The Theft

by Andrea Kane

A minute later the lock turned and Williams peered out. "Well, it's about time," he muttered, opening the door to admit Sardo. "We were expecting you days ago."

  "Really?" André stalked by, heading directly towards Baricci's office. "Under the circumstances, I should think you'd understand my staying away, even applaud my decision to do so."

  Williams scowled. "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing." André paused outside Baricci's door. "He's alone?" Receiving Williams's nod, he rapped sharply.

  "Who is it?" Baricci called, his tone muffled.

  "Sardo. I brought the painting."

  "Finally. Come in."

  André complied, maneuvering the painting into the office, then shutting the door behind him. He glanced at Baricci, who was nursing a drink at his desk, and his brows lifted with interest as he took in his employer's drawn expression.

  "You look haggard, Franco. Were the police brutal?"

  Baricci raised his head, regarded André through wary eyes. "What makes you think the police have been here?"

  "Haven't they?"

  "No."

  With a quiet thud, André lowered the painting to the floor, propped it against the wall. "You're telling me no one's questioned you about Emily Mannering's death?" he asked in astonishment.

  A steely stare. "I repeat, why would you think they might?"

  André blinked. "Because you were lovers. Because you were with her the night she was killed. Because you were probably the last person to see her alive—and the first person to see her dead. Are those reasons enough for you?"

  Slowly, Baricci sipped at the contents of his snifter. "You're implying I killed her. I didn't."

  "No?" One dark brow rose in disbelief. "Odd that she should die the very night you robbed her home—or are you telling me you don't have the Rembrandt?"

  "I have it. But Emily was alive when I left her just before dawn. Although she was understandably upset, given she'd just discovered the painting was missing."

  "Perhaps a bit too upset?" André inquired. "More so than you anticipated? Tell me, Franco, did she see you take the painting? Is that what caused you to panic?"

  With a smoothly controlled motion, Baricci lowered his goblet. "I did not panic. Nor did Emily see me take the Rembrandt. She had no idea who was responsible for the theft. She was also very much alive—and on the verge of summoning the police—when I took my leave." An icy pause. "Further, I don't owe you any explanation."

  "True." André contemplated Baricci's words with a thoughtful tilt of his head. "Let me ask you this: did anyone see you leave the Mannering home?"

  "Other than a few stray drunks, no. On the other hand, no one saw me arrive either. In fact, no one knew I was there."

  "Other than me," André supplied in a silky tone. "I knew you were there, Franco. Ironic, isn't it?"

  Baricci rose ominously to his feet, shards of ice glinting in his eyes. "Is that some sort of threat, André? Because if it is, I'd reconsider. Should the police learn of my involvement with Emily—which might very well happen anyway, since discretion doesn't ensure secrecy—I'd simply be labeled a lecher, something I've been labeled dozens of times in the past. There's no proof connecting me to Emily's death, only to her bed. If you should try to steer the authorities in my direction, however, I won't hesitate to offer them some very damning proof of my own—for an entirely different crime and with an entirely different suspect. That choice, my friend, is yours."

  "No threats are necessary, not on either of our parts," André assured him hastily, feeling a few beads of perspiration break out on his forehead. He'd overplayed his hand. Taunting Baricci had been a foolish move, one that could cost him dearly—and not only because Baricci paid his bills, but because he controlled his destiny.

  What's more, the man was right. André's evidence was circumstantial. Baricci's was damning.

  It was time to smooth things over.

  "I had no intentions of trying to implicate you, Franco," he soothed. "Just the opposite, in fact. I purposely stayed away these past few days to give you time to resolve things, to put your affairs in order. I'm delighted to learn that my caution was unnecessary." Dragging a sleeve across his brow, André flourished the painting. "I'm also delighted to deliver this. I think you'll find it more than large enough to conceal the Rembrandt."

  "Excellent." Baricci's polished smile was back in place. He strolled over, lifting the canvas and appraising it not as an art connoisseur but as a pleased businessman who had accomplished his goal. "This will do very nicely. Fine work, André. Late in its arrival, but fine, nonetheless."

