by Andrea Kane
"You intend to climb in and out of here?"
"It's the best location for doing so. Your room faces the back of the house. Mama and Papa's faces the front. They can't know I've gone, Chloe. They'll worry themselves sick." She paused, taking into account her sister's tender, honest heart. "I'm not asking you to lie to them. If I'm discovered, tell them the truth. But if I'm nat—say nothing. I've stuffed my bed with enough pillows to make it look as if I'm sleeping in it. And Tempest is in her usual spot. So if Mama should look in on me, she'll feel reassured that all is well."
"Which it won't be," Chloe countered anxiously.
"Yes it will." Noelle leaned forward, her tone pleading. "Chloe, I know you're too young to understand. But I love him. I have to be with him. And tonight, I have to tell him that, show him that."
A small smile touched Chloe's lips. "I'm not that young. I see the way you two look at each other. And I see how mussed your hair is every time Lord Tremlett leaves. I think what's blossoming between you two is wonderful and incredibly romantic. I just want you to be happy. And safe."
"I'll be both. I promise. That's what tonight is all about." Chloe sprang to her feet. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's find those sheets."
* * *
Noelle was breathless by the time she reached the address she'd subtly acquired from her father during dinner this evening.
Ashford's Town house.
Frowning, she circled the grounds, trying to determine the best point of entry. The house looked discouragingly dark, and Noelle found herself praying that she wasn't too late, that he hadn't already gone.
She was maneuvering her way through some shrubbery when her prayers were answered.
The front door opened, and Ashford stepped outside. Or at least she assumed it was Ashford, based upon his height and build. The night was dark, lit only by a pale crescent moon, and the man who eased his way down the front steps was clad totally in black.
Odd.
Noelle hunched down behind the line of shrubs, waiting until he walked past her, glancing about him before heading around back to the carriage house.
It was Ashford all right. There was no mistaking that arrogant, commanding presence, that uncompromising jaw and predatory stance.
Swiftly, Noelle evaluated her best course of action. Should she follow him to the carriage house, hope she could somehow slip past him and enter his carriage first—hiding Lord knew where—or wait here, think of another way to accomplish her goal—one that had a better chance of succeeding without the risk of discovery?
Instinct cautioned her to attempt the latter.
She studied the drive, recalled the gates she'd slid through when she entered. They hadn't been guarded or locked, but they had been shut—a condition she'd been sure to restore before sprinting across the grounds to the manor. If Ashford intended to leave his estate, which clearly he did, he'd have to take the necessary time to alight from his carriage and open the gates to make way for his vehicle to pass.
That would be her cue.
Swiftly, she emerged, gathered up the folds of her dark, fur-lined mantle and darted across the grounds, retracing her steps until she'd reached the iron gate.
There, she hid in the shadows.
Minutes later, a phaeton eased its way around the drive, moving quietly toward the gate. Surprisingly, and to Noelle's stark relief, it had a rumble seat in the back—although why Ashford had selected a vehicle that accommodated a groom when he was its sole passenger, she had no idea. Nor did she care. She had no intentions of looking a gift horse in the mouth.
She readied herself—and waited.
The phaeton came to a halt.
Ashford stepped down and moved toward the gate to open it.
The instant his back was to her, Noelle left her hiding spot, scooted over to the phaeton and climbed silently into the rumble seat. In the dim light, she squinted, searching for anything to help keep her hidden.
Again, luck was on her side. A saddle blanket lay on the floor at her feet. Dropping down beside it, she snatched it up, curled into a tight ball on the carriage floor and dragged the blanket over herself.
Mission accomplished.
A moment later, Ashford returned, swung himself into the driver's seat, and urged his horse forward.
The phaeton passed through the gates and stopped. Ashford jumped down lightly, and there was a grating sound as the gates swung shut. In a flash, he was back, taking up the reins and veering the phaeton into the dark streets of London.
Noelle felt the rocking motion beneath her and smiled triumphantly.
Wherever Ashford was headed, he was no longer going there alone.
The woman he loved was going with him.
* * *
The journey ended abruptly—in far too short a time to preserve Noelle's current peace of mind.
She had scarcely shifted her weight for the second time when the phaeton began to slow and veer to the side of the road. Then, a moment or two later, it halted.
Tension permeated her body. Why was Ashford stopping? Surely they couldn't yet have reached London's East End. That would have taken a good half hour. And even without benefit of a timepiece, Noelle assessed their travel time at no more than ten, perhaps fifteen, minutes.
Had he detected her presence? Is that why he was cutting short his trip?
Staunchly, she fought the impulse to squirm out and gaze around, to verify for herself what was transpiring and why. To do so would be utterly stupid. If Ashford had spotted her, she'd know soon enough. And if there were another reason for his actions—such as the off chance that he'd forgotten something and meant to go back—she'd be a fool to undo her efforts by revealing herself.
A rustle of movement from the front seat ensued, followed by the tugging sounds of clothing being donned. An overcoat, perhaps? He'd been wearing none. Maybe he was cold and had taken the time to remedy that. In which case, they'd be on their way in…
The light thud of Ashford's shoes striking the cobblestone obliterated that notion.
