Last Duke

by Andrea Kane

  “No, my lord.” Williams’s refusal was instantaneous and absolute. “Mr. Baricci is in a meeting right now. He’s authorized me to answer your questions, provide you with whatever information we have that might help in your investigation.”

  “In a meeting … with Lady Noelle?”

  Silence.

  “Why would Baricci be interested in meeting with a young woman who couldn’t differentiate a novice’s canvas from a Rembrandt?”

  “I don’t discuss Mr. Baricci’s alliances,” Williams replied curtly. “Not with him, and certainly not with strangers.”

  “Alliances.” A muscle flexed in Ashford’s jaw. “Very well, Williams. If I need to speak with Baricci, I’ll return another time. For now, let’s see if your assistance is sufficient. Fetch your records. I’ll wait here.”

  “Yes, you will, my lord,” Williams concurred, the look he shot Ashford as knowing as it was explicit. “I wouldn’t suggest surprising Mr. Baricci or even venturing toward his office. You’d be discovered and removed.”

  A corner of Ashford’s mouth lifted. “You know me better than that, Williams. I don’t prowl; I stride. If I wanted to see Baricci, I’d demand to do so. I wouldn’t slink about his office like a common thief. So save your threats. I’ll be in this very spot when you return.”

  He watched Williams walk off toward the rear, not quickly enough to look intimidated, not slowly enough to look reluctant. Just steadily, calmly, as if he had nothing to hide.

  Ashford knew better. But he also knew that it was too early in his own investigation to push, too soon to reveal his hand. All that would come later. Later—after he had all the evidence he needed to lock Baricci up for good.

  The gallery was quiet, only Lady Noelle’s overbearing maid and a few stray patrons strolling about. Once again Ashford’s attention shifted toward Baricci’s office. Damn. What words were being exchanged behind that closed door? What was Noelle Bromleigh’s involvement in all this? How much did she know about Baricci’s activities? Given her relationship to the scoundrel, anything was possible.

  One thing was for certain—that private little meeting taking place was anything but a coincidence.

  It was up to him to find out what had prompted it. But how? What was the best way to gain the details he sought?

  The answer was glaringly obvious. Weighing Baricci’s practiced facade against Noelle’s youthful candor was like comparing an expert marksman to a first-time shooter. There was no doubt as to who would be more likely to miss his target.

  On that insight, Ashford made a decision. Interrogating Baricci would have to wait until later. For now, his tactics would have to diverge a bit. He’d finish his conversation with Williams, use whatever information he derived from the gallery records, and wait for Lady Noelle to emerge from her meeting.

  Then he’d insist on escorting her back to the railroad station.

  It was ten minutes later, and Williams had just provided the names of the three men who had bid against the viscount for Moonlight in Florence, when Ashford spied Lady Noelle hastening back into the gallery. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth was set in a tight, worried line, and her expression was anxious as she scanned the room, ostensibly searching for her lady’s maid.

  For the second time that day, Ashford was startled by the impact her appearance had on him.

  Lady Noelle Bromleigh was a natural beauty, yes, but he’d seen many beautiful women in his life. This one, however, was different—more than just beautiful. She was a profusion of color and fervor, an exhilarating contrast of boldness and delicacy.

  Her cloud of raven-black hair was nearly as vivid as the brilliant blue of her eyes—eyes that glittered with the jewel-like intensity of sapphires. Her features were fine, exquisitely fragile, yet behind those fine features and diminutive height burned a fiery spirit, a quick tongue, and a keen mind destined to challenge all those she met. And beneath her charming honesty and innocence hovered an exciting, as yet untapped passion Ashford could actually feel—the combination of which he found uniquely and overwhelmingly arousing.

  As he watched, she spied her maid, and relief flooded her expressive face.

  “Grace.” She gathered up her skirts and hurried over. “My business here is finished. Let’s start back to the station.”

  The maid scowled. “You were in that office, alone with that man, for twenty minutes. What on earth … ?”

