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This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
The auction was attended by over fifty of Europe's best known, best connected collectors and agents in both the art and antique fields. Most had come to inspect a particular object; Gustalav had been sure to send a list of selected items to suit each individual's taste.
A few, however, primarily agents representing buyers whose presence would compromise the event's privacy, had made the trip expressly out of curiosity. These buyers understood their clients' tastes well enough to purchase with minimal contact.
The chateau hall glittered with gold and silver antiques and minor treasures from several eras. Carlos estimated the fellow dealers and potential competitors that moved through the maze of display cabinets and cases. His attention turned to Lauren beside him.
"Recognize anyone?"
She nodded, her gaze going to an aging Australian man appraising the contents of a glass case. "I don't remember his name, but that gentleman was in the trades last month."
"Carl Wellon." He watched her touch her hair instinctively, appreciating the change in style for the event. He knew she had qualms about moving in such affluent circles. Her dress was a cobalt silk, moderately fashionable, just beyond her budget. He had seen it on her before, one of three she had worn to similar occasions for the musuem. She had also pinned her hair up, tightly drawn to the back of her head where it fell in soft curls, adding acceptable years to her appearance.
"Diandrea Morris."
The curator looked at the older American woman of which Lauren spoke. "She's with the Early English Text Society now." His tone lowered. "How are you today?"
She smiled timidly. "Fair."
"You were fortunate to escape serious injury last night." He took a shallow breath. "You'll return his shirt discreetly."
"I will." She watched his eyes move over the room that was beginning to fill, passing over the hefty Polish man speaking lowly to Morrow by a bay window. His attention rested on a young man studying a collection of pages from the benefactor's book of a sixteenth century English abbey. She summoned her courage to make an inquiry she had not voiced last night. "You haven't said you believe me."
A tired smile crossed his face. "I didn't know you needed to hear it." Before she could respond, he continued. "Of course I do, Lauren, but I'd rather you didn't give him the opportunity to be gallant again."
"I won't," she agreed in relief with a shallow sigh. "Actually," she said hesitantly, "I'm glad he was there, Dr. Sheldon. At that moment."
He nodded. "I can agree to that. Now," he said, brightening, "act like we're very interested in the Tewkesbury patrons."
Lauren's consolation at the curator's words was more for her academic conscience than preserving her reputation. She hadn't expected Carlos to greet her as she slipped into the room last night, and he had been shocked at her disarray.
He, too, had heard the collapse in the stable and went to her room when she hadn't congregated in the hall with the other guests. Between the commotion and Madame Chatillier's strident complaints regarding her sensitive eardrums in the next corridor, Carlos had found it odd that Lauren didn't materialize.
She had explained herself last night, holding up proof of her torn blouse, but he'd found it difficult to see past what he recognized as Reuben's shirt she wore. Her story of the tunnel and clay cave brought a frowning nod from him, a sign that she read as not good. When she recalled sneaking into the crypt, however, his interest had ignited.
She moved a shoulder blade when the dress's low sweep back chafed a scrape on her spine, glad she hadn't brought the backless blue satin formal that would have exposed much of her back—and now, evidence of her visit to the vault. Reuben had been wrong last night about mere bruises, and she determined the minor abrasion a result of the ladder snagging the flashlight.
Her attention went to the 500-year-old scroll that followed the pedigree and armorial devices of English patrons. She knew the names Gilbert de Clare and the later Thomas le Despenser, and spent several moments wading through the patchwork of heraldic devices at the bottom.
Carlos introduced her to the young man also viewing the scroll. She smiled, shook hands with Allen Bigod, but did not quite share his enthusiasm. Allen claimed lineage to the manuscript's Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk in the late thirteenth century.
She took Carlos' deft nod of dismissal and knew he was using Allen as an opportunity to observe the room's activities without becoming a wallflower. She also saw through Allen's ruse of linking himself ancestrally to the manuscript. It was a practice she had seen before at auctions, where parties claimed family ties to an antique in hopes that other competitors would yield bidding in empathy. The ploy wouldn't work with Carlos.
She found herself looking over a collection of medieval war helmets. She paid little attention to most. The earliest was an understated Norman design that resembled a bullet with a vertical nose guard. Later models included Spanish morions, styles from the Crusades and variations of the pikeman's pot, and close-fitting helmets from the Battle of Pavia.
At the end of the collection stood a tall glass case holding a full suit of armor. Here she paused with true fascination. It was the classic suit of armor illustrated in most romantic fairy tales and period films, but stood apart from the common drudgery of combat by its detailing.
She knew it was purely ornamental before reading the card posted. An etching in Damascene silver covered the armet helmet, the sterling filigree of lace edged with gold far too soft to be truly protective. The body of the suit was of a more durable bronze, but also covered with the artful motif. She saw the reflection of Reuben behind her in the glass a moment before he said her name. She turned.
"You look well," he observed. "This is a nice change from last night. Very nice."
