‘At Compton Hall?’ He tutted and shook his head.
‘How would you like to have a seat at Barbara Stone’s table this year?
‘Is this some sort of joke?’
Lloyd glared at her and Becky could well understand his sudden pique. According to Clarice, it was common knowledge among local non-commoners that the New Year’s ball was the one Compton society event impervious to Lloyd’s advances. He had managed to buy, bribe or bully his way into every other important date on the calendar, but Barbara Stone had blocked all his attempts to get a ticket to the ball.
‘No,’ Becky shook her head. ‘Please, just hear me out.’
Lloyd pursed his lips. ‘Go on.’
‘The ball is in aid of a different charity every year. The tickets cost a fortune but most of that money goes to pay for the event. The donation comes from the proceeds of the auction on the night.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Barbara’s friends donate a few mangy bits and pieces. Then the guests pay over the odds to acquire them because they’re blotto and competing to look more flush than all the people they are pretending so hard to get on with.’
‘Exactly. Last year, the vice president of the art society, Nancy Sheridan, managed to unearth a sketch by Sheila Whitehall which sold for fifty thousand. A large picture of Nancy featured in the South Compton Gazette. She was standing next to the representative from the local donkey sanctuary and clutching one of those large display cheques.’
‘Barbara can’t have liked that.’
‘She was not amused. I would guess as Supreme Commander of the Art Society and the Ball Organising Committee she is keen to bring something to this year’s auction that will trump anything else her friends might contribute.’
Lloyd swirled his drink, his gaze flickering over the churning liquid, and in the quick movement of his eyes Becky could see him following her train of thought, unravelling all her schemes in seconds.
His next question was tentative. ‘Let us suppose I were to convince Mr Handren to donate one of his new pieces to the auction and let Barbara take the credit for the donation…’ He paused to watch his brandy dance, encouraging its movement by circling his wrist. ‘But would the painting go for over fifty thousand? Mr Handren’s reputation has suffered quite a dent in recent years.’
‘I think, between the two of us, we could manage it.’
‘Hmn. Perhaps.’ He tapped his signet ring against the glass while holding Becky’s gaze. ‘Are you absolutely certain about this, my dear? Once I contact Barbara, we’d be committed. This isn’t just about some gallery space any more. We’re talking about bending morality, if not the law, and putting a great deal of money on the line along with Mr Handren’s career. And yours too for that matter.’
Becky closed her hand over Lloyd’s, silencing the chime of gold against glass. ‘This has to work,’ she said, staring Lloyd straight in the eye, hoping she was holding his hand tightly enough he couldn’t tell hers was shaking. ‘And it will.’
Lloyd stared back at her. ‘Fine,’ he said and Becky removed her hand. ‘Your word is all I need. However, in the spirit of belt and braces, would you object if I were to bring in a third man?’
Her instinct was to refuse. The more people involved in a plan the more opportunities for things to go wrong. But it wasn’t as if this was Lloyd’s first rodeo, and he hadn’t let her down so far. ‘Do you trust him?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely. He’s family and runs several of my business concerns.’
Although it would mean adding another small item to the list of worries buzzing round her head, Becky knew she had to let Lloyd have his way. ‘Then he’s OK by me.’
Lloyd smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ve foreseen Rachel Stone won’t be too happy about this.’
‘She should be. It’ll be brilliant publicity for the exhibition.’
‘But her mother will have robbed her of the big reveal. Mr Handren’s new work will have been exposed before opening night.’
‘Well, Rachel robbed her mother of the exhibition first. And I’d say giving Barbara the chance of getting back at her daughter will guarantee you a sympathetic hearing, don’t you agree?’
The thin smile which had been slowly creeping over his face cracked into a grin. ‘Do you know, my dear, I think this might actually work!’
Becky laughed. ‘I should hope so! But, if you don’t mind asking Barbara for something else, I’ll need a few tickets for the ball,’ she said. ‘Including one for me.’
His eyes sparkled. ‘I don’t foresee any problems with that,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think I’ll get a ticket for my nephew while I’m about it.’ He nudged Becky. ‘Kevin. He’s about your age. Single, you know. Bright lad too. And I’ll be handing over the business to him soon enough.’
‘I’m sure he’s incredibly eligible,’ Becky said, choosing a diplomatic response while planning to avoid said nephew at all costs. She had enough on her plate without another distraction.
But Lloyd didn’t seem to hear her reply. Staring down into the space below, his eyebrows were drawn together, wheels busy turning above them. ‘I’ll need to have a ponder before speaking to Barbara,’ he said. ‘This needs to be handled delicately if it’s going to work.’
‘Oh, come now. Is there anyone better than you at getting blood from a stone?’
He laughed. ‘Very droll. But hopefully it won’t come to blood.’
All signs of the fatigue he’d shown earlier now gone, he stood up straight and finished his remaining brandy in a gulp and gasp. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, like a large cat preparing to leap. ‘I would ask you to dance,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I have no idea how to move to this particular type of noise.’
‘Save me a dance for the ball instead.’
‘I will …’ he wagged a finger at her, ‘… as long as you save one for Kevin. I think you two would get along nicely.’
Becky replied with what she hoped was a non-committal nod. Just how many dinners and dances was she going to have to give away to get this job done?
‘Excellent,’ said Lloyd, passing her his empty glass. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time I called my driver. I have a great deal of thinking to do before Monday when I’ll make my first move. Let’s see how long it takes me to capture the queen.’
Chapter 27
Becky got home from the party at a quarter to one.
She eased the door of the Mercedes into its frame and dragged her feet to the front door, struggling to keep her eyes open. Her bed was calling out to her and she was looking forward to falling into its downy arms and forgetting all about tipsy teenagers and her badgering best friend.
Aside from the ticking of the mantle clock, the only other sound inside the house was Charlie’s slow, steady breathing. Asleep on the sofa, he was surrounded by a soft halo of light cast by the standing lamp in the corner.
Becky set the box containing three slices of birthday cake on the coffee table and eased off her coat and boots. She threw Charlie envious glances, but decided to let him sleep on a while: long enough to enjoy a cup of tea in interrogation-free peace.