The Theft

by Andrea Kane

  "I very nearly charged out and broke Sardo's jaw," he informed her, anger flaring in his eyes. "If it weren't for the fact that it would undo our entire plan and endanger you…"

  "I thought you don't lose control, don't act before you think, and don't take stupid chances," Noelle reminded him dryly.

  "I didn't. Now I do."

  "Would one of you tell me what happened here?" Eric commanded. "Why did you want to break Sardo's jaw, and why did your urge to do so incite Tempest's frenzied behavior?"

  "Answer the second part first," Noelle urged swiftly. Her father shot her a dark scowl. "In other words, I'm going to erupt when we address the first part."

  "Exactly." Noelle inclined her head at Ashford. "Did you jolt the ledge? Although I can't imagine that upsetting Tempest to the degree that it did."

  "No." Ashford flexed the stiff muscles in his arms, rubbed the back of his neck. "When I saw Sardo make his sensual little move, I decided to thrash him. I was on my way when I realized how reckless my actions were, how dire the ramifications would be. So I jerked backwards into my original position. Unfortunately. Tempest's tail got caught between my shoulder blade and the ledge. Given the speed of my movement and the weight of its impact, I'm sure I gave her tail a pretty painful squeeze. I freed her the instant I realized what was happening, but it was too late. She let out that furious yowl and took off."

  Just the memory made Noelle dissolve into laughter again. "Papa, you should have seen her. She destroyed the entire room in less than a minute."

  "So I noticed." Eric glanced at the towels that were draped across the sofa, settee, tables and floor. "This certainly brings back memories, Noelle. It took you fourteen years, but you've finally managed to teach Tempest everything you know." His affectionate tone faded as Ashford's initial phrase sank in. "What sensual little move?" he demanded.

  Noelle didn't look away. "I would have handled it, Papa. I would have dealt with André just fine without all the commotion."

  "How?" Ashford inquired. "By kissing him back?"

  "He kissed you?" Eric thundered.

  A sigh of frustration escaped Noelle's lips. "That's generally the prelude to seduction, Papa."

  "Yes, and we all know the culmination—or hadn't you considered that?" Ashford bit out.

  If she weren't so thrilled by what this jealousy implied, she might be getting angry. "No, I hadn't considered that—because it's not a consideration. It would never get to that point. Ashford, André has a job to do. He's doing it as quickly and effectively as he can—or, rather, he's trying to."

  "He seemed to be making great strides."

  "He thinks so," Noelle replied. "And I want him to think so. A kiss is harmless, but necessary. Besides, I didn't kiss him. I let him kiss me. There's a big difference between the two. But think about it—calmly and rationally," she emphasized. "If I show André no encouragement at all, I'll get no information at all. It's my job to keep him eager, hopeful, and striving to win my affections—while I thwart him without his realizing it. In the interim, I'll get him to trust me, to pass along a growing number of snippets about Baricci and his actions. We already learned something of their association: when they met, how many of André's paintings are displayed at the Franco Gallery. We need to learn more. And we shall. But not if you explode every time he touches me."

  "Explode?" Eric interrupted. "Believe me, Noelle, Tremlett's reaction was mild. If that libertine artist touches you again, I'll kill him."

  "No, Papa, you won't. You can't." The look she gave him was a plea for understanding, for trust. "We all knew what Sardo's technique would be. It hardly comes as a surprise that he means to seduce me into revealing details or, at the very least, into offering my allegiance to Baricci. That was the whole reason behind our arranging for Ashford to be present throughout each session." She turned to Ashford. "If I feel threatened, I'll manage to let you know. I'll get your attention—I promise. But unless that happens, you've got to let me do what I must: flirt with André, encourage him enough to let down his guard and loosen his tongue."

  Reluctantly, Ashford nodded. "Fine. I'll try to control myself."

  "Papa?" Noelle inquired.

  Eric scowled at the paint-splattered floor.

  "If things get out of hand, I'll kill him for you," Ashford vowed.

