by Andrea Kane
Ashford caught her wrist, tugged her hand away. "Enough, little seductress. Before your father storms out here and challenges me to a duel."
That sobered her quickly. "Oh, Ashford, you don't really think—"
"What I think is that we'd better get back to the party before we find out." He steered her away from the darkened section of path, back toward the manor.
Abruptly, Noelle remembered something else she'd intended to tell Ashford; an additional tidbit their discussion of Baricci had prompted her to relay—one she was fairly sure he'd find most intriguing.
"Ashford?" She tugged at his arm, slowing his step and compelling him to pay attention.
"No, tempête." His tone was husky, the look he gave her intimate. "No more boundaries tonight."
Noelle shook her head, although her heart skipped a beat. "That's not what I intended to ask." A mischievous grin. "At least not this time. What I intended to ask was, what do you know of André Sardo?"
"Sardo—the artist?" Ashford sobered instantly. "He's talented as hell. He's also relatively unknown, except at the Franco Gallery. Why do you ask?"
"So Baricci does display his works?"
A nod. "Baricci is Sardo's main source of revenue at this time. He's also his greatest hope. With any luck, the right patron will walk into Baricci's gallery someday and recognize Sardo's genius. Then his days of poverty will be over." Ashford's gaze narrowed intently. "Now tell me why you're asking about Sardo."
"Because he appeared at Farrington last week, announcing that Baricci had commissioned him to paint my portrait—as a gift to me, an olive branch of sorts. I convinced Papa to let him do so, if only to provide the poor artist with some income."
Ashford stopped in his tracks, dragging Noelle to a halt. "Baricci sent Sardo to Farrington?"
"My reaction precisely." Noelle tucked a blowing strand of hair behind her ear. "Ashford, I'm sure Baricci has some ulterior motive for wanting André at Farrington. What that motive is—well, I'd be willing to wager a guess. We know Baricci is terrified of what your investigation will uncover. Perhaps he doubted my claim that you and I were virtual strangers. If that's the case and he still believes we're lovers, he might very well assume I can provide him with information about your search into the missing paintings—information I inadvertently acquired during one of our…"—an impishly suggestive bat of her lashes—"passionate interludes."
Ashford didn't share her amusement. "I don't like this," he muttered. "Whatever the hell Baricci is mixed up in, he's involving you. You're damned right that Sardo's showing up on your doorstep when he did was no coincidence."
"Not to mention that, if I'm also right about Baricci's plan hinging on the existence of a liaison between you and me, André stumbled upon a welcome bit of news during his first trip to Farrington—news I'm certain he dashed right off to tell Baricci."
"What news?"
"As luck would have it, André was in the sitting room with Papa and me when your parents' invitation arrived. Papa all but read it aloud, at my urging, of course."
"You baited him." Ashford's scowl deepened. "You deliberately let Sardo know you'd be at Markham."
"At Markham—with you," Noelle clarified. "Don't look so grim. It was an ideal way to encourage Baricci's thinking—and his subsequent actions. Now that he's more convinced than ever of our involvement, he'll send André back to Farrington frequently to ply me for information. Knowing the way Baricci thinks, I'm sure he expects I'll be putty in André's hands. I am, after all, a mere woman, ripe prey for any man." A sparkle glittered in Noelle's sapphire eyes. "On the other hand, perhaps I'll surprise them. Perhaps it will be André who is putty in my hands. Without his knowing it, of course. Just think of all the details I could learn, all the falsehoods I could pass on to divert Baricci from the truth."
"Noelle, stop it," Ashford commanded, his grip on her arm unconsciously tightening. "This is not a game. You have no idea what you're dealing with."
"Maybe not. But I have an excellent idea what I could accomplish by using this situation to our advantage. I could implement Baricci's very tactics, only in reverse, delicately prying information out of André, while at the same time misleading him with whatever contrived particulars you and I have conveniently arranged for me to let slip. And danger? Even if there is danger involved, it emanates from Baricci, so it won't affect me. After all, he's not the one visiting Farrington—André is. Believe me, André is nothing like his employer. Truly, Ashford, I think your concerns, though touching, are unfounded—not to mention that they pale beside the possible benefits of my plan. André is a bit intense, I admit, but he is sincere about his work. And he is, as you said, a fine artist."
