Andrea Kane (42 page)

“Yes … no … ,” she stammered.

“Which is it,
chérie?”
he asked icily. “Yes or no?”

Silently, Noelle cursed herself. She might be in love, but she couldn’t lose all sense of reason. Infuriating André at this particular time, when they were so close to exposing Baricci, would be an enormous mistake.

She sucked in her breath, pasted a smile on her face. “Actually, yes. I was expecting my modiste. She’s due here any minute with my newest gown, and I—” Noelle broke off, touching André’s sleeve contritely. “Forgive me. You don’t want to hear all this, André. I apologize for my inexcusably bad manners. It’s just that the Season is nearly upon me, and I’m getting more and more excited.”

“I understand,
chérie,”
he murmured, looking a touch less piqued, though still somewhat suspicious.

He covered her hand with his—a gesture that seemed intolerable to bear after last night with Ashford. It took every ounce of willpower for Noelle not to recoil.

“I wish I could invite you in,” she managed to say. “But I’ll be involved in fittings for the rest of the day.” Seeing the tight line of his mouth, she searched frantically for a way to appease him—and to get him out of the house before Ashford arrived. “I have an idea,” she blurted at last. “Why don’t we schedule our trip to the Franco Gallery for tomorrow? That is, if you’re free. I have no plans, and I’m sure Papa would let me go out for an hour or two.”
Please, Ashford, let that be enough time for you to find out who bought the earrings and convince the police to interrogate Baricci,
she prayed silently.

“A splendid idea.” Now André was smiling. “We’ll go directly after lunch. How does two o’clock sound?”

“Perfect.” Noelle was half-tempted to shove him out the door. “I can hardly wait to see all your magnificent works.”

“You can’t be nearly as eager for tomorrow to arrive as I.” André brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’ll leave you to your fittings then.
Au revoir, chérie.”

Shutting the door behind him, Noelle leaned back against it, shuddering as she wiped the back of her hand on her gown. This farce of hers was beginning to become distasteful.

Not three minutes later another knock sounded and Noelle whirled around, waving Bladewell away and yanking open the door.

Ashford stood on the threshold, his expression grim.

“Thank God,” Noelle greeted him, scarcely noticing his obvious displeasure.

He stepped inside, slammed the door in his wake, and gripped Noelle’s shoulders. “I saw the son of a bitch leave. I waited. What the hell was he doing here? I thought your father sent him away for two more days. Can’t the bastard count?”

Noelle shrugged, as unsettled as Ashford was by the artist’s unannounced visit—not to mention the fact that she now had to elaborate on that brief visit, to tell Ashford about the plans she’d made with André. “If you’re furious now, you’re going to be even angrier in a minute,” she warned.

“I can hardly wait.”

“I was expecting to see you when Bladewell announced I had a visitor. Instead, I collided with André. I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my disappointment. He was furious with me. I had to think of something. I told him I had an appointment with my modiste this morning and that he had to leave immediately. That didn’t do much to appease his anger. So I blurted out the first thing I could think of to get rid of him. I suggested we make our visit to the Franco Gallery tomorrow.” Noelle shot Ashford a tentative, hopeful look. “I don’t suppose that two o’clock tomorrow afternoon gives you enough time to check into the earrings and speak to the authorities?”

To her surprise, Ashford began to chuckle. “For you, anything.” He brought her hands to his lips. “You keep me on my toes,
tempête.
You also diffuse my anger in a way no one else can.” An incredulous shake of his head. “Diffuse is putting it mildly. The truth is, when you gaze up at me with those exquisite sapphire eyes, blurt out whatever impulsive plan your brilliant mind has currently hatched, I forget what I was angry about in the first place. You challenge me to the ultimate—mind, heart, and spirit.”

“And body?” Noelle added with an impish grin.

“Most definitely, yes—and body,” he agreed, his breath caressing her fingertips. “Given all that, you know I’d move mountains for you.”

“But this only allows you one day in which to move them,” Noelle murmured with an anxious frown.

“Actually, I’ve already done some preliminary checking into the origin of the earrings, by way of my less orthodox contacts.”

“When?” Noelle demanded. “When did you have time?”

“Earlier last evening—before my eleven o’clock rendezvous,” Ashford qualified with a twinkle. “I got nowhere. Then I did some official investigating this morning with the reputable London jewelers. Again, nothing.”

