Brilliant by Marne Davis Kellogg Read Free Book Online Page A

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