He inspected the family crest, examining it from side to side. He put it into his mouth and bit down, hard, then held it up to the sunlight with a grunt.
“Worthless.” He tossed it back to her.
Mallory fumbled to catch it. “What?”
“It’s a fake.”
Mallory stared at him, anger rising in her chest. Was he trying to conher?
“It is not a fake. Count Saphir gave this to me himself. It is the family crest—likely two hundred years old and of significant historical value, not to mention the value of the stones themselves.”
“He gave you a fake.”
“Let me see that.” Anaïs snatched the medallion from Mallory, repeating the same tests Fitcher had conducted. Her eyes widened. “He’s right, Mally.”
“What?”
“It was likely crafted using the same methods we used for the replicas you sold on the tours.”
Mallory’s thoughts whirled. Afake?
“It’s hardly surprising,” said Fitcher. “The Saphir estate has been suffering financial difficulties for years. As I understand it, competition has increased in the wine business, and merchants are happy to take their business to… less troubled vintners.”
In fact, Mallory had caught wind of such rumors, too, but she’d always assumed it was nothing but hearsay. Armand himself had been well-dressed. Had arrived in a fine carriage. He owned four hundred acres, for Freydon’s sake.
And he’d offered her three thousand lourdes without hesitation.
Acid burned in her gut. Maybe he hadn’t hesitated because he’d had no intention of ever paying her that money. Money he didn’t have to give, even if he wanted to.
His carriage had been of the highest quality, but Armand had driven it himself. He didn’t have a coachman, or a team of footmen like one would expect a lord to keep. No valet. A paltry staff to maintain such an enormous estate. He claimed it was because the ghost was frightening away the servants, but maybe it was because he couldn’t afford to keep the help.
And while he may have worn fine clothes in Morant, she’d never seen him in another suit—only clothes such as the farmers wore. Was Yvette really polishing the silver for storage, or had she been selling it off? And the statues on the terrace—Armand said they were having themrelocated. But to where? An antiquities dealer? Maybe the same one he’d sold the original authentic family seal to?
She felt her world splintering. He’d seemed so earnest. So trustworthy. But he had lied to her abouteverything—taken her for every kind of fool.
All this time, she’d thought she was conning him, when really, she’d been the mark all along.
Mallory tossed back the last of her coffee, ending up with a bitter mouthful of grounds.
If she ever saw Armand Saphir again, she was going to murder him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mallory was still fuming when they heard the melodic clomping of horse hooves. Constantino appeared in the brush, riding Mallory’s steed, while leading Anaïs’s by the reins—beaming as if he’d obtained the crown jewels.
“I return victorious!” he bellowed, stopping the horses a few feet from the fire. He dismounted and unstrapped the saddlebags. But rather than giving them to the sisters, he tossed them to Fitcher.
“Hey!” cried Anaïs, slipping to her feet. “Those are our things.”
“And you shall have them back,” said Fitcher, opening a flap to dig through the contents. “After we claim our reward. You wanted to negotiate, yes?” He pulled out a silver jewelry box, considered it, then set it aside. “If you can pay us in enough goods to equal the reward on your heads, we won’t turn you in.”
“Seems fair,” said Constantino. “Don’t suppose you have any of that famed Ruby Comorre?”
Anaïs fisted her hands on her hips. “What was all that about damsels in distress?”
“I’ve reconsidered.” Constantino untacked the horses, letting them graze with the baukhauv. “I recognize a damsel when I see one, and the two of you seem far too competent to fit the description.”
“Are these yours?” Fitcher pulled the stack of Wyrdith cards from Anaïs’s pack.