  “Grace, please.” Clearly, Lady Noelle was at her wit’s end. “Let’s just say I made the inquiries I needed to. There’s nothing here for me. Let’s go home.”

  Ashford slipped his pad and quill into his pocket and strode over, catching Lady Noelle’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  She started, her head whipping about. On the verge of yanking herself free, she saw who addressed her and visibly relaxed. “Oh. Lord Tremlett. Forgive me. I didn’t realize it was you. I …” Her voice quavered as she battled against whatever emotion was claiming her.

  “You’re upset.”

  Her small jaw set. “I must go home.”

  “I’ll take you to the station,” Ashford said swiftly.

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He simply tossed Williams a blunt nod, calling out, “I’ve got what I need for now. I’ll be in touch.” Then, still gripping Lady Noelle’s arm, he gestured for Grace to follow them and headed toward the door.

  His carriage was poised outside, and he ushered both women inside. Instructing his driver to return to Waterloo Station, he climbed in to sit across from Lady Noelle.

  “Lord Tremlett—” she began.

  “Don’t bother refusing the ride,” Ashford interrupted, averting whatever protest she’d been about to make. “I’m putting you on that train.” His mind was racing as he contemplated his options. He would have preferred talking to Lady Noelle alone—and with a sufficient amount of time in which to gently ease the information from her that he needed—but that wasn’t meant to be. Getting rid of Grace would be akin to upending a limestone cliff.

  So Ashford settled for the small amount of privacy he could muster. Shifting to the edge of his carriage seat, he angled himself to face Noelle, his back half-turned toward Grace.

  “Clearly, you’re distressed,” he announced without prelude. “What did Baricci do?”

  An ironic smile touched her lips. “Not what you’re imagining he did.”

  Ashford was half-tempted to blurt out that seduction wasn’t the offense he’d been alluding to. But he fought the impulse to do so. After all, if he made that statement, he’d be forced to explain it. “Why did you want to see him?” he asked instead.

  “Why is he so afraid of you?” Lady Noelle stunned him by firing back.

  Ashford arched a brow. “Is he?”

  “I think you know he is.”

  “And I think you’re a very clever young woman.”

  This time her smile lit up her whole face. “And I think you’re evading my question.” She tossed him a saucy look. “According to my father, no one can best me in a debate. So I suggest you give it up.”

  “Very well,” Ashford conceded, a warm chuckle escaping his lips. “I have the distinct feeling your father is right.”

  “Then answer my question.”

  “I will. If you tell me what’s prompting you to ask it.”

  “Fair enough,” Noelle agreed. “Mr. Baricci kept bringing the conversation around to you, trying to pry information out of me. What he was delving for, I haven’t a clue. Nonetheless, he seemed to want it quite badly. He was overly curious—even worried—about how you and I met. Also about why you were accompanying me to his gallery. In short, he was noticeably disturbed by our association.” She tucked a strand of that glorious hair behind her ear. “By the way, he came to the conclusion we were lovers.”

  “My lady!” Grace pressed a horrified palm to her mouth.

  “Don’t be so priggish, Grace.” Noelle tossed her maid an exasperated look. “That is what the man said. Quite bluntly, in fact.”

 
; “Did he?” Ashford was biting back laughter. He wasn’t sure what he found more enchanting, Noelle’s sheer audacity or her utter refusal to abandon that trait and bow to propriety.

  “Yes. He did.”

  “Perhaps he was jealous,” Ashford tried carefully. He watched her face, gauging her reaction to his intentionally faulty assumption.

  She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Hardly. As I said, Mr. Baricci wasn’t interested in seducing me.”

  “Are you certain? The man has quite a reputation with women.”

  Noelle’s sapphire eyes glinted wickedly. “Odd. He said the same thing about you.”

  Grace moaned, burying her face in her hands, her bulky weight sinking deeper into the carriage seat.

