Andrea Kane (8 page)

So Ashford settled for the small amount of privacy he could muster. Shifting to the edge of his carriage seat, he angled himself to face Noelle, his back half-turned toward Grace.

“Clearly, you’re distressed,” he announced without prelude. “What did Baricci do?”

An ironic smile touched her lips. “Not what you’re imagining he did.”

Ashford was half-tempted to blurt out that seduction wasn’t the offense he’d been alluding to. But he fought the impulse to do so. After all, if he made that statement, he’d be forced to explain it. “Why did you want to see him?” he asked instead.

“Why is he so afraid of you?” Lady Noelle stunned him by firing back.

Ashford arched a brow. “Is he?”

“I think you know he is.”

“And I think you’re a very clever young woman.”

This time her smile lit up her whole face. “And
I
think you’re evading my question.” She tossed him a saucy look. “According to my father, no one can best me in a debate. So I suggest you give it up.”

“Very well,” Ashford conceded, a warm chuckle escaping his lips. “I have the distinct feeling your father is right.”

“Then answer my question.”

“I will.
If
you tell me what’s prompting you to ask it.”

“Fair enough,” Noelle agreed. “Mr. Baricci kept bringing the conversation around to you, trying to pry information out of me. What he was delving for, I haven’t a clue. Nonetheless, he seemed to want it quite badly. He was overly curious—even worried—about how you and I met. Also about why you were accompanying me to his gallery. In short, he was noticeably disturbed by our association.” She tucked a strand of that glorious hair behind her ear. “By the way, he came to the conclusion we were lovers.”

“My lady!” Grace pressed a horrified palm to her mouth.

“Don’t be so priggish, Grace.” Noelle tossed her maid an exasperated look. “That
is
what the man said. Quite bluntly, in fact.”

“Did he?” Ashford was biting back laughter. He wasn’t sure what he found more enchanting, Noelle’s sheer audacity or her utter refusal to abandon that trait and bow to propriety.

“Yes. He did.”

“Perhaps he was jealous,” Ashford tried carefully. He watched her face, gauging her reaction to his intentionally faulty assumption.

She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Hardly. As I said, Mr. Baricci wasn’t interested in seducing me.”

“Are you certain? The man has quite a reputation with women.”

Noelle’s sapphire eyes glinted wickedly. “Odd. He said the same thing about you.”

Grace moaned, burying her face in her hands, her bulky weight sinking deeper into the carriage seat.

“Are you a womanizer, my lord?” Noelle inquired, ignoring her maid’s all-too-conspicuous protest. Leaning forward, she propped her chin on her hand and regarded Ashford with a bright, fascinated curiosity that was both childlike and thoroughly female—very
adult
female. “Are you?”

Ashford felt everything inside him tighten, and he had to fight the insane desire to pull Lady Noelle Bromleigh into his arms and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

“Am I treading on forbidden territory?” she murmured.

“No,” he heard himself reply. “I’m just not certain how to respond. I enjoy women. They enjoy me. But I have rules—rules I abide by. I’m straightforward in my pursuit. I don’t undermine existing relationships nor prey upon vulnerability. Does that make me a womanizer? I think not.” He leaned a bit closer. “What do you think?”

Noelle’s breath caught, then released in a rush—and Ashford gritted his teeth as the warm puff of air grazed his lips. “I haven’t enough experience to make that judgment,” she managed.

“Nor will you acquire any.” Grace surged to life, her head coming up, her plump cheeks suffused with color. “Really, Lord Tremlett, this topic of conversation is utterly—”

“I apologize,” Ashford interrupted, addressing Grace yet never taking his eyes off Noelle. “I meant no disrespect.”

“None was taken,” Noelle assured him. She eased back in her seat, clearly preparing to steer the discussion in a less provocative direction. “With regard to our bargain, my lord, I’ve told you what prompted my question. It’s time for you to answer it.”

“Indeed.” Ashford was completely astounded by the pull that existed between Lady Noelle Bromleigh and himself—the very magnitude of which was unprecedented in his vast realm of experience. It was a palpable entity that took every ounce of his strength to resist.

But resistance was essential—for now.

