Brilliant (5 page)

E  I  G  H  T

“Give me the latest, Bertram,” Owen said as the company’s gleaming new $265,000 dollar Bentley limousine pulled away from the curb in front of our St. James headquarters.

We left right on schedule. I sat on the backseat with Owen. Bertram Taylor, our ballyhooed new president, sat sideways on one of the jump seats, a sheaf of papers on his lap.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Michael? Close the goddamn window,” Owen shouted at his driver/bodyguard, a muscle-bound thug who’d driven for him for several years, and who looked completely out-of-place in his formal black livery. I’m fairly positive he’d been called Mickey until Owen bought Ballantine & Company and upgraded him, too.

Michael gave me the creeps. Bertram and I looked quickly at each other and then away. Owen’s rudeness was embarrassing and unnecessary.

“Sorry, boss,” Michael mumbled.

The privacy screen rose silently as we turned onto Piccadilly and sped through misty drizzle past the Ritz Hotel and along Green Park.

“I’ve worked the numbers down as far as I can, possibly farther than I should, and I think we can make a very competitive offer,” Bertram answered.

Bertram Taylor was one of the, if not the, world’s top antique furniture experts and auctioneers. His smoothly parted grayish hair and bright blue eyes lent him a jovial, boyish, dashing air, especially when he went to work on the podium, and his hair would flop in his face and his eyes would flash with challenge and derring-do. He was fluent in six languages and had “the touch” when it came to working a room of high rollers—he could squeeze the proverbial blood from a turnip, raising the competitive temperature in the saleroom to dizzying heights and putting buyers on the edges of their seats. He could take the sins of envy, greed, and covetousness and transform them into irresistible, even desirable, virtues.

Bertram’s family background—he was an Eton and Oxford man— and body of knowledge provided him with uncrackable confidence and unprecedented carte blanche access to potential clients. His deference to his new chief, Owen, more resembled respectful camaraderie than subordination. He could do more for Brace than Brace could do for him, and they both knew it. Adding Bertram’s name to the letterhead as president and chief auctioneer was not only Brace’s first significant management acquisition and public declaration that he meant business, but also provided blue-ribbon credibility to the leadership team.

Owen lured him away from Christie’s by offering a doubled salary and a larger cut of the action. People were stunned when Bertram jumped the monolithic mother ship and signed on with the buccaneer. But, like me, he was drawn by Brace’s proven success in other fields, not to mention his prowess. Owen was fearless, he ate risk for breakfast. Everyone in the business, loyalists and skeptics alike, was curious to see if he could pull it off—resuscitate Ballantine’s and move it into the big leagues—and if he could, how he would do it. In the auction world, it was the insider’s opportunity of a lifetime. If you had the guts.

He and Bertram started slashing sellers’ commissions, which threw the other houses into even greater uproar. The risk was unprecedented, foolhardy, and the possibility that his strategy would work was pooh-poohed.

“It’s a great way to go broke,” an unnamed official was quoted in the paper. “We wish Mr. Brace all the success he so richly deserves.”

Another article questioned Owen’s integrity. It didn’t faze him a bit.

“That’s their problem,” he responded. “They wouldn’t know integrity if it sat on their heads. My responsibilities are Brace International’s bank account and happy shareholders. In that order.”

What an incredibly gritty and cold-blooded attitude, I thought. Especially when his bank account was in the red and the hapless shareholders were in the dark! It was like working for the devil!

The trick required to turn around Ballantine & Company was not only to make sure goods were auctioned for exorbitant prices—for which we needed exorbitant, sought-after estates—but also to jimmy around the buyers’ and sellers’ commissions—shaving a little here, adding a little there—which was where the house made its money.

Auction house commissions are based on a fairly complicated, sliding-scale formula, but a good rule of thumb is that the seller’s commission, that which is paid to the house as a fee for selling one’s estate, is 10 percent; while the buyer’s commission, that which is paid to the house by the person buying the goods, is 17 percent. Therefore, if the house has
sold
your aunt Mary’s sterling silver tea set for one hundred dollars, you will receive ninety dollars: one hundred dollars less 10 percent. And if you’re the one who
bought
Aunt Mary’s tea set at auction for one hundred dollars, you’ll pay one hundred seventeen dollars: One hundred dollars plus 17 percent. So, from the hundred-dollar sale, the house made twenty-seven dollars. A respectable markup of 27 percent.