He stroked away the pucker between Noelle’s brows. “Don’t look so distressed, sweetheart. I expected this avenue might produce a brick wall. Remember, those earrings could have been bought anywhere, either elsewhere in England or, most likely, abroad. I’ll continue exploring the various avenues. In the meantime, I’ll visit the Detective Department at Scotland Yard this afternoon. I have several influential contacts there—contacts with whom I’ve worked on numerous occasions and who are, therefore, familiar with my success ratio and with the reliability of my instincts. I’ll meet with them, stress the other points we have in our favor: the timing of Baricci’s affair with Lady Mannering, the fear Mary perceived in her mistress on the night she died.”

Ashford’s brows lifted in ironic amusement. “Besides, I won’t have to twist their arms to incite them into action. Have you forgotten the Goya I helped myself to last night? Vanley must have reported it missing by now. Scotland Yard will be under immense pressure to recover it, and they’ll be relieved as hell if they can wrap up two cases at once: arresting the thief who stole the Goya and determining that that same thief also stole the Rembrandt
and
killed Lady Mannering in the process.”

“But Baricci didn’t steal the Goya,” Noelle hissed, casting a swift glance about to ensure they were alone. “You did.”

“Ah, but the police don’t know that,” Ashford pointed out smugly. “Don’t worry,
tempête.
I’ll make a good enough case to convince them to interrogate Baricci again. Expect them at the Franco Gallery at half after two tomorrow—them
and
me. I won’t leave you alone with Sardo—not for an instant. Not even under the watchful eye of your sentry, Grace.”

Noelle smiled, sighed with relief. “You’re like a knight in shining armor. Thank you for riding to my rescue.”

“As you did to mine,” he reminded her in a hushed tone. He pressed a heated kiss to her open palm, his eyes darkening with emotion. “This is not the way I intended to greet you, not after last night.”

His voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper. “Let me begin again. Good morning, my beautiful love. The past five hours away from you were sheer hell. I spent every one of them reliving what happened between us: your taste, your scent, the wonder in your eyes as I made you mine. The hot, tight clasp of you all around me, the way you shivered when I moved inside you, the way you came apart in my arms. Every exquisite detail. Then, as I rode here this morning to speak with your father, I began envisioning you walking down the aisle to become my wife. And I realized, yet again, how truly blessed I am. I love you, Noelle. More now than I did last night.”

Noelle’s breath caught. “That was a much lovelier greeting than your original one,” she managed.

“And it pales in comparison to the way I’d truly like to greet you.” Ashford glanced about, and seeing that the hallway was temporarily deserted, he drew Noelle close, covered her mouth with his. “Which is like this.”

His lips moved over hers poignantly, possessively, the intimate kiss of a man who, scant hours earlier, had made this woman his.

Noelle gripped the lapels of his coat in tight, trembling fists, her mouth opening under his, welcoming his tongue.

“I’d better stop,” Ashford muttered thickly, raising his head with a visible effort. “Or instead of going to your father’s study to ask for your hand, I’ll be anticipating our wedding night and carrying you off to bed.”

Reluctantly, Noelle nodded. “I told Mama and Chloe about our plans to be wed.”

“And?”

“They were thrilled.”

A corner of Ashford’s mouth lifted. “But you left the most skeptical family member for me.” Seeing uneasiness flicker in Noelle’s eyes, he shook his head. “Don’t worry. Your father will be equally as pleased as the rest of your family. I promise.” His forefinger caressed her cheek. “Let me speak with him alone.”

Another nod. “All right. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Smoothing her skirts, Noelle marched down the hall to the study, wondering why in God’s name she felt so nervous. It took a great deal to intimidate her. Least of all her father, who had never tried to squelch her spirit—not even when that spirit bordered on audacity. He accepted her and loved her as she was. Not only that, he was a reasonable and objective man.

Except when it came to his daughters.

At which time, reason and objectivity were cast to the wind.

So need she wonder why she was nervous—especially this time, when she wanted so much more than just her father’s acceptance? She wanted his approval, his blessing.

She wanted him to feel the same sense of joy, of lightness, as she.

Taking a deep breath, Noelle knocked on the study door.

“Yes?” Eric’s deep voice greeted her.

“Papa, it’s I.” Noelle poked her head into the room.

