Chapter 15
Lucas never slept past dawn. It was yet another trait his father had drilled into him—lounging in bed and wasting daylight
was an unforgivable offense.
Now, the first light of day was inching through the attic chamber's two deep-set, narrow leaded windows. Tate slumbered across
his narrow bed, still fully clothed in the previous evening's dinner attire, but Lucas had kept his senses about him and was
ready for their first full day at Cloverton Hall.
The day's agenda was straightforward. The men were to spend the morning hunting pheasants, and then they'd dine with the ladies
upon their return in the evening. But before that, Wainbridge had indicated that he wanted to meet with him privately prior
to the hunt to discuss Mr.Milton's collection.
Lucas poured cold water from the jug into the basin near the far wall, washed his face, cleaned his teeth, wet his comb and attempted to tame his unruly hair, and dressed quickly in attire appropriate for the morning's hunt. Normally, he'd be excited for such an impending conversation, but as he saw to his ablutions, one nagging question continued to pester him: Why was Olivia Brannon here?
Her parting words to him roiled in his mind: "Whatever you know of me, of my family, I would appreciate it if you could, at least for the time being, keep it to yourself."
On the surface it seemed a reasonable request, but the more he considered it, the deeper the question developed. What was
more, the entrancing expression in her hazel eyes and her intriguing smile allowed him to think of little else.
Once he was ready, Lucas made his way down to Wainbridge's study on the ground floor. He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe.
"Ah, you remembered." Wainbridge motioned for Lucas to enter.
Like Tate, Wainbridge was still clad in the previous evening's attire. The start of a dark beard hugged his pronounced jawline,
and his discarded coat had been tossed over his desk. All around the untidy study, candles sputtered in pools of their own
wax, and several blankets were piled on the lounging chair under the window. Stale dust and lingering smoke incensed the entire
room, and haphazard piles of papers cluttered the desktop. Crates stood several deep along the far wall, and a half-eaten
tray of food and drink littered the table at the chamber's center.
Lucas stepped in farther and paused to straighten an empty glass that had been set on its side. "Did you spend all night in
here?"
Wainbridge waved a dismissive hand and responded with a lopsided smile. "Ah, you know how these things go. No one sleeps at
a house party."
Lucas would not argue.
"What's that you've brought with you?" Wainbridge gestured to the packet in Lucas's hand.
Lucas held up the portfolio. "Transaction records. My father and your uncle had a handful of dealings well over a decade ago.
Since I was unsure about what sort of records Milton had maintained, I brought the little information I had, just in case."
He handed the bound package to Wainbridge, who opened it and flipped through a few pages. "This is a preposterous amount of
money. And spent on what? Pots and statues and the sort?"
The shock in the man's expression was a clue about his host. Clearly Wainbridge did not come from money himself. Most of the
wealthy elite would not bat an eye at such figures.
Wainbridge massaged his forehead before he handed the packet back. "All I know is that I want to sell all of it. Quickly."
Lucas assessed the chaotic room, already taking a mental inventory of the paintings. The ceramics. The furniture. "Have you
spoken with any other brokers?"
"Most certainly. I've been contacted by several. One all the way from Spain, if you can believe it. Come with me. I want to
show you something."
Lucas followed Wainbridge as he opened a wide paneled door on the far wall to a connecting chamber.
"This is the library." Wainbridge swept his arm dramatically about the space.
Lucas's gaze darted from the cluttered shelves on the far wall, to the high corner shelves of chinoiserie, to a full-size marble statue in the room's center. Busts, vases, paintings, figurines, and books filled every corner and empty space.
"What do I even do with all of this?" Wainbridge lamented, kicking at a crate with the toe of his boot.
Lucas inhaled. Deeply. The history and culture surrounding him engaged every corner of his mind. Whereas Wainbridge saw a
mess, Lucas saw opportunity. It energized him.
He dragged his finger through the dust atop a small wooden box. "I know this all seems like worthless fodder to you, but some
people would sell their soul for the opportunity to walk through here."
"And you know those people?" Wainbridge scoffed as he lifted a figurine, glanced at it, then dropped it back on the table.
"I can't imagine anyone paying a farthing for this, let alone a sum of significance."
"As I alluded when we met at Brooks's, there are two ways to proceed. The fastest method does not guarantee the largest income,
but it would get you money quickly. The second method could take months, even years, but it would yield the highest income."
Wainbridge folded his arms across his chest. "I'm listening."
"For the most profitable option, we'd begin by cataloging everything you want to sell. I'd record it, inspect it, research
it as necessary, and then assign a value to it. I'd then notify my colleagues and clients that the items are available, and
then I'd solicit responses and sell each item to the highest bidder. But like I said, it could take months, even years, seeing
that many of those clients reside overseas. My fee would be based on a percentage of the final sale price."
"And the faster option?"
"The faster option would be that my business would purchase items. They then become my inventory to dispose of as I see fit. I could either turn a larger profit with them or suffer a loss. I would assume all the risk, and that is the reason for the lower purchase price. This is how Tate is involved with my business. He helps assume the financial risk but also accepts the financial rewards on the sales of the pieces."
"I see," Wainbridge muttered.
"Most collectors keep their items cataloged. I've no doubt that your uncle left behind a ledger, or ledgers, detailing the
items he owned."
"That's just the thing. There's very little. I'm sure if he had them, they're somewhere in here, but I've scoured this study
and the storage rooms. I've found nothing."
"Is Mrs.Milton aware of its location? Or one of the servants?"
"I asked her about it once, and she flew into a rage. The servants are all new and know nothing."
The magnitude of the task before him solidified in his mind. "Details can be determined later. We just need to get started.
Today. I'll stay behind from hunting this morning."
Wainbridge exhaled, as if he'd been holding his breath for days. "One would assume such an inheritance would be a good thing.
And it is. But so many strings are tied to it that I can barely see past them."
Lucas removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. "Make an excuse for me. I'm much more use here anyway than on the hunt.
You'd be surprised at what can be accomplished in a relatively short period of time. Leave it all with me."
Wainbridge finally cracked a smile of what could only be relief. "I'll tell the butler you're using the library and are not to be disturbed. I'd offer to allow one of the footmen to assist you, but I fear for confidentiality."
"Think nothing of it." Lucas grinned. "Believe it or not, this is a thrill for me."
"Very well. I'll stop in later to see how you're progressing."
Once Wainbridge left, Lucas moved to the curtains and pulled a dusty panel back, letting in a flood of gray morning light,
which illuminated even more dust and cobwebs than he had first noticed.
It was something he saw often. One man's passion—a legacy—frozen in time. The accumulation of antique treasures had meant
something to Mr.Milton during his lifetime. Perhaps it was an obsession. Perhaps it gave him a sense of purpose.
But now, what was it?
Lucas had seen some of the most incredible pieces in his lifetime—from Roman artifacts to Egyptian gold to Indian statues.
Time and experience had taught him that every collection would, at some point, be sold and that items were merely objects
that only meant something to those willing to pay for them. Because of this he could assess items clearly and without bias
or envy. Even so, as he glanced around him, the sheer number of pieces that needed to be evaluated was overwhelming.
His thoughts turned, like they did so often, to his father, who would have relished this task and seen it as the pinnacle
of his career. But he was not here, and it was up to Lucas to make sure he did his father proud.