I’d assumed we’d be heading for one of the auction houses in Newton Abbot or Exeter, but in fact we drove up through Holne and Buckland, and on to the moor. When we suddenly swept in between stone pillars topped with griffons, and up the long drive towards a grand country house, I realised this was not going to be the sort of shabby local auction I’d seen on television antiques programmes, usually held in some kind of old warehouse with pegboard on the walls. This auction was going to be posh. Judging by the cars we parked alongside on the gravel carriage sweep, it was going to be very posh.

We stepped into a marble hallway beneath a glittering chandelier the size of a greenhouse, where Paul collected a couple of thick catalogues from a pile on a table, and handed one to me. It contained lists of sale items, together with the auctioneer’s estimate of what each one was expected to fetch.

‘We leave you to wander, Juno,’ Nick told me. ‘There are things Paul and I must look at.’

I was still gaping like an idiot at my surroundings. ‘Fine,’ I told him. I wanted nothing more than a peaceful root around amongst the Aladdin’s cave of treasures I could see displayed in rooms opening off the hallway. I wandered into a ballroom where the chandeliers hanging from an ornate plaster ceiling were only half the size of the one in the hall, but there were six of them. Ricky and Morris were going to love it when I told them all about this.

The ballroom was devoted to items of furniture, the room heaving with prospective buyers, the air fizzing with the kind of suppressed energy I’d only encountered in a casino or at a racetrack: big money was obviously involved. I looked in my catalogue. Lot 294: George I, small walnut bureau cabinet with moulded swan-neck cornice, circa 1720. £37,000−£45,000. I gave a silent whistle. A little later I found myself staring at a lot I recognised and hastily looked it up. Lot 298: An Edwardian, lady’s bonheur du jour in mahogany, with inlaid stringing and rosewood banding; marquetry roses inlaid. Circa 1850. £2,500−£3,500.

My jaw dropped. The little writing desk might be small pickings compared to the grander lots on display, but I’d no idea it was worth anything like as much when I’d been on my knees, polishing it in Old Nick’s storeroom. I looked around to see if I could spot Nick or Paul, but they were not in the room.

‘Good God! What are you doing here?’ a voice demanded.

I turned to see Verbena Clarke hovering by my elbow. Her eyes swept up and down my cream silk, although not in the same way that Paul’s had done. She was plainly not pleased to see me.

‘Hello,’ I responded, as pleasantly as I could. ‘I’m just here with friends.’