Chapter 3

Brooks's gentlemen's club. No matter how many times Lucas Avery stepped through these doors, he was in awe.

Candles were suspended from the ceiling and hung in wall sconces to illuminated the space, and once inside his eyes quickly

adjusted to the smoky haze and flickering light. The low, energetic hum of male voices, broken by the occasional bout of spirited

laughter, met his ears. Men from the highest echelons of society were gathered here for an evening's entertainment and camaraderie,

but he was not here for such pursuits. Indeed, his goal for the night was infinitely more significant. In fact, this might

be his last opportunity to salvage what was left of Avery & Sons.

Lucas accepted a small glass of port from a footman's tray and began his search for William Tate, his friend and his business's

only remaining investor. He found the sandy-haired dandy quickly, seated at a gaming table engaged in a rousing round of faro.

Card after card signaled Tate's impending fate, and once the game ended in his defeat, Tate muttered undecipherably, slapped

his cards down, and shoved his chair away from the table.

It was then he took notice of Lucas. "Not my night, I'm afraid." He stood, pulled his gilded box of snuff from his pocket, popped it open, and extended it toward Lucas. "Took you long enough to get here."

Lucas raised a hand in refusal. "Sorry. Didn't get your message until quite late. What did I miss?"

Tate snorted. "Only my complete degradation at the card tables, and the billiards table before that. If I'd not been so bored

waiting for you to arrive, I might have avoided that nasty business altogether. In all reality, my loss is on your shoulders."

Tate pinched the black powder between his thumb and forefinger, quickly inhaled it, and returned the shiny box to his pocket.

"That's an interesting assessment," bantered Lucas. "I suppose you could have been doing something productive and followed

up with Mr.Chalton over there to gauge his interest in selling me that German silver wine cistern he's been hinting he might

want to part with. Don't you?"

Tate grimaced, then scoffed dismissively. "You know me better than that, old friend. Come on. Wainbridge is still here, but

we must hurry. This might be your only chance to meet with him. He's quitting London on the morrow."

Lucas scanned the crowded chamber. Over the last few months he'd heard the name George Wainbridge more times than he could

count, but he'd yet to meet the fellow. Fortunately for Lucas, Tate and Wainbridge had a longstanding friendship from their

time at Cambridge.

As they wove their way through the throng of formally clad men toward the billiards room, Lucas nodded to those members who were familiar, but as he did, he was equally aware of the stares pointed in his direction. Several of the men had, at one point or another, been clients of his father's—which meant they also knew of the scandal that emerged just days before his death.

Lucas had perfected the mask of holding his head high and returning every glare with a smile and a nod. He'd give no indication

of discomfort or, worse, embarrassment. If he wanted to reestablish the name Avery as the most important name in antiquities,

he needed to make good on his goal for the evening: establish a relationship with the new master of Cloverton Hall in order

to gain access to the famed chinoiserie items housed within its walls.

"I spoke with Wainbridge just yesterday," Tate explained as they traversed the lush Persian rug beneath them. "He's ready

to sell the bulk of the collection, but he's been inundated with brokers and buyers vying for his attention. He came to me,

of course, knowing that I dabble in such things, and after discussing it, he's agreed to meet with you. A word of caution,

though. Wainbridge is a proud man, and I'm told Milton left the estate's finances in a bad way. He obviously wants that kept

quiet."

This, Lucas could understand. He'd been in the antiquities business long enough to know that if a man wanted to sell an item

of high value, it was usually because he needed the money. Public knowledge that an item was for sale would create every manner

of speculation—speculation, Lucas could only assume, that would interfere with Wainbridge's efforts to establish himself as

an influential member of society.

"There he is"—Tate pointed him out—"in the green coat."

Wainbridge was standing in the corner next to a mantelpiece, engaged in a lively conversation with an older gentleman. His intricately tied cravat and expertly fitted velvet tailcoat were a testament to his valet's skills, and the jewel-encrusted watch fob dangling from beneath his waistcoat glittered in the dancing fire's light.