“Carstairs Manor is a gold mine,” Bertram continued. “Here’s another batch of photos.” He pulled a thick packet out of his briefcase. “They’re not the best, there’s so little light in most of the house—but look at the marquetry and veneer on this seventeenth-century sideboard. I’ve seldom seen such intricate craftsmanship, and it’s in perfect condition.”

Owen studied the top photo carefully through his glasses and whistled under his breath. “Sweet.” He drew the word out as though he were admiring a girl on a street corner.

“That piece alone could bring over 8 million,” Bertram told him. “The place is packed with goods similar to and even better than this. We’ve had such inadequate time to assess it all. The Christie’s and Sotheby’s people were there for over a month—we’ve only gotten to the paintings and furniture. Nothing’s been done on the jewelry, porcelains, or real estate. But, on balance, I have the advantage of knowing how those firms put together their proposals. I think we can guarantee over 400 million dollars for the lot at auction.” He had Owen’s full attention.

“Break it down.”

Bertram spoke quickly and succinctly. “If you cut the seller’s commission to seven and a half percent—the other two houses won’t go lower than eight, if even that, I’ve never heard of either one of them going below eight and a half—I’m confident we can get the account. Lady Melody is notoriously tight. That percentage point equals four million in her pocket—she’ll like it.”

“That’s 30 million in seller’s fees.” Owen smiled. “And if we increase the buyer’s commissions two and a half points to nineteen and a half percent, that’s almost another 80 million—over 110 million to the house for the sale. What will we net out of that?”

“I would say between 90 and 95 million.” Bertram handed him a sheet of paper. “Here are the options.”

“Do you think the buyers would pay nineteen and a half?”

“I think they’d pay twenty-five percent just to own something of Lady Melody’s. She’s bigger than Jackie Onassis. The only estate bigger than this would be Princess Arianna’s.”

“Well, then, let’s put it at twenty-five.”

Bertram shook his head. “You could get away with twenty, but twenty-five looks greedy. I think the public would resent it. I recommend nineteen and a half.”

“Done.”

Bertram had every quality I valued in a man. He was bright and funny, with a generous spirit, and when he looked at me, he saw me, our eyes met, we connected. But it was a professional connection— mutual respect but no affection. He was married, of course. Weren’t they all?

N  I  N  E

The beautiful Richmond countryside unrolled outside. Whenever I drive through Richmond, I think of Elizabeth I, then eight-year-old little Princess Elizabeth, waiting alone and confused with only her household servants as company, in the beautiful palace alongside the Thames. Waiting and waiting for her father to send word, invite her home. It never happened. He tried to poison her instead. No wonder she was so tough and had such serious relationship issues.

“I wish I knew a little more about her background,” Owen was saying. “I mean, I’ve met her, and I know she’s a famous author, and I know Carstairs Manor is supposed to be one of England’s top privately owned residences but . . .”

“If I may, sir,” I spoke. “I know quite a lot about her.”

Bertram raised his eyebrows and grinned.

“Shoot,” Owen said.

“Well, Lady Melody Carstairs hasn’t always been a ‘Lady.’ It was a title bestowed upon her by the Queen for services rendered to the Empire. Melody Carstairs isn’t even Melody Carstairs. It’s a pen name she adopted when she was in her twenties, sixty-some years ago. Her real name, as well as her true history, have been lost to time. She has approximately a billion copies of her six-hundred-plus books in print. She’s never married, although when she was in her early thirties, she had the only major romance of her life, but he was killed in a climbing accident on the Matterhorn—fell to his death—or something equally dramatic, and she’s never loved again.”

By now Bertram and Owen looked like they were both about to throw up.

“Hey,” I said. “Do you want to know or not?”

“Keep going,” Owen said.