"André?" Ashford bit out, emphasizing Noelle's use of the artist's given name. "Noelle, let me tell you something else about your artist friend. The man might be sincere about his work, but he's a libertine of the worst kind. He's had more women—"
"Than you have?" Noelle supplied helpfully. "I rather suspected as much, given the charm he exudes." She grinned. "Chloe was quite taken with him."
"Are you intentionally trying to make me jealous? Because if so, you can stop. You've succeeded."
"I was only teasing you. Be that as it may, I'm still pleased to hear you're jealous."
"I'm sure you are. But it's more than mere jealousy I'm experiencing, Noelle. It's worry—not just unease, worry. I agree that the real danger comes from Baricci himself. Still, if Sardo is working for Baricci—and I don't mean in his gallery—then he's not just an honest, poverty-stricken artist. He's an extension of Baricci: in this case, his eyes and his ears. And the person he's being paid to scrutinize is you." Ashford paused, deep in thought. "How much of this situation have you divulged to your father?"
"To Papa?" Noelle's expression was incredulous. "None of it. If I told him my suspicions, André would be banished from Farrington, and you and I would be losing this golden opportunity to acquire implicating evidence on Baricci Papa knows only that we're aiding a poor man in his quest for work." She pressed her lips together, trying to read Ashford's mind. "Don't let your gallantry overrule your common sense. You need proof to convict that scoundrel. I can help you get that proof. I realize we have yet to map out the exact details, but you know as well as I do that my sittings with André might prove invaluable. They could be your only chance of getting at Baricci. Consider it: while Baricci is concentrating on thwarting you, eluding detection, I'll be delving for facts to ensure his downfall. And who knows? I just might find them."
"I don't doubt that for a minute," Ashford retorted. "However, your logic does nothing to lessen my unease about your safety. So, tempting though it might be—"
"Speaking of tempting, we'd best get inside," Noelle inserted quickly, sensing that Ashford was about to dash her plan to ribbons—and nipping that prospect in the bud. "I'm sure Papa is pacing the floors by now, awaiting our return. Not to mention that the whist games are probably already under way." She stood on tiptoe, brushed her lips across Ashford's. "Think about it," she advised, flashing him a bright, impish grin. "You can make your decision after I've divested you of your gambling funds."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
"Ah, André. Come in." Baricci frowned at his necktie, trying to decide if it was worth retying in order to eliminate that one stubborn wrinkle. In the end, he did, smoothing the white silk until it lay just so.
"You look elegant," André noted, his dark brows arching in surprise as he stepped inside Baricci's office. "Here I thought you'd summoned me to discuss my next assignment—or your next robbery. Instead I find you clad in formal evening attire. Clearly, you're going out." An amused look. "Am I invited?"
"I think not," Baricci replied with a tight-lipped smile. "The plans I have in mind for tonight are most definitely for two."
"I'm envious." André shut the door and leaned back against it, idly watching Baricci slip on his white gloves.
"With a different woman ea
ch night and my lovely Noelle soon to return from Northampton? Somehow I doubt that, André." Baricci angled his head, studying his reflection in the looking glass he kept on hand for occasions such as this. "Excellent," he pronounced with a nod of approval.
"Who is she?" André inquired.
"A rare and delectable beauty."
Baricci's evasiveness was not lost on André. "A rare, delectable, and married beauty would be my guess," he ventured shrewdly.
Another tight smile. "You neglected to mention wealthy. She's that as well." Baricci inspected the ruffles on his shirt, ensuring that each one lay perfectly. "She's also the owner of our next masterpiece—an exquisite Rembrandt worth a small fortune."
"Stealing from your paramours?" André murmured. "That's a first for you, Franco."
"Only because the opportunity never before presented itself. But now that it has, think how much simpler it will all be to accomplish."
"Ah." A flicker of admiration lit André's eyes. "I begin to see the logic of your thinking. Court the lady—I presume her husband is away?"
