by Andrea Kane
He'd carried on the legacy of the Tin Cup Bandit.
Oh, he knew his parents had never stopped fulfilling the bandit's role, leaving tin cups filled with money on the doorsteps of needy schools, churches, and orphanages. But their more exciting role—robbing the ignoble rich, righting the world's injustices—that had been relinquished years ago.
It had made him proud to carry on his father's burning cause, a cause that Ashford had adapted to fit into the patterns of his own life, his own work. The world had never guessed there was a new Tin Cup Bandit, one who practiced the same unorthodox methods as his predecessor. Nor did they ever need to know. As far as they were concerned, the bandit was a legend. He'd continued to live in their hearts and minds, never aging, never breaking stride, only changing courses, in that he now gave from some miraculous, bottomless cache of money, rather than seizing funds from those whose wealth was born in cruelty and corruption.
The image was intact, precisely as Ashford wanted it.
Thus, no one linked the disappearance of valuable art paintings to anything other than a clever burglar—no one, of course, but Baricci, who knew he had an expert and mysterious competitor out there somewhere. To everyone else, it was assumed that whoever was stealing the masterpieces was the same thief each time, perhaps several thieves over the past decade or so. But Ashford knew better. And to him, outwitting ruthless noblemen by breaking into their homes, robbing them of their treasures, and offering them to those less fortunate was a tribute to his father's childhood, his struggle for survival, his commitment to those who were needy and impoverished. By doing things this way, Ashford felt he was creating an equity that couldn't be established with mere charitable donations.
He was honest enough to admit that his cause was not completely altruistic. He was every bit his father's son. The excitement, the exhilaration of planning and executing his thefts—all while retaining his anonymity—ignited his blood as it had Pierce's. And with Baricci in the picture, as he had been for a few years now, the game had taken on a new dimension, giving Ashford a new determination to best the enemy.
But Baricci would soon be caught, and that chapter of the adventure would be over. So after that—what?
Could Ashford give up that part of his life for Noelle? Could he keep her safe if he continued? Could he separate her from it, somehow manage to have it all, do it all?
The last was a virtual impossibility. Hiding things from Noelle would be as easy as converting that cat of hers into a sedate lap pet.
So what the hell was he to do? Even if he were willing to bid good-bye to the heart-pounding excitement, the thrill of outwitting those who deserved no less, could he sever that facet of his life? Was it right or fair to place his own needs ahead of others'?
Damn. He couldn't think straight. His questions kept going around in circles, each feeding into the next, none inspiring any solutions. His only concrete thought was that he loved Noelle and he couldn't let her go, selfish or not. He needed her, he wanted her, and hell and damnation, he intended to have her.
Which led back to a quandary that, clearly, he was ill-equipped to surmount alone.
Abruptly, his head came up and he leaned forward in his seat. All right, so he couldn't surmount it alone, but with the help of someone who'd been there…
Some of the tension eased from Ashford's shoulders as he made his plans, more and more certain of what he had to do.
Immediately following the next sitting with Sardo, he'd ride to Northampton and speak with his father.
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time Ashe's carriage rounded the drive at Farrington Manor.
He realized it was probably too late in the day for callers, but he needed to see Noelle—partly to reassure himself that all was well, partly because he'd missed her like hell.
He knew it wasn't the time for grand declarations of love. He hadn't the right yet—not with the terms of their future still undefined and their opportunity for privacy unlikely.
In truth, Ashford mused as he alighted from his carriage, Eric Bromleigh would be less than pleased by the improper timing of this visit. Not only was the hour late, but the visit was unplanned. Ashford wasn't expected until tomorrow morning, right before Sardo arrived to conduct Noelle's portrait sitting.
On the other hand, Ashford countered silently to himself, since his frank discussion with the Bromleighs on the night of the ball, Eric's disapproval had mellowed into grudging acceptance. So perhaps he wouldn't be too irritated by the impromptu visit.
There was only one way to find out.
Bladewell opened the door at Ashford's knock, peering outside to see the identity of their caller. His reaction, however, was the utter antithesis of what Ashford had expected. Rather than put off, the butler looked utterly relieved to see who was on their doorstep.
"Lord Tremlett. Please come in." He moved aside, gesturing for Ashford to enter. "The earl has been trying to locate you all day."
