The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

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“I find that a Ming bowl is like a woman’s breast,” Sir Lyndon Mather said to Ian Mackenzie, who held the bowl in question between his fingertips. “The swelling curve, the creamy pallor. Don’t you agree?”

Ian couldn’t think of a woman who would be flattered to have her breast compared to a bowl, so he didn’t bother to nod.

The delicate vessel was from the early Ming period, the porcelain barely flushed with green, the sides so thin Ian could see light through them. Three gray-green dragons chased one another across the outside, and four chrysanthemums seemed to float across the bottom.

The little vessel might just cup a small rounded breast, but that was as far as Ian was willing to go.  “One thousand guineas,” he said.

Mather’s smile turned sickly. “Now, my lord, I thought we were friends.”

Ian wondered where Mather had got that idea. “The bowl is worth one thousand guineas.” He fingered the slightly chipped rim, the base worn from centuries of handling.  Mather looked taken aback, blue eyes glittering in his overly handsome face.

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