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“Peachbloom. How is your head, by the way?” she asked.
“Hurts,” he grunted.
“Concussions will do that.” She set the vase aside carefully. “To my point, would you have known what it was? Answer truthfully.”
“No. I am not an expert in Chinese antiquities, and I seriously doubt you are, either.”
“I dabble.”
Her nonchalance offended him. “You dabble,” he echoed.
“In fine arts and antiquities, yes.”
“How old are you?”
Her brow furrowed. “How is that relevant to our discussion?”
“Answer the question, Miss Ballard.”
“Twenty-three. And you?”
“A comparatively ancient twenty-nine. Are you telling me that a slip of a peasant girl knows a genuine Imperial Peachbloom Glaze vase from a forgery?”
“You would want to have it authenticated, but yes, with a reasonable degree of certainty. See the shape? How the neck flares here? And the shape of the chrysanthemum foot, too.”
He found himself studying the curve of her neck as she bent her head to examine the fine porcelain specimen.
“This mottled copper coloration is distinctive and difficult to fire. Technically, these aren’t vases, although I can see why it might have been mistaken for one. It does appear similar to an English vase, but these were actually scholar’s table vessels.”
Whatever the hell that meant.
“See here?” Miss Ballard continued, oblivious to the way he was staring at her like a hungry wolf as she turned the object over to show him the bottom. “These six cobalt marks will indicate that it was made during the Kangxi reign of the Great Qing.”
“So it’s authentic?”
“Not necessarily. Later Chinese porcelain makers would copy these marks, sometimes in tribute. But I think it’s real because of the green flashes here on the rim.”
Green flashes. Like the tinge in her eyes, turning from blue to teal and back again depending upon the light.
“This would result from the copper in the glaze they used. There are more nuances to it, but those are the most telltale signs that this is likely an authentic piece. You should put it somewhere for safe keeping.”
She set it carefully back inside the hutch and twisted the latch closed. Then she turned around, braced her bottom against the protruding lower half, and rested her palms on either side of her hips. “I have demonstrated my capabilities, your lordship. Do we have a deal?”
“You think your knowledge is worth eighteen percent of whatever that is worth?”
“Around a thousand pounds, would be my guess. Higher for the right bidder.” She shrugged. “I worked for an auction house writing descriptions of antiquities for their catalogs for a while. That’s all.”
“A thousand pounds, for that?” he said in disbelief, staring past her head at the copper vase tucked safely behind glass. “An eight-inch-tall vase?”
“It’s not the size that matters.”
An awkward beat hung between them. That could have been taken in a different way entirely, but Gareth felt certain she wasn’t implying anything rude. Still, a telltale flush spread across her cheeks.
“The vase wouldn’t be as valuable as the Rembrandt in the main hall, though,” she said, breaking the spell. “I can help you get through this house quickly, with more certainty than you would have working on your own. You’ll be in a better position to negotiate with prospective auction houses if you go armed with an estimated value of what you’re selling.” She tapped his chest. “I can be your secret weapon.”
“I’ll give you three percent of the total sales and a daily stipend,” he said gruffly.
“Sixteen percent.”
