Chapter Thirteen The Auction of Ruined Things #2
Not dramatically. Sebastian was not a man for open astonishment.
But the change in him was unmistakable. His gaze moved over her once, not greedily, not with the assessing entitlement Marianne had seen in too many men, but with a kind of arrested recognition, as though some truth about her had stepped into the light and he had not expected it to strike so deeply.
He did not look as if she had become beautiful.
He looked as if he had discovered that he had been seeing her for some time and had not known how much that seeing had come to matter.
Marianne felt warmth rise under the grey-blue silk and disliked the timing of it intensely.
“Miss Vale,” he said.
“Your Grace.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “You need not do this.”
There it was.
Not a command. Not a prohibition. A final door left open.
The difference mattered enough that her answer softened. “I know.”
“You may still choose not to attend.”
“I know that too.”
“And?”
“And I choose to attend.”
The words stood between them.
He accepted them. She saw the effort and the honour in it.
Helena came down behind Marianne, wearing dark green silk and no ornament except a jet comb.
Mrs Alderley followed, arrayed in silver-grey with such splendour that her age became less a number than a declaration of survival.
Clara descended last, plain and neat, outwardly only Mrs Alderley’s assistant, inwardly the keeper of two escape routes, three servant names and a small folding knife that Mrs Finch had pretended not to see.
Sebastian bowed to them all.
Mrs Alderley eyed him. “If you propose to look thunderous all evening, Your Grace, try not to do it near my left side. It spoils my hearing.”
“I shall be mindful, ma’am.”
“Good. There is hope for you.”
Beatrice, from the stairs, whispered loudly, “Not too much.”
Mrs Finch cleared her throat with enough force to send everyone toward the door.
Lady Honoria Datchworth’s house glittered with benevolence.
It was remarkable how efficiently cruelty could disguise itself as charity when given enough candles and a committee.
The entrance hall had been transformed into a reception space hung with garlands, ribbons and painted banners declaring the purpose of the evening: Widows’ Relief Subscription Auction.
Footmen moved with trays of wine. Ladies in satins and diamonds spoke of generosity while glancing to see who had noticed their attendance.
Gentlemen bowed over catalogues, less interested in the widows than in whether any collection offered estate curiosities worth acquiring before rivals saw them.
An orchestra played softly from the far room.
Everywhere there were flowers, lamps, polished floors, and objects displayed for purchase: paintings, jewels, porcelain, rare books, snuffboxes, miniatures, carved ivories, old silver, embroidered screens, mourning brooches, a cabinet said to have belonged to a duchess, and, on one table beneath glass, a collection of keys whose labels gave them histories grand enough to double their price.
Ruined things, Marianne thought.
The thought came before she knew she had formed it.
These objects had all once belonged somewhere.
A portrait removed from a wall because the family needed money.
Jewels sold after debts. Books separated from libraries.
A child’s silver cup listed beside a gentleman’s pistol.
Estate papers, curiosities, relics and memorials arranged under the banner of charity, made fashionable by loss because loss became acceptable when someone else could bid on it.
The women Blackwood had ruined would never be displayed so honestly. Their fortunes, letters, signatures and reputations had been auctioned in private long before this evening, sold under names like settlement, discretion, care and containment.
Marianne touched the place where Lady Theodosia’s brooch rested hidden beneath her bodice.
Sebastian stood near her but not too near. They had agreed upon this in the carriage. Too much attention from him would endanger her. Too little would invite insult. The balance was almost impossible, which meant society would notice whatever they did and call its own hunger discernment.
Lady Honoria received them near the entrance to the main salon.
She was dressed in silver again, or perhaps pale steel; Marianne could not decide whether the distinction mattered. Diamonds glittered at her throat. Her smile opened by degrees when she saw Marianne, like a knife unsheathed slowly for admiration.
“Miss Vale,” she said. “How brave of you to come.”
Marianne curtsied. “How kind of you to invite me, Lady Honoria.”
The older woman’s eyes rested on the grey-blue silk, the modest pearl in Marianne’s hair, the plain gloves, the absence of jewels.
“Lantern House is represented most elegantly tonight. I am glad. There has been such unfortunate talk, and one dislikes to see charitable establishments wounded by misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding often has energetic friends,” Marianne said.
