by Andrea Kane
So, she concluded, until the commencement of the Season, there could be no visits. Unless, of course, Lord Tremlett could think of a way to persuade her father otherwise. If so, that was another matter entirely, and she would look forward to receiving him.
Laughter rumbled in Ashford's chest, and he folded the note, contemplating the less-than-subtle challenge he'd been handed. She wanted to see him. Lord knew, he wanted to see her. They both had faith he could make it happen.
Now the only question was how. How could they meet without violating Lord Farrington's rules?
Changing the earl's mind was a losing bet, despite Noelle's optimistic belief otherwise. Clearly, Eric Bromleigh meant to keep his daughter close by his side, relinquishing her to the ton only after her formal court presentation in March and, even then, in carefully chosen, select doses. Altering those plans wasn't a plausible option. If Ashford wanted to see Noelle, he'd have to find another, more acceptable means of doing so. Either that, or wait until the onset of the Season and fend off dozens of eager suitors in the hopes of claiming one or two meager dances.
That prospect was thoroughly distasteful—for a number of reasons.
Perhaps an accidental meeting. But where? Certainly not at Farrington Manor, he'd never get past the earl. Of course, there was always the church over which Noelle's great-grandfather presided, Ashford mused, recalling from his research on the Bromleighs that Noelle's great-grandfather, Rupert Curran, was the vicar of a local Dorsetshire church. But even if Ashford were to magically appear there on Sunday morning when Noelle was almost assuredly present, all he could hope to gain was a few minutes of swift conversation. Hardly what he intended. He wanted hours with Noelle—hours to get to know her better. No, the church wouldn't do. Then where? Where would her family travel together, spend a prolonged period of time, and feel comfortable giving Noelle a bit of freedom to move about as she chose?
Ashford's head shot up, the answer exploding in his mind like a bolt of lightning.
Markham.
It was perfect—the perfect place, the perfect motivation, the perfect opportunity.
An opportunity that was but a fortnight away.
To hell with sleep. He had arrangements to make. He'd leave for his parents' residence now.
* * *
Markham was an enormous estate in Northampton, comprising hundreds of acres of manicured lawns and exquisite gardens, beyond which sat the manor's palatial walls and turrets.
For Ashford, it was home—the place he and his siblings had been raised, loved, and, as a result, now always managed to make their way back to, no matter how hectic their lives became.
But none of that was because of Markham's grandeur.
All of it was because of its master and mistress.
Pierce and Daphne Thornton were as unique as they were inspiring, both having overcome great personal hardship in order to find the joy and peace that was now theirs.
Pierce hadn't been born a future duke. In fact, not only hadn't he been the Duke of Markham's chosen heir, he hadn't even been acknowledged, much less titled, until he was thirty. He'd been born a bastard, grew up in a filthy Leicester workhouse, and nearly died on the streets. His life had been lonely and brutal; it wasn't until he'd met Daphne that it had turned around.
Ashford's mother was the most amazing of women, as emotionally strong as she was physically delicate. Before meeting her husband, she'd survived years of cruel beatings by her father, she not only survived but retained a purity of spirit that by all rights should have been splintered into fragments, vanished along with her faith.
She'd lost neither. Instead, she'd gifted both to Pierce.
Now, some thirty-four years later, Ashford's parents still had the kind of fairytale marriage others dream of but never attain.
They passed that love on to their children. Not only their love, but their values: respect others, recognize who and what defines true worth, and most of all, never act without considering the consequences. All that had been ingrained in Ashford and his brothers and sisters from the day they were born.
That and a few other intriguing things…
Swinging down from his carriage, Ashford issued a few quick instructions to his driver, then hurried up the front steps to the manor.
By the time he reached the entrance door, it had opened. "Master Ashford, what a pleasant surprise." A white-haired man, who stood as straight as an arrow despite his extremely advanced years, bowed a formal greeting.
"Hello, Langley," Ashford replied warmly. "You're looking well."
"I try, sir." The butler smoothed the coat of his impeccably pressed uniform.
