by Andrea Kane
"Superb? Sound? Tremlett, it puts my daughter at risk."
"That was my dilemma. I was intrigued by the prospect but unwilling to endanger Noelle."
"You were unwilling? You have no say in Noelle's life, and no right to even consider involving her in something of this magnitude." Eric shot to his feet. "I'm her father, Tremlett. And I'm telling you that Noelle's association with you is now officially severed. As for Sardo, he'll never again set foot in my home. When I think of the way he devoured her with his eyes, raved on and on about her beauty…"
"I understand your anger, Lord Farrington," Ashford interrupted, trying to stem his own surge of emotion. Understood? Hell, he shared Eric's rage. Just hearing about Sardo's preliminary tactics with Noelle made him want to choke the man. But he couldn't let feelings cloud his thinking. Not now. Now was the time to get through to Eric Bromleigh—for many reasons.
"You're Noelle's father," he continued, keeping his tone even. "You want to protect her. I don't blame you. But, with all due respect, I think it would be a mistake for you to try severing our association. Further, whether you believe it or not, Noelle's safety is of paramount importance to me. And firing Sardo is not going to ensure that safety. If you fire him, Baricci will be more certain than ever that Noelle has something to hide. He'll find another way to get at her. And after what happened last night, that thought is chilling,"
"Last night? What happened last night?" Brigitte asked in a small, shaky voice.
"Another painting was stolen—a valuable Rembrandt. My sources tell me Baricci was responsible for the theft." Ashford gripped the edge of the desk. "The painting was owned by Lord and Lady Mannering. It appears that Lady Mannering was home alone at the time of the theft. She was murdered."
"Murdered? Dear God." Eric was sheet-white. "You're saying Baricci is capable of murder?"
"Quite possibly, yes. And the only way to keep Noelle safe—truly safe—is to see him in Newgate. As long as he's free, she's at risk."
"And how do you suggest I protect her while this investigation of yours is ongoing?" Eric demanded. "How do I keep Noelle safe while you're gathering your evidence, allowing Baricci's cohort to invade my home, to spend hours with my daughter—a daughter who, I don't doubt for a minute, will be further endangering herself by pumping Sardo for information?"
"That job, Lord Farrington, I'd like to be mine." Ashford leaned forward, his gaze steely, his conviction absolute. "You and I are in agreement that as long as Baricci is free and under scrutiny, Noelle needs to be safeguarded. I believe I'm the one who can do that. And not," he added quickly, "because you aren't capable of protecting your family. But because your method of protecting her would, in my opinion, expose her to even greater danger."
Eric's jaw dropped. "Your audacity is astounding, Tremlett. How dare you criticize, or even comment upon, my role as a father."
"Eric, please." Brigitte touched her husband's sleeve. "I know you're frightened for Noelle. I am, too. But please—let's hear Lord Tremlett out."
A brief internal struggle, followed by a nod. "Very well."
"Thank you." Ashford cleared his throat. "I have the highest regard for you, Lord Farrington, both as a human being and as Noelle's father. I wouldn't presume to criticize you, partly because—as you just said—I have no right, and partly because I believe Noelle is as blessed with her family as I am with mine. What I'm saying is that, being the devoted father you are, your first instinct in this situation would be to keep Noelle under lock and key, to ensure she's never out of your sight. Well, with all due respect, sir, that won't work. And not because of you, because of Noelle. She simply won't allow it. She isn't a child any longer, Lord Farrington. Nor, as you well know, is she meek and accepting. She wants to take part in this plan to undo Baricci. She will find a way to do so, with or without your permission." Ashford's jaw tightened a fraction. "On a personal note, she also wants to see me. As I implied a few minutes ago, I don't believe she'd accept your order that we stay apart until the onset of the Season."
"I think you're right," Brigitte surprised him by saying. "Your logic makes sense. So tell us what you propose."
