St. Mary’s, with nearly two hundred in attendance. The mourners were provided tea and cakes at Lord Gower’s London residence after the graveside service, and Archie received the condolences of his guests with a dignified decorum the earl would have approved and commended. The next two weeks were spent in an inventory of the property in preparation for what Archie considered the inevitable invasion to come.
The calendar turned over another leaf, and one morning George Gower, the estranged cousin of the earl, came knocking on the door in the company of his wife, Branca; a Peckham bailiff; and a solicitor in a top hat and black frock coat. Archie received them in the earl’s sitting room.
“The hand-over of property will not be delayed,” intoned the lawyer imperiously. “We will be taking immediate possession. It would be most helpful if you were to collect your personal possessions and vacate the premises at your earliest convenience.”
Archie, who had braced himself for this moment, was nevertheless stunned by the abruptness of the eviction and the coldness of the greed on display. When he found his voice, he said, “I have had an inventory prepared, if you would care to-”
“We will make our own inventory, thank you,” the lawyer sniffed. “In any case, you will vacate the premises by three o’clock this afternoon. The bailiff here will be pleased to help you gather your things. He will accompany you now to ensure that you do not inadvertently remove any articles not belonging to you and to which you are not entitled.”
“Your foresight is admirable.” Archie offered a grim smile to the new tenants. “How you must have longed for this day and prayed for its coming.”
“Silencie a sua lingua!” snarled the woman, her potent Portuguese temper quick and hot. “You are not family. You have nothing to say.”
“Indeed,” Archie agreed. “I assure you that I have no wish to remain in your odious presence a moment longer than necessary.”
“Now, see here, you-” sputtered George Gower. “You bounder!”
But Archie was already moving towards the door and departed without another word. “Summon Beachcroft,” he told the earl’s valet. “Then pack your things and, if I were you, I might spare a thought to the days ahead-if you know what I mean.”
The valet nodded. “It is in hand, sir.”
“You may instruct the rest of the staff to do the same.”
“Very good, sir.”
While the new owners began totting up the silver, Archie went to his rooms and began to pack his things. He was joined a few minutes later by the bailiff-a suspicious oaf who insisted on examining everything Archie put into his cases until Archie suggested, “Perhaps it would be best if you packed for me; then you could give your keepers a precise inventory of what I have taken.”
“Never you mind my job,” muttered the man. “Get on with you.”
Beachcroft, the earl’s solicitor, arrived with a copy of Lord Gower’s will just as Archie was placing his cases in the foyer. In the presence of the inheritors and their lawyer, he read out the relevant portion of the earl’s last will and testament, which explicitly stated that Archibald Burley was given leave to choose any five objects from the earl’s extensive collection of exotic artefacts.
“ Any five objects he so desires,” stressed Walter Beachcroft, “without let or hindrance.”
When Archie took his leave a short while later it was, much to the relief of the new owners, with five small dusty antiques of negligible interest. Had George and Branca known the true value of the items Archie selected, fits of apoplexy would have ensued all around. As it was, their ignorance allowed them some measure of insulation from the stinging reality. Taken together, the objects Archie chose amounted to a very tidy sum that would allow him to set up in the antiquities trade.
Nor was that all.
In truth, the far greater portion of Archie’s now-considerable fortune was already safely stashed in six large tea chests that had been safely deposited in the vaults of Lloyd’s Bank, and another delivered with his cases to King’s Cross Station a week earlier. After his summary eviction from Lord Gower’s London residence, Archie paid his mother a visit and bade her farewell, leaving her with a Lloyd’s Bank book for an account containing five hundred pounds in her name. Then he kissed her good-bye and caught the evening boat-train to the continent. Visits to Paris, Cologne, Vienna, and Rome were followed by more lengthy sojourns in Prague, Constantinople, Jerusalem, and Cairo. At each stop along the way he acquired objets d’art and exotica that would form the basis of a collection of almost legendary proportions to tantalise the jaded palates of London’s elite collectors.
Archie’s only contact with England during his sojourn abroad was in the form of a letter from Beachcroft, the solicitor, informing him that the earl’s estate had been sold to a sugar magnate. George and Branca Gower had taken their fortune and returned to Lisbon, where, presumably, they would live out their days in comfort and ease at the expense of their late relation.
On the second anniversary of the Earl of Sutherland’s death, an extremely dashing tycoon answering to the name Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, arrived in London. The dark, distinguished young lord took an apartment in an expansive Kensington Garden mansion. In the weeks and months to follow, the wealthier citizens of the metropolis would be buzzing about the rare and exquisite antiques this knowledgeable and well-spoken gentleman could produce from his seemingly inexhaustible store. Tales circulated about the earl’s extensive connections with the aristocracy of Old Europe and the royal palaces of the Middle East, which were the principal sources for the wondrous items he traded. These objects did not come cheaply.
Certainly, the fine rings, bracelets, and necklaces; jewelled pendants, statuettes, daggers, and diadems; carved reliefs from attic friezes and pediments; intricately decorated red-and-black amphorae, bowls, lamps, beakers, and urns, and all the rest carried breathtaking price tags. But then where else could one obtain such superb specimens?
“Beauty is all too often fleeting in this world,” Lord Burleigh was wont to remark. “I live only for one thing-and that is the pursuit of beauty that outlasts the ages.”
This sentiment, and much else about the young aristocrat, mightily impressed his clientele, which now included a growing number of marriageable young women. As word of the eligible bachelor of Sutherland spread, his wealth grew-and grew in the telling-until he could not attend an evening performance at Covent Garden or the Proms without attracting a bevy of beautifully groomed and gowned young things. The situation did not go unnoticed. As one mildly envious onlooker was heard to opine, “I say, the Earl of Sutherland must love his gardening.”
“How so, Mortimer?”
“Why, to be surrounded by such a profusion of ravishing flowers he must work those beds like a very slave.”
“Quite.”
The young earl himself appeared to enjoy the feminine attention, yet remained slightly aloof from it, maintaining an air of mild amusement at his own apparent availability. And, while he displayed no favouritism in his choice of companions, being seen in public with a different beauty every night, there was one who began to emerge from the pack: a willowy, blonde lovely named Phillipa Harvey-Jones, daughter and sole surviving heir of prominent industrialist Reginald Harvey-Jones, a man in the chase for a knighthood if ever there was one. Reggie, as he was known to friends and admirers, enjoyed the reputation as a bruisingly tough businessman whose only pleasure in life was doting on his daughter.
Naturally, when her name began to be linked with the dashing Burleigh’s, it roused Reggie’s considerable interest. Within minutes of their first meeting, he cut right to the point. “Your money, sir. Where did you get it?”
“Beg your pardon?” Archelaeus raised his eyebrows.
“We are men of the world,” Reg told him. “Let’s not be coy-especially where money is concerned. We both know it is nothing to do with character. At best it is only an arbitrary indicator of a man’s place in the world.” He fixed the young lord with a narrow, uncompromising gaze. “So, how much have you got, anyway?”
“Difficult to say,” replied Burleigh, easily sliding into a tone of confidentiality, “what with the northern properties, the southern holdings, and the London house. Most of that belongs to the family, of course.” Archie had long ago learned to play on Londoners’ innate ignorance of Scotland generally and its gentry in particular.
“Just your private assets, then-your own private accounts-how much do you command personally?”