Noelle's hands knotted into fists, and she waited, half-expecting the blanket to be yanked off her and Ashford to be looming over her, demanding to know what she was doing here.
Neither occurred.
In a muted flurry, Ashford's footsteps moved away from the phaeton and disappeared.
Silence hung heavy in the air—for taut, prolonged minutes.
At last, Noelle dared take her chances. Shifting the blanket ever so slowly, she paused when the night air struck her face, took a preliminary glance about before emerging fully.
It was eerily dark, the area around her utterly still.
Inhaling sharply, Noelle took the plunge, popping her head out and assessing her surroundings.
The phaeton was nestled against a remote street corner, an overhang of trees nearly concealing it from view. The nearest streetlamp was at least half a block away, throwing the phaeton into complete darkness.
Obviously, Ashford wanted his coming and going to remain undetected.
The question was, coming and going from where?
Growing bolder, Noelle crept to the edge of her seat, staring intently in the direction of the streetlamp.
From what she could make out from the silhouettes cast by the light, there were several houses down the way; large, splendid houses like her father's or Ashford's. She was right about one thing: they were definitely still in the West End of Town.
So what in God's name was Ashford doing here?
She'd better figure it out quickly. He'd already been gone at least a quarter hour, and she had no idea how long this segment of his mission—whatever that might be—would take.
Scarcely had Noelle made that determination when, out of nowhere, a figure in black emerged from the shadows down the street, racing towards the phaeton.
Jolting with shock, Noelle bit back her scream of fear, watching the man draw closer, a burlap sack in his hand, a hood covering his face.
That powerful build,
those lithe movements—dear God, it was Ashford.
Acting on pure instinct, Noelle ducked down, slid onto the carriage floor, and yanked the blanket over her head. She was almost certain he hadn't seen her. Her hair and mantle were black, and it was virtually pitch dark where he'd left the phaeton. The position of the streetlamp had been in her favor, providing enough light for her to see his approach.
His approach … from where?
She had no time to contemplate the ramifications of what had just occurred. Seconds later, Ashford reached the carriage, his shallow breaths evidence that he'd been running. Without delay, he leaned over the rumble seat—mere feet above where Noelle lay—and shoved the burlap sack beneath the blanket covering her. She could feel it press against the top of her head and, in response, she tensed, resisting her natural instinct to ease away from the pressure. She was afraid to make the slightest move, to do anything that would catch Ashford's eye. All she could do was lie utterly still and pray he wouldn't notice the additional baggage beneath his concealing blanket.
He was either too confident or in too much of a hurry to search the backseat for intruders. A heartbeat later, he leaped into the driver's seat, slapped the reins, and sped off.
This time they were definitely headed for the East End.
Noelle drew that conclusion about a quarter of an hour later. She could tell, not only by the length of the drive, but by the change in the road condition—altering from well maintained to broken and rutted.
Gingerly, she reached out her hand, touched the edge of the sack. Her curiosity would never permit her to share a hiding place with a mysterious object without knowing what that object was. And her time to explore was limited.
She lifted the open edge of the sack and tried to peer inside.
It was too bloody dark to make out anything. So she relied upon her sense of touch. Reaching inside, she explored the shape and texture, found the hard, defined rectangular edges, the angular contours, and the smooth, flat…
Noelle had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
The object in the sack was a painting.
Dear God, why had Ashford stolen a painting? And from whom? What in the name of heaven was he involved in?
Wildly, Noelle's thoughts converged, exploding in a rapid fire of questions—the very questions that had plagued her since the day she and Ashford had met, except that now she viewed them in a new and sinister light.
What was he hiding from her? What was the secret part of his life he valued so highly and guarded so fiercely?
Clearly, she had one fundamental answer.
Ashford was a thief.
But why? She'd seen the reality with her own eyes, but she refused to believe it—not without an explanation. It made no sense. He recovered paintings; why would he steal them? Certainly not for the money. Nor for the paintings themselves; he was hardly an ardent collector. Then why? And for whom? Or with whom?
An immediate name came to mind.
Pierce Thornton.
Ashford had gone to see his father two days ago, presumably to resolve his past. Was this robbery what they'd actually discussed? Were they partners in some intricate crime scheme?
That brought back the events that had taken place the night of the charity ball—events Noelle had never managed to dismiss, no matter how hard she'd tried. She'd been unable to grasp why the duke's behavior that night, along with Ashford's, had continued to nag at her. Perhaps now she had her answer.
She could clearly recall the way Pierce Thornton had summoned his son from the charity ball, the imperative aura that had hovered between them, the feeling that some clandestine matter needed to be discussed—a matter that couldn't wait until their guests had left. Had they truly been discussing Lady Mannering's death? And, for that matter, how had the duke learned about that murder before anyone else, possibly even the police?
Or did she have that backwards?
An icy chill shivered through Noelle.
Had it been Ashford who told his father, rather than the other way around? Was it he who had advance knowledge of the robbery and resulting murder at the Mannerings—firsthand knowledge, based upon what he'd seen, done? Had it been he who…?
