Andrea Kane (13 page)

If
Baricci were guilty, she reminded herself. Thus far, she had only Ashford’s palpable distrust and her overactive imagination to condemn the man. That was far from enough to sentence him to Newgate.

But Ashford Thornton didn’t strike her as a man whose instincts often failed him. In fact, she wondered if they failed him at all.

Just thinking about Ashford made Noelle’s stomach knot and her mouth go dry.

Never had she felt such an immediate, overwhelming attraction to a man—an attraction that far transcended the physical and that had intensified rather than lessened as their hours together lingered on. And never had she so badly wanted to defy her father as she had when he refused to let Ashford call on her. Why on earth couldn’t her coming-out be preceded by a few harmless visits? Why did she have to wait two long months to see Ashford again, to revel in his company, and to blurt out all her questions about Baricci?

The very thought of what she was missing—excitement in two equally enthralling realms—made her mind shout a protest.

Writing that wretched note refusing Ashford’s visits had been sheer torture, when all she’d wanted to do was remind him how much she looked forward to receiving him, and how eager she was to further their acquaintance.

Still, her father
had
been adamant, something he seldom was with her. And
that
was without knowing anything other than her personal interest in Ashford. If he knew the rest—her curiosity over Baricci’s activities … The prospect made Noelle shudder. As it was, he was impossible to convince. He wanted her properly brought out, suitably introduced to society, and carefully presented to an appropriate number of gentlemen who, if her father had his way, would boast far less celebrated reputations than did the Earl of Tremlett.

God, she hoped Ashford found a way to sway his feelings. Debut be damned. No number of lavish balls or attentive partners could be more enticing than spending another day in Ashford Thornton’s company—even if it meant cutting through a long line of simpering females to do so.

A smug smile curved Noelle’s lips as she pondered the earl’s reputation. Even if he were every bit as popular as her father implied, it didn’t deter her a whit. To the contrary, it piqued her interest all the more. She was acquainted with more than enough women to know she was quite different. They were, by and large, coy, flirtatious, careful with their words, demur in their manner.

Heaven only knew that didn’t describe her. Nor, she suspected, did it describe the kind of women who would intrigue Lord Tremlett—at least not in any meaningful way. He was far too complex, too intelligent, too fascinated by a challenge. No, the woman who eventually won Ashford Thornton’s elusive heart would have to be as strong-willed and dynamic as he, someone whose bold daring matched his own, whose principles and ethics were as deeply ingrained, whose character was as unconventional. …

Noelle’s daydreams were interrupted by a rush of activity at the sitting-room door.

“There’s a gentleman here to see you!” Chloe burst in, her cheeks suffused with color.

“A gentleman?” Noelle jumped to her feet, smoothing down the skirts of her gown, trying to hear over the pounding of her heart. “Is he tall? Dark? Broad-shouldered? With mesmerizing eyes and a kind of leashed power?”

“It’s not Lord Tremlett,” Chloe replied with a grin. “I would have told you immediately if it were.”

“Are you sure?”

“Noelle, you’ve described the man to me six times since yesterday. Yes, I’m sure.” Chloe rubbed her palms together in excitement. “But this gentleman is sinfully handsome. And he’s French. You should hear the way he pronounces your name; it rolls off his tongue as if he’s savoring it.”

Laughter bubbled up in Noelle’s throat. “Chloe, you’re such a romantic. I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know any such gentleman. Did you happen to hear his name?”

“André Sardo.”

“The name is totally unfamiliar. Are you sure he’s here to see me and not Papa?”

“Positive. Didn’t you hear what I said? He specifically mentioned you when he announced himself to Bladewell.” Chloe sighed. “Our butler, of course, was not nearly as impressed as I. He immediately went and summoned Papa.”

“And?”

“Papa is speaking with Mister—pardon me, Monsieur Sardo—right now.”

As if on cue, footsteps resounded from down the hall, drawing closer until Eric Bromleigh appeared in the sitting-room doorway. His brooding stare shifted from Chloe to Noelle. “I suspect you already know you have a visitor.”

Her father’s taut stance and distressed tone weren’t lost on Noelle. She inclined her head, studying him quizzically. “Papa, what’s wrong? Who is this André Sardo?”

“An artist.” Her father didn’t mince words. “Evidently he was commissioned to paint your portrait.”

“Commissioned? By whom?”