In the process of crossing the threshold, Ashford stiffened. "Why? Is something wrong?"
An unconvincing pause. "Not to my knowledge, sir. All I know is that Lord Farrington is extremely anxious to see you. He's sent messages to your Southampton home, your London Town house, even to your parents' estate."
Now Ashford was really becoming alarmed. "Where is the earl now?"
"In his study," Bladewell replied. "I'll advise him you're here."
"Wait." Ashford stayed him with his hand. "Where is the rest of the family?"
The butler inclined his head in surprise. "Why, I believe the countess is in the study with her husband, sir. And Lady Chloe is hovering outside the blue salon, awaiting Lady Noelle's emergence."
Ashford wanted desperately to ask more questions, but he knew that to do so would be unproductive, not to mention totally unfair to Bladewell. The wisest course of action would be to let the poor butler announce his arrival to Lord Farrington. Then he could get the answers he sought directly from Eric.
But one thing was for sure: something wasn't right.
He was more convinced than ever when, mere seconds after Bladewell disappeared into the study, Eric himself strode out, stalking past the butler to reach Ashford's side, his expression taut with worry. "Where have you been?"
"I wasn't due until tomorrow." Ashford's eyes narrowed. "What's happened?"
Eric glanced uneasily over his shoulder. "Come with me. It's probably best you aren't seen."
"Seen? By whom?"
"Sardo."
"Sardo?" Ashford ground out the name, clenching his teeth to stifle his exclamation of surprise. Rigid with purpose, he followed Eric's lead, remaining silent as they hastened down the hall and entered the study.
Brigitte glanced up, relief sweeping her features when she saw who was with her husband. "I'm glad you're here, Lord Tremlett."
"Countess." Ashford managed a civil greeting—but only barely. "What the devil is going on?" he demanded, turning to Eric. "Why is Sardo at Farrington Manor? And who's with him—besides Noelle, that is?"
"If I had my way, I'd be with them," Eric shot back. "But Noelle had other ideas."
"Are you telling me she's alone with that lowlife?"
A dark scowl. "Of course not. Do you think I'm a fool? Grace is chaperoning. I insisted. And Tempest is crouched on Noelle's lap, eyeing Sardo mistrustfully and awaiting the opportunity to spring at him. Not that I blame her." Eric began pacing the floor. "I don't like this, Tremlett. The man is virtually courting my daughter. Oh, he's doing it subtly, each gift and visit assigned a purpose so as not to offend me. And Noelle is so bloody determined to carry out this plan of hers…"
"What gifts? What visits?"
"The day after you left, a huge bouquet of wildflowers arrived—Sardo handpicked them himself—along with a note of apology for his inexcusable display of irritability at Noelle's first sitting. After that, each successive day brought with it a note, together with a drawing of Noelle—'mere recollections of her beauty,' I believe
were his words. Now, today, Sardo himself arrived just after breakfast, presumably on his way to some obscure cove in Dorsetshire to sketch the cliffs. He said he wanted to drop by to ensure that the sitting room was faring well enough for tomorrow's session—and to capture a quick profile of Noelle to include in one of his sketches."
"And you agreed?"
Eric's jaw clenched. "No. My first instinct was to thrash the man and have Bladewell toss him into the gutter. But I controlled myself, just as I promised Noelle I would. However, I insisted on remaining in the room with them the entire time Sardo was here—a fact that clearly annoyed him. Which is why Noelle was reluctant to have me repeat the process during this latest visit."
Halting, Eric dragged a hand through his hair. "Now I'm sorry I gave in to her wishes. Dammit Tremlett, you should have seen Sardo this morning. He had no interest in either the condition of the sitting room or in Noelle's profile. He never so much as glanced about him, nor did he take out a pencil. All he did was flatter Noelle excessively, kiss her hand as if it were a sacred object, and gaze at her as if she were a goddess. Finally, he left—supposedly until tomorrow morning. The whole series of incidents made me bloody uneasy. That's when I began trying to reach you. Obviously, you were already on the train, on your way here."
"Let's get to this late afternoon visit," Ashford pressed. "What was Sardo's excuse for coming to Farrington this time?"
