Andrea Kane (43 page)

Nor did André. However, he did notice Ashford’s presence in the gallery.

Scowling, he removed his top hat. “What is Tremlett doing here?” he muttered.

“H-m-m?” Noelle followed his glare, seemingly noticing Ashford for the first time. “Ah, Lord Tremlett.” A shrug. “Apparently, he’s speaking with Mr. Williams.”

“Apparently.” That flash of suspicion had reappeared on André’s face, and he’d turned to her, his dark gaze probing. “Would you like to say hello?”

Casually, Noelle had brushed the snowflakes off her mantle. “Perhaps later. He’s engrossed in his business.” She’d given André what she hoped was an engaging smile. “And soon we shall be engrossed in ours.”

Turning to confirm that Grace was behind her, Noelle had plucked at André’s sleeve, stepping into the gallery to begin their tour. Simultaneously, she’d overheard Ashford demand to speak directly with Mr. Baricci—a request Williams was happy to honor, given the curious expressions on the faces of the five or six patrons frequenting the gallery at the time.

All four men had retreated immediately to the rear.

Just before he’d disappeared from view, Ashford had glanced their way again, this time directing his gaze at Grace. In response to his meaningful look, the lady’s maid had drawn her stout body up to military stance, nodding her comprehension that, as planned, she would alert Ashford to the slightest impropriety on the part of André Sardo.

Noelle had bitten her lip to keep from smiling, still amazed by the fact that Ashford had managed to win Grace over so completely—a feat that, until now, only Eric Bromleigh could boast having accomplished. Then again, she supposed she should have expected it, given Ashford’s incredible charm. Grace had begun succumbing from the onset, since that first day on the train when Ashford had alluded that she was a lady. And the die had been cast yesterday when, before leaving their Town house, Ashford had pulled Grace aside and personally shared with her—Lady Noelle’s treasured lady’s maid—the news of their betrothal. And then, to add the final, definitive touch, Ashford had entrusted Grace with the critical role of being not only Lady Noelle’s chaperon but her protector during this all-important jaunt to the gallery.

From that moment on, Grace was putty in Ashford’s hands.

She was also taking her role quite seriously. She’d all but appended herself to Noelle’s side, her ample bosom acting as a formidable partition between Noelle and André—something André was finding clearly distasteful. Noelle, on the other hand, was not. In fact, given André’s frequent, seductive glances and ardent innuendos, she was relieved to have something tangible to ensure he kept his distance. She was jittery enough about what might be unfolding in Baricci’s office without having to stop and peel André off of her every five minutes. So, fortunately for her, Grace’s bosom was rendering that job unnecessary.

“… is mine, as well.”

Noelle started, realizing that André had just said something he considered to be profoundly important and was awaiting her reply.

“Is it really?” she tried, hoping it was the proper response, given that all she’d heard of his statement were the final four words.

The heavens were smiling upon her, because André beamed, obviously delighted by her enthusiasm. “Yes. Would you like to see it more closely?”

“Of course.” Gripping the folds of her mantle, Noelle steeled herself for the job she was here to do. She’d have to squelch her curiosity about whatever Baricci was or was not revealing inside his office. Ashford’s goal was explicit: a direct confrontation to get at the truth about Franco Baricci. Her goal was equally defined, if less direct. She had to use the backdoor approach to find that truth. And the vehicle through which she had to do so was André Sardo.

“Come.” André extended his arm to her, guided her over to a meticulously authentic, detailed depiction of a flower arrangement.

“That’s lovely, André,” she said with both surprise and sincerity. “I had no idea you painted still lifes as well.”

His brown eyes warmed.
“Chérie,
there is nothing I cannot paint—and paint better than any of my competitors.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” Shelving the new, unexpected knowledge that André’s talents ran far deeper than she’d originally realized, Noelle saw the opportunity that had just been handed to her, seized it with both hands.

Looking somewhat perplexed, she gazed about the gallery, wrinkling up her nose in concentration as she scanned the dozen and a half paintings with which she was unfamiliar. “I can’t imagine anyone else’s talent coming close to yours. Although, if I must be honest, I haven’t actually seen anything here that was painted by one of your competitors.”

