This Was a Man Read online

  “My late husband wouldn’t have wanted anyone to think he was selling off the family heirlooms.”

  “And the new duke?” asked Poltimore. “How does he feel?”

  “Frankly, Clarence wouldn’t know the difference between Ming and Tupperware.”

  Poltimore wasn’t sure whether to laugh, and simply said, “Before you agree to allow the vases to go under the hammer, your grace, you might like to know that I’ve had an offer of seven hundred thousand pounds for them from a private dealer in Chicago, and I’m confident I can push him over the million mark. And perhaps it could be done without anyone even knowing the transaction had taken place.”

  “But surely a dealer will simply be selling my vases on to one of his customers?”

  “While at the same time making a handsome profit for himself, which is why I’m confident they will fetch a far higher price at auction.”

  “But there must be an outside chance that if the vases do come up for auction, the same dealer might pick them up for less than a million.”

  “That’s most unlikely, your grace, with a piece of this importance. And despite that possibility, I still consider it a risk worth taking, because I’ve already approached half a dozen leading collectors in the field, and they all showed considerable interest, including the director of the National Museum of China in Beijing.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” said Virginia. “So what should I do next?”

  “Once you’ve signed a release form, you can leave the rest to us. You’re well in time to catch the autumn sale, which is always one of the most popular of the year, and I have already suggested that we feature the Hertford vases on the cover of the catalogue. Be assured, our customers won’t be in any doubt how important we consider these pieces to be.”

  “Can I mention something in the strictest confidence, Mr. Poltimore?”

  “Of course, your grace.”

  “I am most keen that there should be the minimum of publicity before the auction, but the maximum amount possible afterward.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, especially as the arts correspondents from all the national newspapers will be attending the sale. And if the vases fetch the sort of price we anticipate, it will generate considerable interest in the press, so you can be sure that the following morning, everyone will be aware of your triumph.”

  “I’m not interested in everyone,” said Virginia, “just one member of one particular family.”

  * * *

  “A gold-plated bitch,” said Virginia.

  “That bad?” asked Priscilla Bingham, once their dessert plates had been whisked away.

  “Worse. She has the airs and graces of a duchess, but she’s nothing more than the wife of a jumped-up antipodean sheep farmer.”

  “And you said she’s the second daughter?”

  “That’s right. But she behaves as if she’s the mistress of Castle Hertford.”

  “Wouldn’t all that change if the duke were to get married and decide to reclaim his family seat?”

  “That’s unlikely. Clarence is married to the army, and hopes to be the next colonel of the regiment.”

  “Like his father before him.”

  “He’s nothing like his father,” said Virginia. “If Perry were still alive, he would never have allowed them to humiliate me in this way. But I intend to have the last laugh.” She extracted a newly minted auction catalogue from her bag and handed it to her friend.

  “Are these the two vases you told me about?” asked Priscilla, looking admiringly at the cover.

  “They are indeed. And you’ll see just how much I’m going to make if you turn to lot forty-three.”

  Priscilla flicked through the pages and when she reached Lot 43, Two Ming Vases, circa 1462, her eyes settled on the estimate. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “How very generous of the duke,” she eventually managed.

  “He had no idea how much they were worth,” said Virginia, “otherwise he would never have let them go.”

  “But surely the family will find out long before the sale takes place.”

  “Seems unlikely. Clarence is holed up somewhere in Borneo, Alice is in New York peddling bottles of perfume, and Camilla never leaves the castle unless she has to.”

  “But I thought you wanted them to find out?”

  “Not until after the sale, by which time I will have banked the check.”

  “But even then, they may not hear about it.”

  “Mr. Poltimore, who’s conducting the auction, tells me he’s already had calls from several of the leading art correspondents, so we can expect extensive coverage in the press the following morning. That’s when they’ll find out, and by then it will be too late because I will have banked the money. I do hope you’ll be able to come to the auction next Thursday evening, Priscilla, and then you can join me for dinner afterward at Annabel’s to celebrate. I’ve even booked Perry’s favorite table. It will be just like old times.”

  “Old times,” repeated Priscilla, as a waiter appeared and served coffee. “Which reminds me, do you ever hear from your ex, following your little coup with Mellor Travel?”

  “If you mean Giles, he sent me a Christmas card for the first time in years, but I didn’t return the compliment.”

  “I see he’s back on the front bench.”

  “Yes, he’s been pitched against his sister. But he’s so wet, I expect he regularly lets her off the hook,” Virginia added as she took a sip of coffee.

  “And now she’s a baroness.”

  “She’s a life peer,” said Virginia. “Anyway, she only got her place in the Lords because she backed Margaret Thatcher when she stood for the leadership of the Tory party. It’s almost enough to make one consider voting Labour.”

  “To be fair, Virginia, the press all seem to agree that she’s doing a rather good job as a health minister.”

  “She’d be better off spending her time worrying about the health of her own family. Drink, drugs, three in a bed, assaulting the police, and her granddaughter ending up in jail.”

  “It was only for one night,” Priscilla reminded her. “And she was back at the Slade the following term.”

  “Someone must have pulled some very long strings to make that possible,” said Virginia.

  “Probably your ex-husband,” suggested Priscilla. “He may be in opposition, but I suspect he still has a lot of clout.”

  “And what about your husband?” asked Virginia, wanting to change the subject. “I hope all’s well with him,” she added, hoping to hear otherwise.

  “He’s still producing a hundred thousand jars of fish paste a week, which allows me to live like a duchess, even if I’m not one.”

  “And is your son still doing the PR for Farthings Kaufman?” asked Virginia, ignoring the barb.

  “Yes, he is. In fact, Clive’s hoping it won’t be long before they ask him to join the main board.”

  “It must help with Robert being an old friend of the chairman.”

  “And how’s your son?” asked Priscilla, trading blow for blow.

  “Freddie is not my son, as you well know, Priscilla. And when I last heard, he’d run away from school, which would have solved all my problems, but unfortunately he returned a few days later.”

  “So who takes care of him during the holidays?”

  “My brother Archie, who lives off the income from the family distillery, which Father promised to me.”

  “You haven’t done too badly, duchess,” said Priscilla, looking back down at the Sotheby’s catalogue.

  “You may well be right, but I’m still going to make certain it’s me who has the last laugh,” said Virginia as a waiter appeared by their side, unsure who he should present the bill to. Although Virginia had invited Priscilla to join her for lunch, she was painfully aware that if she wrote a check it would bounce. Still, all that was about to change.

  “My turn next time,” said Virginia. “Annabel’s on Thursday night?” she added, looking