Andrea Kane (38 page)

Gingerly, she reached out her hand, touched the edge of the sack. Her curiosity would never permit her to share a hiding place with a mysterious object without knowing what that object was. And her time to explore was limited.

She lifted the open edge of the sack and tried to peer inside.

It was too bloody dark to make out anything. So she relied upon her sense of touch. Reaching inside, she explored the shape and texture, found the hard, defined rectangular edges, the angular contours, and the smooth, flat …

Noelle had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

The object in the sack was a painting.

Dear God, why had Ashford stolen a painting? And from whom? What in the name of heaven was he involved in?

Wildly, Noelle’s thoughts converged, exploding in a rapid fire of questions—the very questions that had plagued her since the day she and Ashford had met, except that now she viewed them in a new and sinister light.

What was he hiding from her? What was the secret part of his life he valued so highly and guarded so fiercely?

Clearly, she had one fundamental answer.

Ashford was a thief.

But why? She’d seen the reality with her own eyes, but she refused to believe it—not without an explanation. It made no sense. He recovered paintings; why would he steal them? Certainly not for the money. Nor for the paintings themselves; he was hardly an ardent collector. Then why? And for whom? Or with whom?

An immediate name came to mind.

Pierce Thornton.

Ashford had gone to see his father two days ago, presumably to resolve his past. Was this robbery what they’d actually discussed? Were they partners in some intricate crime scheme?

That brought back the events that had taken place the night of the charity ball—events Noelle had never managed to dismiss, no matter how hard she’d tried. She’d been unable to grasp why the duke’s behavior that night, along with Ashford’s, had continued to nag at her. Perhaps now she had her answer.

She could clearly recall the way Pierce Thornton had summoned his son from the charity ball, the imperative aura that had hovered between them, the feeling that some clandestine matter needed to be discussed—a matter that couldn’t wait until their guests had left. Had they truly been discussing Lady Mannering’s death? And, for that matter, how had the duke learned about that murder before anyone else, possibly even the police?

Or did she have that backwards?

An icy chill shivered through Noelle.

Had it been Ashford who told his father, rather than the other way around? Was it he who had advance knowledge of the robbery and resulting murder at the Mannerings—firsthand knowledge, based upon what he’d seen, done? Had it been he who … ?

No.

Beneath the blanket, Noelle gave an adamant shake of her head, squelching that line of thinking almost before it began. There was no way she’d believe that of Ashford—not even if she found him leaning over the body with the murder weapon in his hand. He was the most principled man she’d ever met, possessing as much honor and integrity as her father. He was inherently moral and decent—and he would never, ever harm anyone who didn’t deserve it.

But what if they did?

Murder, never.

But theft … ?

Noelle pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to still the pounding in her head. She felt even more confused now than she had before climbing into this phaeton, filled with a wealth of new, unanswerable questions.

The only person who could answer those questions was Ashford himself. She’d confront him, this very night, the instant this inconceivable jaunt of his was over.

As if in response to her thoughts, the phaeton pulled over and stopped.

Now where were they?

Probably wherever Ashford delivered his paintings.

On the heels of that prospect, Noelle lurched backwards, away from the sack, lying perfectly still until Ashford had climbed down, reached around to extract the bag and its contents, and crept away from the phaeton.

This time, she was too overwrought to worry about caution.

The instant Ashford’s footsteps faded away, she tossed off the blanket, rising to her knees and peering about her.

The area was vile, even without benefit of light. The stench of ale and dung was in the air, and the quick, scurrying sounds emanating from the roadside could be nothing but rats.

By now her eyes were accustomed to the darkness and by focusing intently, Noelle could make out a broken path that led to what appeared to be the entrance to an alley.

Ashford’s contact must be waiting for him in there.

She was half-tempted to go and find out for herself, but even she wasn’t that reckless. Thieves, smugglers, and worse inhabited this section of Town, and any one of a dozen unimaginable things could happen to her before she even reached the alley, much less before Ashford finally realized she was here.

Curbing her curiosity, she sank back down in the rumble seat, crouching low and clutching the blanket for immediate concealment—when it was needed.