Lady Honoria’s smile cooled by one degree. “Indeed. Though I always say, where there is smoke, one must ask whether some imprudence has laid the fire.”
“Or whether someone set it,” Marianne replied.
The nearest conversations thinned.
Lady Honoria’s gaze sharpened.
Sebastian had paused beside Mrs Alderley a few feet away, close enough to hear, too far to intervene without declaring the exchange dangerous. Marianne felt his attention, steady as a hand at her back though he did not touch her.
Lady Honoria lifted her fan. “My dear Miss Vale, you are young in the ways of the world. A house that gathers women with unfortunate histories must accept that some of those histories follow them.”
“Yes,” Marianne said, her voice calm enough to carry. “But needing refuge is not shameful, my lady. Creating the need for it is.”
The sentence entered the room and changed it.
No one gasped. Society was too skilled for that.
But several fans paused. One gentleman near the catalogue table turned his head.
A lady in rose silk blinked and looked quickly away.
Mrs Alderley made a sound of satisfaction that might have been mistaken for a cough by anyone determined enough to be polite.
Lady Honoria’s smile remained, though now it had no warmth whatsoever. “How forcefully put.”
“How unfortunate that force is sometimes required.”
Sebastian looked at Marianne then, and the pride in his face was unmistakable.
So was the worry.
Marianne knew she had marked herself. She had not merely attended. She had answered.
Lady Honoria inclined her head. “Enjoy the auction, Miss Vale. I hope you find something worthy of your interest.”
“I expect I shall.”
The older woman moved on, leaving perfume and hostility behind her.
Mrs Alderley leaned toward Marianne. “If I die tonight, tell everyone I enjoyed that.”
“You are not to die tonight.”
“Then tell them anyway.”
The auction moved slowly at first, as fashionable charity required.
A gentleman with a nasal voice read descriptions aloud from a small platform in the main salon while guests drifted between displays, bids were recorded discreetly, and private arrangements moved behind public generosity.
Marianne watched not the objects, but the people watching them.
Lady Honoria moved through the rooms like a queen among debts.
Ashmont arrived half an hour after the opening, dressed in dark green, his smile easy, his attention carefully bored.
Jasper Cale came without announcement, as men without titles often did when their power made ceremony unnecessary.
He was of medium height, smooth-faced, dark-haired, dressed impeccably but not ostentatiously.
His eyes were the colour of old coins. He had the unsettling stillness of a man who counted before he breathed.
Marianne understood at once why aristocratic men trusted and feared him.
He did not look like a villain.
He looked like an account settled properly.
Sebastian, seeing Cale, moved into position.
Not toward Marianne. Toward Ashmont. Lord Exford had been summoned for use and now engaged Ashmont in talk near a case of miniatures, allowing Sebastian to join, then turn the conversation toward Lady Honoria’s charitable accounts with enough sharpness that Ashmont’s attention fixed upon him.
Cale watched from across the room, amused, then moved toward a group of gentlemen near the doorway to the private corridor.
Clara appeared at Marianne’s side, holding a catalogue. “Second room beyond the green salon. Private lots not yet displayed. Servant posted.”
“Can he be moved?”
“Already being moved. Mrs Alderley has discovered a draught and requires a footman to explain it.”
As if summoned by prophecy, Mrs Alderley’s voice rose from the next room. “Young man, are you telling me this house has no remedy for air? I have known barracks with better curtains!”
The servant stationed near the private corridor hesitated, looked toward the sound, and made the fatal mistake of leaving his post for only a moment.
Marianne moved.
Not quickly enough to draw attention. Not slowly enough to lose the opportunity.
She passed through the green salon with the catalogue folded in one hand, paused near a table of old books, then slipped through the partly open door into the side room where private lots had been stored before being brought out or privately exchanged.
The room was cooler, less crowded, and lit by two lamps rather than chandeliers.
It held objects that did not yet wish to be seen: covered paintings, crates, small locked caskets, rolled carpets, a cabinet with cracked lacquer, three deed boxes tied together, a silver urn dented at one side, and several bundles of papers marked with lot numbers.
Near the far wall, partly obscured behind a screen, stood a strongbox.
Iron, black, with a brass plate scratched near the lock.
Marianne’s pulse changed.
She crossed to it at once.