Andrea Kane (26 page)

Ashford chuckled. “Your sister was a godsend. According to Juliet, Lucas and Cara have been talking about her nonstop since the party ended. Of course I’ll say hello.”

“Chloe knows nothing of our plan,” Noelle cautioned swiftly, determined to shield her younger sister from any and all danger. “Nor does she know our suspicions about Baricci. All she knows is how captivated with you I am.” Color stained Noelle’s cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

“Yes, you should have.” Ashford threaded his fingers through her hair, tipped back her head so he could gaze into her eyes. “I’m captivated with you, too, Noelle. More captivated than you know.”

“Did you tell that to my parents, as well?”

“I did.” Ashford’s lips brushed hers, ever so lightly. “I also told them I couldn’t stay away from you. And I convinced them to let me visit. That is all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes—definitely.” Noelle wanted desperately to pursue this subject, to find out exactly what Ashford had said to her parents and how they, most particularly her father, had responded.

But now was not the time—not when Baricci was still at large and their plans to implicate him not yet finalized.

“When shall I send for André?” she asked.

“Immediately. Tell him you’re ready to begin posing for your portrait.”

She nodded. “Ashford, I’ve given this a great deal of thought. Obviously, we want answers to some basic questions, such as how and when André and Baricci met, and the number of paintings André has completed for the Franco Gallery. Also, I’d like to know who else paints for Baricci, who else has his or her work displayed at the gallery. Perhaps one of them, if not André, has spied the stolen paintings lying about, perhaps in a storage room at the gallery.” Noelle frowned. “There’s something nagging at me, something I don’t understand. You told me that the Franco is a place for struggling artists to exhibit their works. My question is why? Clearly, Baricci is not an altruistic man, one who would thrive on helping others succeed. So what is he getting out of this arrangement?”

“An excellent question,” Ashford murmured. “Would you like my opinion? I think the Franco is merely a facade, a pretext behind which Baricci can operate. It gives him the appearance of being a viable entity in the art field—and of being the most magnanimous of men, the kind you’d be eager to do business with. Thus, he’s accrued a wealth of contacts, many of whom give him firsthand information about newly acquired masterpieces.”

“The ones he steals.”

“Or the ones he buys. When he gets word of a valuable painting that’s being sold at an exceptional price, he makes sure to buy it before anyone else can. Then he turns around and sells the painting at an auction held by his gallery. That’s what happened with
Moonlight in Florence.
He bought it from another gallery—one that was in dire straits—at a low price, then doubled his money when he auctioned it off. Believe me, a few auctions like that create more than enough income for Baricci to live on—between thefts, that is.”

A shudder ran through Noelle. “How can his blood be running through my veins?”

“Because he took advantage of Liza and, as good fortune would have it, created a miracle,” Ashford returned fervently. “There’s no other reason, sweetheart, and no other similarities. Don’t look for them.”

“I don’t intend to. But the fact that he’s my sire makes it all the more imperative that I help capture him. If for no other reason than to avenge the grief he’s caused Papa.”

“I understand.” Ashford caught a strand of Noelle’s hair, rubbed it between his fingers. “And we will get him, Noelle. I vowed that to your parents, and I’m vowing it to you.”

Noelle’s nod was filled with conviction. “Have you spoken with the police?”

“Yes, for all the good it did me. There’s little or no information available. Emily Mannering was alone when the crime occurred. It appears no one can tell us what happened—no one but her killer, that is.”

“Alone? What about her servants?”

“They’d been sent away.” A delicate pause. “That’s often done when a married woman admits a man other than her husband to her home.”

Noelle’s eyes glittered with distaste. “I’m sure Mr. Baricci is accustomed to making those kind of arrangements.” She dismissed his actions with a wave of her hand. “Go on.”

“Her husband discovered her body when he returned from his business engagement. His alibi is solid, by the way. Five people can attest to his whereabouts on the previous night—
all
night. They played whist till dawn.” Ashford pursed his lips, remembering the details he’d been given. “She was lying on the music-room floor, near where the picture had been hanging. A heavy piece of sculpture was lying beside her. There was some blood—on her head, on the floor, and on the sculpture. That’s it.”

“In other words, nothing.” Noelle sighed. “Where do you go from here, other than to my sittings with Sardo?”