No.
Beneath the blanket, Noelle gave an adamant shake of her head, squelching that line of thinking almost before it began. There was no way she'd believe that of Ashford—not even if she found him leaning over the body with the murder weapon in his hand. He was the most principled man she'd ever met, possessing as much honor and integrity as her father. He was inherently moral and decent—and he would never, ever harm anyone who didn't deserve it.
But what if they did?
Murder, never.
But theft…?
Noelle pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to still the pounding in her head. She felt even more confused now than she had before climbing into this phaeton, filled with a wealth of new, unanswerable questions.
The only person who could answer those questions was Ashford himself. She'd confront him, this very night, the instant this inconceivable jaunt of his was over.
As if in response to her thoughts, the phaeton pulled over and stopped.
Now where were they?
Probably wherever Ashford delivered his paintings.
On the heels of that prospect, Noelle lurched backwards, away from the sack, lying perfectly still until Ashford had climbed down, reached around to extract the bag and its contents, and crept away from the phaeton.
This time, she was too overwrought to worry about caution.
The instant Ashford's footsteps faded away, she tossed off the blanket, rising to her knees and peering about her.
The area was vile, even without benefit of light. The stench of ale and dung was in the air, and the quick, scurrying sounds emanating from the roadside could be nothing but rats.
By now her eyes were accustomed to the darkness and by focusing intently, Noelle could make out a broken path that led to what appeared to be the entrance to an alley.
Ashford's contact must be waiting for him in there.
She was half-tempted to go and find out for herself, but even she wasn't that reckless. Thieves, smugglers, and worse inhabited this section of Town, and any one of a dozen unimaginable things could happen to her before she even reached the alley, much less before Ashford finally realized she was here.
Curbing her curiosity, she sank back down in the rumble seat, crouching low and clutching the blanket for immediate concealment—when it was needed.
It was needed a few minutes later.
Ashford's footsteps resumed, and Noelle found herself relieved to hear them. Regardless of what he was involved in, she was grateful to no longer be alone in this godforsaken place.
There was a quiet thud as something landed in the front seat of the phaeton. A case of money, Noelle was willing to bet.
Ashford was in the process of climbing in beside it when the clomp, clomp of hoofbeats pierced the night.
Noelle could actually feel Ashford freeze—as she did, listening intently to hear who was approaching. She felt around for a weapon of any kind but found none. Oh God, Ashford, please have a pistol, she prayed fervently. Have two, so I can help save our lives.
Alongside the carriage, Ashford swore softly under his breath, the groping sounds she heard an indication that he was indeed extracting a weapon.
Whatever he saw made him put it away, grunt as he wrenched an article of clothing off his body—his mask?—and wait.
The hoofbeats drew nearer—and stopped.
"Hello, constable," Ashford greeted.
Constable? Noelle felt a flash of relief—relief that was short-lived. A police officer. Now that presented a whole new set of problems. How was Ashford going to explain what he was doing in this unsavory section of London—and why there was a case of money and a discarded mask in his phaeton?
"Sir." The constable sounded puzzled, and Noelle could hear him dismount. An instant later, a shaft of
light from his lantern illuminated their phaeton. "Isn't this an odd place for a gentleman like you to be out driving?"
Ashford cleared his throat. "I didn't intend to find myself in this section of Town. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I took a wrong turn and am now quite lost."
"So you stopped here in the hopes that you'd be rescued?" the constable inquired, obviously skeptical. "More likely, you'd be robbed and killed."
"I had no choice but to stop," Ashford returned in the irritated tone of a nobleman who was being unduly interrogated. "My horse has a stone in his shoe. I plan to remove it and be on my way."
"Then perhaps I can help." The officer was walking toward the carriage.
Ashford's plan wasn't going to work.
In a flash of motion, Noelle threw off the blanket and rose. "Oh, thank goodness," she gasped, gazing at the flabby-cheeked constable with immeasurable gratitude, simultaneously climbing down from the rumble seat. "A police official."
The instant her feet touched the ground, she shook out her mantle, and shot an angry look at Ashford, who was gaping at her as if she were a ghost. "Why didn't you tell me it was a constable? Here I was, hiding like a common criminal, crushing the fur of my new mantle while praying not to have my throat slit, and all the time it was a constable you heard approaching us?"
She didn't wait for a reply, but hurried forward, gripped the stunned constable's sleeve. "Oh, sir, you have no idea how relieved I am to see you. This fool I'm unfortunate enough to be married to, who can't so much as find his way around our sitting room, refused to summon our driver to escort us through Town. Oh, no. He had to drive himself. And, as if that isn't bad enough, he insisted on trying a new route from our dear friends' town house to Grosvenor Square."
Noelle gave a hideous shudder. "So where do we end up? In this hellish place, amid thieves and murderers. I begged him—not once, but thrice—to ask directions, but you know how men are about that. They'd rather die than reveal that particular weakness to anyone. So he insisted upon driving around and around until we were hopelessly lost. And now our poor horse has a stone lodged in his shoe…"