  That did the trick. "All right. I'll trust Tremlett's judgment."

  "And mine?" Noelle asked pointedly.

  "Yes, Noelle—and yours." Eric gazed questioningly at her. "On the subject of judgment, did you learn anything of importance today?"

  "Only a little. As you saw for yourself, André is very moody and easily rankled. I had to tread carefully."

  "Speaking of which, he was damned reluctant to discuss any other artists Baricci deals with," Ashford muttered, half to himself. "I wonder why."

  "That struck me as odd, too. And I don't believe it's strictly professional jealousy," Noelle declared. "Any more than I believe André was unaware of my blood ties to Baricci before we had our little talk. I watched him while we were speaking. He hides his reactions well, but there's a tension there that's palpable. He's performing a part—a part Baricci wants him to play."

  "I agree." Ashford folded his arms across his chest. "But why is he unwilling to name other artists whose works are featured alongside his? Is that Baricci's idea or his? Could it be that Sardo knows of an artist who's working illegally with Baricci, and he's afraid to give away that name for fear of ending up like Emily Mannering?"

  "Do we know for certain Sardo himself isn't helping Baricci steal those paintings?" Eric asked.

  "If you mean, do we know for a fact that he hasn't been present during the robberies, yes." Ashford nodded. "Given how closely associated he is with Baricci, Sardo was originally one of my prime suspects. But I had him checked out months ago. He had alibis for every one of the thefts." A frown. "Then again, so did Baricci So all that suggests to me is that Baricci doesn't dirty his hands. He hires thugs to do the actual stealing. After which, he takes over. As for Sardo—I don't know the full extent of his involvement. But I don't think he has the intelligence, the keenness of mind, to conjure up this scheme with Baricci."

  "Perhaps André isn't actively involved at all but is just aware of Baricci's guilt," Noelle proposed. "Isn't it possible he's spotted one or more of the stolen paintings during his visits to the gallery?" She made a frustrated sound. "I wanted to move towards asking him that; I even paved the way by bringing up the Rembrandt. But the timing was all wrong. He was so adamant about not discussing other artists' works. If I'd pressed him by delving deeper into the other paintings he's seen come and go, he would have gotten suspicious. And we can't take that chance. Not yet."

  "We have three days to mull over what we've learned, gather new information, and refine our plan before your next session with Sardo." Ashford's glance shifted to Eric. "Which reminds me, thank you for buying us those three days. Your tactics were excellent. Sardo thinks you need the time to restore the sitting room."

  A corner of Eric's mouth lifted. "We do."

  Ashford took in the room and grunted. "Good point." A sober look. "In the meantime, I'll visit Mannering, see if I can learn anything that would point in Baricci's direction. I'll leave for London immediately." His gaze strayed to Noelle, and he cleared his throat, addressing Eric. "May I speak with Noelle alone for a minute?"

  "Tremlett, I don't think that's necessary. You already had more than enough time alone together earlier today…"

  "Papa!" Chloe hovered in the doorway, her hair disheveled, a smudge of paint on one cheek. "I've tried every way I know to stop Tempest's rampage, but she's determined to rub the paint off her fur by rolling on every carpet and against every curtain in the house. Now she's attacking our clothing, Mama's in close pursuit, but none of us is swift enough to catch her." A dramatic pause. "She's about to dive into the new gowns you bought us for Noelle's court presentation, and Mama's so afraid that—"

  "Dammit." Eric was already tak
ing long strides towards the hall. "It took that modiste months to finish those gowns. If that bloody cat ruins them…" The rest of his threat was lost as he charged past Chloe and disappeared toward the staircase

  Chloe peered after him, ensuring he'd gone. Then she stepped away from the sitting-room threshold, gripping the door handle and tossing Noelle and Ashford a saucy grin. "That might not save your gown, but it should buy you several minutes." She nodded her encouragement, the perception in her eyes wise beyond her years. "Use them well."

  The door shut behind her.

  Ashford's jaw dropped. "Your sister is priceless," he determined, amazement etched on his every feature. "A true genius at only thirteen years old."