Wainbridge took notice of them as they entered the billiards room, excused himself from his conversation, and approached them.

At first glance the man appeared in his prime, but as he drew nearer, Lucas could see dark circles beneath his eyes, and in

spite of the man's broad, easy grin, a tightness firmed his jaw.

"Tate! There you are." Wainbridge flashed his white smile in the low light. "I was beginning to think you forgot our meeting."

"No, no. Nothing like that. This is Lucas Avery, the man I told you about."

Lucas gave a slight bow.

"Good to know you, Avery. Come, let's sit." Wainbridge motioned to a footman for drinks and then led the way to an empty table

in the corner. Once they were settled, he leaned back in his chair and fixed his unusually dark eyes on Lucas. "Your reputation

precedes you, Avery."

Lucas quirked an eyebrow. "Does it?"

"You're the expert of all things antiquated and valuable, as I understand it," Wainbridge declared, a hint of amusement brightening

his tone.

Lucas ignored the subtle air of condescension and chuckled. It was hardly the first time he'd encountered it, and yet, somehow,

the simple fact that he knew this man needed his expertise overshadowed any offense. "Expert? Yes, I like to think so."

Wainbridge laughed good-naturedly and leaned back to allow the footman to place three full glasses on the table and then sobered again as the footman departed. "I don't mind saying it, Avery. I don't like this situation I'm in."

Lucas matched Wainbridge's casual posture and leaned back. "And what situation is that?"

"Not being the expert." Wainbridge simpered smugly and draped his arm over the back of his chair. "It guts me, but I'm not

too proud to admit that I'm up against my match. Tate swears you'll know what to do with this whole messy business. Tell me,

did you know my uncle?"

Lucas nodded and wrapped his fingers loosely around the glass in front of him. "I met him when I was a boy. He traveled with

my father on an explorative expedition to Cairo."

Wainbridge raised his dark brows. "Cairo?"

"Mm-hmm. But that was nearly two decades ago. He was well-known in certain circles for his vigor in amassing the odd and the

unusual, especially in the area of chinoiserie porcelain."

"Chinoiserie?"

"Decorative items that depict Chinese and Japanese motifs," Lucas explained.

"Ah, well." Wainbridge indulged in a drink. "There is plenty of that at Cloverton. At least I think that's what it is. Have

you been there? To Cloverton Hall?"

"No."

"It's brimming with every sort of trinket one can envisage. Large and small. Beautiful and gaudy. One cannot turn a corner or enter a chamber without being stared at by this statue or tripping over some useless table. It's quite vexatious."

Lucas could only imagine what sort of artifacts were tucked away within Cloverton's walls, but he also knew how overwhelming

such things could be to those who weren't familiar with them. "So clearly you have no affection for your uncle's collections."

"Affection?" Wainbridge snorted. "On the contrary! I never want to see or hear the words antiquity or porcelain ever again. I desire nothing more than to have every single piece banished from Cloverton. I'm told some of them are quite

valuable, but to me one bauble is just like the other."

"You're hardly the first man to inherit a collection and have no idea what to do with it. One man's passion can quickly become

another man's burden."

"Exactly!" Wainbridge threw his hands up, as if relieved to finally be understood. "You see my quandary, then. When I think

about the fortune he wrapped up in those useless things, it sickens me. For all of my uncle's grandiose reputation, he was

flat broke. In debt up to his gills. Does that surprise you?"

Lucas shrugged. "Not in the least. I'm aware of numerous investors and enthusiasts who allowed their passions to destroy them.

Amassing the rare and unique can be just as addictive as gambling." Lucas saw his opening to recommend himself. And he was

going to take it. "Tell me. What is it I can do for you?"

"I want to sell the blasted things. Every single one of them. And I want to make as much money as I possibly can. But to do

that I need someone I can trust. Tate says you're the best."

Lucas took a swig of port to hide any trace of the optimism budding within him. This was exactly what he wanted—needed—to hear. "If I may be so bold, you need to identify a buyer who is willing to pay a premium for such pieces. Fortunately, that is my specialty."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I've spent my entire life studying every sort of antiquity, and items from the Far East are my prime interest. I

maintain integral relationships with several collectors whose tastes are comparable to your uncle's. It's a matter of matching

the piece with the buyer. It's as simple as that."

