Chapter 12 #3
Cart paused, looking up at the swinging wooden sign proudly proclaiming Lewis Stanford Auctioneers.
The place—its smells, noises, and patrons—was all too familiar to him.
It was the place Cart had spent countless hours combing through written documents and searching room after room for his family heirlooms. He’d found quite a few for all his efforts.
But today was different.
He was not here to locate a precious treasure or to bid on a newly discovered one.
Cart sucked in a deep breath, hefted the large box he’d lugged from his home—loaded on a hackney and unloaded here—into his arms and pushed through the door. A bell chimed, announcing his arrival.
“Good morn, my lord,” Mr. Stanford greeted warmly. “I was not expecting you until the end of next week. What have you here?” The shopkeeper came around the shelf of books he was organizing as Cart set the chest on the floor.
It was something Cart had hoped never to have to do, but with his mother’s demand for increased funds, he had no other option.
So, he’d spent his evening the night before collecting anything of significant worth that he could part with.
They were all objects of little to no sentimental value—but that did not lessen the loss he was feeling even before handing them over to Mr. Stanford.
“I brought a few neglected pieces to sell, things I am sure others will appreciate far more than myself,” Cart lied.
He’d rarely met another collector who treasured a piece of art of historical worth better than he, but now was neither the time nor the place to anguish over the difficult decision he’d had to make.
“I thought you might be interested in some or all of the pieces—several paintings, a few statues, and even a ring fabled to belong to an Egyptian queen.”
The man eyed Cart suspiciously before scurrying close for a look, unable to resist the lure of anything that could turn a profit.
Cart flipped the latch on the chest and opened it wide to reveal the treasures within.
He averted his gaze, focusing on objects around the cluttered room as if interested in a purchase. “Have a look. There is much you’ll find to your liking.”
Stepping away, Cart lifted a ceramic statue of a Greek sea goddess, Amphitrite, and inspected the fine sculpting skills needed to craft such an exquisite sculpture.
The piece was not particularly old, but kept his attention so as to avoid watching the man paw through his things in search of anything that caught his eye.
Stanford mumbled exclamations of excitement several times as he rummaged through the chest.
“Thirty-five pounds for the entire lot.” The entirety of its holding was far closer to forty-five pounds by Cart’s estimates, but he needed the money now—not tomorrow or in a fortnight. He did not possess the liberty to haggle with the man.
“Twenty-five—not a shilling more,” Stanford retorted.
“Absolutely not,” Cart refuted. “I am insulted that you would balk at my asking price.”
“My lord.” Stanford shrugged his shoulders. “I am but a lowly businessman seeking to support his family.”
“That is poppycock!” Cart couldn’t believe the nerve of the man. “You are unwed and I know you recently purchased a farm outside London—do not try to fool me, Stanford.”
“Thirty pounds,” he gave in, throwing his hands up in disgust. “A man cannot make an honest living at such rates.”
It was the price Cart had hoped to garner from the chest’s contents, but it stung to part with them all the same. “Agreed,” he said through gritted teeth.
He sincerely hoped his mother appreciated all that he’d done to rectify their current predicament. This had to be the last time she requested such a large allowance or they’d be forced to be rid of necessities next.
“On another matter,” Cart said, his irritation at the man dissipating quickly. “Have you heard any word on the painting I’ve been searching for?”
Stanford cocked a brow at Cart’s interest. Cart knew if the man did, indeed, find his father’s painting, the price would be steep.
Most days, Stanford was an honest shop keep and auctioneer of collectibles.
But on those other days, he dabbled in business of the more illicit kind, either dealing in stolen, lost, or long-forgotten items. He was Cart’s main source of information when he’d been hired to find an antiquity—and a large majority of the time, the man could either locate the piece or direct Cart in the right direction.
“Not a word, my lord.” Stanford shook his head, disappointed he’d been unsuccessful in his search. “I do not believe the painting is in London—or even in England. I have done as you said and offered a reward for the painting or any information on its whereabouts…but nothing.”
Not every assignment Cart undertook was a success, but this one was personal. His family’s painting, commissioned by his father—the last of such things.
It meant a great deal to him and the need to locate it would never diminish. “Please, ask around again and let me know if you learn anything.”
“Of course, Lord Cartwright. This way.” Stanford led Cart to the back of his shop that housed his coin case, where the man counted out the appropriate pounds and handed them to Cart.
“While I appreciate your business, I do understand the sorrow in letting these pieces go.” The man seemed satisfied that the transaction was complete and he could now boast at his great acquisition.
“I will make sure the pieces are sold to deserving individuals.”
“See to it, Stanford.” Cart turned to leave, tucking the funds into his coat pocket for safe-keeping—until he was required to hand them over to his mother.
“Will I see you next week?”
“I’m afraid not. I will be otherwise engaged.” Cart tried his best to look downcast at missing this month’s auction. “Do send word if anything I may be interested in comes available.”
With a nod of agreement, Cart left the shop, destined for home—and his mother, Lady Cartwright.