"He showed up on our doorstep a half hour ago, eager to show Noelle how he'd incorporated her likeness in his sketches of the water's edge. The two of them have been in the blue salon the entire time—under Grace's watchful eye—and I don't know what to make of it. When I started to turn him away, Noelle intervened, giving me one of her please-Papa-I-know-what-I'm-doing looks, silently reminding me that my interference would ruin your entire plan. She gave me another one of those looks when I tried to accompany them into the blue salon. So despite my reservations, I left."
Eric leveled a troubled stare at Ashford. "So tell me, was Noelle right? Or has my daughter, once again, wrapped me around her little finger, manipulated me into doing something against my better judgment?"
Ashford exhaled sharply, desperately trying to separate logic from emotion. "I wish she weren't, but, yes, Noelle is right. If you thwart Sardo's attempts to get closer to her, he'll never lower his guard enough to reveal tidbits on Baricci. As for whether or not Sardo's unscheduled notes and visits have endangered Noelle, common sense tells me they haven't. Despite his obvious designs on her, he couldn't have expected to make much headway by showing up at Farrington unannounced. He's not stupid. He knows that without the guise of his sittings there's no way you would allow him to be alone with her."
"Then why is he here?"
"To hasten things along; to display his heightened ardor in as immediate and blatant a manner as circumstances permit. And I can think of an excellent reason why."
"So can I," Eric agreed caustically. "He wants to bed my daughter."
"Other than that." Ashford's fists clenched at his sides at the mere mention of Sardo and Noelle together. "The reason I'm referring to is Baricci—who, let's not forget, is paying Sardo to win Noelle's affections and who, I'm sure, was less than pleased by the delay in scheduled portrait sittings. My guess is that it was Baricci's suggestion for Sardo to use the intervening days to woo Noelle with notes and flowers. Lord knows, it would be right in character. Baricci is a master at seduction. No one knows better than he how to turn the heads of most shallow, unsuspecting—" Ashford broke off as he realized what he was saying. "Forgive me. That was a thoughtless remark."
"No, it was an honest remark." Eric shoved his hands in his pockets. "You needn't tiptoe around the subject of Liza. I know very well the kind of person my sister was. I made peace with that fact a long time ago. And you're right. Sardo's tactics do sound like Baricci's. As for your observation about Sardo's limited opportunities to take advantage of Noelle in her own home with either myself or Grace present—believe me, I considered that as well. It's the only thing that kept me sane and Sardo in one piece."
"Lord Tremlett," Brigitte inserted quietly. "How long do you expect this charade to continue? When will Sardo determine he's gotten all the information Noelle has to offer?"
"Hopefully not before Noelle's gotten all the information Sardo has to offer," Ashford replied. "And for the record, I don't like this any more than you do. In fact, when all this is over and Baricci is locked up, I might just call out Sardo and shoot him."
"Unless he's in a cell beside Baricci," Brigitte reminded him.
"Or unless I shoot him first," Eric added.
Restlessly, Ashford glanced at the clock. "A half hour, you said. That's long enough for whatever strides Noelle intends to make during this chance visit. Why don't you go escort Monsieur Sardo to the door. I'll wait here until he's gone."
"I'm on my way." Eric took the room in four strides and disappeared down the hallway.
A few endless minutes later, Sardo's voice reached Ashford's ears, moving away from the study and towards the entranceway. "I'll be staying at a local inn tonight," he announced, his silken tones a clear indication he was addressing Noelle. "That way we can begin your sitting first thing in the morning."
"Ten o'clock will be fine," Eric cut in, his tone icy, unyielding. "We don't receive callers before then."
A disappointed pause. "Very well," Sardo conceded, presumably realizing he had little choice in the matter. "Ten o'clock then. I can hardly wait."
"Nor can I," Noelle agreed, sounding far more excited than Ashford would have liked, feigned though her enthusiasm might be. "Judging from the quality of your sketches thus far, my portrait will far exceed its subject."
"Now that is impossible. Nothing could exceed your beauty, Noelle. Nothing."
"And no one captures beauty better than you. So we'll make an excellent team."
This time, Sardo's pause oozed sensual promise—promise that was detectable even from a distance. "I'm counting on that, chérie," he murmured, the muffled sound of his voice telling Ashford that the artist's lips were pressed against something, doubtless Noelle's hand. "Until ten o'clock then."
