by Andrea Kane
An odd expression crossed Ashford's face, a combination of wonder and shock. "Damn," he swore quietly. "Damn if I'm not in over my head."
"Ashford…"
"No." He shook his head, pressing his forefinger to her lips. "Don't ask me any questions. Not now. Not until I've had some time to collect my thoughts. Just tell me you're all right, that I haven't hurt you."
Noelle rubbed her lips against his fingertip. "Didn't I tell you I'd never be all right again?"
A reluctant grin. "I suppose you did."
"I don't regret a minute of what just happened between us."
Ashford's smile vanished. "You should. And so should I."
"Do you?"
"No."
Warmth suffused Noelle, obliterated the winter chill as if by magic. "I'm glad."
"I've got to get you into the manor," Ashford pronounced, glancing around front of the house.
"What about finishing our talk about Sardo and Baricci?"
"First things first. Let's steal in as inconspicuously as we can. Then we'll come to an agreement about your plan."
"Fair enough," Noelle agreed.
"And let's hope your father hasn't yet noticed your absence."
"Do you think that's possible?"
"Not a chance."
Ashford was right.
At that very moment, Eric was standing beside Brigitte, conversing with Daphne and Pierce, but his gaze was darting about the ballroom, searching for his daughter.
She and Tremlett were nowhere to be found. "Eric?" Brigitte lay her hand on his arm. "The duchess was just answering your question about which parishes were in greatest need of the funds they'll be receiving from this charity event."
"Forgive me." Eric redirected his attention at Daphne. "I was distracted for a moment and didn't hear your reply."
Daphne studied him thoughtfully. "No apology is necessary, Lord Farrington. But if you'll forgive my boldness, is something troubling you? You seem somewhat distraught."
"Do I?" Eric drew a slow breath. "I suppose that's because I am."
"Eric." Brigitte's fingers tightened on his forearm—a warning and a plea. "We needn't burden the duke and duchess with our concerns."
"Please don't feel that way," Daphne countered with a gentle shake of her head. "You're in our home. If there's anything we can do to put you at ease…"
"Can you tell me where your son is?" Eric blurted.
Brigitte made a soft sound of dismay and averted her eyes.
"Our son?" It was Pierce who spoke, his dark brows drawing together in surprise. "Which son? And why would any of their whereabouts concern you? I don't understand."
"I think I do." Daphne's opal gaze swept the room, affirming what she already suspected. "You're wondering where Ashford went." A pause. "And if he went alone."
"Precisely." Eric's jaw was clenched. "I'm not a rude man, Your Grace. Nor am I ungrateful for your hospitality. But…"
"You needn't explain," Daphne interrupted with that gentle air of authority she possessed. "We have five children of our own, Lord Farrington; two of whom happen to be daughters. Your sentiments are not unfamiliar to me."
Comprehension registered on Pierce's face, and his head shot up, his steely gaze assessing the ballroom. "Ashford is with Noelle. Is that what this is about?"
"Yes," Eric replied. "It is." He dragged an uncomfortable hand through his hair. "This situation is very awkward, as you can see by my wife's mortified expression. I didn't mean to be rude, nor even to broach this subject. Your son is a grown man, and you're not responsible for his actions. I just didn't expect… I mean, I knew they were drawn to each other from the start, despite my attempts to stall things until Noelle had been properly brought out, but…"
"What attempts to stall things?" Pierce demanded. "I know only that they met on the railroad—and that Ashford was unusually eager for Noelle to attend this party."
"I suspected as much," Eric muttered. "To answer your question, yes, they met on the railroad, at which time Ashford expressed his interest in calling on Noelle. When she told me about it, I insisted she write to him, tell him to wait until after the Season was under way. She did so—reluctantly." Eric scanned the room again, his uneasiness intensifying by the minute. "In all fairness, Noelle is as captivated by your son as he is by her. But she's far younger and less experienced. And now they've vanished into the night. Frankly, I'm worried sick."
Pierce's shoulders squared, paternal defensiveness surging to life. "I know my son, Farrington. He would never take advantage of a young, innocent woman. Never."