“Here’s your answer, then,” he supplied. “Baricci is afraid of me because I’m a disruption. When I visit his gallery, I generally ask a lot of unpleasant questions. This time was no exception. A valuable painting was recently stolen. I’m investigating the matter for Lloyds.”

Noelle’s eyes widened. “And Mr. Baricci was involved in this theft?”

“I didn’t say that,” Ashford refuted, now scrutinizing her for an entirely different reason. “But the painting was originally auctioned off at the Franco Gallery. So I needed some background information.”

“I see.” Noelle’s expression was the epitome of unfeigned innocence. Ashford would stake his life on the fact that she hadn’t a clue where
Moonlight in Florence
was or who was behind its theft.

Then why the hell had she visited Baricci?

As if reading his mind, Noelle continued of her own accord. “Several valuable paintings have disappeared recently, according to what I’ve read in the newspapers.”

Ashford tensed. “Yes, they have.”

“Do you believe the thefts are related?”

“It’s quite possible.” He waited, wondering where she was headed and why. Was she merely expressing her own charming brand of curiosity or was she pumping him for information—information she planned to pass on to Baricci? The latter was highly unlikely. Still, he had to be sure.

Noelle’s brow furrowed in thought, and Ashford leaned forward, eager to hear her response.

It was Grace who responded.

“We’ve arrived at the station,” she barked, peering out the window.

Dammit,
Ashford swore silently.
I’ve run out of time.

There was only one thing left to do.

“You’re neither an artist nor a dealer. So what possible business could you have with Franco Baricci?” he demanded, resorting to his last hope: the element of surprise.

Plainly, it worked, for Noelle started, her pupils dilating before her lashes drifted to her cheeks, veiling her magnificent eyes. “You don’t mince words, do you, my lord?” She twisted her hands in the folds of her mantle, awkwardly weighing her words. “My business with Mr. Baricci was personal in nature,” she said at last. “I’m not comfortable discussing the details with a stranger.”

“After today, I didn’t think we were strangers.”

Her lashes lifted, and a tiny smile curved her lips. “Perhaps not. But we’re hardly friends either.”

“I’d like to change that,” he said quietly as the carriage rolled up to the station and stopped.

“Why? Because of your interest in Mr. Baricci?”

“No. Because of my interest in you.”

A charged silence, during which Ashford’s driver came around and opened the door. “Waterloo Station,” he announced, offering a hand to the ladies.

Fortunately, Grace was seated closer to the door. With a disapproving scowl at Lady Noelle, she accepted the driver’s assistance and descended to the street.

Ashford waited until Grace was poised outside the carriage. Then he made his move. He lurched forward, his fingers closing around Noelle’s, staying her as she made to rise. “I want to see you again.”

Those exquisite sapphire eyes glinted with anticipation. “Are you asking to call on me, Lord Tremlett?”

“Ashford,” he corrected, his thumb caressing her wrist.

“Ashford,” she reiterated, whispering his name in a breathless way that made his blood heat.

He brought her fingers to his lips, as much on instinct as on design. Whatever the hell he was doing far transcended his hunt for Baricci, and he knew it. “Yes, I’m asking to call on you—Noelle. May I?”

With apparent fascination she watched her fingers against his lips, shivering as he lightly kissed her fingertips. Slowly, her chin came up and her gaze met his. “I’d like that, my lord,” she admitted. “I’d like that very much.”

“Good. Then expect to hear from me.”

“I shall.”

“My lady!” Grace bellowed her summons over the noise of the busy London station.

“I’m coming, Grace,” Noelle called back. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, gathered up her skirts, and exited the carriage. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, turning to face Ashford. “For the ride, the game of piquet, and the fascinating conversation.”

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, holding her with his gaze. “At least not yet.”

WILLIAMS PACED ABOUT BARICCI’S
office, displaying none of the cool, collected demeanor he’d exhibited in Ashford’s presence.

Halting, he pivoted to face his employer. “What do you think he knows?” he demanded, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I don’t believe it’s a question of what he
knows,
” Baricci amended, seated calmly behind his desk, preparing to eat an apple. “But rather what he
suspects.
”

“In that case, we’re as good as caught.”