"I apologize for the unexpected arrival," Ashford continued, as if his unpredictable comings and goings were rare rather than routine. "It couldn't be helped."
"Nonsense. Your parents will be delighted to see you." Langley stepped aside, having long since acclimated to Ashford's unorthodox entrances. "The duke and duchess are in the breakfast room. You'll show yourself in, I presume?"
A grin. "As always."
"Splendid. I'll arrange for your bags to be taken upstairs to your chambers."
"Thank you, Langley." Ashford strode down the hallway, sparing not a glance at the dozens of elegant rooms he passed. He had but one goal in mind: seeing his mother and father.
He reached the breakfast-room doorway and paused, watching them chatting over their coffee, totally absorbed in each other.
At past sixty, Pierce Thornton was still an imposing man. Tall, fit, strikingly handsome, the silver-grey at his temples and distinguished lines about his mouth were the only signs of his age. Otherwise, he had changed very little since Ashford had been born. Very little, Ashford reflected with a wry grin, in more ways than appearance. Ironically, people often commented that Ashford was a younger version of his father, other than his eyes, which were the same unusual melding of colors as his mother's.
Daphne Thornton was classically lovely: slender, delicate, with tawny hair and fine features, all highlighted by those kaleidoscope eyes she'd passed on to her son. Despite having borne five children—beginning with a set of twins, Ashford and his twin sister Juliet—Daphne still managed to retain the fresh quality of a woman twenty years her junior.
Many claimed it was the uncommon love that existed between the Duke and Duchess of Markham that kept them young. And Ashford would be the first to agree—their love … plus an occasional, covert dose of adventure.
With tender amusement, Ashford leaned against the door frame, wondering how long it would take before he was spied. Probably about ten seconds. Engrossed or not, nothing escaped his parents, certainly not the appearance of one of their beloved children.
As if on cue, Daphne's head came up. "Ashford." She sounded more excited than surprised. Springing to her feet, she hurried across the room, reaching up to hug her son. "We were just discussing you."
"That sounds dangerous," he chuckled, returning her embrace. "Perhaps I'd better leave."
"Don't even consider it," she warned, stepping back and squeezing his hands.
"Hello, son." Pierce joined them, clasping Ashford's shoulder and studying him intently. "I thought we might be seeing you today."
Ashford's gaze locked with his father's and he half turned, carefully shutting the door to ensure their privacy. "You heard already?"
"About an hour ago." Pierce's sources were incomparable. "It didn't sound like Baricci's work."
"It wasn't." A glint of humor. "Baricci's not nearly that good."
"He's also not nearly that arrogant," Daphne commented dryly. "Honestly, Ashford, you sound more like your father every day."
A hint of a smile touched Pierce's lips. "Now why doesn't that sound like a compliment, Snow Flame?"
"Perhaps because it isn't," Daphne retorted, her tone more anxious than sharp. She inclined her head to gaze up at her husband. "Aren't you the one who taught me that arrogance breeds overconfidence? And that overconfidence has the power to undo you?"
Daphne gave an exasperated sigh. "I give up. You're both impossible." She turned to scrutinize her son's face. "Are you all right? You didn't take any unnecessary risks?"
"Not a one," Ashford assured her. "Really, Mother, I'm quite intact." A teasing pause. "Arrogance and all." His voice dropped to a murmur. "I have a contribution for your next tin cup."
"How much?" Pierce questioned, as casually as if he were inquiring about the weather.
"Ten thousand pounds."
A low whistle. "Excellent."
"I'm not surprised," Daphne put in. "That particular Gainsborough was exquisite. A shrewd investor will make a fortune on it."
"An American investor," Ashford clarified. "That way, there's no chance of anyone encountering the painting during the upcoming London Season." A grin. "After all, we wouldn't want an unnerving episode to mar the glittering array of parties, now would we?"
Pierce made a disgusted sound. "I don't know how you tolerate attending those garish affairs, one after the other."
"They serve their purpose."
"Which purpose is that?" Pierce returned bluntly. "Investigating Baricci or seeking out new female companions?"