  "Of course." Noelle couldn't wait to hug Chloe for her quick thinking and tender, romantic heart. "Resourcefulness runs in my family."

  "And mine." Ashford's grin faded quickly, and he drew Noelle into his arms, enfolded her against him. "Let's not waste an instant of the time Chloe has gifted us," he urged, tunneling his fingers through her hair and lifting her face to receive his kiss. "Not one extraordinary instant."

  Noelle's reply was lost beneath the pressure of his mouth, the excitement of his tongue as it possessed hers. Fervently, she wound her arms about his neck, losing herself to the magic, and wishing they had hours, rather than minutes, to explore what was happening between them.

  "I'm not sorry for wanting to choke Sardo," Ashford muttered against her parted lips. "I might still do it when all this is over and Baricci is in Newgate where he belongs." He raised his head, brushed each corner of her mouth with his. "I want no one's arms around you but mine. Rational or not, it's the way I feel."

  "I don't want anyone's arms around me but yours," Noelle breathed, rising up on tiptoe to, once again, deepen the kiss. "What's more, a London Season won't change that. Nothing will."

  With a husky sound, Ashford sealed their lips in a slow, tantalizing caress that burned through all the unanswered questions, the obstacles, the reservations.

  It was only the sound of Chloe's approaching voice—a clear warning that their time together was about to be shattered—followed by the grounds for that warning: her father's answering baritone, that forced them to end the kiss.

  Noelle drew a slow, shuddering breath, her fingers still clutching Ashford's coat. "Hurry back."

  "I will."

  "And Ashford?"

  "H-m-m?"

  "Discern and sort quickly."

  His husky chuckle shivered across her lips. "I will, tempête. You have my word—I will."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  It was three days later and Ashford wasn't smiling.

  He leaned back in his seat on the railroad, closing his eyes and thinking how grateful he was to be the sole occupant of the first-class compartment, left alone with his thoughts as the train sped toward Poole.

  His time in London had yielded naught but frustration. Consequently, he had a wealth of things to think about, all of which addressed the most significant issues and aspects of his life.

  He hadn't made nearly enough headway at Lord Mannering's house. Oh, he'd succeeded in convincing Mannering to assign him the job of recovering the Rembrandt—and unearthing Emily's killer in the process. In fact, the poor, grief-stricken fellow had all but begged him to do so, his wan face lined with the pain of loss and shock as he praised Ashford's reputation and expressed his faith that if anyone could find out who'd killed his Emily, Lord Tremlett could.

  That task wasn't going to be easy.

  Ashford had requested the right to question the staff, and Mannering had given him a free hand to do so—one servant at a time, and in a private salon with no one present but Ashford. That final stipulation had been a delicate one to make, much less to elaborate upon. Nonetheless, Ashford had done so, quietly explaining that if Mannering were present during these interviews, any servant who might know something significant that was at the same time morally tarnishing to Lady Mannering's reputation could very well refuse to reveal the information in Lord Mannering's company, whether out of loyalty for the master or out of fear of being discharged.

  Mannering had winced but retained his dignity, agreeing to Ashford's terms, then walking off stiffly, withdrawing to his study and to his open bottle of brandy.

  Ashford had been besieged by pity, wondering bitterly why a decent man like Mannering was being punished, while a scoundrel like Baricci walked free.

  Not for long, if he had his way.

  Filled with resolve, Ashford had spent two afternoons at Mannering's home, questioning each and every servant, jotting down notes and searching for the slightest detail that might place Baricci here on the night of the crime or—even better—that would place him here not only then but on other nights, nights when the servants had been present and might possibly have overheard something, seen something, that would help incriminate Baricci of more than just a torrid affair.

  Ashford intentionally saved Emily Mannering's lady's maid, Mary, for last. Of the entire staff, Mary was the one who, as sheer logic dictated, would have had the closest contact with her mistress. She'd known Emily's habits, her likes and dislikes—and, with a modicum of luck, her selections in men. By deferring his chat with Mary, Ashford had hoped he'd go into that meeting having acquired some unsubstantiated tidbits that he could verify with her.

