The gathered crowd was a surprise, considering the time of year. Apparently, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity really meant something to the art world.
Sitting in the back of the room, Colin kept from making direct eye contact with anyone. He didn’t wish to see the speculation in anyone’s eyes. They might all be glad for the circumstance that propelled him to sell the last and most remarkable portrait his father had ever created, but that didn’t keep them from judging.
Evidently, he was a man others found it easy to judge. For God’s sake, the woman he loved would rather live as a social outcast than be married to him. She had yet to make the split official, but he knew when he was beat. No matter how devastated he was, he couldn’t afford to sit back and do nothing. His family’s well-being came first, and that meant selling the painting to save the estate. Suing Beatrice’s family would never, ever be an option, so here he was, cloistered in a large, overwarm room filled with men coveting his only tangible link to his father.
He glanced back to the portrait, hoping to soak in his father’s likeness for the last time. He hadn’t bothered to do so the last time they had parted. Who would have known that he would never see the man alive again? So instead he memorized the portrait. At least it was static—he could better remember the painting he had spent weeks staring at than the man he had casually glimpsed his whole life.
Mr. Christie, the auction house owner, walked into the room and headed to the small podium. With his gray hair and fastidiously neat grooming, he might have looked unassuming, but the moment he spoke, he commanded attention. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. As you know, today’s auction is for the sale of a single portrait, notable as the final painting ever completed by the late Sir Frederick Tate and the only known self-portrait.”
Colin put his head down, squeezing his eyes closed. If he could live without his mother, his father, and even his betrothed, then he could damn well live without the painting.
“Now, may I have an opening bid please at one hundred pounds?”
His gut clenched. It was a long, long way to ten thousand pounds from here.
A hand lifted in the front. “One hundred pounds.”
“We are started, gentlemen, at one hundred pounds. May I have two hundred? Excellent, now three?”
“Three hundred.” Lord Northup’s man, if Colin wasn’t mistaken
“We are at three, can I have four hundred. Yes? Now five?”
A wealthy landowner raised his hand, though his name eluded Colin at that moment. Drake, was it? Derby?
Mr. Christie nodded. “Very good—we have five. Can we have six, please? There’s six and now seven? Seven hundred pounds.”
Northup’s agent raised his hand again, just as another solicitor said, “Eight hundred.”
“Eight in the room, how about nine? There’s nine, now one thousand pounds? One thousand?” Mr. Christie paused, and Colin’s eyes darted to the gathered men. For God’s sake, it had to go for more than a thousand pounds.
At last a hand slipped up, the landowner again.
A nod from the auctioneer.
Colin blew out a pent-up breath and bowed his head again. Around him, the numbers climbed as the men continued to bid. He lifted his gaze, tuning out the drone of Mr. Christie’s voice as he focused on his father’s face again.
His father had come through for him. When he needed him most, his father hadn’t let him down. Even if it wasn’t enough in the end, he had truly tried.
“We have six thousand. Who will give me seven? Can I have seven thousand—Yes, thank you, Mr. Smith. Seven, now eight, seven thousand, now waiting for eight? Can I have eight, please? Who will give me eight?”
Colin leaned forward in his seat, willing the stakes to be raised. Seven thousand wasn’t good enough. It was a huge amount of money, more than the estate made in two years, but it didn’t hold water against the debt owed.
Mr. Christie pressed on, his eyes scanning back and forth over the room. “We have seven now, can I have seven thousand five hundred? Seven thousand five hundred for a piece of history? Yes, excellent, seven five from Mr. Darcy.
“Going now to eight thousand. At seven thousand five hundred now, only need five hundred more.” He kept on with his monotonous litany, sweeping his eyes over the room, pointing to former bidders. Each time, they gave a shake of their head.
Damn it all—the painting was worth so much more than that. He knew it was a rotten time of year to move forward with the auction, but time was of the essence. If it wasn’t going to hit ten, he’d lose the estate anyway, so what was the point? It would buy them time and comfort, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to yank the portrait from its place of honor and walk away, keeping his father close to him in a way he never had in life.
“Now’s your chance, gentlemen. Don’t let five hundred pounds get in the way of you and this extraordinary painting. Seven thousand five hundred now, only need five hundred more. Can I have five hundred more, just eight thousand.”
Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement, just the smiling profile of Mr. Darcy, clearly pleased to be winning.
“Fair warning, gentlemen. It will go at seven five. Fair warning. I need to hear five hundred more. Going once . . .”
No, not going! Colin gritted his teeth, holding on to the bottom of his chair to keep from coming to his feet and making a fool of himself.
“Going twice . . .” Christie made one last sweep of the room, then lifted his knocker to seal the deal with a single slam on the desk.
“Ten thousand pounds.”
A low gasp echoed through the room as men turned in their seats, looking toward the back door. Colin jerked around, unable to believe the turn of events. A nondescript man in an understated brown jacket and with neatly cropped hair stood just inside the door. Colin had never seen the man in his life—he was quite certain—but he very nearly leapt to his feet to kiss the man.
A ripple of low conversation buzzed through the room, and Mr. Christie cleared his throat. “Ten thousand pounds. Mr. Darcy, do you want to bid ten thousand five hundred?” The man gave his head a decidedly firm shake. “Very well, fair warning at ten, ten, ten. . . .
The strike of the knocker rang through the room, a bullet through the heart of Colin’s nightmare. He pressed his eyes closed for a brief moment, long enough to give thanks for the incredible turn of events. His financial worries were over.
He expected a rush of happiness, a joy born of the surge of relief filling his veins and setting his mind at ease. But there was none. Though the release of stress and worry was profound, there was no accompanying excitement, no elation.
He had what he had set out to attain since the moment he learned of the estate’s debt, yet it didn’t matter like it should have. How could it? His finances might be safe, but his heart had been lost.
A new awareness swept through him and he sat up straight. Well, he was free now, was he not? He was a fortune hunter no more, the proof of which would likely be in the papers by week’s end. To hell with what Beatrice said. To hell with playing by her rules.
He had proof now, and by God he intended to let her know. Coming to his feet, he headed to the front of the room, where Mr. Christie was finishing up. “Thank you, sir. I trust you can handle the rest of the transaction from here?”
The man grinned, pleasure at the coup written all over his face. “Indeed, sir. And thank you for trusting us with this incredible item. It was a privilege.”