“Franco Baricci.”

Noelle sucked in her breath. “Baricci? But, I don’t understand. …” Her voice trailed off, realization dawning even as she spoke.

“I see you’re beginning to put together the pieces. You told me that Baricci wanted to forge a relationship with you. Apparently this is his way of doing so.”

Unable to bear the pain in her father’s voice, Noelle went to him at once, seized his hands. “Papa, I want no part of Mr. Baricci, or his extravagant gifts. If he thinks he can buy my affection, he’s sadly mistaken. I’ll send Mr. Sardo away at once.”

Tenderness softened Eric’s expression. “I’m proud of you, Noelle,” he said softly.

“Did you doubt my reaction?”

“Actually, no. It’s
my
reaction that surprises me.”

Another puzzled look. “I don’t understand.”

“I told Monsieur Sardo he could go ahead and paint the portrait.”

Noelle started. “Why?”

“Because it’s Baricci I detest, not Sardo. He knows nothing of the reasons behind this farce of a gift. All he knows is that a very wealthy man has offered him a great deal of money to paint the portrait of a lovely young woman. Sardo is poor, Noelle. He’s a relatively unknown artist. According to him, Baricci gave him his first break, allowing him to display his paintings in the Franco Gallery. Four or five of them have already sold. But that’s hardly enough to live on. Sardo is struggling to make his way. He’s too proud to say so, but it’s obvious this commission means food and clothing to him. How can I turn him away just because I detest the scoundrel who’s paying him?”

Noelle raised up, kissed her father’s cheek. “You’re such a wonderful man, Papa. And, of course, you’re right. We can’t turn him away.”

“But we can’t run the risk of sending Baricci the wrong message, either. Therefore, I’ve taken the liberty of providing Monsieur Sardo with several stipulations.”

“Which are?”

“The sittings will be conducted right here at Farrington,” Eric elaborated. “Further, no one—and that includes Sardo’s employer—will accompany him here on his visits. He will come and go alone. Then, once the portrait has been completed, he will take his leave. Period.”

“What was Monsieur Sardo’s response to your conditions?”

Eric shrugged. “He accepted them right away, saying they were precisely what he’d intended. His plan was to conduct your sittings wherever you felt most comfortable, which he’d assumed would be in your home. As for an overseer or assistant, he assured me that he always works alone and had no intentions of bringing anyone with him when he visited Farrington.”

“So you’re satisfied.”

A nod. “Yes. Given Sardo’s assurances, I see no reason for Baricci to be involved, other than in compensating the man, the details of which are their concern, not ours. Sardo will simply paint the portrait for however long it takes. After that, he has only to say good-bye. And if Baricci thinks his gesture will have softened my heart, earned him the right to see you, he’ll soon find he’s sadly mistaken.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that score.” Noelle glanced curiously beyond her father into the empty hallway. “May I meet Monsieur Sardo?”

Eric’s eyes narrowed a bit. “I’m sure Chloe has informed you that he is a most compelling gentleman—as charming as he is pleasing to the eye. I trust you won’t be too taken with him.”

A smile played about Noelle’s lips. “I’ll answer that question once he’s left.”

“Noelle.”

“Stop worrying, Papa.” Noelle squeezed her father’s hands, trying not to laugh at the solemnness of his tone. “I know I’m impulsive, but I’m not a dolt. Nor am I an impressionable child. I promise not to run off with the man. Besides, I do believe meeting him is a prerequisite to having my portrait painted. He can’t very well sketch my likeness without ever having set eyes on me.”

“Very well.” A twinge of amusement flickered in Eric’s eyes—enough to lessen his uneasiness, but not eliminate it. “I’ll bring him to you.” He turned stiffly and left.

“I’d be happy to chaperon you during your sittings,” Chloe offered cheerfully.

“I’m sure you would.” Noelle’s mind was already racing off in a new direction. How much did André Sardo know about his employer? Could she possibly learn something revealing, even incriminating, about Baricci from his promising young artist? Surely Monsieur Sardo spent a great deal of time at the Franco Gallery if his paintings were displayed there. Maybe he’d unknowingly seen something, heard something that could prove useful to Ashford’s investigation. And maybe, just maybe, Sardo would inadvertently let that something slip during their portrait sittings.

It was certainly worth a try.

“Noelle? Are you considering my suggestion that I act as your chaperon?” Chloe demanded.