It was needed a few minutes later.

Ashford’s footsteps resumed, and Noelle found herself relieved to hear them. Regardless of what he was involved in, she was grateful to no longer be alone in this godforsaken place.

There was a quiet thud as something landed in the front seat of the phaeton. A case of money, Noelle was willing to bet.

Ashford was in the process of climbing in beside it when the clomp, clomp of hoofbeats pierced the night.

Noelle could actually feel Ashford freeze—as she did, listening intently to hear who was approaching. She felt around for a weapon of any kind but found none.
Oh God, Ashford, please have a pistol,
she prayed fervently.
Have two, so I can help save our lives.

Alongside the carriage, Ashford swore softly under his breath, the groping sounds she heard an indication that he was indeed extracting a weapon.

Whatever he saw made him put it away, grunt as he wrenched an article of clothing off his body—his mask?—and wait.

The hoofbeats drew nearer—and stopped.

“Hello, constable,” Ashford greeted.

Constable? Noelle felt a flash of relief—relief that was short-lived. A police officer. Now that presented a whole new set of problems. How was Ashford going to explain what he was doing in this unsavory section of London—and why there was a case of money and a discarded mask in his phaeton?

“Sir.” The constable sounded puzzled, and Noelle could hear him dismount. An instant later, a shaft of light from his lantern illuminated their phaeton. “Isn’t this an odd place for a gentleman like you to be out driving?”

Ashford cleared his throat. “I didn’t intend to find myself in this section of Town. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I took a wrong turn and am now quite lost.”

“So you stopped here in the hopes that you’d be rescued?” the constable inquired, obviously skeptical. “More likely, you’d be robbed and killed.”

“I had no choice but to stop,” Ashford returned in the irritated tone of a nobleman who was being unduly interrogated. “My horse has a stone in his shoe. I plan to remove it and be on my way.”

“Then perhaps I can help.” The officer was walking toward the carriage.

Ashford’s plan wasn’t going to work.

In a flash of motion, Noelle threw off the blanket and rose. “Oh, thank goodness,” she gasped, gazing at the flabby-cheeked constable with immeasurable gratitude, simultaneously climbing down from the rumble seat. “A police official.”

The instant her feet touched the ground, she shook out her mantle, and shot an angry look at Ashford, who was gaping at her as if she were a ghost. “Why didn’t you tell me it was a constable? Here I was, hiding like a common criminal, crushing the fur of my new mantle while praying not to have my throat slit, and all the time it was a constable you heard approaching us?”

She didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried forward, gripped the stunned constable’s sleeve. “Oh, sir, you have no idea how relieved I am to see you. This fool I’m unfortunate enough to be married to, who can’t so much as find his way around our sitting room, refused to summon our driver to escort us through Town. Oh, no. He had to drive himself. And, as if that isn’t bad enough, he insisted on trying a new route from our dear friends’ town house to Grosvenor Square.”

Noelle gave a hideous shudder. “So where do we end up? In this hellish place, amid thieves and murderers. I begged him—not once, but thrice—to ask directions, but you know how men are about that. They’d rather die than reveal that particular weakness to anyone. So he insisted upon driving around and around until we were hopelessly lost. And now our poor horse has a stone lodged in his shoe. …”

Noelle flung another caustic glance at Ashford, who had now recovered himself and was bending over the horse’s hoof. “Have you removed it yet, you dolt?” she barked.

“Yes, my dear.” Ashford sounded strained—a condition Noelle suspected he didn’t have to feign. “I have it.” He stood, tossing the imaginary stone to the roadside. “He’s as good as new.”

“Well, it’s about time.” With a piqued sniff, Noelle turned back to the constable, whose suspicious expression had transformed to one of consummate pity—not for Noelle, but for Ashford. “If you would
please
provide my witless husband with directions, I’d be entirely in your debt, and we can finally be on our way—the
right
way.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The constable tipped his hat, gazing at her with visible distaste. “I’d be glad to.”

