Chapter 7

"Treat every client as if your entire business depends on them—as if their items, their hopes, are the only items that matter

to your business."

Timothy Avery's words rambled in Lucas's mind as the Yorkshire countryside flashed by the mud-streaked window.

"If you can do that, you'll have a customer for life."

Lucas could almost laugh at the irony of his father's advice, for in this instance, his entire business did depend on his ability to convince Wainbridge of how to proceed with the collection.

Lucas and Tate, along with Tate's valet, had departed London the previous day and, according to the driver, would arrive at

Cloverton within the next quarter of an hour. The journey had been relatively uneventful, and every day, every hour, not spent

in active pursuit of saving his business felt wasted.

"If you had to guess"—Tate's random musing once again broke the silence—"how much do you think that house is worth?"

Lucas pulled his gaze from the landscape. "Cloverton Hall?"

"Yes. Just think on it." Tate leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I've heard the name Francis Milton all my life. Father was always envious and said Milton's collection put his own to shame. We both know Father's collection is impressive. Milton's must be absolutely massive."

Vincent Tate, William's father, had been one of their more extravagant clients for as long as Lucas could remember, but when

news of his father's scandal came to light, the elder Tate severed ties with Avery & Sons. The younger Tate much preferred

gambling and women, and as the oldest son of a very wealthy landowner, he could afford to bet on a young but promising antiquarian.

"I couldn't begin to guess," Lucas responded with a shrug. "I'm surprised you've not visited Cloverton before. You and Wainbridge

seem thick."

Tate scoffed. "Believe me, I've dropped plenty of hints that I expected an invitation, but Wainbridge ignored them completely.

But you heard him at Brooks's. Poor chap. He'll be forced to contend with reality sooner or later, and the fastest way out

of his current dilemma is to marry well. Mark my words: I'm sure a lovely selection of eligible ladies will be present."

"And, of course, you need not marry," gibed Lucas.

"No, of course not. Only for love, should I choose. Speaking of that, I'm told MissHaven will be in attendance, and she's

always a good sport."

"I seem to recall that she didn't recognize you when we encountered her at the opera last year."

"Ah well, never mind that. We're both a little older, a little wiser. All that aside, my sole objective is to support you.

And my investment, of course."

"Very selfless."

Tate snickered at his own jest and smoothed his decidedly blond hair from his broad forehead. "But I do hope you intend to have a little fun at Cloverton and not completely bury your nose in those dusty relics. Besides, you've yet to meet Wainbridge's sister. She'd be the perfect match for you. I'm sure Wainbridge would include some artifacts in her dowry if you two were to hit it off."

"Tempting, but if the Wainbridges are in need of funds, I doubt MissWainbridge will look my way."

"Don't sell yourself short, Avery. You've qualities besides money," Tate heckled good-naturedly. "Surely there is something

about you that women would find attractive."

"I can always count on you for a boost of confidence."

Lucas had long since given up trying to imagine what it would have been like to be carefree and affluent, like Tate and so

many of his other clients. His business required him to interact with this social class regularly, but he'd never truly been

one of them. The women might flirt with him, but he was hardly wealthy enough to entice one of them toward matrimony. Invitations

to events like this had been driven by business, not pleasure, and every resulting relationship was a bargain to be struck.

"At last!" Tate leaned forward to look out the window. "The infamous Cloverton Hall."

Lucas angled his head. Brilliant afternoon sunlight filtered through the ancient ash trees, which largely obscured the view of the opulent building of gray stone, but he waited patiently until they cleared the forest and the majestic structure fully appeared over the hill. Like glittering mirrors, dozens of symmetrically aligned windows reflected the sunlight, and several chimneys jutted up from the slate roof into the clear azure sky. Most would see an impressive country home, but he saw nothing but opportunity.

When their carriage pulled to a stop on the circular drive before Cloverton's main entrance, Wainbridge was there to meet

them, along with an attractive, willowy woman and an impressive bevy of servants.

"That's her," whispered Tate. "MissIsabella Wainbridge. A delight, is she not?"

George Wainbridge stepped forward to greet them, hands outstretched, a broad, easy smile on his face. "You've made it! And

in one piece, I'll note. Avery, you must be a saint to survive being trapped with Tate in a carriage for such a duration."

Lucas laughed and shook hands with the man. "I consider it a great test of my patience."

Tate's grin creased his full, round cheeks. "I'd be offended if I were not so elated to see MissWainbridge again." He extended

his hand toward her to draw her into their conversation.

A demure smile curved MissWainbridge's bow-shaped lips. Sunlight fell on her graceful features and played on the honey-hued

curls piled atop her head.

"Ah, Isabella." Wainbridge took his sister's arm. "You've not met Mr.Avery yet, have you?"

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure." She fixed entrancingly dark eyes on him with astounding confidence. "Welcome to Cloverton

Hall, Mr.Avery."

He bowed. "Thank you."

"And me?" Tate blurted. "Do I not warrant a welcome?"

MissWainbridge rewarded Tate's attempt at humor and laughed prettily, placing a dainty hand familiarly on the sleeve of his

coat. "Oh, Mr.Tate. I thought that went without saying. How could you not be most welcome?"

