‘But my grandfather and I loved one another dearly, I assure you,’ Alessandro replied easily. ‘There was no disapproval. In fact, my work grew out of his in a very real sense.’
‘Isn’t your work the opposite of his?’ Theo said cautiously. A Greek-American from New Jersey, he had the same integrity as David, but was more softly spoken. Isobel gave a silent cheer. Go get him, Theo, she thought. ‘Trafficking in antiquities doesn’t sound like something the late duke would have approved of. With the greatest respect.’
Alessandro laughed. ‘Trafficking? My friends, I think you have the wrong idea about my work. I deal only with top-level museums. I make a point never to sell to private collectors. I do not approve of treasures going into Swiss bank vaults, never to reappear. It is my heartfelt belief that beautiful things should be seen by everyone. Hence, my clients are bodies such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the British Museum, the Getty. Anyone who can afford the price of a ticket can see the things I sell.’
The servants were unobtrusively serving the first course, an antipasto of frutti di mare, crisp calamari, prawns and shrimps drizzled with lemon juice.
‘Speaking of the Getty,’ Isobel said, in a voice like crystal, ‘what is the status of the torso you sold them last year, Duke? Wasn’t there some question of its authenticity?’
‘A very sad story,’ he said huskily. But she could see he was quite unfazed by the question. ‘A great museum, a wonderful piece, some foolish outsiders raising irrational doubts—the investigations continue, of course, but I am sure I will be vindicated in time. My beloved grandfather raised me to have an unerring eye for what is genuine.’ He was looking deep into her eyes as he spoke. ‘And what is truly precious.’
She gulped, feeling her heart flutter. He was a rogue, but he knew how to flirt. ‘So you maintain the torso is genuine?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And the sculptures at the British Museum?’ Theo put in softly. ‘Some people are now saying they are stolen.’
‘Not stolen,’ the thirteenth Duke of Mandalà said firmly, attacking his antipasto with a gold fork. ‘Looted, my dear Theo.’
‘Looted?’
‘They come from a Third World country currently in the grip of a prolonged war. This country is also the possessor of great archaeological riches. The sculptures were looted by soldiers from one of the big museums. Luckily, they found their way into my hands.’
They had all stopped eating the delicious antipasto, eyes wide. David put his fork down with a clatter that made Isobel wince—gold cutlery meeting Sèvres crockery rather too sharply for safety. ‘Most dealers won’t even touch that kind of thing!’ he said angrily.
‘Of course not,’ Alessandro retorted. ‘That’s the trouble with this business. Too much hypocrisy, too much greed.’
Isobel almost gaped at the effrontery of this magnificent brute, purring about hypocrisy and greed as he devoured calamari off a golden fork! ‘Well, I’m glad you are free of those hindrances, Duke,’ she said scathingly.
‘Do I detect irony in that silvery voice?’ He smiled. ‘Someone has to pick up the pieces, my dear.’
‘That someone being you?’ David sneered.
‘If the world is lucky, it’s me.’ He nodded imperceptibly to the staff to clear the plates. ‘I make sure that when these items reach the so-called open market, as they invariably do, that they find their way to great institutions. The British Museum were fully aware of the provenance of those sculptures. They’re offering them sanctuary while the war rages in their homeland.’
‘And when the war ends, I suppose they’ll just give them back?’ Isobel said.
‘That’s not my business,’ he said dismissively. ‘I am just happy to have rescued them from the hands of avaricious private collectors. Or from being pulverised by a smart missile that wasn’t so smart.’
‘And, of course, you make a handsome profit in the process!’
‘Isn’t your own work paid, Isobel?’ he asked softly. ‘Sometimes my job calls for me to become a kind of search-and-rescue agency for orphaned treasures. You’re quite right to say that many other dealers won’t touch this stuff. That’s not because of their high ethics, dear heart. It’s because they’re too afraid of tarnishing their haloes.’
‘I don’t see a halo over your head,’ she retorted.
‘Quite right,’ he said seraphically. ‘My reputation is hopelessly blemished. I really don’t give a damn. In fact, in my business, it is a distinct advantage to be thought of as a scoundrel. It’s the perfect entrée for certain kinds of dealer.’ He grinned at her wickedly. She had never seen such perfect teeth. ‘And I don’t always make a profit. Sometimes my virtue is its own reward.’
The arrival of the main course, a magnificent roast, forestalled her reply. Alessandro carved the joint expertly, his razor-sharp carving knife sliding through the juicy meat.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘if I don’t make sure those treasures end up in the world’s top institutions, they disappear for ever. The British Museum pieces, for example, are exquisite carvings in marble, a notoriously fragile material. The military gentlemen who were selling them had the bright idea to break them up and sell the fragments piecemeal. A head here, an arm there. You understand? They hoped to double their investment that way.’ He laughed heartily at their expressions. ‘I was in a position to dissuade them from this path and make sure the pieces reached the museum intact. Wouldn’t you say that history owes me a debt?’
‘Is that a true story?’ David asked. There was a grudging smile on his thin face and Isobel realized with a flash of real annoyance that even David was falling prey to this man’s monumental charm.
‘Absolutely,’ Alessandro said silkily as succulent slices of meat made their way onto Sèvres plates. ‘And I have stories better than that, believe me.’
And he proceeded, as Isobel sat in a seething silence, to tell two more. Tall tales, in which he himself emerged as the reluctant hero from hair-raising deals with looters or international smugglers. And the other three sat there with wide eyes, drinking all this rubbish in!
Could her colleagues be such idiots? Wasn’t anyone going to challenge these ridiculous tales of his? At last she couldn’t stand it any longer.
‘Don’t morals come into any of this?’ she demanded icily. ‘Don’t you care who you deal with?’
He turned to her, deep blue eyes meeting hers. ‘Not in the slightest,’ he said with a velvety smile. ‘I believe that the end justifies the means, every time. A single good deed is worth all the good intentions in the world. You’re shaking that glorious head. You disagree?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ she snapped. ‘Without morals, you’re just a thief.’
‘I have been called many worse things,’ he said, without turning a jet-black hair. ‘But you live in the realms of theory, my dear Isobel. Let me give you a real-life case. A man calls you to say that he has been with guerrilla tribesmen in a remote area of a war-torn country. While hiding in a cave, the guerrillas have turned up a cache of scrolls, thousands of years