Noelle ruffled her sister’s hair affectionately. “No, love. I suspect Monsieur Sardo will want as few distractions as possible when he paints. And having you swoon at his feet would definitely be a distraction.”

“Wait until you see him,” Chloe advised. “I might not be the only one who swoons.”

Noelle didn’t swoon, but she had to admit that André Sardo was every bit as sinfully handsome as Chloe had described. With a high forehead, thick, curling dark hair, and a fringe of black lashes that accentuated deep-set eyes the color of warm chocolate, Monsieur Sardo—or André as he insisted Noelle call him—had a way of looking at a woman that made her feel she was the only female on earth. He was tall and lean, his fingers the long, tapered tools of an artist, and his smile—which spread upward from his lips to his eyes—was pure seduction.

Posing for this man was going to be an experience.

“Noelle. May I call you Noelle?” His husky question, uttered with that alluring accent Chloe had mentioned, was more a statement than a request. Clearly, André intended on dispensing with the formalities as quickly as possible.

“Of course,” Noelle answered anyway, “Feel free.”

“Your name is beautiful. Then again, so are you.” He circled her, his practiced gaze assessing her from head to toe. “Painting your portrait is going to be as much a gift for me as it is for you.”

“Noelle’s lady’s maid will be in attendance during your sessions,” Eric Bromleigh announced from the doorway.

Noelle nearly groaned aloud. How was she going to procure any information from Monsieur Sardo with Grace the sentry present? Her only hope was to conduct the sittings right here in this room, where the broad expanse of windows provided both morning and afternoon sunlight. Seated in the proper spot, Grace would be asleep in minutes.

Instantly, Noelle’s spirits lifted.

André was nodding absently, his stare still fixed on Noelle. “Of course. A chaperon will be fine—if she’s quiet. I can’t abide interruptions of any kind.” He moved closer to Noelle, angling his face to scrutinize hers. “Flawless. And those eyes …” He left the sentence unfinished, as if there were no words to convey the essence of all he saw. “When can we begin?”

“Why, whenever you wish, I suppose.” Noelle looked past him, seeking an answer from her father.

Eric was taking in André’s scrutiny of Noelle and openly scowling, clearly weighing the prudence of his decision.

Noelle couldn’t allow him to reconsider. “Papa, isn’t it wonderful that Monsieur Sardo has such a practiced eye that he’s able to assess one’s features in such an objective manner? It’s much like a physician examining a patient.”

Eric quirked a brow. “Is it?”

“Of course, my lord.” Evidently André sensed he was on shaky ground, for his assurance was immediate and absolute. “As an artist, I must envision your daughter’s likeness as I hope to capture it on canvas. That means doing justice to the exquisite features with which she was gifted. I fully intend to create a masterpiece worthy of Lady Noelle’s beauty. That is, after all, what I’m being paid to do.”

“Yes,” Eric agreed pointedly. “It is.”

“Pardon me, sir.” Bladewell appeared in the sitting-room doorway. “A letter was just delivered. It came by private carriage. The driver respectfully requests that you open it at once and provide him with an immediate reply.”

“Private carriage?” Eric repeated quizzically. “Whose?”

“The Duke of Markham’s, sir.”

“The Duke of Markham!” Noelle was across the room in a flash. “Open it, Papa.”

Eric tore the seal and pulled out a single engraved card.

“What is it?” Noelle demanded.

“An invitation. The duke and duchess are inviting us to their annual charity ball at Markham, which commences the week after next.”

“‘Us’?” Noelle asked, silently holding her breath.

“Yes,” Eric confirmed, scanning both the envelope and the invitation. “Us. You, Chloe, your mother, and me. It’s a three-day event, culminating in a formal ball.”

“Oh, Papa.” Noelle gripped his arm, barely able to hear herself above Chloe’s excited exclamation. “Please. Please say we can go.”

Eric pressed his lips together. “Coincidental, wouldn’t you say—that we should receive this invitation now, at this particular time, right after your little excursion to London? Or
is
it a coincidence? Why don’t I think so? Why, instead, do I see Lord Tremlett’s hand in this?”

“Probably because he and I discussed how committed you and Mama are to helping the needy. He must have relayed that fact to his parents.” Noelle swallowed, her every hope centering on her father’s decision. “We will go, won’t we?”