"Of course not." Brigitte responded swiftly to abate the tension. "They've probably just gone out for some air."
"In January?" Eric countered. "Brigitte, there's frost on the ground. The conditions are hardly conducive to taking a late night stroll."
"I intend to find out, if only to put your mind at rest." Pierce scrutinized the room one last time, as if certain he'd spy Ashford and Noelle deep in conversation in some proper but as-of-yet unchecked location.
Seeing that wasn't the case, he frowned and veered toward the doorway, then halted as he saw his elderly butler enter the room, walking stiffly toward them. "Why is Langley awake?" he murmured. "I told him to retire for the night."
"Pardon me, Your Grace." Langley supplied the answer himself, reaching Pierce's side and immediately launching into an explanation for his appearance. "You have a visitor."
"A visitor? At this hour?"
"Yes, sir." A discreet pause. "It's Mr. Blackstreet. He claims it's a matter of some urgency. I showed him to your study."
"I see." Pierce displayed no visible reaction to this peculiar occurrence, other than to offer Brigitte and Eric a brief, apologetic look. "Please excuse me," he requested courteously.
"Of course," Eric replied.
Hearing the tension in Eric's tone, noting the grim lines still surrounding his mouth, Pierce turned back to his butler. "Langley, you didn't happen to see Ashford anywhere, did you?"
"Why, yes, sir. Master Ashford is in the hall chatting with Lady Noelle."
Eric sagged with relief.
"Evidently, they've found a common interest to discuss," Pierce remarked offhandedly. "Thank you, Langley," he added to his butler.
"Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"Only that you get some rest."
"I appreciate that, sir." With a formal bow, Langley took his leave.
Pierce shot Eric a questioning look. "Shall I tell Noelle you're looking for her?"
An ambivalent pause. "No, I suppose not. Chatting in the hallway is harmless enough."
"Very well." Pierce paused only long enough to caress Daphne's cheek. "I'll only be a minute, Snow Flame."
"Take as much time as you need," his wife returned. "Mr. Blackstreet's business must be pressing if it compelled him to ride here at this late hour and call you away from your guests."
"Yes," Pierce agreed, his gaze holding Daphne's. "It must."
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
"You're certainly adept at stealing your way into a house," Noelle teased, peering about the hall where she and Ashford now stood, halfway between the entranceway and the ballroom. "You got us in without making a sound or alerting a single guest. Tell me, my lord, does that ability come in handy when you're coming and going from secret ventures?"
Ashford's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"
"Women," Noelle supplied, her saucy tone belied by the vulnerability in her eyes. "Do you often steal your way in and out of their chambers?"
He relaxed, giving her a lazy smile. "No."
"I'm glad." She glanced beyond him, watching the guests drift in and out of the ballroom. "Seriously, I'm grateful for your proficiency at making unobserved entrances. With any luck, everyone will assume we've been right here in the hall the entire time."
"By everyone, I assume you mean your father."
"Yes—especially Papa." Noelle chewed h
er lip. "My fingers are crossed. We've been inside for a quarter hour, and there's still no sign of him."
Ashford shrugged, still dubious. "I'd keep them crossed a while longer. My parents might be fascinating conversationalists, but not fascinating enough to cause your father to relinquish his role as your sentry."
"Wherever Papa is, he's not talking with your parents anymore," Noelle amended. "At least not with your father. His Grace left the ballroom not five minutes after we inched our way into the manor."
A heartbeat of a pause. "Yes, I know." Ashford shifted his weight, more than aware of his father's actions, fairly certain of where he was and with whom.
Simultaneous with easing Noelle back into the manor, Ashford had spied Langley making his way to the ballroom—approaching not from the front door but from the rear—doubtless in search of the duke. Clearly he'd located him, because a few minutes later Ashford's father had exited the ballroom, veering off in the direction of his study.
He hadn't yet emerged. Which could mean only one thing: Blackstreet was here. The question was, why? What had their informant come to report?
