Andrea Kane (12 page)

A hint of a smile touched Pierce’s lips. “Now why doesn’t that sound like a compliment, Snow Flame?”

“Perhaps because it isn’t,” Daphne retorted, her tone more anxious than sharp. She inclined her head to gaze up at her husband. “Aren’t you the one who taught me that arrogance breeds overconfidence? And that overconfidence has the power to undo you?”

Gently, Pierce caressed her cheek, soothing away the lines of worry. “Indeed I did. But rating Baricci’s skills as being inferior to those of the bandit’s doesn’t demonstrate over-confidence. It speaks fact.”

Daphne gave an exasperated sigh. “I give up. You’re both impossible.” She turned to scrutinize her son’s face. “Are you all right? You didn’t take any unnecessary risks?”

“Not a one,” Ashford assured her. “Really, Mother, I’m quite intact.” A teasing pause. “Arrogance and all.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I have a contribution for your next tin cup.”

“How much?” Pierce questioned, as casually as if he were inquiring about the weather.

“Ten thousand pounds.”

A low whistle. “Excellent.”

“I’m not surprised,” Daphne put in. “That particular Gainsborough was exquisite. A shrewd investor will make a fortune on it.”

“An
American
investor,” Ashford clarified. “That way, there’s no chance of anyone encountering the painting during the upcoming London Season.” A grin. “After all, we wouldn’t want an unnerving episode to mar the glittering array of parties, now would we?”

Pierce made a disgusted sound. “I don’t know how you tolerate attending those garish affairs, one after the other.”

“They serve their purpose.”

“Which purpose is that?” Pierce returned bluntly. “Investigating Baricci or seeking out new female companions?”

“A lot of the former, a bit of the latter.” Ashford answered with a good deal less enthusiasm than usual. Rubbing his palms together, he made his way into the room, idly pouring himself a cup of coffee. “In addition to the painting, there’s something else I wanted to discuss with you,” he announced at length.

“I gathered as much,” Daphne replied. “Otherwise I doubt you would have sacrificed whatever precious little sleep you might have gotten in order to arrive here at this early hour.” She walked back to the table, gesturing for her son to sit. “Shall I have Cook bring you some breakfast?”

“No. I’d much rather talk.”

“Very well.” Pierce joined them, exchanging glances with his wife before refilling his own coffee cup. “What is it?”

“It pertains to your charity ball.”

Daphne’s brow furrowed at the mention of their annual donation event—a three-day house party consisting of card games, horse racing, and a grand ball, all of which was designed to collect money for poor and orphaned children. “You’re not bowing out?”

“No, nothing like that. Ill be here.” Ashford sipped at his coffee. “But I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Name it,” Pierce responded at once.

“I want you to invite the Earl and Countess of Farrington—and their family.”

Pierce’s brows rose. “Has this something to do with Baricci? Do you now have reason to suspect Eric Bromleigh is involved—”

“No.”

“I thought not. From what I know of the man, he’s decent and honest.”

“He is. This has nothing to do with Baricci. At least not in the way that you mean.”

“Not in the way that I mean?” A puzzled frown. “You’ve lost me.”

“Let’s suffice it to say, you’d be doing me a big favor. And our cause, as well. The Bromleighs are generous people. They’ll be happy to contribute to helping needy children.”

“I agree. They already give liberally within their own parish. Very well, I’ll have an invitation sent to Farrington.”

“Include the entire family,” Ashford reiterated.

Daphne lowered her cup to its saucer, her expression reflective. “The earl has two daughters, has he not?”

“He does.”

“The younger, as I recall, is still a child. But the elder one—let’s see, she must be …”

“Eighteen,” Ashford supplied, meeting his mother’s gaze.

“Eighteen? Then I assume she’ll soon be making her debut into society.”

“You assume correctly. Eric Bromleigh is bringing Noelle out this very Season.”

“I see.” Daphne traced the rim of her cup with her forefinger. “Does this sudden interest in the Bromleighs have anything to do with the fact that Noelle Bromleigh is Baricci’s natural child?”

“Only in that it precipitated our meeting.”

“Your meeting?” Daphne’s head came up. “You’ve met Lady Noelle?”

“Um-hum. On the railroad. On her way to the Franco Gallery.” Ashford shot his mother a look. “Have I answered all your questions?”