"My solution is as follows: let me call on Noelle, immediately and often, once you've returned to Farrington Manor. In that way, I can keep myself apprised of her sittings with Sardo and make sure she doesn't get in over her head. Trust me, I can control the situation and Noelle's unabated sense of adventure. If we do things my way, she won't be slipping off to find ways to implicate Baricci…" An uncomfortable pause. "Or to find ways of meeting me."
Eric sucked in his breath. "Your arrogance is staggering."
"It's not arrogance. It's fact. Noelle wants to spend time in my company; and I want to spend time in hers. I realize you were—are—determined to bring her out this Season. I didn't intend to interfere with those plans. But evidently fate had other ideas."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"It means I have feelings for Noelle. Strong feelings. Feelings that are new and unfamiliar to me and which, quite frankly, have me reeling. What's more, if I'm correct, Noelle is developing those same feelings for me."
"Dammit." Eric raked a hand through his hair. "How do I respond to that? Do I ask where these feelings are leading—to the bedroom or the altar? Or do I trust in your honor, believe that you'd never compromise Noelle in such a manner, and simply ask you to declare your intentions?"
"My intentions are to see Noelle happy. I won't hurt her, Lord Farrington, not if it's in my power to prevent." Ashford sobered at his own words, more aware than anyone just how complicated this situation really was. He had to control events, actions, and feelings while providing everyone with the time needed to come to essential resolutions—resolutions that in some cases were more life-altering than Eric Bromleigh could possibly imagine. "I have a suggestion."
"I'm listening."
"Let's set a time frame. Five weeks. From now until the onset of the Season. During that time, we do things as I've depicted. Let me call on Noelle, act as her protector, if you will. I'm closing in on Baricci; I can feel it in my bones. I'll have him by then, expose him for the criminal he is. I vow it to myself and to you."
"And with regard to Noelle?" Brigitte asked softly.
Ashford drew a slow breath. "As I said, give me five weeks. If I haven't sufficiently overcome the obstacles, I'll step aside and you can introduce Noelle to the fashionable world as you intended."
"Obstacles," Eric repeated. "That sounds rather ominous, Tremlett. It also sounds as if there's more involved here than just apprehending Baricci."
A prolonged pause before Ashford replied, "You'll just have to trust me, Lord Farrington."
While that statement had been sufficient reassurance for his own father, it had little effect on Noelle's.
"Trust you? We're talking about my daughter, Tremlett." Eric scowled, met Ashford's challenging gaze with his own. "What if I refuse this proposition of yours, this five-week time interval during which you've vowed to set everything right? What will you do then?"
"If you're asking for my agreement not to pursue Noelle, I can't offer it to you," Ashford returned bluntly. "Especially not if she comes to me—which I truly believe she will. I can't change my feelings, Lord Farrington, nor can I change Noelle's."
"If you're waiting for me to applaud your candor, don't hold your breath," Eric bit out. "In fact—"
"Eric—please." Brigitte stood, planting herself between the two men and nipping the oncoming argument in the bud. "Don't do this," she said softly for her husband's ears alone. Then she turned to face Ashford. "You've been both frank and realistic, Lord Tremlett. Before we continue, may I speak with my husband alone?"
"Of course. I'll wait outside." Ashford walked across the room, stepping into the hall and shutting the door.
"Brigitte—" Eric began.
"Darling, listen to me." Brigitte seized his hands in her own. "Noelle is in love with the earl. You see it as clearly as I do. What's more, he's
in love with her, Whether or not he's actually uttered the words. No amount of your ranting and raving is going to change that."
Eric's brows drew together in a scowl. "But he hasn't uttered the words. Nor is he ready to admit them—not to us, to himself, or to Noelle. There's a world of difference between having strong feelings for someone—feelings like fascination and desire—and seeking a lifetime commitment."
"I realize that, Eric. So does Lord Tremlett. He said he wanted to see Noelle happy. Don't you think he understands what that means?"
"I don't know. You seem a hell of a lot surer than I about the earl's intentions. And as for his obstacles—doesn't it bother you that he's hiding something?"
"Having matters to resolve doesn't necessarily mean hiding something. The earl isn't a child, Eric. He's a grown man. He had a busy and complex life before meeting Noelle. He has a right to sort out that life, to come to his own resolutions with a modicum of privacy."
