The Art of Betrayal

ice floating in lemon vodka.
Drifting through the crowd, I ended up near the Portland stone fireplace, where a massive oak log burned on the grate. Year-round open fires are one of the things I loved best about the UK. I knew several people in the room—Vivian, of course, and Fergus, who gazed at the assembled company with benign condescension. Fergus considered mixing with humans a privilege. For them.
In the corner stood Edmund Foxe, the rector of St. Æthelric’s—I’d finally stopped calling him “the dishy vicar”—with his pretty new fiancée, Angela, the local veterinarian. They chatted with Hattie Nuthall, the rectory housekeeper and defender of the faith.
I was more interested in the three men standing near Lady Barbara—a distinguished-looking older man in a tweed sport jacket that whispered “country gentleman,” and two younger men, one fair, in his thirties; the other dark and perhaps a decade older.
“Kate, I’d like to introduce Nigel Oakley,” Lady Barbara said—a bit too enthusiastically for my liking. She’d obviously made up her mind about him already.
The ex-estate agent was, I had to admit, a fine-looking man. If the face is the mirror of the mind, as St. Jerome claimed, Nigel Oakley was open, good-humored, and unassuming. He looked to be in his late fifties, lightly tanned and fit, with brown hair going gray at the temples.
“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Hamilton.”
The warmth of his smile disarmed me. “Call me Kate.”
“And Nigel, please.” He smiled again. “How is Mr. Tweedy? Recovering well, I hope.”
“He’s doing very well. I hope he’ll be home soon.”
Another guest arrived, and Lady Barbara excused herself.
“I’ve heard all about you from Lady Barbara,” Nigel said. “And of course I read the newspaper accounts of your exploits last year. Chasing a murderer across a roof.” He looked up as if he could see through the plaster ceiling. “Very brave.”
“It wasn’t bravery,” I said truthfully. “Desperation. My daughter was in danger. That’s what being a parent will do.”
“I understand the feeling.” A brief shadow passed over his pleasant features. “When my wife died, Peter was all I had left.” He indicated his two companions who were examining the lacquerware plate. Based on coloring, I decided the younger man must be his son.
“The auction house was Peter’s idea,” Nigel said, “along with Martin Ingram’s. I was glad to do what I could to help them get started. The opportunity came at the right time, and I must say, I’ve been impressed with what they’ve accomplished. Martin’s been involved in the antiques trade for years—a virtual goldmine of knowledge and experience. I’m the new kid on the block, learning how things work.”
I liked his self-deprecating manner.
“Let me introduce you.” Nigel laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Kate Hamilton, this is my son, Peter Oakley, and his business partner, Martin Ingram. Kate is a dealer in the States and a friend of Lady Barbara,” he told them, “She’s the one who completed the Hoard exhibition last winter.”
“Charmed,” said Peter Oakley without looking charmed in the least. His face was pale and narrower than his father’s. He wore a tiny-patterned shirt, the collar half in and half out of a rumpled linen jacket. His blond hair had been expensively layered. He brushed it back, and I saw that his fingernails were bitten to nubs.
“Mrs. Hamilton, a great pleasure.” Martin Ingram’s gaze was so intense I took an involuntary step back. I judged him to be somewhere in his forties, about my age. He had the black hair and crystal-blue eyes of a true Celt—plus the flat abdomen and well-muscled shoulders of someone who spends a lot of time at the gym. There was something mesmerizing, almost predatory, about those translucent blue eyes. He smiled, revealing straight white teeth. I caught a whiff of cologne, something masculine and musky.
“Lady Barbara mentioned some items for possible auction,” Nigel was saying. “We’ve recently completed the renovation of a stunning Grade Two–listed tithe barn. I know you’ve been advising her. We’d be honored to show you around. I think you’ll be impressed.”
“I’d like that very much. And perhaps I could see your contract as well.” Might as well just say it.
“Certainly. I know Lady Barbara values your opinion.”
“Do you have an auction scheduled? I’m interested to see how you do things in the UK.”
“Next Monday, actually. It’s not one of our larger auctions, but it will give you an idea of how we operate. Viewing begins at noon, the sale at three.”
Vivian appeared at my side. “What do you think, Kate? Do they pass muster?”
“Well, I—” I turned pink with embarrassment.
Nigel saved me. “She’s doing her due diligence, Miss Bunn. I’d expect nothing less from a woman with her obvious experience.” He turned to me. “We’ll do our best to answer all your questions, Kate. I always think transparency is the best approach, don’t you?”
“Did you know Kate is aiding the police with the murder of Evelyn Villiers?” Vivian said. “She even has a title—Antiques Consultant.”
Oh man. I thought about stepping on Vivian’s toe but decided Fergus might consider that a biting offense.
“I’m even more impressed,” Nigel said. “My son tells me the Villiers Collection is famous. Plenty of dealers would love an opportunity to see what’s there—and bid on it.”
Was he hinting that Oakley’s would like to be considered? Did he think I’d have some influence? I studied his face, seeing no sign of maneuvering or gamesmanship. Only natural curiosity. “I’m just compiling an inventory. What happens to the collection will be decided by someone else.”
“Of course. Mrs. Villiers’s solicitor, presumably. Poor woman. Tragic.” He stooped to pat Fergus on the head, earning a snort of approval.
On the way home, Vivian apologized. “I’m sorry, Kate. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew they were wrong. It’s just that Barb’s in such a pickle, and time is running out. The stress is getting her down. You wouldn’t notice—she puts up a good front—but I’ve known her since she was a bride.”
“I agree—time is important, but it’s even