  “Are you a womanizer, my lord?” Noelle inquired, ignoring her maid’s all-too-conspicuous protest. Leaning forward, she propped her chin on her hand and regarded Ashford with a bright, fascinated curiosity that was both childlike and thoroughly female—very adult female. “Are you?”

  Ashford felt everything inside him tighten, and he had to fight the insane desire to pull Lady Noelle Bromleigh into his arms and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

  “Am I treading on forbidden territory?” she murmured.

  “No,” he heard himself reply. “I’m just not certain how to respond. I enjoy women. They enjoy me. But I have rules—rules I abide by. I’m straightforward in my pursuit. I don’t undermine existing relationships nor prey upon vulnerability. Does that make me a womanizer? I think not.” He leaned a bit closer. “What do you think?”

  Noelle’s breath caught, then released in a rush—and Ashford gritted his teeth as the warm puff of air grazed his lips. “I haven’t enough experience to make that judgment,” she managed.

  “Nor will you acquire any.” Grace surged to life, her head coming up, her plump cheeks suffused with color. “Really, Lord Tremlett, this topic of conversation is utterly—”

  “I apologize,” Ashford interrupted, addressing Grace yet never taking his eyes off Noelle. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “None was taken,” Noelle assured him. She eased back in her seat, clearly preparing to steer the discussion in a less provocative direction. “With regard to our bargain, my lord, I’ve told you what prompted my question. It’s time for you to answer it.”

  “Indeed.” Ashford was completely astounded by the pull that existed between Lady Noelle Bromleigh and himself—the very magnitude of which was unprecedented in his vast realm of experience. It was a palpable entity that took every ounce of his strength to resist.

  But resistance was essential—for now.

  “Here’s your answer, then,” he supplied. “Baricci is afraid of me because I’m a disruption. When I visit his gallery, I generally ask a lot of unpleasant questions. This time was no exception. A valuable painting was recently stolen. I’m investigating the matter for Lloyds.”

  Noelle’s eyes widened. “And Mr. Baricci was involved in this theft?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Ashford refuted, now scrutinizing her for an entirely different reason. “But the painting was originally auctioned off at the Franco Gallery. So I needed some background information.”

  “I see.” Noelle’s expression was the epitome of unfeigned innocence. Ashford would stake his life on the fact that she hadn’t a clue where Moonlight in Florence was or who was behind its theft.

  Then why the hell had she visited Baricci?

  As if reading his mind, Noelle continued of her own accord. “Several valuable paintings have disappeared recently, according to what I’ve read in the newspapers.”

  Ashford tensed. “Yes, they have.”

  “Do you believe the thefts are related?”

  “It’s quite possible.” He waited, wondering where she was headed and why. Was she merely expressing her own charming brand of curiosity or was she pumping him for information—information she planned to pass on to Baricci? The latter was highly unlikely. Still, he had to be sure.

  Noelle’s brow furrowed in thought, and Ashford leaned forward, eager to hear her response.

  It was Grace who responded.

  “We’ve arrived at the station,” she barked, peering out the window.

  Dammit, Ashford swore silently. I’ve run out of time.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  “You’re neither an artist nor a dealer. So what possible business could you have with Franco Baricci?” he demanded, resorting to his last hope: the element of surprise.

  Plainly, it worked, for Noelle started, her pupils dilating before her lashes drifted to her cheeks, veiling her magnificent eyes. “You don’t mince words, do you, my lord?” She twisted her hands in the folds of her mantle, awkwardly weighing her words. “My business with Mr. Baricci was personal in nature,” she said at last. “I’m not comfortable discussing the details with a stranger.”

  “After today, I didn’t think we were strangers.”

  Her lashes lifted, and a tiny smile curved her lips. “Perhaps not. But we’re hardly friends either.”

  “I’d like to change that,” he said quietly as the carriage rolled up to the station and stopped.

  “Why? Because of your interest in Mr. Baricci?”

  “No. Because of my interest in you.”

  A charged silence, during which Ashford’s driver came around and opened the door. “Waterloo Station,” he announced, offering a hand to the ladies.