“All her books are really about her search for another perfect man, and in the end she always finds him. It’s quite touching, actually. And now, according to the London
Sunday Mirror
, the reason she’s decided to make arrangements for herself and liquidate her estate and give it away to charity is because she doesn’t want any of her relatives, none of whom is even a little bit close to her, or a direct connection for that matter, most especially her nephew twice removed, who goes around making his living off being her relative, to wrangle for her money over her coffin.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m a fan.” I might have been blushing a little. “I’ve read every single one of her books, and . . .” what-the-hell, I thought, tell it all, “. . . this is a typical take-charge move. Her heroines are always self-sufficient, take-charge girls.”

“Rather like you, I gather.” Bertram laughed.

“Exactly like me.”

If I do say so myself, all three of us were charmed and amused by my girlishness.

Owen laughed and shook his head. “Thanks, Kick.”

“My pleasure.” I paused. “There is a bit of a dark side.”

“Oh?”

“It’s been gossiped about for years, and probably is just gossip, but it was a huge scandal back in the sixties. A woman claimed Lady Melody was her mother, which naturally Lady Melody denied vehemently—her virgin image has always been protected at all costs. At any rate, the woman had a strong case, but Lady Melody had more money and could afford better solicitors, who basically decimated and crushed this woman in court and smeared her in the media. She ended up committing suicide.”

“I remember that incident,” Bertram added. “It was a tragedy. I’d forgotten all about it.”

“That’s no accident. Lady Melody’s public relations machine went into overdrive to make us forget.”

“Do you think she was her mother?”

I nodded. “I do. And I think it’s too bad Lady Melody acted the way she did. She should have acknowledged the woman as her daughter and just gotten on with it. People would have accepted it and forgiven her.”

“Sad,” said Bertram.

“Can we all put our hankies away now and move on to the real world?” Owen asked.

Mickey’s, or rather Michael’s, foot was even more leaden than his personality, and we fishtailed on the gravel at the entrance to Carstairs Manor, ricocheting a spray of stones off the iron gates. We were ten minutes ahead of schedule.

“Hey!” Owen put the privacy screen down and yelled. “Take it easy—you chip the paint on this car it comes out of your paycheck. Slow down.”

“Sorry,” Michael mumbled, and proceeded at a more suitable pace down the tree-lined lane toward the distant manor house, which had evolved over the centuries from a rustic hunting lodge into a majestic limestone pile in a private park. The rain stopped and the sky was clearing. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of bare branches.

“Here’s how this’ll work, Bertram. You and I will meet with Lady Melody—you’ll tell her how you got to the 400 million. Then I’ll give you the high sign, and you’ll excuse yourself and I’ll discuss the commissions with her. I’m going to start at eight and a half percent and see how she reacts.”

“Be careful, Owen,” he warned. “She’s a very canny, decisive woman, and she keeps her cards close. That’s most likely what she’s negotiated at least one of the others down to. If she senses you’re trying to manipulate her, you’ll be out the door before your tea’s cool enough to sip. Don’t play games with her, don’t underestimate her, and don’t let her shut us out for half a percent. We have to get this estate. Start at eight.”

“Okay. Eight. Kick, you stay close to the car and keep the lid on any emergencies. You’re in charge. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“Yes, sir.”

The red enamel front doors opened.

“Okay,” Owen said, and cracked his knuckles. “Showtime.”

Dear God.

Bertram looked out the window, pretending he hadn’t heard.

I jammed the tip of my pen into his thigh. “Listen to me,” I muttered under my breath. “Do not crack your knuckles ever, ever again.” I swear to God, it was like trying to do a makeover on a Beastie Boy. After Bertram had left the car, I put my hand on Owen’s arm. “Sir.”

“What?” He looked petulant.

“Rein it in a little,” I warned. “And don’t forget, Lady Melody writes romance novels—even though she’s eighty-seven, she still considers herself a young and desirable woman.”

“I know.” He winked. “How do you think I convinced her to let us bid on this project in the first place?”

“Give it a rest, sir. Sex is not the answer to every question.”

“That’s what you think.”

Lady Melody herself appeared through the doors. From where I sat, she looked
exactly
like her pictures: white hair held back with a black ribbon, perfect makeup, a sweet, kind old-lady smile on her lips. Owen took her hand and kissed it and guided her through the front door into the shadows of the manor. I watched her put her fingers delicately on the scratches on his cheek, a look of concern on her face. I could almost hear her purring. Talk about an Iron Maiden.