Tate lowered his voice, as if taking both the Wainbridges into his confidence. "And Mrs.Milton? Is she here? I confess, I

cannot wait to meet the woman who has caused such a commotion for the two of you."

MissWainbridge shook her head. "She's not yet arrived, I fear. We expected her yesterday to help greet the first of the guests,

but this morning we received a missive that a broken carriage wheel caused a delay."

Tate rubbed his hands before him. "At least we're not the last to arrive."

"No, no. You've not missed a thing," Wainbridge assured. "But then again, we'd not even consider beginning the festivities

before your arrival. As it is, the other guests have already settled in their chambers. Dinner will be served soon, and if

you do not wish to eat in your traveling attire, you'd best get to your room and set about making yourself presentable. Come,

I'll take you up myself."

After instructing a footman to assist Tate's valet, the men stepped inside a large vestibule at the entrance. Lucas had been prepared for opulence and extravagance, but not even his imagination had done Cloverton Hall justice. Intricately carved arches rose to meet the high plaster ceiling, which boasted vibrant murals of angels and cherubs, painted meticulously in the style of the Italian masters. The soles of his traveling boots tapped on the Purbeck marble floor, and even at this early hour, candles blazed in suspended candelabras from every corner of the hall, shedding even more light on two early-sixteenth-century oil paintings in gilded frames.

There would be time to explore later, and Lucas peeled his attention away from the artifacts. He followed their host from

the foyer to a corridor leading to the main staircase. Wainbridge and Tate continued chatting, but try as he might to ignore

it, all that surrounded Lucas robbed him of speech. Such extreme attention to order and detail—a colorful Turkish pile carpet

hung from a golden rod, and a series of Dutch landscape paintings graced the wall of the lower part of the staircase. Two

pear-shaped Japanese vases sat atop a lacquered table on the landing between two windows.

Modern tastes would dictate that this space was cluttered, but to Lucas this was the domain of a skilled collector. All talk

of buying and selling would have to wait for a more appropriate time. For now his focus must be on developing a rapport with

Wainbridge.

"MissHaven is here, I trust," Tate remarked as they ascended the stairs and traversed the landing.

"She's here, along with her determined chaperone." Wainbridge pivoted to climb the second half of the staircase. "You may

have to take your place behind the other men waiting for her attention."

"Chaperone?" Tate grimaced. "That's disappointing."

"Come now, you know how these things go. All the ladies have one, I'm afraid." Wainbridge motioned for them to continue up the stairs. "A guardian, a sister, a lady's maid—someone along those lines to guard their virtue. But don't despair. This house is large but filled to the brim with guests. Speaking of that, I hope you'll not be offended with your arrangements. Even in a house this size, space is not limitless."

Tate's forehead furrowed. "What does that mean?"

"You'll see."

They landed on the first floor, and then Wainbridge directed them up another narrower, steeper staircase to a far less opulent

second floor. The noticeably lower ceilings were mere inches from the top of Lucas's head, and the windows were smaller and

set deep in the wall.

"You two will share a chamber," Wainbridge said without looking back at them. "Here, on this floor."

"Is this not the attic floor?" Tate sniffed.

"Don't be foppish." Wainbridge's heels clicked on the polished planked floors until he stopped before a closed door. "Fielding

and Whitaker are up here as well. Although they did not complain as much as you."

Tate harrumphed.

"Truth be told, you're not the only late additions we had to the gathering. My aunt also invited a mystery woman. We've all

yet to meet her."

"How curious." Tate ducked to miss a low crossbeam. "Anyone we know?"

"Heavens, no." Wainbridge shook his head. "I don't even recall her name. A friend from London, so my aunt claims, and yet neither Isabella nor I had ever heard of her." The door squeaked on ancient hinges

as Wainbridge opened it, and light from the chamber's two windows spilled to the corridor. "Here's where you'll stay."

Tate entered first, bending to fit under the low threshold, and Lucas followed. The chamber's simplicity struck him—a slanted ceiling, two small beds, a plainly woven rug over a wood-planked floor, two straight-backed wooden chairs, and a washbasin—absolutely none of the extravagance present on the lower floors.

Tate snorted in disdain.

"Oh, come, man, it's not that bad," quipped Wainbridge. "Next time you're at Cloverton, you can have your pick of the house.

For now, this will have to suit." He extended the key to Lucas. "You'd best not tarry. Dinner will be served within the hour,

and unless you two want to appear like ruffian highwaymen, you'd best be about it."

With a wink Wainbridge left and closed the door behind him.

Tate dropped to a bed, tossed his discarded hat next to him, and scratched his head. "There's barely room for my trunk."

"You'll survive." Lucas popped open his satchel and prepared to clean up. "Besides, you've talked of naught but MissHaven

for days. If you don't want to meet her with mud splattered on your breeches, you'd best stop complaining and wash up."

Lucas could appeal to Tate's vanity, because to his friend, that was all that mattered—flirting, impressing ladies, and improving

his standing amongst all the guests.

Lucas needed to impress as well, but his goal was far different than Tate's. Tate possessed fortune enough to last him two

lifetimes. Lucas did not—he had only his knowledge, his skill as a purveyor, and the ability to make people feel comfortable.

He would need all three if he was to make a success of this event.