Andrea Kane (10 page)

The irony of his thoughts brought a small smile to Ashford’s lips. The fact was that, with the exception of her beauty, Noelle was the utter antithesis of any woman he’d ever been attracted to, much less pursued.

Attracted to? Hell, his immediate and overwhelming physical, mental, and sexual response to Noelle could hardly be described as attraction. It was more like intoxication.

Even more ironic was the fact that it had little to do with his original reason for charming her: to learn anything he could about whatever nebulous relationship she had with Franco Baricci.

Initially, he’d been overjoyed by his unexpected stroke of luck; coming upon Baricci’s illegitimate daughter, finding out she was headed to—of all places—the very same destination as he: her crooked sire’s gallery. Ashford’s suspicions had soared to life, his experience telling him a coincidence of this magnitude could scarcely be deemed a coincidence at all.

Maybe he’d stumbled upon just the break he needed. Maybe he was finally going to be able to get to Baricci. Maybe he could use this naive young woman to gain evidence against her far more sophisticated sire.

He sure as hell intended to explore this path to see where it led.

Where it had led was to the fact that Noelle Bromleigh was a deft card player, an alluring beauty, and an extraordinary breath of fresh air.

She was also as guiltless as he. After careful observation, he was convinced of it.

Not that Ashford believed for a minute that her visit to the Franco Gallery was accidental. No, she had gone specifically to see Baricci, to conduct some unknown business with him. But what? And why? After eighteen years wholly devoid of contact, why was she suddenly so eager to see the bastard who’d given her life?

Lord knew she was better off without him.

Lord knew … but did Noelle?

Ashford’s jaw tightened fractionally as he stared into the quietly awakening London street. Noelle couldn’t have an inkling what she was getting herself into, what becoming involved with Baricci could mean. She was utterly unaware of the dark world Baricci inhabited, the evil with which he dealt. Noelle was sheltered, loved, protected by her parents.

Her parents.

That brought Ashford’s thoughts to another unresolved piece of the puzzle.

He knew for a fact that Eric Bromleigh had conducted a long-standing, thorough investigation of Baricci’s life.
And
that the earl had managed to uncover what he surmised to be the entirety of Baricci’s wrongdoings but was in reality just the visible layer of his seedy, underhanded life: his women and his aliases.

Ashford had dismissed Farrington’s investigation as an attempt to protect his family. After all, Baricci had destroyed Liza Bromleigh, giving Farrington every reason to hate and distrust the man—
and
to ensure that Noelle was safe from his immoral clutches. Further, as time passed, it became increasingly clear that Farrington had no ulterior motives for delving into Baricci’s life—even when he had the information he sought, the earl made no move to contact Baricci, be it for business or personal reasons.

No move to contact Baricci …

Abruptly, yesterday’s events converged with Farrington’s actions—and the purpose of Noelle’s visit to the Franco Gallery clicked in Ashford’s mind.

Farrington hadn’t initiated the investigation of Baricci; his daughter had.

Quickly, Ashford reviewed the snatches of information Noelle had let slip in the carriage, combined them with her uneasy demeanor in the gallery—and came up with the answer he’d been searching for all day.

It made perfect sense. Noelle must have been pressing Farrington—for Lord knows how long—for details on the man who sired her. In response, he’d hired people to find her answers, a task that had taken years to accomplish. And Ashford would be willing to bet that Farrington had just recently shared his findings with Noelle. After which she’d immediately struck out on her own, gone in search of Baricci.

Probably to confront him.

It was the only explanation that fit.

It was also a daring act—one Ashford was convinced Lord Farrington would never condone, much less allow.

Would that stop Noelle?

Not a chance.

Despite the tension gripping him, Ashford’s lips curved slightly as he contemplated the impossibly blunt, unorthodox beauty he’d spent yesterday with, a young woman who would act first and think later. She was indeed a fiery handful—every bit the tempest she’d described.

A tempest that inspired in him a curious combination of protectiveness and attraction, spawning a physical and mental challenge too provocative to resist. And that was just part of it. Coupled with how drawn to her he was, how intrigued by her quick mind and bold tongue, was the amazing realization that he simply
liked
her, liked being with her. Their hours on the railroad had flown by, punctuated by conversation and laughter, innuendos and banter—and he couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed himself so much.

Not that he hadn’t wanted to have her to himself. He had. Badly.
Too
badly. He couldn’t let himself forget who and what she was: the Earl of Farrington’s daughter—
and
a virgin.

He had to tread carefully, keep himself in check. This relationship could only go so far. He could indulge it—to a point. After that, … well, there could be no after that. He simply wouldn’t let the physical pull between them, however heated, get out of hand.

The truth was, he probably should stay away from her altogether. No matter how he sliced it, Noelle Bromleigh was indisputably forbidden fruit.

On the other hand, he never was one to resist a challenge, forbidden or not. And pursuing Noelle, spending time with her
without
crossing the fine line of propriety would be one hell of a challenge.

