call on an antiquities dealer who had refused to speak to Jem Hanks. His premises were near the shopping mecca of Bond Street, but not on it, in an area prospective sellers could visit without embarrassing encounters with friends. The address was announced by a brass plate so discreet you might take the place for a private house, or miss it altogether if you didn’t know where you were going.
The man himself was slender and cool, with pale blond hair and a supercilious air. His dark coat obviously came from Weston, and his linen was impeccable. Next to Alec he looked small, almost sylphlike. “We came to talk to you about your dealing with my uncle Henry Wylde,” Alec told him.
“I do not speak about my clients,” was the smug reply.
His manner made Alec want to shake him. Even the man’s name was pretentious—Carleton St. Cyr. “Not acceptable.”
“You must understand that those who come to me depend on my discretion. If I were to speak about my business, it could cause embarrassment in many noble families. Up to the most august levels.” He obviously reveled in the connection.
“But my husband did not sell to you,” Charlotte said. “He bought, and we are quite aware of it.”
Alec nodded; a good point. “And what he bought was not what you claimed. The items were, in fact, nearly valueless.”
“I beg your…”
“How would your ‘clients’ feel if they heard how he’d been cheated?” Charlotte said.
The man blanched. “How dare you?”
“We asked the British Museum for a valuation of my uncle’s collection, including objects you sold him.” Alec showed the man receipts found in the hidden room. “They are all worthless.”
St. Cyr rifled through the pages. “But that… that is impossible.” He seemed truly shaken. “These so-called experts can be mistaken, you know. Or deceptive. I have seen them give low valuations so that they can buy up collections on the cheap.”
“There was no question of a sale here.” Alec retrieved the receipts. “And it is the British Museum we are speaking of, not some petty antiquities dealer.” He used the word purposefully.
“My stock comes from impeccable sources,” the man said.
“Do you actually know how to tell if items are authentic?” Charlotte wondered.
From the way his eyes shifted, Alec saw she’d scored a hit. “My services are based on mutual trust. Everyone is aware of the… origins of what I sell. They are happy to acquire beautiful things that were once owned by prominent…”
“Things which you have accepted as whatever people say they are,” added Charlotte.
He drew himself up. “I deal with honorable people. To question their word would be…”
“Wise, seemingly,” Alec interrupted. “So everything you sell is fakery? Puffed up by its supposed association with some impoverished aristocrat?”
“No! That is slander, sir. If you dare repeat such lies, I will take you to…”
“Then it is a coincidence that everything my uncle bought from you was valueless?”
Conflicting emotions flitted over the small man’s face. There was something important he wasn’t telling them, Alec was sure. “I maintain that your ‘expert’ was mistaken.”
And that was his final word, no matter how Alec insisted or threatened. Indeed, his threats of exposure backfired, as the dealer seemed very sure he would have support from the highest levels in a lawsuit. In the end, they were forced to go without learning anything useful. He would have to come back, Alec thought, when he could, and pressure the idiot further.
“All he cares about is hobnobbing with the nobility,” Charlotte said in the carriage on the way back. “He is not a merchant, he’s a… toadeater.”
“Clearly.” Alec felt squeezed between the need to help Charlotte all he could and the necessity of dealing with the wave of unrest now cresting near his home.
“Lady Isabella mentioned him, I think. As a dealer who was completely discreet.”
When Alec turned to her, she looked as if she wished she hadn’t spoken.
“It was when she thought I could sell some of Henry’s things,” she added hurriedly, “before she found out that I can’t.”
“And why would you need discretion in that case?”
“Ah… that is…”
Aunt Bella had probably suggested something less straightforward. “She may have used this fellow, I suppose. I’ve always wondered how Danforth’s estate could provide what she appears to spend.”
“She’s been kind to me,” was the only reply.
Exactly, Alec wanted to say, and why? But he didn’t because it was insulting. They pulled up in front of her house. “I wanted to tell you…” Alec began.
“You should come in,” interrupted Charlotte in an odd