  Fortunately, Grace was seated closer to the door. With a disapproving scowl at Lady Noelle, she accepted the driver’s assistance and descended to the street.

  Ashford waited until Grace was poised outside the carriage. Then he made his move. He lurched forward, his fingers closing around Noelle’s, staying her as she made to rise. “I want to see you again.”

  Those exquisite sapphire eyes glinted with anticipation. “Are you asking to call on me, Lord Tremlett?”

  “Ashford,” he corrected, his thumb caressing her wrist.

  “Ashford,” she reiterated, whispering his name in a breathless way that made his blood heat.

  He brought her fingers to his lips, as much on instinct as on design. Whatever the hell he was doing far transcended his hunt for Baricci, and he knew it. “Yes, I’m asking to call on you—Noelle. May I?”

  With apparent fascination she watched her fingers against his lips, shivering as he lightly kissed her fingertips. Slowly, her chin came up and her gaze met his. “I’d like that, my lord,” she admitted. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Good. Then expect to hear from me.”

  “I shall.”

  “My lady!” Grace bellowed her summons over the noise of the busy London station.

  “I’m coming, Grace,” Noelle called back. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, gathered up her skirts, and exited the carriage. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, turning to face Ashford. “For the ride, the game of piquet, and the fascinating conversation.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he replied, holding her with his gaze. “At least not yet.”

  A Biography of Andrea Kane

  Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty-five novels—including fourteen historical and twelve contemporary novels—that have been published in sixteen countries and translated into more than twenty languages. Whether she’s writing about Regency England, America on the brink of civil war, or New York Police Department detectives caught up in mayhem and murder, Kane’s ability to create unforgettable stories has earned her a loyal worldwide following.

  Kane published My Heart’s Desire, her first historical novel and the first book in the Barrett Family series, in 1991. Others quickly followed, including Samantha, the second book in that series; Echoes in the Mist and Whispers in the Wind (the Kingsley in Love series); and the acclaimed Black Diamond, Thornton-Bromleigh Family, and Colby Coin series. Stand-alone historic romances include Dream Castle (1992), Masque of Betrayal (1993), Emerald Garden (1996), and The M
usic Box (1998).

  Kane’s groundbreaking romantic thriller Run for Your Life (2000) became an instant New York Times bestseller. This was followed by a series of suspense novels featuring NYPD detective-turned-private investigator Pete “Monty” Montgomery. Kane’s current contemporary series introduced FBI special agents Sloane Burbank and Derek Parker. Other thrillers include No Way Out, Scent of Danger, Twisted, I’ll Be Watching You, The Girl Who Disappeared Twice, and, most recently, The Line Between Here and Gone.

  Kane is a self-proclaimed “cerebral” type, and prides herself on her questioning, analytical mind, which has led to her passion for mysteries. She has spent many happy hours with the classic novels of Agatha Christie, trying to outsmart Hercule Poirot.

  She is also a die-hard sentimentalist. She cries at old movies and believes in striving for happily-ever-after. In Kane’s words: “The idealist in me loves writing romance, and the pragmatist in me loves writing suspense. I feel very fortunate that I’m able to combine the two, and give you books that keep you at the edge of your seat, but at the same time, make you care.”

  Kane lives in New Jersey with her family.

  Andrea Kane as a little girl, with her first puppy, Inky, named for the black spots on his white back.

  An eight-year-old Kane, a proud sleepaway camper for the first time.

  A photo from Kane’s trip to the Thousand Islands (on the border of Canada and the United States) to research and write My Heart’s Desire. Kane toured the area by boat.

  Kane and her husband, Brad, trying to simulate a novel’s cover pose while wearing period clothing.

  Kane and her daughter, Wendi, outside Buckingham Palace during a weeklong research trip to England in 1998.

  Kane and her daughter at Cinderella’s Castle at Walt Disney World Resort. Kane believes that the castle is the most romantic place for creative inspiration.

  The first Kane family cruise, to Bermuda: rough waters but happy faces.