  Not only did he have no tidbits to be verified, Mary had no desire to talk.

  The maddening thing was, Ashford knew she had something to say.

  He'd sensed she was hiding something from the minute she entered the salon. It wasn't only the strain with which she perched her birdlike frame at the edge of her seat—looking for all the world like a robin about to take flight. Nor was it only the staunch way she clutched the folds of her uniform, as if to fortify herself with strength. It was also the way she averted her gaze each time he asked her a question and fidgeted as she supplied her token answers; then, the instant Ashford paused, she blurted out her request to be excused.

  It wasn't hard to deduce she was hiding something. But it was virtually impossible to get her to disclose what that something was.

  Ashford had tried everything, from explaining to Mary how she had the power to help find the man who'd killed her beloved mistress, to sternly defining the phrase "obstructing justice."

  Nothing had worked.

  How could he reach this woman? How could he make her tell him the truth—a truth he knew in his gut she could shed some light on?

  Damn.

  Ashford's eyes snapped open and he stared, unseeing, at the compartment ceiling. He'd all but interrogated the woman into tears and had succeeded only in alienating her more. Leaving had seemed the best option, for now. But he had to return with a fresh and, hopefully, successful approach. Because other than Mary, he hadn't found a singe link to Baricci.

  So, professionally, Ashford's frustration stemmed from his lack of headway in this investigation.

  Personally, it stemmed from his internal conflict over Noelle—a conflict that could only be resolved by relegating the different components of his life to their appropriate places. Or by eliminating some of those components.

  But which? And how?

  He'd intended to use these past three days to decide. What he hadn't expected was to be so caught up in his feelings that he couldn't think straight. Instead, he'd spent three sleepless nights—nights filled with memories of Noelle's taste, Noelle's laughter, Noelle's fiery sensuality—trying to uncloud his reasoning and make some headway in resolving his dilemma.

  Time was running out.

  Another week had passed since he'd vowed to Eric and Brigitte Bromleigh that, if for whatever reason he was wrong, if Noelle didn't care for him the way he believed or if he was incapable of resolving things so he could make her happy, give her everything she wanted and needed, he would step aside and let them introduce her to the fashionable world as intended.

  Well, that choice was unthinkable
. That much he knew. To begin with, Noelle did care for him. She more than cared for him. It was there in her eyes when she gazed at him, in her smile when she sparred with him, even in her fervor when she argued with him. And when she was in his arms, when she expressed the budding passion inside her—God, her body told him everything he needed to know.

  As for his own feelings, he acknowledged them here and now, without permitting any of his concerns or life's complications to color their truth: he was in love with Noelle, crazily and unimaginably in love with her. Their relationship had struck him with all the impact of a boulder—crushing and unexpected. Yet somehow he'd known, at least peripherally, from the onset, that this was far more than attraction, that it's culmination was as permanent as it was inescapable.

  Inescapable, hell. The truth was, he didn't want to escape it, nor did he have any problems acknowledging it. That acknowledgment had been hovering inside him for days now, perhaps weeks, waiting only to be brought to light. As for assigning the words, he had no trouble with that either. He came from a family whose foundation was rooted in love, from parents who'd want nothing less for their son—for all their children—than what they'd found in each other.

  Loving Noelle, welcoming her love for him—that was the easy part. So was recognizing how right this was, how permanent. Despite his long years as a bachelor, or perhaps because of them, Ashford knew in his heart that he and Noelle were meant to be. No, that didn't concern him either.

  His big concern—his only concern—was: Could he simplify his life enough to offer that life to her? Not just a portion of himself, but all of him? With Noelle there could be nothing short of totally and forever. The forever was easy. But the totally was entirely different, something he'd never contemplated and wasn't sure he had the right to.

  He had a responsibility, one he'd assumed years ago. It wasn't something he could explain, nor something his father had ever asked of him. Still, it was his and his alone.