Going, Going, Gaudy
- An Evening at the Auction, Where the Art Was Questionable and the Guests More So
“There’s nothing more suspicious than a woman without enemies.”
Darling readers,
There are few certainties left in this cruel, post-silk-gloves world of ours. But one of them, mercifully, is that an evening at Brothelby’s will always yield three things: dry champagne, fake smiles, and at least one minor diplomatic incident. Last Thursday’s auction did not disappoint.
The evening’s star lot was a rather emphatic portrait of a minor Habsburg—one of those angular men who always looked like they were carved from suet and bad decisions. Bidding was fierce, fashion was worse, and I—armed with my lorgnette, a flask of “medicinal” gin, and a scathing sense of entitlement—was perched front row and ready to judge.
Maximilian Bouvier (art dealer, alleged criminal, confirmed Scorpio) swept in precisely three minutes late wearing midnight velvet and a frown worth a fortune. He raised his paddle with the kind of lazy menace that suggested he already owned half the room. Rumor has it he gifted a Klimt to the Qatari Minister of Culture in exchange for a private airstrip. One doesn’t ask why, one merely curtsies.
Auctioneer of the evening was Sir Percival Blenkinsop III. Before the gavel fell, a sharp-eyed intern from The Times (bless his doomed career) pointed out that the Habsburg’s signature bore a peculiar anachronism—a pigment not commercially available until 1954. And while most shrugged it off as a curatorial quirk, I’ve dined with forgery before.
Naturally, Cosima Thérèse Vögeli von Lichtenwald-Dufour-Königsberg made a scene, mistaking Lot 43 for a lost ancestor. “I swear that nose runs in my family,” she hissed, before fainting stylishly into a waiter holding crudités. She was revived with caviar and a whisper of scandal from Georgina Baselitz, who had just emerged from behind a velvet curtain, suspiciously adjusting her white gloves and diamond bracelet, muttering something about “snooping for provenance.”
Meanwhile, Contessa Gigi de Rossi arrived halfway through the bidding, draped in vintage Pucci and the unmistakable air of someone who had just escaped from the penthouse suite of someone else’s fiancé. She waved at Max. He didn’t wave back. The temperature dropped five degrees.
The real drama, of course, was my ex-fiance, Archie Pippinbottom III, who accidentally bid on a stuffed peacock he mistook for modern sculpture. It’s now en route to his country estate. He claims he’s calling it “Taxidermia Nouveau.”
My arch nemesis, former it-girl turned gallerist Vivienne de Gournay, lost a bidding war with Italian art advisor Maurizio “Mundi” di Salvator on a painting titled “Après-Ski Orgy #2” by Ferdinand Megève, which fetched a whopping €3.4 million. I was so impressed I asked for Mundi’s business card right then and there.
I, of course, did not bid. I find commerce so common, and anyway, I already own two aristocrats and a lamp with better brushwork than Lot 47. I will, however, keep a closer eye on Ferdinand Megève, who is apparently an artist-slash-heir to a French champagne dynasty based in the Alps. According to my dear friend Cosima, he is also rumored to have a penchant for much younger women.
And so, the evening ended—the Contessa vanished with a catalogue (and possibly the auctioneer’s phone), Cosima was last seen chasing a man in epaulets who claimed to be a prince, and Maximillian… well, Max secured the Habsburg.
It was a thrilling night. But something about that portrait seemed… wrong. A little too new. A little too clean. And Max’s smirk? Just a shade too pleased.
I’ll be investigating.
Until then, stay scandalous.
NEXT WEEK: “Brushstrokes and Backstabbing”
Who forged the Habsburg?
Why did Cosima receive an anonymous telegram written in Ancient Greek?
And what exactly is buried beneath the wine cellar at Archie’s château in Provence?
Let’s just say… not everyone’s champagne was chilled.
SOCIETY SPOTTING: WHO WORE WHAT (AND SHOULDN’T HAVE)
👂 The Duchess of Derring-Derrière arrived in head-to-toe Schiaparelli, including a hat shaped like a human ear. She claims it was “a conversation starter.” It was. Mostly about ear infections.
🧥 Chip Vanderwall wore last year’s Margiela cloak and had the audacity to say it was “vintage.” Sweetheart, if the moths are still alive, it’s just used.
👀 Allegra von Bischoffshausen (my protégée) debuted a sheer ensemble that alarmed several members of the clergy and at least one valet. I believe the material was called translucent panic.
⏱️ Sergei Alexandrovich Volkov accessorized with a vintage pocket watch that no one was brave enough to ask about. There was a faint scent of cigar smoke clinging to him, but whether it was from his own, or his under-the-table deals, remained unclear.
👑 Contessa Gigi de Rossi stunned in liquid gold lamé and a smirk that suggested she knew exactly who forged the Habsburg. She wouldn’t say—but she did wink at Lot 43.
🦅 Vivienne de Gournay, that old vulture, wore her customary raven feathers and an icy glare. She was overheard asking if Brothelby’s “still took doubloons.” Don’t ask about her age, let’s just say her face is on retainer.
Follow the Scandalous World of Lady Victoria Fenwick-Smythe, 14¾th Marchioness of the Fenwick-Smythe Manor
Society columnist, former debutante, and unhinged socialite art collector with a taste for scandal and sapphires. Click here to meet the cast of Lady F’s social misfits, beautifully dressed disasters, and barely-disguised frenemies.