Another robbery had occurred. Ashford could feel it in his bones. That son of a bitch Baricci had used these days when he knew he was free of scrutiny to plot and steal yet another masterpiece.
Dammit.
"Ashford?" Noelle's questioning voice interrupted his musings, addressing the very subject he himself was contemplating. "I want to discuss my plan to help apprehend Baricci."
"Using Sardo, you mean."
"Yes, using Sardo."
Scowling, Ashford considered the notion for the umpteenth time. It was tempting—very tempting, especially in light of what he surmised was transpiring in his father's study. But no matter how many modifications he made to Noelle's plan, how hard he tried to minimize her involvement, there was no way to use Sardo to their advantage without putting her in the thick of things. And, while Baricci wasn't known to be a violent man, there was no telling how angry he would get if he suspected Noelle was aiding in his capture.
"Tempête, I—" Ashford broke off as he spied his father stride into the hall, scrutinizing the area until he located his son, then weaving his way through the guests.
"My father is about to join us," Ashford advised Noelle tersely. It was all he had the chance to say before Pierce reached their sides.
"Ah, Noelle." Deliberately relaxing his stance, Pierce greeted her with a smile, every bit the charming host. "Are you enjoying your first ball?"
"Very much, Your Grace," she assured him. "Every moment of my time at Markham has been memorable."
"I'm so pleased to hear that." Pierce turned to Ashford, his expression politely inquiring. "Please forgive the intrusion, but may I borrow you for a moment? I promise to return you to your charming companion in record time."
Ashford's instincts screamed to life. "Of course. I'll just show Noelle back to the ballroom…"
"I can find my own way, my lord," she assured him.
"Are you sure?"
An impish grin. "It's twenty feet away, Lord Tremlett. I think I'm capable of navigating that far."
"I won't be long."
"I'll be waiting."
Pierce watched their exchange with a subtle flicker of interest. "Before I forget," he apprised Noelle, keeping his tone carefully bland, "your father was somewhat worried about your whereabouts. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."
Noelle gave a resigned sigh. "I imagined he might be. Thank you, Your Grace. I'll find Papa at once." She gathered up her skirts and moved off.
"What is it?" Ashford demanded without preamble. "Let's go into my study." Pierce led the way, not pausing until the door was shut tightly behind them. "I'm sure you figured out that Blackstreet was here."
Ashford nodded. "Whatever happened must be serious or he'd never have interrupted the party."
"It is. There was another theft last night."
"Last night?" Ashford's brows arched in surprise. "And you're first learning about it now? What took Blackstreet so long?"
"There were extenuating circumstances." Pierce gripped his desk. "The stolen painting was a valuable Rembrandt. The person from whom it was stolen was Lord Mannering."
"Mannering? His wife is Baricci's current paramour."
"Was his current paramour," Pierce corrected, jabbing his hands into his pockets. "Yes, I know."
"What do you mean 'was'? They've ended it?"
"In the worst way possible. She's dead."
"Dead?" Ashford sucked in his breath as the ominous note in his father's voice found its mark. "You mean murdered?"
A terse nod. "That's exactly what I mean. Evidently, she was killed during the course of the theft, struck over the head with a heavy sculpture. And the reason it took Blackstreet so long to unearth the details is that the police were trying to suppress any mention of the incident until they finished their preliminary investigation."
"In other words, they wanted to quietly rule out Lady Mannering's husband or any other prominent members of the ton who might have wanted her dead," Ashford correctly interpreted.
"Exactly." Pierce's tone was rife with disgust. "Prominent, influential members of the ton who might make the Metropolitan Police's lives miserable if falsely accused. But now that those delicate situations have been cleared up and the aristocrats' alibis established, the investigation can become public."
"Murder." Ashford whistled. "Even I never suspected Baricci would go this far. What details did Blackstreet give you?"
"Only unsubstantiated ones provided by ruffians who talk to pound notes, not to policemen. As it happens, Baricci was with Lady Mannering last night—all night. He left her Town house shortly before dawn. Her husband was away on business."