"Good-bye, Sardo," Eric stated flatly.
"Au revoir." With just the proper air of reluctance, André accepted his fate and took his leave.
The profound bang of the front door confirmed that it was Eric who had shut it.
"Noelle—" he began.
"Papa, before you start, he didn't touch me," she interrupted. "Between Grace's ample presence and Tempest's bared claws, he wouldn't dare. All he wanted was to regain whatever ground he'd lost. I flirted enough to put his mind at ease. Now, tomorrow I can continue my probing."
"And I can continue my seething," Ashford proclaimed, stepping into the hall and walking toward them. "A few more sittings and I just might grow to detest Monsieur Sardo as much as I do his employer."
Noelle spun about, her entire face lighting up. "Ashford." Before she could think to censor her actions, she ran to him, launched herself into his arms. "You're early. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
Catching her about the waist, Ashford had to fight the urge to crush her against him, declare her as his, and never let her go. The only thing stopping him was the steely glint in Eric Bromleigh's eyes.
"My business in London was at a standstill." He set her down at a respectable distance, brought her palm to his lips and kissed it. "And I missed you."
"Didn't things go well with Lord Mannering? Didn't he agree to—?" Abruptly, Noelle perceived Ashford's restrained tone, his understated actions—and, with a jolt of reality, she recognized what she'd done and in front of whom. She tensed, becoming suddenly and painfully aware of her father's disapproving stare as it burned into her back. She looked bewildered, uncertain, her gaze automatically shifting to the doorway of the study, seeking out her mother's less denouncing, more compassionate presence.
Brigitte cleared her throat, preparing to say something—something that woul
d, presumably, offer Noelle the buffer she sought.
Before she could speak, a thirteen-year-old diversion burst onto the scene.
"Hello, Lord Tremlett," Chloe piped up, darting out of nowhere and, once again, saving the day. "I thought I heard your voice." She walked right up to him, her angelic face alight with pleasure. "Will you be staying for dinner?"
A conspiratorial grin curved Ashford's lips. "Are you inviting me?"
"Yes." She turned to Brigitte. "Mama, Lord Tremlett can dine with us, can't he?"
Brigitte looked as if she were about to burst out laughing. "Of course, darling. I'm sure the earl has a great deal to discuss with Noelle. That discussion will undoubtedly deplete whatever's left of the afternoon—which should give Cook more than enough time to prepare for a dinner guest. In fact, since Lord Tremlett needs to be here by ten o'clock tomorrow morning, perhaps he ought to spend the night." An innocent glance at Ashford. "Unless, of course, he has other plans?"
"Not a one," Ashford assured her, thinking that Brigitte and his mother would get along famously. They both had the same gentle, gracious way of accomplishing precisely what they made up their minds to accomplish—almost without anyone else being aware of it. "I'd be delighted to have dinner with you and grateful not to have to make the trip from Southampton at dawn."
"Good. Then it's settled." Brigitte turned back to Chloe and waved in the direction of the kitchens "Let's go advise Cook. After that, we'll help Mrs. Pearson make up one of the guest rooms."
"Splendid." Chloe took a step, then paused, gesturing for Eric to join them. "Come with us, Papa. The pie I helped Cook fill earlier this afternoon will be about ready. You can sample it while it's still hot."
Eric hadn't moved a muscle, nor thawed a bit. To the contrary, his tension had heightened at Brigitte's invitation that Ashford spend the night. "Where's Grace?" he demanded, glaring about in search of his reliable sentry.
Chloe's grin was impish. "Probably on her way to the kitchen, trying to beat you to the pie. She adores you, Papa, but not enough to share her food."
Rushing to her father's side, Chloe grasped his hand. "Nonetheless, you needn't worry. Grace might be otherwise occupied, but Tempest is still in the blue salon. Why not let Noelle and Lord Tremlett have their talk in there? That way, Tempest can claw Lord Tremlett mercilessly if he attempts any of the things you're envisioning. She's the best chaperon—and the best judge of character—in the house. What's more, she sleeps on Noelle's bed. So she can oversee their chat now and guard Noelle's room later. You see? Your worries are over."