"On business. For two days," Baricci confirmed. "And her servants have been given both days off. So her ladyship and I will be quite alone."
"Splendid. So you lavish her with attention, drown her in passion, and then…" A puzzled frown. "Then what? Do you sweep the painting away while she's soundly asleep in the glowing aftermath of your love?"
Baricci shot the artist an icy, disparaging look. "That's your problem, André. You think with your heart and your loins, not your head. The former should be reserved for pleasure, the latter for business. Of course I don't whisk away the painting while she's asleep. Who do you think she'd suspect of stealing it when she awakened and found both the painting and me gone?"
"I see your point. Then how do you arrange for the theft?"
"Carefully. Subtly. Using both charm and skill. Tonight is for laying the groundwork—groundwork I began by ensuring the lady's husband was called away on urgent business."
"Very clever."
"The last time her ladyship and I had occasion to be alone in her Town house, I spied the Rembrandt. Tonight I'll have the opportunity to survey her home more closely, to locate the various points of entry. I'll decide upon the best and least conspicuous door or window for my purposes—and then ensure it remains unlocked until my men return late tomorrow night, quietly letting themselves in while her ladyship and I are upstairs abed. They'll have more than ample time to remove the Rembrandt from its prominent place over her music-room mantel and make their exit.
"I, of course, will be properly shocked when, at dawn, my lovely paramour—who will be ushering me downstairs for a subtle departure prior to her husband's return—discovers the painting gone. I'll also be most understanding when she insists that I leave immediately, so as not to cause a scandal when the police, who will naturally be summoned, arrive."
"A brilliant plan," André praised. "But you've piqued my curiosity. Who is this alluring paramour of yours? I vow I'll reveal her name to no one."
Baricci's eyes gleamed. "Very well, André. If you insist. Actually, who better than you to appreciate the exhilaration of acquiring a particularly beautiful woman?" He adjusted his cuffs. "It's Lady Mannering."
A profound silence. "Emily Mannering?"
"Ah, I was sure you'd heard rumors of her beauty. Tell me, have you also had occasion to see her for yourself? If so, you know the rumors don't begin to do her justice."
"I have indeed seen her. And I agree—she's breathtaking. I'm duly impressed, Franco."
Baricci acknowledged the praise with a swift nod. "I must admit I haven't been so captivated by a woman since Liza," he confessed. "Perhaps it's that fragile beauty, those exquisite, startlingly blue eyes, and that porcelain complexion. Or perhaps it's the rarity of seeing both delicacy and passion, typically contrasting qualities, in one woman—and in such equal measures. Anything is possible. All I know is that her affect on me is astounding."
"Except that Liza Bromleigh was fresh from the schoolroom," André pointed out.
"True. Which was in some ways exciting, in other ways a burden. Liza was a wildly avid pupil. She was also, unfortunately, too young to possess any of her own funds and too romantic to consider remaining unwed. Neither of which fit into my plans—then or now. With Emily, however, it's different. True, I wasn't the first man in her bed, but I was the first to awaken her to the heights of her own passion. She also has the added appeal of being stunningly wealthy and quite married to another. I'm more than satisfied with the outcome. Our liaisons have been difficult to arrange, but well worth the effort."
A triumphant light glistened in Baricci's eyes as he glanced about, spied his black silk top hat, and seized it. "This was one conquest I relished making and continue to relish each time Emily and I are together. How fitting that such a delightful affiliation will also prove to be a lucrative one as well."
With a final tug at his waistcoat, Baricci turned to glance at André. "Enough chatter. Let's get to the purpose behind my summoning you. How quickly can you complete another painting for me?"
André straightened in surprise. "I just gave you a painting—the one intended to conceal the Gainsborough. I thought you planned to use that on your next prize instead."
"I did. But upon more thorough reflection, I realize the Rembrandt has different dimensions than the Gainsborough; it's wider and much longer—a hand span for each, I should say. Plus, I'm thinking ahead. It occurred to me that Noelle should be back in a few short days, after which your time and efforts must be devoted entirely to crafting her portrait and winning her affections. You'll have no time to indulge in other dabbling."
"I don't dabble, Franco. I paint," André corrected tersely.
