's necessary,” Father said, “but the price was surprisingly low.” Absently, he stuck a finger in his ear and twisted as he thought.

“I'm responsible for the sale, so I should be the one to recover it,” Grandfather said.

“You won't be able to find it,” Cornelius said. “And how can you afford an expensive trip west? Especially if word gets out and no estates will hire you?”