Wainbridge's affable smile had faded, and now his long fingers tapped rapidly against the table. "I see. How long would all

this take?"

Lucas intentionally kept his voice low. Calm. Trustworthy. "Well, that all depends on how quickly you need the money and how

much you're willing to accept. You could sell them tomorrow, I've no doubt, but it would be at a loss against their value.

If you want to make the most money, your best bet is to look overseas."

"Overseas? Where?"

"America," Lucas clarified. "People there are eager to display wealth, and at this point in time, they're willing to pay for

the privilege."

Wainbridge forced his fingers through his thick ebony hair. "How does this begin?"

"A full assessment of your uncle's possessions would be necessary to determine values, and once you and I agree on what items

are to be sold, then I begin my work."

"For a fee, of course."

Lucas smirked, folding his hands before him. "Of course. But the more profit we realize, the more that lines both our pockets.

And don't forget Tate. As one of my investors he'll profit as well."

Tate's chortle rent the somber tone that had enveloped the conversation. "It's a beautiful arrangement really."

"But those are all details to be sorted later," added Lucas. "Do you know if Milton had a collection log anywhere? Insurance

policies? Anything of the sort?"

Wainbridge shook his head. "My uncle was not an organized man. Papers and portfolios are strewn all over the library and in

his study. There's little rhyme or reason to it."

"I can review them if you'd like," Lucas offered.

"I'll take you up on that, and I have just the idea for it." Wainbridge shifted eagerly in his chair. "I'm hosting a house

party at Cloverton in a little over a week to introduce a small group of friends to my new home. That would be an ideal time

for you to visit. The both of you."

"Am I to understand that you've planned a house party and I'm not already on the list of guests?" Tate gaped, aghast. "Why

was I not invited?"

Lucas ignored Tate's complaint to focus on the task at hand. "Normally for a project of this magnitude, I'd require the assistance

of at least one of my agents and days, if not weeks, of dedicated work."

"No, no," protested Wainbridge. "This must be done surreptitiously, for I have yet to share with you my biggest hindrance

yet—my uncle's widow."

Lucas drew a deep breath in response.

"Aha!" Wainbridge's vibrancy reappeared, and he pointed a finger in Lucas's direction. "I see your expression. So you know

her reputation then, do you?"

Just as Mr.Milton had notoriety, so did Mrs.Agnes Milton. But hers was of a very different nature.

Wainbridge leaned forward and lowered his voice. "When my uncle died, I inherited not only Cloverton Hall and its properties,

but a small estate farther north—Windhurst Manor. He included the smaller property in the will under the condition that I

provide for his widow and permit her to live out her days on Cloverton property. As a self-made man, he had the authority

to leave any stipulation in his will he chose, and I'm forced to abide by it. If I fail to uphold this condition, Windhurst

Manor will pass to another cousin. The issue therein is that Cloverton Hall, which appears to be the jewel in the Milton crown,

is in deep debt, and the smaller estate is the only one earning an income."

"Enlighten me," encouraged Lucas. "Surely any rights to the Cloverton collection were solely in her husband's name. What does

Mrs.Milton have to do with her late husband's collection?"

"She's mad!" Wainbridge cried out. "She knows full well that I must allow her residence at Cloverton, and she spends her days

lording over all as if she is still the mistress of the house. She refuses to allow anyone to touch a single thing that belonged

to her husband. I've tried to be patient, but this cannot continue. Our best bet is to make sure she knows nothing of these

plans until we are ready to act."

Lucas exchanged glances with Tate again. This opportunity was unlike any other he'd encountered. It seemed almost too fortuitous. Just a few pieces from the famed Milton collection would not only save his business financially but also firmly reestablish him as one of the premier antiquarians in London.

"Well, then," Tate exclaimed as he lifted his glass in a toast. "To a great party, to the old man, and to making lots of money."