"A lot of the former, a bit of the latter." Ashford answered with a good deal less enthusiasm than usual. Rubbing his palms together, he made his way into the room, idly pouring himself a cup of coffee. "In addition to the painting, there's something else I wanted to discuss with you," he announced at length.
"I gathered as much," Daphne replied. "Otherwise I doubt you would have sacrificed whatever precious little sleep you might have gotten in order to arrive here at this early hour." She walked back to the table, gesturing for her son to sit. "Shall I have Cook bring you some breakfast?"
"No. I'd much rather talk."
"Very well." Pierce joined them, exchanging glances with his wife before refilling his own coffee cup. "What is it?"
"It pertains to your charity ball."
Daphne's brow furrowed at the mention of their annual donation event—a three-day house party consisting of card games, horse racing, and a grand ball, all of which was designed to collect money for poor and orphaned children. "You're not bowing out?"
"No, nothing like that. I'll be here." Ashford sipped at his coffee. "But I have a favor to ask of you."
"Name it," Pierce responded at once.
"I want you to invite the Earl and Countess of Farrington—and their family."
Pierce's brows rose. "Has this something to do with Baricci? Do you now have reason to suspect Eric Bromleigh is involved—"
"No."
"I thought not. From what I know of the man, he's decent and honest."
"He is. This has nothing to do with Baricci. At least not in the way that you mean."
"Not in the way that I mean?" A puzzled frown. "You've lost me."
"Let's suffice it to say, you'd be doing me a big favor. And our cause, as well. The Bromleighs are generous people. They'll be happy to contribute to helping needy children."
"I agree. They already give liberally within their own parish. Very well, I'll have an invitation sent to Farrington."
"Include the entire family," Ashford reiterated.
Daphne lowered her cup to its saucer, her expression reflective. "The earl has two daughters, has he not?"
"He does."
"The younger, as I recall, is still a child. But the elder one—let's see, she must be…"
"Eighteen," Ashford supplied, meeting his mother's gaze.
"Eighteen? Then I assume she'll soon be making her debut into society."
"You assume correctly. Eric Bromleigh is bringing Noelle out this very Season."
"I see." Daphne traced the rim of her cup with her forefinger. "Does this sudden interest in the Bromleighs have anything to do with the fact that Noelle Bromleigh is Baricci's natural child?"
"Only in that it precipitated our meeting."
"Your meeting?" Daphne's head came up. "You've met Lady Noelle?"
"Um-hum. On the railroad. On her way to the Franco Gallery." Ashford shot his mother a look. "Have I answered all your questions?"
"On the contrary, you've raised entirely new ones."
"I'll put one to rest immediately. Noelle is not connected to Baricci, other than by blood. In fact, prior to a few days ago, she never met the man. Why she suddenly decided to change that, I can merely speculate. I'm first putting the pieces together myself. What I'm hoping is that your charity ball will assist me by affording a few uninterrupted occasions when I might probe the matter with Noelle."
Again, Pierce and Daphne exchanged looks. "Is this interest in Noelle Bromleigh purely professional'?" Pierce asked without further preamble. "If I recall correctly from our visits to Mr. Curran's parish, his great-granddaughter is a lovely young woman."
"She is. Very lovely." Ashford arched a pointed brow. "And if there's anything more about Noelle that requires discussion—other than her blood ties to Baricci—I promise that you two will be the first to hear about it. In the interim, I'd appreciate it if you'd send out that invitation right away."
"It will be done this morning," Daphne assured him.
"Perfect." Anticipation surged through Ashford's veins. "Now I'll go up and fetch the bags of money I got for the Gainsborough. They're rather conspicuous, so I'll transfer them directly into the safe in your bedchamber."
"Good." Pierce nodded his compliance. "Your mother and I will see to the rest." A self-satisfied smile. "Ten thousand pounds will feed a lot of hungry children for an equal number of years. It will also provide them with proper medical care, new clothing, and even an indulgence or two."
"You can distribute the money over a dozen or more of the poorer parishes," Ashford suggested.