“Not at all.” Baricci sliced his apple into neat little sections, then placed one piece in his mouth. Methodically, he chewed and swallowed, only continuing to speak after he’d dabbed at either corner of his mouth with his napkin. “It’s no secret that Tremlett suspects I’m involved in the thefts of those paintings—
Moonlight in Florence
included. Then again, Tremlett suspects my involvement in anything even remotely disreputable that transpires in the art community. It’s our job to keep his suspicions from becoming facts.” A sip of Madeira. “Now, tell me again what he asked you.”

“Not nearly as many questions as he customarily asks—nor, I believe, as many as he originally intended to ask,” Williams replied uneasily. “In fact, he left the gallery with little more than when he came in, requesting only the names of those besides Norwood who bid on
Moonlight,
as well as confirmation of whether any of the bidders were excessively upset when they lost.”

“Logical requests.” Baricci’s finger grazed the rim of his glass. “Certainly nothing alarming that would connect us with the theft. Then again, that’s not what’s troubling you.”

“No, sir, it isn’t. Tremlett’s interrogations—even at their most grueling—are a regular part of my job. They take place every time a valuable painting disappears. I’m more than equipped to handle them. What’s disturbing me, greatly, is the earl’s choice of companions on this particular visit.”

“Ah, yes. My little Noelle.” Baricci rose, walking over to stare pensively out the window. “That was a surprising coincidence, wasn’t it?”

“Do you truly think it was a coincidence?”

“Actually, yes.” Baricci turned, rubbing his palms together. “A most unfortunate one, but a coincidence nonetheless. Noelle herself convinced me of that, without even realizing she was doing so. You see, my daughter …”—a smile played about his lips as he uttered the word—“is far too genuine to lie, much less to manage a grand deception. I asked her point blank what her relationship was with Tremlett. She said she’d just met him on the train from Poole.”

“And you believe her?”

“Indeed I do. As I just said, Noelle is not a liar. In fact, she’s the most shockingly candid young woman I’ve ever encountered.” He frowned. “Our problem is not
how
they met, but the very fact that they have. Noelle might not have known Ashford Thornton prior to today, but she knows him now.”

“And
he,
I’m sure, knows her relationship to you.”

“But of course. There’s little or nothing Tremlett doesn’t know about me. Just as I know him—
and
the way he operates. He’ll seize this opportunity like a tiger seizes its prey and use Noelle in any way he can to get to me.”

“That’s precisely what’s worrying me,” Williams agreed. “In fact, I’d be willing to wager that Tremlett intends for us to agonize over it—he as much as said so. As he was leaving the gallery, he grasped Lady Noelle’s arm, stared straight at me, and—keeping her close beside him—announced that he had what he needed for now. I doubt he was referring to the bidders’ names I’d provided.”

“I doubt it as well. You can be damned sure that Tremlett intends to use Noelle to his advantage. And, sadly, Noelle is just naive enough and certainly idealistic enough to fit his purposes.”

“And to succumb to his charm?” Williams inquired.

A dark expression crossed Baricci’s face. “Not if I can help it.”

“Sir, with all due respect, Tremlett is as accomplished with women as he is with his investigations. And Lady Noelle is young, impressionable—the perfect target for Tremlett’s seduction.”

“Agreed. After which, she’ll be putty in his hands. Therefore, it’s up to me to provide a diversion, to supply my daughter with both a man upon whom to cast her eye and, as a result, a father upon whom to offer her allegiance.” He pressed his lips together, his dark eyes glinting triumphantly. “I know just the man who can accomplish both—sweep young Noelle off her feet and convince her of the fine man her sire truly is.”

Baricci strode to his desk, whisking out a sheet of paper and a pen. “I’ll summon him at once. He’ll be a delightful surprise for my newfound daughter, a fabulously talented artist to paint her portrait. What more exhilarating gift for a young girl on the verge of her coming-out? And what better way for me to demonstrate my noble intentions?”

A smile of smug realization curved Williams’s lips. “Sardo,” he pronounced. “He’s the artist you’re sending for.”

“Who else but the best to paint Noelle’s portrait?” Baricci asked with a chuckle. “If anyone can seduce my daughter and turn her allegiance in my direction, it’s the dashing and exciting André Sardo. Once he’s worked his magic, Tremlett’s efforts will all be for naught. She’ll belong to André, mind and body. And, as a result, she’ll be sympathetic to me, rather than Lord Tremlett—should a choice become necessary.”