I bit my lip and looked on as the bidding escalated into the hundreds, until it seemed certain that the dealer would win it, then watched with delight as the smug expression was wiped from his face by a last-minute entrant who stole the box of books with an unheard-of bid of five hundred pounds. A ripple of excitement swelled through the crowd as the elderly gray-bearded man came forward to collect his purchase. The dealer, anxious but not that anxious, rocked back on his heels, folded his arms, and puffed furiously at his pipe, sending a succession of small blue-tinged clouds floating upward into the bright, clear air.
For my part, I consoled myself by entering in the bidding on the next item, a plain little oak lap desk that I eventually bought for rather more than it was worth. I hugged it close, triumphantly, while the auctioneer moved on.
'Here we have,' he said enticingly, 'a pair of Cary's library globes, dated 1828, of rosewood and painted beech with boxwood stringing all round. Who'll give me five thousand pounds to start?'
The dealers leaped at that one, and beside me Geoff nodded at the auctioneer, with whom he was obviously well acquainted. When the bidding stopped at twenty-one thousand, the entire crowd—myself included—seemed to exhale its collective breath, and not a few heads turned to stare at the handsome, unassuming young man who had made the final bid.
Geoff drew out his checkbook and went to pay, and I stood frowning for a moment, watching him and thinking of the yawning social gulf that separated us. He was lord of the manor, for heaven's sake, I reminded myself. And medieval as that might sound, there was nothing medieval about the fact that his bank balance would make my own earnings look like mere pocket change. I had to be out of my mind.
But when he returned, I had only to look at his face and my middle-class misgivings were forgotten. At that moment, Geoffrey de Mornay looked nothing like a lord. He looked, I thought, exactly like a small boy—happy and carefree and terribly pleased with himself.
'Anything happen while I was gone?' he asked.
'Nothing much. A few of the older ladies fainted when they saw you writing that check, but other than that it's been pretty dull.'
He laughed, throwing back his dark head and regarding me warmly. He had told me once not to apologize for being clever, and he didn't apologize to me now for being rich. I liked him for that. Instead, he put his arm around my shoulder again and directed my attention to a nearby sideboard. 'The sideboard itself is nothing,' he said, 'but I'll wager that pair of urns sitting on it will go for at least six thousand pounds.'
I looked. 'You're on,' I accepted the wager. 'I'll bet you fifty pence.'
We stayed for another hour or so—long enough for me to lose my fifty pence and spend another twenty-five pounds on a totally unnecessary painting for my hallway—then, reluctantly, we made our way to the end of the drive, somewhat hampered by our cumbersome purchases.
The gray-bearded gentleman who had nabbed my box of books was leaning on the bonnet of Geoff s car, smoking a cigarette and gazing vaguely back at the continuing sale with a peaceful expression. He shifted as we approached.
'Sorry,' he apologized to Geoff. 'I'm just waiting for my son to come and collect me. Didn't fancy lugging those'—he nodded to the box—'any farther than I had to.'
'I don't blame you,' Geoff said, trying to wrestle his coveted library globes into the boot without damaging them.
I smiled at the old man. 'That's quite a good buy you made back there.' 'I know.' He nodded sagely. 'My father wrote most of those mysteries. Can't put a price on that, can you?'
Geoff stopped struggling and sent me an apprehensive sideways look, but I had already spotted my opening.
'Oh, look!' I bent down and dislodged the Tolkien from the toppled books, pretending surprise. 'The Hobbit! Look, darling, isn't that little Jimmy's favourite book?'
Geoff just grinned at me, refusing to play, and I turned a hopeful, inquiring face up to the gentle old man, hoping that I had retained at least some of the childish appeal I'd had as a seven-year-old.
'I don't suppose,' I said, faltering a little, 'I don't suppose that you'd ...'
'You can have it,' he said generously. 'It's the mysteries I want. You take that book, for your little boy.'
To my credit, I felt a tiny twinge of guilt.
'Let me pay you for it,' I offered, handing him a ten-pound note, which, to my great relief, he accepted. 'After all'—I smiled broadly—'it must be worth something.'
Geoff slammed the boot shut with a curious cough and opened the passenger door for me. 'Come along, darling,' he said. 'We have to get going.'
In the car, he gave me another long look before we both burst out laughing at my good fortune.
'You are shameless,' he accused me. 'Shockingly good, but shameless.'
'I had a wonderful teacher,' I explained, and for the next few miles I regaled him with stories of my father's auction-house exploits and the conniving duplicity that ran strong in my family's blood.
'I'd enjoy meeting your father, from the sounds of it,' said Geoff.
My reply was little more than a noncommittal mumble. It was just as well for Geoff, I thought, that my father was still out of the country. My previous boyfriends had run for cover at the sight of him, as a rule. Daddy could be rather difficult, at times, and he hadn't yet found any young man who measured up to his exacting standards. The best thing, I'd found, was simply not to introduce them to him. It saved a lot of bother, all around.