"How convenient. Did these ruffians happen to mention if there was a painting tucked under Baricci's arm when he left? Or if perchance anyone else, such as an accomplice or two, visited the Mannering home during the night?"
"Blackstreet's snitches were too drunk to remember much of anything they saw. We're lucky they provided a description of Baricci and approximate times of his arrival and departure."
"Where was Mannering's staff through all this? Never mind," Ashford answered his own question. "Knowing Baricci, he sent them away. Dammit, we've got nothing."
"We've got a description of Baricci and an accounting of his comings and goings."
"Which is as good as nothing—and not only because it was provided by witnesses of dubious character whose own criminal records would prevent them from talking to the authorities. Even if the Queen herself saw Baricci leave Mannering's Town house, and she was willing to attest to that fact under oath, what would it prove—that he was bedding a married woman? All that would succeed in doing is labeling him an immoral snake, not a murderer. Besides, knowing how clever Baricci is, I'm sure he's anticipated that someone—such as Emily Mannering's lady's maid, for instance—might supply his name as the current paramour in her ladyship's life. As a result, he's doubtless prepared his answers to the inevitable police interrogation." Ashford slammed his fist into his palm. "That son of a bitch is the most thorough, meticulous planner I've ever seen. He takes the time and care to cover every one of his tracks."
"Do you think the murder was premeditated?"
"No." Ashford gave a dubious shake of his head. "Shootings and stabbings are premeditated. Clubbing someone over the head isn't. Besides, Baricci's basically a runner, a coward. He uses and discards women, makes his fortune through deception and theft. Killing isn't his forte—that is, unless he's cornered. My guess is that he took Emily Mannering to bed, then waited until she was asleep before he tried to make off with the Rembrandt. She probably awakened, threatened to contact the authorities—"
"And he panicked and killed her," Pierce concluded.
"Right." Ashford met his father's sober gaze. "That particular Rembrandt was worth a fortune. I know; I've seen it. I'd have taken it myself if Mannering were as contemptible as Lewis and so man
y others. But he's not. He's a pathetic fellow who treats his staff kindly, adores his wife, even gives to charity. He has no idea Emily is unfaithful, nor that the entire ton thinks him a foolish old cuckold. I feel sorry for him."
Pierce nodded his understanding. They both knew the criteria Ashford used to choose his victims. It was the same criteria Pierce himself had used in his days as the Tin Cup Bandits the anonymous thief who'd stolen precious jewels and transformed them into money left on the steps of needy workhouses.
Ignoble noblemen, as Pierce and Ashford sarcastically called them. Men of wealth and position, lacking in character and compassion. The ideal targets.
"So we agree this was Baricci's handiwork," Pierce concluded.
"Yes."
"Do you expect to be retained to find and restore the Rembrandt?"
Ashford pursed his lips. "I'll make sure I am—if not by Lloyds, then by Mannering himself. My first order of business will be to drop by his home, to offer my condolences—and my assistance. Once I convince him that I'm the one most capable of unearthing both his wife's killer and his stolen painting, I'm sure I won't have any trouble getting the job."
"Not with your success record," Pierce concurred, pride lacing his tone. "Mannering can't help but be impressed."
"That might be true, but you and I both know that my so-called success record is not based entirely upon skill," Ashford reminded his father dryly. "It's aided by knowing when to keep a low profile and not take an assignment—such as with the Gainsborough. I became extremely busy and unavailable when the investigation into that theft was launched."
"A logical step, given that hunting for it would have been rather futile. It was already en route to the states and wouldn't have turned up."
"True." Ashford's jaw set. "But the Rembrandt? I'd take great pleasure in recovering that—and all the other paintings Baricci has stolen."
"Stolen and now killed for." Pierce's mouth thinned into a grim line. "You realize this opens up a whole new realm to your investigation of Baricci—a very dangerous realm?"
"Oh, I realize it all right." Ashford's mind was racing. If he could prove Baricci guilty of murder as well as fraud and theft, he could see him hung or at the very least jailed for life; either of which would ensure he never again hurt anyone…