An affectionate grin. “Yes, I can see that. Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss?”

“Ashford is here to see you.”

Something in her tone must have conveyed itself to Eric, because his eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her face. “Is he? Well, by all means, send him in.”

“Very well.” Noelle turned and retraced her steps to the entranceway, giving Ashford an affirmative, if slightly anxious, nod. “He’s expecting you.”

Ashford brushed a kiss to the top of her head. “Stop looking so nervous. All will be well.”

With an encouraging wink, he headed toward the study.

“Come in, Tremlett.” Eric Bromleigh answered Ashford’s knock. He rose from behind his desk, gesturing for Ashford to join him. “Noelle says you’re here to see me. Is this about the earrings?”

Shutting the door, Ashford walked purposefully into the study, shaking his head as he did. “No, sir, it isn’t.”

“Is it about another matter concerning Baricci?”

“No. It’s about Noelle.”

“Ah.” Eric walked around the side of his desk, perching his hip against it. “I’m listening.”

“I won’t mince words,” Ashford began, his tone as confident as his stance, his gaze meeting Eric’s head-on. “It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I’m in love with your daughter, nor that she’s in love with me. I’m now prepared to offer her the lifetime commitment she deserves, the one I believe you want for her. In short, I’ve come to ask you for Noelle’s hand in marriage.” Ashford’s tone softened. “I’ll make her happy, Lord Farrington,” he vowed. “I’ll keep her safe, nurture her spirit, and provide that nonstop mind of hers with the perpetual challenge it requires. Most important, I’ll fill her life with more love than even Noelle’s heart can hold. You have my word on that.”

Eric’s expression had remained unchanged. “And the obstacles you alluded to the last time we spoke?”

“They’ve been eliminated. With the exception of Baricci. Once he’s in prison, my future is my own. And that future belongs to Noelle—Noelle and the houseful of grandchildren we’re set on gifting to you and the countess, and to my parents.”

Silently, Eric digested Ashford’s words, rubbing his palms idly together. Then he walked forward, stopping directly in front of Ashford, a wry smile curving his lips. “It’s about time, Tremlett,” he pronounced. “I was beginning to think you weren’t nearly the man I believed you to be. Which wouldn’t do at all. Only the most strong-willed and resourceful of men could make my Noelle happy. She needs someone who can match her in intelligence, tenacity, and spirit. Someone who can keep up with her, even occasionally stay a step ahead of her—if that’s possible.” He extended his hand. “I’m glad to see I wasn’t wrong about you. Even if that does mean I’ve wasted hundreds of pounds on gowns and accessories for a Season debut that is never going to occur.”

Ashford blinked. Then he began to laugh, grasping Eric’s handshake. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad I lived up to your expectations.”

“More importantly, you lived up to Noelle’s.” Eric’s grin broadened. “Now, let’s go to the sitting room—where I suspect we’ll find the bride-to-be
and
her mother and sister awaiting our appearance while already compiling a list of potential wedding guests.” A hearty chuckle. “Brigitte isn’t one to delay an instant when it comes to planning joyous occasions. Nor is Chloe about to miss the chance to indulge her romantic daydreams. And given the expression on Noelle’s face when she announced that you wanted to see me … well, let’s just say I have the distinct feeling that news of your betrothal has already leaked out.”

IT WAS A BLEAK
afternoon, and winter permeated the Franco Gallery. The room’s widely spaced walls and high ceilings were no match for the February cold. Thus, whatever heat was being generated seeped quickly out, leaving behind only an unpleasant harshness and an inner chill that sank into one’s bones.

Or maybe it only seemed that way to Noelle.

Wrapping her mantle more tightly around her, she stood dutifully beside André, admiring the colors of his most recent landscape work, her glance flickering from the painting to Grace to the corridor leading to Baricci’s office.

Ashford and two detectives had been closeted in there for twenty minutes. They’d reached the gallery before she and André but had remained out in the open until her arrival scant minutes later. Noelle had spied them at once, hovering in a less congested area of the gallery and talking heatedly with Williams. Ashford had glanced up as she entered, his gaze flickering swiftly but thoroughly over her, ensuring she was safe, before refocusing on Williams. Never once did he break the flow of his conversation, nor did he openly acknowledge her. So subtle was the entire gesture that the curator never noticed.