“Cameos?” Grace said. “That’s it? Cameos?” How disappointing after her dreams of a long-lost masterpiece!
“What do you know about cameos?”
She shrugged. “Not much. I know that genuine cameos are reliefs carved out of shell. Or is it coral? I know they’ve been popular since the fifteenth century. Oh, and I know that a profile cameo is called an intaglio.”
Peter’s strong tanned hand operated the stick shift. “That’s more than most people know.”
For a moment Grace was distracted by the sheer male competency he exuded. There was something to be said for that brand of unconscious assurance. Was it uniquely male or simply unique to certain males? She was willing to bet Byron had possessed it as well.
Realizing that she had not fully answered, she said, “My parents gave me an antique cameo locket when I earned my teaching credential. It had a little card explaining the history of the cameo.”
“Yes. Well, that’s all true. Cameos—genuine cameos—can be quite valuable. Depending on the size and condition, a cameo from the 1920s might be worth anywhere from two to four hundred pounds.”
“What about something like Sweet described? Ten pieces?”
Peter slowed and turned off onto a still narrower lane. His eyes went to the rearview, but he and Grace had been free of pursuit since losing Mutt and Jeff. “I’m not sure. In the eighteenth century, English tourists visiting European souvenir shops used to purchase cameos in themed sets. But typically those cameos were made of pressed white chalk or red sealing wax. They were fastened in wooden trays and fit into specially designed cabinets or leather-bound books destined for some toff’s private library. None of that sounds like an appropriate gift for a small girl.”
“Byron wasn’t exactly an ordinary parent.”
“True.”
Grace mulled this over. “I suppose these cameos would be valuable because of their fragility; chalk and wax don’t tend to hold up through the ages.”
“Right. But most of those sets are larger than Sweet described. Say, sixty pieces in various sizes. On the gilt-paper edge of each piece would be written a number in India ink to match a master sheet identifying which icon it represented, for example, the Greek goddess Athena or the Roman philosopher Cicero. That kind of thing.”
“How valuable would something like that be?”
“Given the Byron connection?” He shook his head. “A hundred thousand pounds is probably a conservative estimate. Especially if it went up for auction.”
“Yes, but they can’t really auction stolen antiquities.”
“A private auction then. There are plenty of collectors who don’t ask questions. Do you think Lady Vee would be troubled by a piece’s murky history?”
Grace mulled this over.
“What if the cameos in this collection aren’t made of wax? What if they’re genuine?”
Peter’s answer seemed guarded. “It would depend on a number of factors. Some of the earliest cameos were made of Mediterranean stones like sardonyx, carnelian and agate.”
“Semiprecious stones.”
“Right. Usually you’ll find gold ribbon wrapped around the cameo and then embellished with strings of pearls, double-wire braids or even diamond settings. A single piece could be worth thousands of pounds—even without the Byron connection.”
“Supposing a collection existed of ten genuine cameos, each handpicked by Lord Byron for his previously unacknowledged daughter on the occasion of her tenth birthday?”
“Would she have been ten at the time of Byron’s death?”
“The very month. April.”
Peter’s eyes slanted toward her. “Let’s put it this way: murders have been committed for less. A hell of a lot less.”