“On the contrary, you’ve raised entirely new ones.”

“I’ll put one to rest immediately. Noelle is not connected to Baricci, other than by blood. In fact, prior to a few days ago, she never met the man. Why she suddenly decided to change that, I can merely speculate. I’m first putting the pieces together myself. What I’m hoping is that your charity ball will assist me by affording a few uninterrupted occasions when I might probe the matter with Noelle.”

Again, Pierce and Daphne exchanged looks. “Is this interest in Noelle Bromleigh purely professional?” Pierce asked without further preamble. “If I recall correctly from our visits to Mr. Curran’s parish, his great-granddaughter is a lovely young woman.”

“She is.
Very
lovely.” Ashford arched a pointed brow. “And if there’s anything more about Noelle that requires discussion—other than her blood ties to Baricci—I promise that you two will be the first to hear about it. In the interim, I’d appreciate it if you’d send out that invitation right away.”

“It will be done this morning,” Daphne assured him.

“Perfect.” Anticipation surged through Ashford’s veins. “Now I’ll go up and fetch the bags of money I got for the Gainsborough. They’re rather conspicuous, so I’ll transfer them directly into the safe in your bedchamber.”

“Good.” Pierce nodded his compliance. “Your mother and I will see to the rest.” A self-satisfied smile. “Ten thousand pounds will feed a lot of hungry children for an equal number of years. It will also provide them with proper medical care, new clothing, and even an indulgence or two.”

“You can distribute the money over a dozen or more of the poorer parishes,” Ashford suggested.

“Precisely what I intend. And your contribution is only a portion of what your mother and I will be donating to the needy before month’s end. I fully expect we’ll raise a huge sum during the course of our house party.”

“I presume that means you’ve invited an abundance of extravagant gamblers?”

Pierce’s eyes glinted. “Extravagant, yes. Superior, no. I harbor not a doubt that either you or I will best them all.” A pause. “That is, if your conversations with Noelle Bromleigh permit you time at the gaming table.”

Ashford’s lips twitched. “I think I can find a free moment or two to test my skill. Besides, I have a suspicion I can manage both ventures at once—chatting with Noelle and divesting our guests of their funds.” He chuckled, remembering the triumphant expression on Noelle’s face when she’d thoroughly beaten him at piquet. “Noelle is quite the avid card player. She’ll doubtless be only too eager to join in the sport, especially if the alternative is idle gossip and afternoon tea. Inactivity is definitely not Noelle’s forte.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Daphne commented.

“Indeed,” Ashford agreed, half to himself. “Mine as well.” Seeing the spark of interest rekindle in his mother’s eyes, he swiftly changed the subject. “When is Juliet expected?”

“Next week.” Daphne took her son’s cue, affording him the privacy he was clearly demanding. “Juliet, Carston, and the children will be sailing from Paris together, then riding directly to Markham.”

“Excellent.” A warm glow suffused Ashford’s heart at the thought of seeing his twin and her family. He’d missed them at the holidays, given they’d spent them with Carston’s family in Paris. Somehow Christmas hadn’t been the same without Juliet’s affectionate banter and her husband Carston’s long-standing camaraderie—not to mention their twelve-year-old son Lucas’s intelligence and energy, and their seven-year-old daughter Cara’s devotion as she glued herself to Ashford’s side like a peppermint stick.

“I’d suggest reserving some time for Cara,” Daphne advised as if reading her son’s mind. “She’s stored up quite a bit of adoration during this trip. Every sentence of her last letter began with ‘Uncle Ashe.’”

“As good as done,” Ashford agreed with another chuckle. “That little moppet is going to be breaking hearts before we know it.”

“Sheridan and Blair will be here, too,” Daphne informed him, referring to Ashford’s two younger brothers who, at twenty-eight and twenty-six years old, were still very much confirmed bachelors. “Only Laurel can’t make the trip—not with the babe due next month. She’s terribly upset about it, but I convinced her that to ride here from Yorkshire in her current condition would be absurd. Nor do I want Edmund to leave her alone at this time. I’m grateful for their desire to help. But Laurel’s well-being must take precedence—hers and their child’s.”

Ashford nodded his agreement. His younger sister had a heart of gold. Still, with her second child about to make his or her appearance into the world, it was hardly the time to assist at a charity ball. “We’ll send her a note the instant we’ve counted our winnings and figured out what our overall donation will be. That should put her mind at ease. Then next year, she can help us increase that amount.”