“To Lord Mannering. I have to convince him that I’m the right person to investigate the theft; that, with my record of success, I’m the one to recover the Rembrandt and, in the process, to expose Emily’s killer. I want to speak with his staff and any close family friends that Lady Mannering might have confided in.”

“That should be easy enough to accomplish.”

“Only if Mannering’s mental state is improved. As of yesterday, he was still refusing to see anyone. Otherwise, I would have spoken with him by now.” Ashford’s tone took on a note of contempt. “The poor man is in shock. His wife might not have deserved his devotion, but she had it nonetheless. Mannering loved her to distraction. As a result, the pitiful fellow is coping not only with her untimely death, but with the knowledge that she was unfaithful.”

A wave of sympathy swept through Noelle. “He didn’t know?”

“No, but he does now. The police had to investigate every angle of the night of the crime. It didn’t take long for them to learn that Emily Mannering was, shall we say, involved elsewhere.”

“Then they know about Baricci?” Noelle asked excitedly.

“They didn’t. Now they do. I made sure to mention his name as Lady Mannering’s alleged lover.”

Satisfaction glinted in Noelle’s eyes. “Then they’ll question him, if they haven’t already done so.”

“I’m sure they will,” Ashford concurred dispassionately.

A puzzled look. “You don’t seem pleased by that notion.”

“I’m not. It won’t make a damned bit of difference with regard to Baricci’s capture. He’s already a known adulterer. If that in itself were enough to hang him, he’d have been dead years ago. When the authorities learn he and Emily were lovers, they’ll go to him and make a few discreet inquiries. He’ll admit to spending the night with her—just in case there were any witnesses to his arrival or departure. He’ll say he left her alive and glowing.” Ashford’s hands balled into fists. “He’ll act the part of the grieving lover, offer to help the police in any way he can, swear he won’t rest until they’ve apprehended the blackguard who murdered Emily. I can visualize the entire scene—and frankly, it makes me ill.”

Noelle watched Ashford’s savage expression, perceived the magnitude of his rage, and recognized the full extent of its cause. “This isn’t only about Baricci’s crimes, is it?” she observed quietly. “It’s about his character, or lack thereof. You told me yourself that you don’t compromise your principles. Clearly, Baricci offends every one of those principles.”

“I don’t deny that,” Ashford ground out, a steely look in his eyes. “Baricci represents everything I loathe. As for my principles, no, I don’t compromise them. I was brought up believing that way, believing there were causes bigger than we. That’s why I—” He broke off, averting his head—but not before Noelle had seen the warring emotions on his face.

“There’s so much about you I don’t know,” she murmured, more perplexed than distressed. “So much you don’t want me to know.” She leaned forward, brushed a kiss to his rigid jawline. “But whatever part of your life you’re keeping from me, I’m complicating it, aren’t I?” Tenderly, she caressed his nape, felt the inadvertent shudder that ran through him. “I’m sorry and I’m glad,” she whispered. “Sorry because I don’t want to complicate your life, but glad because I couldn’t do so unless you cared.”

“Noelle—stop.” Ashford turned back to her, catching her hand in his and staying its motion. “Stop before my control snaps—the way it always does when we’re together.” He kissed her palm, eased her gently away. “As for caring, I think we both realize that what’s happening between us has gone far beyond mere caring. But we need time—time to discern our feelings, time to sort out our lives.”

“Do we?” Noelle asked, gazing up at him.

Ashford’s breath expelled in a rush. “Yes. We do.”

“How much time?”

A conflicting pause. “Several weeks.”

“And during those weeks, are we permitted to find time to be alone together?” Her smile was tentative, half-teasing and half-sober. “Or will that disrupt our discerning and our sorting?”

“What do you think?” Ashford’s voice was husky. He tugged Noelle into his arms, buried his lips in hers for a long, heated kiss. “Given the fact that I can’t keep my hands off you, tell me,
tempête,
do you think I’ll make time for moments such as these?”

“M-m-m, yes.” Noelle sighed, satisfaction rippling through her as she got the answer she sought. “Now that I consider it, I think I’m going to enjoy this search for enlightenment.”

“Are you?” His lips curved as they continued to circle hers.

