He tilted it from all angles, testing its weight and balance and, as I had, examining the places where cracks had started. Some had been mended, while others looked to have started long after the vase had ended its useful life. The figures were exquisitely described in burnished detail, and it boasted ornate feathered handles on each side. It really was a magnificent example of the type.
It was a shame it was a fake.
“What is this?” Richard asked. He scraped his thumbnail over some of the Attic black paint at the bottom edge. It was ragged and worn and looked as though it would flake off, but it did not. He hefted its weight again, then set it down and squinted at me. “Darcy, you’ve been taken in!”
I smirked and chuckled. “No. I bought exactly what I wanted to buy. Beautiful, is it not?”
“Well, yes, but it’s nearly worthless. It’s an excellent copy, perhaps the best I’ve ever seen, but I hope you gave no more than five or ten pounds for it.”
“I did not buy it for its aesthetic qualities. I was hoping to learn something, and I have.”
“And what is that?”
I sighed and clucked my tongue. “No matter. Do you remember Charles Bingley at all?”
Richard strolled over to a chair and dropped into it, kicking his boots out and slouching like a schoolboy. He only ever did that when it was just the two of us. “Red-haired chap, isn’t he? Son of a woolen miller from Northamptonshire.”
“That’s the fellow. I’ve taken up with him of late. He is an excellent sort, though somewhat accident-prone, and I’ve quite developed a liking for him. In fact, he has just secured an estate in Hertfordshire and has invited me to join him for some sport next week.”
“Oh? That’s fine, then. Friendly, unaffected lad like Bingley would be good for you.”
I glanced at him narrowly. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Richard straightened as the tea cart appeared through the door. “It means you could use a few new associates who are not trying to get you for your purse, your social standing, or your advice.”
“My advice is precisely what he desired.”
“But Bingley would not be the chap to use you shamelessly. He would be your friend for life if you helped him for five minutes. Do you plan to go with him?”
I waited until the maid had poured the tea and excused herself before I replied. “I am trying to persuade myself against it.”
“Whatever for? Have you anything better to do?”
Not getting entangled with that minx with the sparkling eyes seemed like a passing good scheme. Much as I wanted to. But I simply cleared my throat and changed the subject. “Have you spoken with your father?”
“Oh, yes. Just before I came here. I say, he’s as bad as Lady Catherine, only he has more power. Kept going on and on about those marbles as if it were a matter of national import.”
“Some say it is.”
“Mmm.” Richard sipped his tea. “He said you brokered a purchase for him on behalf of His Royal Highness in… I say, it was in Hertfordshire. Why, Darcy! How convenient. You really ought to go back with Bingley next week so you could help introduce him to the neighbors. He would kiss your feet.”
“I have had enough kissing, thank you,” I retorted testily.
Richard lowered his cup. “What is this?”
“Nothing.”
“Bollocks! Since I came into the room, you have not carried on with a single conversation. You haven’t even asked what tipped Lady Catherine off that I was not simply there to bask in her opulent presence. You’re nearly red in the face, and you haven’t stopped fidgeting since you sat down. Who is she?”
I gripped the armrests of my chair. “What tipped Lady Catherine off?”
“Oh, no. I am not letting you switch the conversation again. You are positively sweating! Why, you look just like you did when I made you hide in that closet under the stairwell at Matlock when we were boys.”
I slid a finger under my cravat and wished he had not brought up that particular memory. I could still recall the closeness, the suffocating walls seeming to lean toward me in the darkness, the sensation of being trapped and altogether too warm, with no notion of where to find the secret door once Richard had closed it. “That was a bit of unfair bullying on your part,” I protested.
“And you still have not forgiven me for it! But no matter, for I should very much like to learn what has you sweating now. If I were a betting man—which, I suppose, I am—I would lay money that you ran afoul of some Hertfordshire lass while you were there. What did she do, try to commit matrimony upon you? Or did you like her, but she did not return the sentiment?”
“Please. You do make everything so simplistic.”