“Try telling that to Laurel,” Pierce muttered, shaking his head. “She may be a slip of a girl, but she’s got a will of iron.”

“She’s not a girl anymore, Pierce,” Daphne reminded him gently. “She’s a twenty-three-year-old woman—married, a mother, with her second child on the way.”

Pierce’s jaw set. “That might be the case, but it doesn’t change the way I view her.”

“No,” Daphne agreed, caressing his forearm. “It doesn’t. Nor will it ever.”

Witnessing this particular exchange, Ashford was struck by a most unwelcome analogy. His father’s protectiveness toward Laurel, and for that matter toward Juliet, was identical to Eric Bromleigh’s protectiveness toward Noelle. Clearly, the earl beheld his daughters much as Pierce did his: as precious extensions of himself, irreplaceable entities to be nurtured and cherished, sheltered from life’s transformations, isolated from its awakenings.

And those awakenings included men.

Ashford knew he should feel like a snake. After all, hadn’t he stood right beside his father more times than he could count, adding his formidable presence to Pierce’s in order to discourage suitors from overstepping their bounds when it came to Juliet and Laurel? Hadn’t he personally “persuaded” the wrong men to never return to Markham but instead to cast their eyes elsewhere and leave his sisters alone?

Suddenly here he was, one of those men, his powerful response to Noelle the very type that had caused warning bells to resound in his own head, time after time.

Yes, he
should
feel like a snake.

The problem was, he didn’t. Not enough to dismiss Noelle from his mind or to relinquish his plan to bring her here. After that … well,
then
he’d call upon his memories and his conscience, remind himself of his principles and his limitations.

But for now, he had to see her.

Shelving his ambivalence, Ashford pushed back his chair, coming to his feet in one fluid motion. “I’ll transfer that money to your safe,” he informed his parents, heading toward the door. Pausing, he turned to glance back over his shoulder. “You’ll send that invitation to the Bromleighs?”

A reflective look from his mother, followed by a nod. “At once.”

“Thank you.” Ashford exited the room, shutting the door in his wake.

“What do you make of that?” Pierce inquired when he and Daphne were alone.

“I’m not sure,” his wife replied thoughtfully. “But I have the distinct feeling this year’s party is going to exceed our wildest expectations.”

A
LAZY SPRAY OF SNOW FLURRIES BANDIED ABOUT IN THE
midday skies, their progress halted briefly by the wind before they broke free, drifting slowly to the ground.

Curled against the broad sill overlooking Farrington’s sitting-room window, Noelle gazed outside, oblivious to the grey skies and snowflakes, her mind preoccupied with the events that had shaped her venture to London.

Her reaction to Mr. Baricci had been the least surprising of the day’s events. More puzzling had been his reaction to her. Why had he been so insistent about initiating a relationship with her—or, at the very least, in making overtures to get to know her better? Could he truly possess enough humanity to feel remorse or regret about the past, to want to make amends for deserting Liza and forsaking his unborn child?

Doubtful. Not given all she’d learned about him, not only from her father’s reports but from her own firsthand experience at the gallery. No, Franco Baricci was a pompous, manipulative, and immoral blackguard whose only concerns were himself and his interests.

Which led to another, more intriguing question. Could any of those interests be illegal in nature? Because Noelle would be willing to bet that Ashford Thornton thought so. Oh, the earl had never actually voiced his suspicions aloud, instead claiming he’d merely gone to the Franco Gallery to make inquiries into the theft of a valuable painting. But Noelle didn’t believe for a minute that that was the full extent of his speculation with regard to Baricci’s involvement. Ashford’s distaste and distrust for her sire were strikingly obvious, as was Baricci’s fear and dislike of Ashford. All of which added up to one conclusion.

Franco Baricci was a suspect. And Ashford Thornton meant to prove his guilt.

Tucking her knees beneath her chin, Noelle wrapped her arms about her legs, feeling a flutter of excitement—followed by a surge of impotent frustration. She was itching to know the extent of Baricci’s alleged crimes: How many valuable paintings had he stolen? Had he sold them? Kept them? Did he blackmail their owners into buying them back or did he sell them to the highest bidder? How much evidence did Ashford have? More important, how much more did he need to implicate Baricci?