"Precisely what I intend. And your contribution is only a portion of what your mother and I will be donating to the needy before month's end. I fully expect we'll raise a huge sum during the course of our house party."
"I presume that means you've invited an abundance of extravagant gamblers?"
Pierce's eyes glinted. "Extravagant, yes. Superior, no. I harbor not a doubt that either you or I will best them all." A pause. "That is, if your conversations with Noelle Bromleigh permit you time at the gaming table."
Ashford's lips twitched. "I think I can find a free moment or two to test my skill. Besides, I have a suspicion I can manage both ventures at once—chatting with Noelle and divesting our guests of their funds." He chuckled, remembering the triumphant expression on Noelle's face when she'd thoroughly beaten him at piquet. "Noelle is quite the avid card player. She'll doubtless be only too eager to join in the sport, especially if the alternative is idle gossip and afternoon tea. Inactivity is definitely not Noelle's forte."
"A woman after my own heart," Daphne commented.
"Indeed," Ashford agreed, half to himself. "Mine as well." Seeing the spark of interest rekindle in his mother's eyes, he swiftly changed the subject. "When is Juliet expected?"
"Next week." Daphne took her son's cue, affording him the privacy he was clearly demanding. "Juliet, Carston, and the children will be sailing from Paris together, then riding directly to Markham."
"Excellent." A warm glow suffused Ashford's heart at the thought of seeing his twin and her family. He'd missed them at the holidays, given they'd spent them with Carston's family in Paris. Somehow Christmas hadn't been the same without Juliet's affectionate banter and her husband Carston's long-standing camaraderie—not to mention their twelve-year-old son Lucas's intelligence and energy, and their seven-year-old daughter Cara's devotion as she glued herself to Ashford's side like a peppermint stick.
"I'd suggest reserving some time for Cara," Daphne advised as if reading her son's mind. "She's stored up quite a bit of adoration during this trip. Every sentence of her
last letter began with 'Uncle Ashe."'
"As good as done," Ashford agreed with another chuckle. "That little moppet is going to be breaking hearts before we know it."
"Sheridan and Blair will be here, too," Daphne informed him, referring to Ashford's two younger brothers who, at twenty-eight and twenty-six years old, were still very much confirmed bachelors. "Only Laurel can't make the trip—not with the babe due next month. She's terribly upset about it, but I convinced her that to ride here from Yorkshire in her current condition would be absurd. Nor do I want Edmund to leave her alone at this time. I'm grateful for their desire to help. But Laurel's well-being must take precedence—hers and their child's."
Ashford nodded his agreement. His younger sister had a heart of gold. Still, with her second child about to make his or her appearance into the world, it was hardly the time to assist at a charity ball. "We'll send her a note the instant we've counted our winnings and figured out what our overall donation will be. That should put her mind at ease. Then next year, she can help us increase that amount."
"Try telling that to Laurel," Pierce muttered, shaking his head. "She may be a slip of a girl, but she's got a will of iron."
"She's not a girl anymore, Pierce," Daphne reminded him gently. "She's a twenty-three-year-old woman—married, a mother, with her second child on the way."
Pierce's jaw set. "That might be the case, but it doesn't change the way I view her."
"No," Daphne agreed, caressing his forearm. "It doesn't. Nor will it ever."
Witnessing this particular exchange, Ashford was struck by a most unwelcome analogy. His father's protectiveness toward Laurel, and for that matter toward Juliet, was identical to Eric Bromleigh's protectiveness toward Noelle. Clearly, the earl beheld his daughters much as Pierce did his: as precious extensions of himself, irreplaceable entities to be nurtured and cherished, sheltered from life's transformations, isolated from its awakenings.
And those awakenings included men.
Ashford knew he should feel like a snake. After all, hadn't he stood right beside his father more times than he could count, adding his formidable presence to Pierce's in order to discourage suitors from overstepping their bounds when it came to Juliet and Laurel? Hadn't he personally "persuaded" the wrong men to never return to Markham but instead to cast their eyes elsewhere and leave his sisters alone?