"Busy and complex indeed," Eric muttered. "Lord knows how many women he's involved with."
"If that's the case, he'll deal with them accordingly."
Eric shot his wife an incredulous look.. "How can you be so bloody calm? You've heard rumors of Tremlett's womanizing."
"Indeed I have," Brigitte concurred, meeting Eric's gaze head-on. "I also recall a time when I heard rumors—scads of them—about your lunacy, your heartlessness and cruelty. What if I had believed those?"
For the first time, Eric's resistance wavered. "That situation was entirely different."
"Was it?" Brigitte lay a soothing palm against his jaw. "I love Noelle as much as you do, darling. That's why I'm urging you to give her this chance. Five weeks; that's all the earl is requesting. It's a brief enough time frame, one we owe to Noelle."
"A lot of damage can be done in five weeks."
"Lord Tremlett vowed that he wouldn't hurt Noelle. I believe him. I believe in his honor—and that's based upon firsthand perception, not hearsay. Besides, he's right. If we forbid Noelle from seeing him, she will slip off and meet him on her own. Just as she slipped off when she wanted to catch a glimpse of Baricci."
"That was curiosity over the identity of her sire. This is infatuation over a man she scarcely knows." Eric's brow furrowed. "We'll caution her, remind her of Tremlett's reputation, of her own innocence and vulnerability. Somehow we'll convince her."
"Like Grandfather convinced me when he cautioned me against wedding you?"
Almost against his will, Eric thawed, his lips curving ever so slightly. "He wasn't very successful."
"No. He wasn't." Brigitte regarded her husband with quiet intensity. "I would have done anything to be with you, Eric. And I'm not nearly as strong-willed as Noelle is. I was a quiet, obedient child. But I grew up. When I had the chance to become your wife, no force on earth, not even my love and respect for Grandfather, could deter me. What's more, by trying to prevent Noelle from seeing Lord Tremlett, we'd only end up encouraging her efforts to do so. Not to mention intensifying rather than squelching her feelings for him."
Like a drowning man, Eric clutched at his final straw. "But our plans—"
"Our plans to bring Noelle out aren't the basis for your objections to Lord Tremlett. You know that as well as I do. To the contrary, if the earl's love for our daughter is deep and lasting, then that realizes more than any London Season could ever hope to. It fulfills all the dreams we've ever had for Noelle. We never cared a whit about the extravagant parties she might attend or the hordes of wealthy noblemen she might meet. We wanted her to find her future—the right future for Noelle." Brigitte's fingers feathered across Eric's jaw. "Knowing our daughter, we should have expected she'd find that future on her own."
Eric swallowed hard, turned his face into Brigitte's palm. "You're right. We should have." A pause, rife with internal struggle. "He'd damn well not take advantage of her."
"He won't."
Slowly, Eric nodded. "He does seem to care for her," he deliberated aloud. "And he is bent on ensuring her wellbeing."
"Indeed he is. He'll keep her safe, Eric—safe from Baricci, safe from her own impulsiveness."
The very mention of Baricci's name brought reality crashing down around them, enveloping them in a suffocating shroud of fear.
Eric's worried gaze met Brigitte's. "This whole pursuit of Baricci, knowing what he's capable of, knowing that Noelle could be at risk—it terrifies me," he confessed.
"It terrifies me, too," Brigitte replied in a thin voice. "That's why I want the man most familiar with Franco Baricci—with his associates and his behavior—watching over Noelle. And that man is Lord Tremlett."
"I see your point." Eric stared down at Brigitte, visualizing their elder daughter and coming to the inevitable, the only, decision he could. "Fine. We'll do it Tremlett's way."
"It's Noelle's way, too," Brigitte reminded her husband gently. "She's head over heels in love with the earl and, knowing her, equally as determined to help him apprehend Baricci."
"That's our Noelle—ever impetuous, ever unyielding." A reminiscent light flickered in Eric's eyes as he reflected on the past fourteen years of antics. "I doubt Tremlett knows what he's up against."