"I'm aware of what you do." A stiff pause. "In any case, I think it would be a good idea to have several finished canvases on hand, including one that fits the Rembrandt." Baricci's lips curved into a brittle smile. "Who knows? Perhaps Lord Mannering has other valuable paintings about, in sections of the house I have yet to see. Thus far, Emily and I have made love only in her bedchamber with the door tightly locked lest the servants return early and intrude. Well, this time, there's no fear of that. So maybe I'll enjoy her in every room, simultaneously seeking out other treasures to divest her husband of."
"I wouldn't jeopardize your theft by making it too complicated—and lengthy—a procedure," André inserted in a dry tone. "That mystery bandit is probably right on your heels. You wouldn't want him to beat you to so profitable a target."
Baricci's smile vanished in a heartbeat, supplanted by a fine yet tangible undercurrent of rage. Faint spots of color stained his cheeks, and his gloved hands balled slowly into fists. "Not this time," he refuted, the pulse in his neck quickening every so slightly. "That common bastard robbed me of the Gainsborough. He won't do the same with the Rembrandt."
André's pupils dilated in wary assessment, but he swiftly recovered himself. "I'm sure you're right," he conceded. With a discreet cough, he turned his attention back to Baricci's original question. "If you're willing to accept one of my personal projects—the less commercial, more unconventional creations I work on in my spare time—I believe I can provide something that would nicely conceal the Rembrandt and deliver the finished painting to you in under a week. Would that suffice?"
"Yes." Baricci glanced down at his own clenched fists and frowned, abruptly relaxing them. "That would be fine." He turned back to the looking glass, placing his top hat at the proper angle on his head. "I'm late, André. Besides, you'd best get home and work on that painting."
"I'm on my way."
With a fleeting, thoughtful glance at Baricci's back, André opened the door and slipped out of the office.
* * *
Markham's ballroom had been transformed into a glittering paradise.
That was Noelle's first thought as she stood between her parents, gazing into the enormous, elegant room—its crystal chandeliers aglow, its polished wooden floor
s crowded with hundreds of magnificently dressed guests, some of whom gathered in small groups, chatting and drinking punch, others of whom danced to the exquisite musical strains emitted by the string quartet who were assembled on a platform alongside the French doors.
A profusion of color, sound, and motion.
"Have you ever seen anything so lovely?" Noelle breathed, staring about with wonder in her eyes.
"Yes." Eric looked proudly from his wife to his daughter. "The two women I'm escorting."
Noelle flashed him a warm smile. "Thank you, Papa. My confidence sorely needed that."
"It shouldn't," Brigitte murmured, smoothing the capped sleeve of Noelle's silk velvet gown with an approving nod. "You look beautiful. That rich blue color makes you look positively regal."
"Of all the gowns you had designed for me, this is my favorite," Noelle confessed. "Thank you for letting me wear it tonight—in honor of my first ball."
"That's what it was fashioned for."
"Yes and no," Eric put in dryly. "It was designed for your first ball, but that ball was supposed to take place at the onset of the Season."
"A mere technicality," Brigitte assured Eric with a sunny smile. "After all, the Season is only five or six weeks away. Consider tonight to be the gown's debut, and this ball to be Noelle's taste of what's to come."
"Besides, this gown is not only my favorite, Papa. It's yours, as well," Noelle reminded him.
"Indeed. As I'm sure it will be Ashford Thornton's." Eric arched a pointed brow at his daughter. "You manipulate me so splendidly, Noelle. You and your brilliant accomplice here." His knowing gaze flickered to Brigitte—and softened. "Then again, you always have. It's a good thing I love you both enough to overlook it." His knuckles brushed Brigitte's cheek, his appreciative stare taking in her radiant expression, the fashionable cut of her amethyst gown. "Or perhaps I'm just dazzled by your mother's beauty."
"Either reason will do," Brigitte assured him, love shining in her eyes. She covered her husband's hand with her gloved one, squeezing his fingers to let him know she understood his inner turmoil. "You look dashing as well, my lord," she murmured softly. "And Noelle and I are proud to be the ladies on your arm—on both arms."