"Thank you." She determined not to escape him so swiftly this time. The black of his coat and tie were a contrast to his casual form the previous night. She bit her tongue to keep from mentioning the shirt. Instead she glanced around at the crowd. "Have your people come through?" She read the rise and descent of suspicion in his eyes as he chose an answer.
"I've already given Gustalav my quotes."
"You're not bidding? I thought the Claddagh sword was going on today."
A veiled realization spread over his face and she saw the humor come back to his eyes. "Yes. That." He nodded. "I think my bid will stand on it."
She couldn't resist the urge to judge his wariness of her. She wondered that, if pushed, he would admit his knowledge of the amber. "Do you see it?"
This time his uneasiness was not momentary. Shrewdness hinted his tone. "To what do you refer, Lauren?"
Mock surprise replaced her ploy. "What you've been waiting for, Reuben." She enjoyed his loss. "A Renaissance cinquedea. Caesar's fatal gladius. I don't remember the other one."
He laughed, sparing her a look of warning. "No. I'm disappointed in that aspect. I didn't know what you were getting at. You have a fine memory. But this," he nodded to the suit of armor, "I do like. It wasn't available for viewing until this morning. Or did you know that, too?"
"No." She marveled again at the suit. "Are you making an offer?"
"No. My clients would need more time to show interest in a piece like this."
"Did you see the Faberge Eggs?"
He looked to where the once-lost Quisling Hen Egg and Imperial Winter Egg had drawn a wave of attention at another display. "Yes. That was a nice surprise."
"They don't appeal to you?"
"Yes, but not to my current clients. His lordship will have no problem finding buyers. Silva Faberge, great-granddaughter of the artist, wants the Winter Egg. She was here an hour ago." His eyes lit at a memory. "Last year she made a scene in Switzerland about a Marucelli and Stiguel copy passing for it. Michail Perchin is here for the Quisling Egg. He's related to the original workmaster, too."
"It's certainly the art of another era."
He nodded, gaze focused beyond the glass case where she knew Carlos to be. "Does Carlos Sheldon hold an attachment to you outside the museum?"
A blush rose over her features, dissolving her small smile. She said sharply, "Of course not."
He smiled at her stiff reaction. "Don't be offended, Lauren. I was beginning to wonder if you ran off the other day in the library because—"
"I'm not running off now," she clarified. She took a deep breath, realizing he was trifling with her. "You weren't wondering anything of the sort."
"It did cross my mind."
"Now it can uncross." They both accepted drinks from the cocktail waitress circulating the room.
"My apologies." He gave her a sincere smile, a more informal tone coming to his voice. "What are you and the Doctor bidding on today? That English scroll?"
"No. Mr. Bigod says he's related to one of the patrons listed on it." They moved to another glass display case.
"You don't believe him, do you?"
"No." She nodded to an illustrated page under the glass display. "Dr. Sheldon likes this. St. Mary's Abbey, York, early thirteenth century. It was done by the first abbot."
"Anything else?"
There was a pointed inquisitiveness in the question and for a brief moment she sensed he knew what she and Carlos really awaited. She nodded, feigning ignorance and avoided meeting his eyes. "Several pieces we've already secured, but Dr. Sheldon wants a chance at a French tapestry and the Chronicles of William the Conqueror."
"Nothing spectacular?"
This time she confronted his persistence with a disarming laugh. "I don't think Gustalav has a map to the Copper Scroll, Mr. Tolchov."
He shared her easy smile. "He just might."
Dinner was only a rite of passage that evening until all the bids were tallied and announcements prepared. A majority of the agents departed for Colmar and Paris, leaving any further details with the registry agent.
Even so, more than twenty guests made polite conversation through the lengthy meal. Lauren found herself between a Hungarian collector and a Chinese art dealer. She was well into the soup and sherry before learning that, while the collector spoke English, his accent was so heavily Estonian that she failed at grasping his exact words. She smiled at the large, jolly man, nodding, and understood his meaning when he gestured and shrugged to his translator who had somehow gotten seated four chairs down the table from him.
The Chinese art dealer spoke English very well and even said as much. He had spent the last few months in London and his accent was so well mastered that the words seemed to settle in the back of his throat. Or nose; Lauren couldn't decide which cavity. Twice she found herself straightening after leaning closer and closer in an attempt at comprehension.
During the short man's tiresome recount of French art's advent into China, Lauren's attention drifted to Carlos halfway down the table. She almost envied his conversation with Madame Poussin. She nodded to the Chinese man at her right before her eyes found Reuben across and center of the table.
The dark-haired man sat unmoving, as if his suit had frozen around him, his strict gaze fixed on Carlos. He considered the older man across the table from him for a long moment before a server with a doily and finger bowl made him blink.
Reuben sat back, his attention less obvious.
He knows, Lauren thought immediately with an unconscious sigh. He remembers.
Carlos looked up, his eyes locking onto Reuben.
Under this new scrutiny Reuben's gaze lowered to the finger bowl offered before him. Carlos turned back to the Possum.
Lauren waited for the maid taking her own bowl to leave and discovered Reuben now watching her.
She slowly looked back to the flower centerpiece arrayed before her.
Secrets had slipped.
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