Abruptly, she found what she sought—or rather, she hoped she did. The problem was that the painting in question was only partially visible, tucked away on the far wall. Not to mention that she was so disgustingly ignorant in the field of art that she couldn’t rely upon her own judgements. Nevertheless, the haunting abstract whose sweeping lines and muted tones were incredibly compelling seemed—even to a novice such as herself—to depict a style that was unquestionably the opposite of André’s.

It was time to find out whose style it was; to learn the name of at least one other artist employed by Baricci.

Offhandedly, she pointed. “For example, who painted that?”

André followed her gaze, and a tight smile curved his lips. “Why?” he asked in a peculiar tone. “Am I to assume you admire that particular work?”

Warning bells resounded in Noelle’s head. She’d just complimented something created by another artist. And André was not going to take well to that. Not well at all.

“André, I didn’t say I admired it. Nor am I qualified to gauge whether or not it’s exceptional. All I asked was—”

“You needn’t apologize, my beautiful Noelle.” He drew her over to it, his expression intense, his gaze assessing as he examined the painting. “I’m taken by it, as well. It’s the gallery’s most recent addition. Frankly, I find it mesmerizing.” Scowling, he reached around Grace long enough to kiss Noelle’s gloved fingers. “But I’ve only viewed it at arm’s length and, just recently, as a whole. I’m flattered that your eye was captured from such a distance, and with so little of the painting visible.”

Noelle freed her hand in order to wave it in flustered noncomprehension. “I don’t understand. Why would you be flattered? It’s not as if—” Seeing the self-satisfaction that gleamed in André’s eyes, she broke off, realizing she had her answer. “Are you saying you painted this as well?” she demanded.

“I am.”

“André, that’s astonishing.” Noelle stared at the painting, searched its perimeter for a telltale name.

This must be one of the paintings Ashford had been referring to—the ones whose signatures were hidden beneath the frames. Although, in this case, there was an obvious explanation for that concealment. The frame was unusually bulky, its thick wooden border jutting several inches onto each edge of the painting. Then again, the painting itself was long and sprawling, one she supposed would require the additional support of a heavy frame.

“It’s breathtaking,” Noelle said honestly. “And entirely different from your other work. Obviously, you’re even more of a genius than I realized.”

“I excel in five or six different styles, all of which are displayed here in the Franco.” A heated look, one that even Grace’s bosom couldn’t obstruct. “Far more impressive than an insurance investigator, wouldn’t you say?”

Noelle ignored the pointed barb, still stunned by the range of André’s talents. “I’m in awe, especially considering I can’t draw a straight line.”

André’s warm chuckle filled the air. “Your beauty is gift enough. It’s up to others, such as I, to capture it.”

“Five or six styles—is there anything here you didn’t paint?” Noelle asked, half in jest.

A fierce expression crossed André’s face, and his dark gaze swept the periphery of the room with restless intensity. “If given the chance, I could out-paint the masters. Someday I’ll have that chance.”

“I’m sure you will.” Noelle wondered at his odd reaction. Was it professional jealousy he was grappling with, or was there something more?

Striving to find out, she pivoted about, her stare following the same path his had taken, flitting over the gallery’s entire inventory.
Tread carefully, Noelle,
she warned herself.
Don’t offend or alienate him.

She drew a slow, cautious breath. “This room contains the great works of the future. But with regard to the present, I know the Franco Gallery holds auctions, and that several valuable paintings have been sold here. Have you ever seen any of those masterpieces? The ones done by the brilliant artists whose ranks you’ll soon be joining—if not exceeding?”

An offhanded shrug. “Occasionally. I prefer to study and learn from my own creations rather than to survey those of others. My belief is that a true artist thinks with originality rather than with an eye toward replication.”

“That sounds daunting,” Noelle murmured, wishing there were some way she could get him to elaborate on his “occasionally.” She needed to know precisely what valuable works had passed through these walls. But André was so taken with himself that all he ever focused on were
his
accomplishments,
his
creations. Lord, if Michelangelo’s
David
danced through the room and struck him on the head, André wouldn’t even notice it because it didn’t come equipped with his signature.

A tremor ran through Noelle, her own image conjuring up a memory of the way poor Lady Mannering had died.

Had it been at Baricci’s hand?

She
had
to find out, to expose Baricci for the criminal he was. But it was beginning to look like pumping André wasn’t going to yield a shred of information.