  "And my payment?"

  Baricci's head came up. "Have you heard from Noelle yet?"

  "No, but I will. She and the Bromleighs have only been back at Farrington a few days." André frowned. "Is that your way of saying I won't get paid until I do?"

  "To some degree—yes." Baricci pursed his lips, ostensibly considering his options. "Still, I'm not an unreasonable man. So what I'll do is to give you a small installment now. A more substantial payment will follow your first sitting with my daughter." He went to his desk, extracted a few pound notes. "Why don't you contact her?" he suggested, offering the bills to André. "It might speed along the process—and the remuneration."

  André felt a surge of irritation at this unexpected setback—a surge he purposefully combated by conjuring up an image of Noelle Bromleigh: her vivid beauty, her fire. True, he needed his money—now rather than later—but the steps he'd have to take in order to earn that money would make it well worth the wait.

  That bit of rationalization did the trick, and with a flourish André plucked the money from Baricci's hand. "Fine. I'll send a note to Farrington first thing tomorrow morning."

  "Good." Baricci refilled his snifter, brought it to his lips. "Let me know when you receive a reply."

  * * *

  The breakfast dishes were still being cleared away when, for the third time in as many days, Noelle knocked on her father's study door.

  "Yes, Noelle." Eric didn't need to ask who it was. "Come in."

  She pushed open the door and stepped inside, going directly to Eric's desk and gripping its polished edge. "Papa, when are you going to tell me what was said in the duke's study? We've been home for three days, and you haven't revealed a word about your conversation with Ashford, despite my repeated efforts to pry the information from you."

  Eric leaned back in his chair and regarded his daughter thoughtfully. "What makes you think something significant was said? His Grace told you why Lord Tremlett needed to see us."

  "And I didn't believe the duke then any more than I believe you now," Noelle replied frankly. "Really, Papa, I mean you no disrespect, but I'm not stupid. You and Mama were closeted in that study with Ashford for nearly an hour. By the time you returned, the ball was almost over. Ashford and I shared just one dance before it was time to say good night. And the next morning, when he saw us off, he behaved so oddly."

  "He kissed your hand. That doesn't strike me as odd."

  "It wasn't the kiss. It was the pointed way he looked at you while he was telling me he'd be seeing me very soon. As if the two of you shared some secret understanding. You, in turn, were pensive throughout our entire trip home and have been positively somber since then.

  "Let the truth be known, your behavior has been even more peculiar than Ashford's was. You evade all my questions—and not because you're too busy for me. On the contrary, you've scarcely let me out of your sight all week, watching me like a hawk who expects his prey to bolt. And Mama hasn't been much better. She lingers at my bedside each night, making inconsequential small talk that I know means as little to her as it does to me. Yet when I try to bring the subject around to something meaningful—such as Ashford and his puzzling behavior—she swiftly reassures me that all will be well, then scoots out the door like a rabbit evading a hunter. The only person acting normally around here is Chloe—and that's because she's as baffled as I am. None of this is a coincidence, Papa.
What on earth is going on?"

  Despite his air of gravity, a corner of Eric's mouth lifted. "Nothing as dire as the plot you've conjured up in that fanciful head of yours. It's true your mother and I have a great deal on our minds, and that much of what we're anxious about concerns you. And, yes, it all stems from the conversation we had with Lord Tremlett the other night. As for our evasiveness, the only reason for it is that the earl specifically asked to be the one to relay to you the details of what we discussed. Evidently, he expects you to be somewhat piqued when you learn what he divulged to us." A meaningful stare. "Things, incidentally, that we should have heard from you."

  Noelle felt her cheeks flame. "What kind of things?" she asked tentatively.

  A scowl. "I wasn't referring to your fascination for Tremlett and his for you, if that's what that blush is all about. What's more, I suggest we speedily retrace our steps and get back to the matter at hand—now—before I change my mind and refuse to allow the earl to visit."