"He's about to learn."
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
The tiny art studio was tucked away in a remote London side street. Given that night had already fallen, the room's interior was cast in shadows, its only light provided by a single gas lamp.
It was alongside that lamp that André stood, assessing the painting in his hands, his practiced eye sweeping the bold strokes and muted colors of the abstract images.
His latest work was good. Very good. Too good to waste as a mere false veneer, even if that veneer was being used to conceal a Rembrandt.
He leaned against his studio wall, angling the canvas closer to the light, pride and frustration surging inside him.
True, Baricci would compensate him for his work with a token sum—a bonus, to coin the gallery owner's term. But whatever bonus Baricci offered would be paltry compared to the painting's actual worth. Some day, some bloody day, the world would recognize André Sardo for the genius he was. But until that day came, he was at Baricci's mercy. And not only because the gallery owner paid his bills—although without Baricci's money, he would surely starve. But because his freedom and future were in the older man's manipulative hands.
With a perturbed sigh, André lowered the painting and scrutinized the dilapidated studio which also served as his home. The walls were peeling, the wood rotting in places, and the few beams that anchored the ceiling looked as if they might collapse at any moment. The only saving grace of this hovel was the sweeping window that spanned the full length of the southern wall, which—from the instant dawn tinged the sky—allowed in every drop of sunlight, splashing his work area with natural light.
Otherwise, the place was nothing to boast about, containing only a cot, a broken-down chest, and a few shelves for food.
And, of course, his paintings.
Scattered about the studio, hanging in random spots on the peeling walls, were dozens of his masterpieces; the only beauty in an otherwise barren setting. There were a variety of styles—all his; everything ranging from landscapes to still lifes to abstract expressions of color. But André's favorite of them all was exhibited in a cluster of paintings, sequestered away in a private alcove in the studio's far corner.
His portraits.
Framed and hanging side by side, they were the true evidence of his genius, a tribute to all the unique subjects he'd sketched over the years—not for them, but for himself—each work a story unto itself.
Ah, the tales these canvases could tell.
With a self-satisfied smile, André approached the alcove slowly, reverently, as one would approach a shrine. He touched a fingertip to each portrait, reveling in their vivid lines and exquisite detail, the expressions of emotion on his subjects' faces, the brilliant color of their eyes. If only the world could se
e these masterpieces, understand the passion with which they'd been created.
That, of course, was impossible.
Such a waste, André thought ruefully. So unfortunate that treasures such as these must remain unseen, while lesser talent was paraded before admiring eyes, commanding huge sums of money.
That reminded him of the task at hand, and reluctantly André turned away from his prized creations. He paused only to scoop up his coat and bestow a final glance upon the painting he was about to deliver to Baricci. As a rule, he framed his own work, using his customary unadorned walnut frame so as not to detract from the power of the art itself. But in special cases such as this, he left the framing to Williams, who knew precisely what had to be done.
Without further deliberation, André tucked the painting beneath his arm, extinguished the light, and left his studio, carefully locking the door in his wake.
There was no worry that the paints might smear, he mused as he made his way through the back roads leading to London's more fashionable West End. The canvas had been dry for two days now. That's how long he'd stalled before making an appearance at the Franco Gallery. By now, Baricci's police interrogation—however intensive it was—should be over. It was safe to pay him a visit.
Idly, André wondered if Baricci had been able to extricate himself from this one, even with that glib tongue of his. Theft was one thing, murder quite another.
Well, soon enough he'd have his answer.
Intentionally avoiding Regent Street, André slipped through an alley and rounded the corner leading to the quiet side street that was his destination. Given the lateness of the hour, all the shops had been locked up for the night, their owners having hurried home to warm the winter chill from their bones. It looked to André as if the entire block was deserted. Still, he moved along cautiously, reserving judgment for when he caught site of the gallery.
Sure enough, it was quiet—no police, no customers.
He went around back and knocked quietly on the gallery's rear door—twice, then twice again.