“Thank you.” Swishing about, Noelle marched over to the phaeton, waiting pointedly for Ashford to assist her in alighting. Once he complied—his biting grip an indication of his true state of mind—she crowded into the far corner of the front seat. Using her heel, she wedged between her feet the mask and what turned out to be a bag, not a case, of money. Then she folded her hands primly in her lap and stared straight ahead.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you left her here, sir,” she heard the constable whisper.

“I’m glad you understand,” Ashford responded flatly.

“Oh, I understand all right. I’ve got one just like her at home. It’s a married man’s curse.” He sighed and patted Ashford’s shoulder, raising his voice to a normal tone. “Now, let me give you the fastest route back to the West End.”

Three minutes later, Ashford climbed into the phaeton, waved appreciatively at the constable, and guided their horse onto the road.

Silence prevailed, during which time Noelle cast a furtive glance at Ashford, hoping to see gratitude on his face.

She didn’t.

In fact, his jaw was clenched so tight, she feared it would snap.

“I think it’s safe now,” she ventured at last, when the East End had long since been left behind and home was mere minutes away.

“Is it?” Ashford ground out. “I wouldn’t bet on it. In fact, if I were you I’d be more frightened by me than you were by those murderers and thieves. Because right about now I feel capable of doing almost anything.”

Noelle swallowed. “Where are you taking me?”

“Why? Afraid I might kill you—as I did Lady Mannering?” He shot her a fierce sideways look. “Or hasn’t that brilliant mind of yours gotten that far yet?”

“It has,” she reassured him. “But I rejected the notion the instant it occurred. It’s preposterous.”

“Oh, is it? Why? I’m an expert rider. And I had more than enough time to leave Markham while my parents’ guests slept, ride to London, steal and kill, and return to the party before I was missed.”

Ashford’s caustic words sent a shiver through Noelle—though not because she believed there was a shred of truth in them. No, it was his tone, low and menacing, filled with accusation and fury that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“That’s not why I deemed the idea preposterous,” she informed him, trying to abate his rage with a confirmation of her faith. “I don’t believe you’re a murderer, Ashford. You’re too fine a man to take another person’s life. So there’s no point in goading me as punishment for my interference.”

“Goading you—is that what I’m doing? How very brave an assumption, given all you’ve witnessed tonight. But, tell me, if I’m such a fine man, how do you explain everything I did these past few hours?”

“I can’t. Only you can.” She inclined her head in his direction. “In fact, that’s exactly what I’m waiting for you to do.”

“Then you haven’t long to wait.”

Noelle glanced up, realized they were turning onto Bond Street, at the far end of which Ashford lived. “We’re going to your house.”

A hard nod. “But don’t let that ease your fears. There are no servants at home to rescue you. They were all sent away tonight—for obvious reasons.”

“So we’ll be alone.” Despite all that had just transpired, all that was still transpiring, Noelle felt herself tingle at the concept.

“Yes.” Ashford halted before his gates, jumped out of the phaeton to yank them open. “Drive through,” he ordered Noelle.

Silently, she complied, waiting until he’d shut the gates behind them and returned to climb into the carriage.

“Yes, we’ll be alone,” he repeated, urging his horse around the drive. “Until your father discovers you’re missing and charges over to shoot me. Of course, I might already have done you in by then.”

“Ashford—don’t.” Noelle lay her hand on his arm.

That simple contact—and the dam burst.

Swerving to the edge of the drive, Ashford brought the phaeton to an abrupt stop. He jerked around, grabbing Noelle’s shoulders and hauling her nearly out of her seat. “What the hell were you doing back there?” he demanded in a voice that slashed through her like a knife. “What possessed you? Have you any idea … ?” He stopped, drew a harsh breath. “Damn it, Noelle. God dammit.”

He released her shoulders—but only long enough to vault from the carriage, then snake an arm about her waist, hoisting her out and holding her against him. He stalked around, leaned into the phaeton to scoop up the mask and bag with his other hand, then strode up to his front door. He opened it in one smooth motion, hauling Noelle inside and slamming the door behind them.

The entranceway was dark, as deserted as he’d claimed.