  "When will Ashford be coming to Farrington?" Noelle complied at once, taking her father's advice and instead probing a different and chaster area of interest. "Did he at least specify that?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes." Eric pushed aside his untouched paperwork, folding his hands on the desk before him. "He'll be here this morning."

  "This morning?" Noelle's eyes grew wide as saucers. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  A pointed look. "Because I value the tiny semblance of peace that still exists in this house. As it is, you've been haunting my doorstep, pacing about like a caged tiger. Had I told you of Lord Tremlett's visit much before now, chaos would have erupted. So I waited until the last minute." Eric glanced swiftly at the room's grandfather clock, which read five minutes after eight. "Actually, not quite the last minute. He'll be here in two hours. I was going to send for you soon, tell you of Tremlett's plans, and suggest that you get ready to receive him. But it appears your pacing brought you to my study before I could do so."

  "I suppose I have been persistent." Noelle's eyes sparkled—as much from the fact that she'd soon be getting her answers as from the fact that she'd soon be seeing Ashford again.

  Well … almost as much.

  "Thank you, Papa." She leaned forward and kissed Eric's cheek.

  "For what?"

  "For letting Ashford visit. I know your feelings on the matter are mixed. But I promise you won't be sorry."

  "I hope not." A worried shadow darted across Eric's face—one that bespoke something far more foreboding than fatherly concern over her choice of suitors.

  What in the name of heaven was going on here?

  The shadow vanished as quickly as it had come. "Go," Eric urged. "Your preparation time is slipping away. You still have … let's see, twenty minutes to get dressed and an hour and a half to amass all your questions."

  Noelle smiled at the accurate assessment. "I'll need every moment of it." A pause. "Papa, after Ashford leaves, then may we talk?"

  "Yes." Eric nodded slowly. "Then we'll talk."

  "Very well."

  Her curiosity heightened almost beyond bearing, Noelle left the study and hurried upstairs, questions and suspicions colliding with each other in her mind.

  What was disturbing her father so? Clearly it related to whatever he and Ashford had chatted about. Why were her parents being so secretive? More to the point, why did Ashford want to tell her the details of their discussion on his own? Also, why had he been so preoccupied on the morning after the ball? Had his preoccupation been the result of his private talk with her parents or of his private talk with his own father—and were the two discussions related?

  Most unsettling of all, where had he been these past few days, and what had he been doing?

  With regard to that final question, Noelle had a sinking feeling she knew the answer.

  Oh, how she prayed her suspicions were wrong. But she didn't think so—not given the headlines she'd read in the newspaper her parents had tried valiantly to conceal from her.

  Lord and Lady Mannering's home had been robbed at the end of last week—a robbery that divested them of a valuable Rembrandt and resulted in Lady Mannering's murder.

  Another art theft.

  To be sure, an art theft whose outcome had been more dire than any that had preceded it. But an art theft nonetheless.

  Did Ashford suspect Baricci? Was that why he hadn't been to see her these past days? Was he checking into Baricci's alibi, trying to find ways to implicate him? Further, when had Ashford learned of the crime? The London Times had carried news of it the day before yesterday, although the robbery had taken place several nights' earlier—which meant it had occurred sometime during the three-day house party at Markham. Had Ashford learned about it while he was there? And if so, who had told him—the duke? Could news of the robbery and murder possibly have been what prompted Ashford's father to summon him away from the ball? Or was all this just her imagination, once again dashing off on a tangent of its own?

  Two hours, Noelle reminded herself. Then she'd have her answers.

  * * *

  She was perched at the edge of the sitting-room settee—like a thoroughbred at the starting gate—when Bladewell showed Ashford in at precisely ten o'clock.

  Just seeing him, handsome as sin in his dark morning clothes, made Noelle's heart skip a beat, and were it not for Grace's daunting presence on the settee beside her, she would have rushed forward, flung herself into his arms.

  As it was, she folded her hands in her lap, gifted him with a sunny smile. "Good morning, my lord."

  Ashford studied her, his expression enigmatic, his magnificent eyes drinking her in as one would a fine wine. Although she did notice the circles beneath those magnificent eyes, along with the lines of fatigue about his mouth. Clearly he hadn't slept much these past few days.