She was getting nowhere fast. And time was running out.

“I have a unique gift, Noelle,” André was informing her, reaching out to capture a strand of her hair. “A passion that is unmatched—in any capacity.”

Grace made a loud harumph! and, reluctantly, André released Noelle’s hair, dropping his arm to his side.

“Let me show you something.” He walked Noelle over to a heart-stopping landscape: the Yorkshire cliffs as they dropped off to the North Sea, at the very top of which stood a young woman, her face angled toward them, her dark hair blown back, her blue eyes sad, wistful. At the bottom of the painting, scrawled among the waves, was André’s signature.

“What do you see here?” he asked.

Noelle wrapped her mantle more tightly around her, the painting’s remote isolation heightening the harsh chill that already permeated the room. “I see an extraordinary depiction of the cliffs at Yorkshire jutting out over the waves of the North Sea—and a woman who looks filled with despair.”

“Precisely. You not only see it, you feel it.” André tapped the edge of the painting alongside his signature. “What you don’t see is a cumbersome frame that obstructs the scene from view. That’s no accident. I use the narrowest, simplest frame possible. It’s a technique I adopted years ago, realizing that a viewer’s eye should be drawn to the work itself, not to what amounts to a piece of garish furniture encasing it. This landscape is my first contribution to the Franco Gallery.”

He ran his fingertip over the subtle walnut frame. “My frame just brushes the periphery of my paintings. It’s scarcely noticeable and does nothing to detract from the creation itself. Do you see what I mean?”

“Indeed I do.” Noelle nodded, André’s explanation prompted a new avenue to try. How many paintings had he claimed having done for Baricci? About a dozen. Perhaps by the process of elimination, she could determine which of these works had been created by others.

Glancing briefly around, Noelle’s brows drew together in puzzlement. Everywhere she looked, she saw André’s telltale frame. In fact, she only spied three, no four, paintings that didn’t feature it—including the new abstract, which she knew to be André’s despite its heftier frame.

How intriguing.

Wetting her lips, Noelle addressed the issue, being sure to keep her voice casual, off-the-cuff. “With regard to the gallery’s newest addition, that exquisite abstract of yours, I assume you couldn’t use your customary frame because of its size.”

For an instant, André didn’t reply, his gaze shifting to the painting in question. “Exactly,” he confirmed, seized by a fine, underlying tension. “My standard frame would never have been sturdy enough for a painting that size.” Abruptly, he shrugged, the tension vanishing as quickly as it had come. “It’s a pity, too. I hated watching that unwieldy block of wood being framed around my work, concealing my colors from view. But it couldn’t be helped.”

“I assumed as much.” Noelle studied his reaction thoughtfully. She hadn’t imagined the thread of uneasiness, the wariness, that had gripped him for that brief instant. Then again, given André’s artistic temperament, she wasn’t sure how much of that uneasiness to attribute to her questions, and how much to attribute to his own moodiness.

Noelle shifted restlessly. She needed time to assimilate the tidbits of information she’d gleaned today, to piece together the few additional facts André had revealed through his attempts to impress her. Most of all, she needed to talk to Ashford, to hear his interpretation of these facts.

Of its own accord, her gaze flickered toward the rear of the gallery. What was occurring in Baricci’s office right now? Was it pivotal? Staunchly, she reminded herself that she’d have to wait, to exercise some patience. Still, she wanted to scream with frustration at the thought of doing so, to subjecting herself to yet another bout of André’s boasting when her every instinct told her she’d learned all she was going to from him.

What she really wanted was to be a fly on Baricci’s wall, to hear what the scoundrel had to say.

What he was saying was what he’d said from the outset—and Ashford was getting bloody tired of hearing it.

“Gentlemen, you’re wasting your time and mine.” Baricci smoothed his lapels, rising from behind his desk and regarding the detectives with a cordial, if slightly impatient, expression. “I’ve said everything there is to say. I know nothing about Lord Vanley’s stolen Goya, nor—as I advised you when last we spoke—do I have any information on Lord Mannering’s missing Rembrandt. As for Emily Mannering, I repeat what I told you from the outset: I freely admit to our liaison. I also acknowledge visiting Emily on the night of her death. But I assure you, she was quite alive when I left her. Alive and asleep.”