“Definitely.” She slid her arms up his coat, around his neck—and frowned as the sound of her father’s oncoming footsteps intruded on the intimacy of the moment.

Before Noelle could even think to react, Ashford had released her, steadying her on the settee and moving away until he’d established a healthy distance between them.

“Pen a note to Sardo,” he said conversationally, as if they’d been chatting the entire time. “Just leave a few days between your first and second sessions, so I can visit Mannering and get back in time to oversee your second sitting.”

“All right.” As usual, it took Noelle an extra moment to compose herself. And, as usual, she marveled at Ashford’s ability to switch gears with lightning speed. “Do you think André will agree to come right away?” she tried, regaining her bearings and smoothing her hair into place even as the sitting-room door opened.

“Without a doubt,” her father replied sharply.

Noelle winced, turning to face him, preparing herself for a stern lecture.

To her surprise, he wasn’t even looking their way but was scowling at a sheet of paper in his hands.

“Papa? What is it?”

“A note from Sardo. Obviously, he’s even more eager to begin these sessions than you are. He’s respectfully requesting my permission to visit Farrington Manor and commence the painting of your portrait.”

“When?” Ashford demanded.

Eric glanced up, his gaze rife with paternal worry. “Today.”

“Really.” Anticipation emanated from Ashford’s powerful frame, his expression as avid as Eric’s was nervous. “Baricci must be getting anxious. Good. Let’s give him something to be anxious about.”

NOELLE. THANK YOU FOR
making time for me.” André—all magnetism and charm—strolled into the sitting room and kissed her hand; a kiss that lingered an instant or two longer than was proper. “As I explained to your father, I spent the morning sketching Lulworth Cove—which is breathtaking even during the winter months. Afterwards, I stopped at a small tavern in Poole for a cup of tea. That’s when it occurred to me how close to Farrington Manor I was. I know I was supposed to await your summons, but I couldn’t return to London without making an attempt to see you—not when I was within miles of your home. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Noelle assured him. “Actually I was planning to send you a note this very day. I’m as eager as you to begin the painting of my portrait.”

“Now that, I doubt.” André stepped back, clutching both her hands in his, his deep-set eyes assessing her with ardent approval. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered. I’ve envisioned capturing you on canvas since the instant we met—and now that you’ve returned from that party you insisted on attending, I can hardly wait to get started.”

“Wonderful.” Noelle appraised André’s melting good looks with a far more discerning eye than she had the first time he’d been here. Back then, she’d assumed he was blissfully ignorant of Baricci’s ulterior motive, that his assignment was simply to accept the commission and paint her portrait. But now, considering the possibility that André might not be an unknowing pawn but an envoy sent to extract information from her … well, that prospect succeeded in reducing his overt sensuality to dust.

His dress was informal, she noted: dark trousers and an open shirt with rolled-up sleeves; clearly the attire of an artist. He was casual and loose of limb—although, beneath his disarming veneer, she sensed a fine tension that hadn’t been there before.

This game of cat and mouse was going to be most enjoyable, Noelle concluded silently. Even better than a rousing game of piquet.

And just as easily won.

“Please, come in.” She began the charade, gesturing towards the long expanse of windows. “I’ve had this area cleared so that you might work with as much light as possible.”

“Excellent.” Scanning the area, André nodded his enthusiasm, then collected his materials and crossed over to the designated site. “This spot is ideal.”

“I’m glad.” With apparent self-consciousness, Noelle glanced down at herself, smoothed the folds of her rich violet day dress. “I hope this gown is suitable. I tried to choose something colorful, hoping it would make your job easier.”

In the process of assembling his easel, André paused. “My job is already unspeakably easy,” he told her huskily. “In fact, so easy it’s absurd to think I’ll actually be receiving money for doing it.” A provocative wink. “But we won’t tell that to Mr. Baricci.”

“Of course not.” Noelle gave him a sunny smile. “Now, where would you like me to sit?”

André pointed to an empty space directly across from the windows. “Have your lady’s maid fetch a high stool and set it there when she comes in. That will give me just the right amount of sunlight to do you justice. And don’t worry. I won’t allow you to endure even the slightest bit of discomfort. We’ll take frequent breaks so you won’t become stiff or fidgety.”