  Was it because he'd missed her or because he was investigating a crime more heinous than a mere theft?

  "Good morning, Noelle," Ashford murmured in that deep, mesmerizing voice of his. "It's a pleasure to see you again." He nodded politely at Grace. "And you as well, madam."

  "Lord Tremlett," the maid returned curtly.

  "I've spoken with Lord Farrington," Ashford continued, still addressing Grace. "And he's agreed to let me speak with your mistress alone. I'm sure you understand."

  Grace started, her double chin rippling from the motion. "Pardon me? Are you suggesting I leave Lady Noelle and you in this sitting room unchaperoned?"

  "That's exactly what I'm suggesting." Ashford gestured politely towards the door. "You're welcome to confirm what I've told you with Lord Farrington. You'll find him in the library."

  "I most certainly intend to." Gathering up her voluminous skirts, Grace marched out of the sitting room, nearly knocking Bladewell down in the process.

  Noelle stifled a giggle. "Thank you, Bladewell," she told the bewildered butler, who was clutching the door frame, struggling to regain his balance. "That will be all."

  "Very good, Miss Noelle." Composure restored, Bladewell bowed, stepping into the hall and shutting the door in his wake.

  Ashford turned back to Noelle, his expression telling her how glad he was that they were alone. "Now, may I request a proper greeting?" he asked, extending his hand to her.

  Noelle rose at once, placing her hand in his and allowing him to draw her closer. "Did Papa really agree to—?"

  "Yes." Ashford's arms wrapped tightly, possessively, about her. "But not for this." His lips whispered across hers. "Still, it's worth the risk. I need to feel you in my arms. I missed you, tempête. Tell me you missed me, too."

  "Oh, Ashford, so much." Noelle twined her arms about his neck, lifting her face to receive his kiss.

  His mouth closed over hers, consuming her with prolonged, heated intensity—an intensity as brief as it was ardent.

  With great reluctance, Ashford eased away, his knuckles trailing down the side of Noelle's neck, up her hot cheek. "We have to talk. I'm not sure how long your father's patience wil
l last."

  "I'm exploding with curiosity," Noelle replied breathlessly. "And I have a million questions."

  "I'll answer them all." Guiding her back to the settee, Ashford drew her down beside him. "What have your parents told you?"

  "Nothing. They're acting very mysterious and very uneasy. They haven't told me anything, other than the fact that you'd be calling on me, that you have things you want to tell me firsthand, and that I might be angry with you over some of those things."

  A rueful nod. "You will be. So let's get to those things first. When I asked to see your parents in my father's study, it had nothing to do with finances."

  "That much I guessed."

  Ashford chuckled. "I assumed you would. What I wanted to see them about was you. Noelle, I told them about Baricci, about Sardo, and about your plan."

  Noelle's jaw dropped. "No wonder they're so overwrought with worry! Why would you upset them like that—not to mention ruining any chance of our attempting my plan?"

  "I did it out of necessity and fear, not betrayal. Something happened the other night. Something your parents probably haven't allowed you to learn."

  Comprehension dawned. "You're referring to Lady Mannering's murder. Mama and Papa tried to keep me from seeing the newspaper. But I read the front page when they weren't looking." Noelle saw her answer in Ashford's eyes. "So you did find out about it while we were at Markham—on the night of the ball, I suspect. And you do think Baricci was involved."

  "You're amazing." Ashford seized her hands in his. "Yes. I got word of what had happened during the ball. And, yes, I'm convinced that Baricci was involved. Which changes everything—including the level of danger you'd be exposed to if you continued your association with either Baricci or Sardo."

  Noelle sucked in her breath. "You're afraid Baricci would harm me? Ashford, that's absurd. I pose no threat to him…" Her voice trailed off. "Unless I help expose his guilt," she finished quietly. "So what are you suggesting? That I just divorce myself from the entire matter? I can't. What's more, I won't." Her small chin came up. "Tell me this: did you uncover any new information since I left Markham? Are you any closer to exposing Baricci's illegal dealings?"