A challenge he could hardly wait to take on. Especially given the vast grey area that loomed between avoidance and intimacy. …

Turning away from the window, Ashford rubbed the back of his neck, tucking away the enticing thoughts of Noelle for later. With some surprise, he noted that dawn had, at some point, given way to day, spilling sunlight through the room. Soon London would be up and about, and he had several visits to pay in order to narrow down the possible suspects in the matter of
Moonlight in Florence’s
disappearance.

It’s all a formality anyway,
he reflected darkly.
Baricci stole that painting. I know it. He knows I know it. Now it’s up to me to prove it.

The restlessness intensified.

Prowling over to his breakfast tray, Ashford poured himself a cup of coffee, his brooding gaze sweeping over the morning newspaper, which lay neatly folded alongside his cup. He opened the paper, reflexively scanning the first few pages as he planned his day.

A headline on page two caught his eye:

Gainsborough Landscape Painting Sold to Sir William Lewis for Undisclosed Sum.

The article went on to describe one of Thomas Gainsborough’s privately owned masterpieces, which had evidently changed hands—probably for a small fortune.

Ashford scowled, pondering the bald, portly man to whom the painting had gone. Lewis was, at best, a pompous ass, consumed with his title and his assets. Every year, just before the onset of the Season, he embellished the decorum of his already garish London Town house, being sure to add at least three or four treasures about which to brag when society came calling.

The whole exhibition was nauseating.

On the other hand, the painting he’d purchased was a stunning work of art. Gainsborough was a genius, his strokes brilliant and unique, his paintings highly coveted.

And highly valuable.

Making a possession of this nature irresistibly attractive to Baricci.

Abruptly, Ashford’s restlessness dissipated, an exhilarating and recognizable surge of excitement pulsing through his veins. Baricci was probably reading about the Gainsborough this very minute; reading about it and planning to steal it—especially once he learned what Ashford already knew: that Lewis took a yearly trip at this same time every January to visit his daughter and her family in Scotland.

By the time Baricci got his information, Lewis would be gone—and the painting would be all too accessible.

A slow smile spread across Ashford’s face.

Not this time, you son of a bitch. Not this time.

IT WAS 2 A.M.

The cold January night shivered through London’s deserted streets.

Throughout the city’s fashionable West End, servants had long since taken to their beds, enjoying these last few weeks of peaceful nights; the lull preceding an oncoming Season.

Just down the road from Sir William Lewis’s expansive manor a sole carriage hovered, nearly invisible from its concealed position among the shadows gathered beyond the glow of the streetlights. The horse at the head of the carriage stood alert but still, trained to remain as such for the brief time that was necessary for its driver to carry out his task.

The hooded figure in black crouched alongside Lewis’s manor, peering inside to ensure that, as expected, it was utterly dark and equally silent.

It was.

Satisfied, the bandit crept slowly around the back of the house, his movements lithe and pantherlike.

He paused when he reached the double windows outside the gallery. He didn’t dare light a match. He simply pressed close to the pane, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in order to discern if anyone was about.

No movement. A tightly closed door.

Perfect.

His teeth gleamed white in the starkness of night.

This was almost too easy.

He tucked the burlap sack in the bushes that bordered the manor. Then he stood, flattening himself against the wall, and extracted a diamond from his pocket. Deftly, he proceeded to cut out a generous-sized pane of glass, taking the extra seconds to create a space large enough for him to crawl through—a prudent choice, given his own speed and agility. The alternative was less appealing: to cut a smaller opening just large enough to reach through to force the catch and ease open the window—hardly a winning gamble given that the window might stick or its hinges squeak.

With a flourish, the bandit completed his task.

Forty seconds from start to finish—an instinct he needed no pocket watch to confirm.

Excellent timing. No noise. Minimum risk.

The theft was as good as done.

Placing the extracted pane of glass on the grass, he hoisted himself into the gallery.

He slipped off his shoes, then lit a taper—but only for the brief instant it took him to locate the Gainsborough. Once he spied it hanging on the far wall, he extinguished his candle, reaching up carefully to lift the painting from its hook.

He didn’t pause to admire it. He just retraced his steps, jerked on his shoes, then slid the painting and himself out the window to safety.

The canvas sack was right where he’d left it. In seconds, it held his prized possession, his fist tightly grasping the sack’s open end, now twisted into a handle of sorts, as he made his way slowly, carefully, toward the front of the house.

The street was silent and empty.

Prowling along the sidewalk, he climbed into his carriage, tucked the sack beneath the seat where it was concealed from view, and took up the reins, easing his horse forward until the glow of the streetlamp just brushed his carriage.

He pulled out his timepiece, his eyes gleaming with triumph as he consulted its dial.

Just as he’d suspected, the entire deed had taken less than thirteen minutes.

Smoothly, the bandit slapped the reins and urged his horse into a trot.

The carriage moved off, melting into the night.

Forty minutes past two.

The bandit jammed his timepiece into his pocket and leaped lightly to the ground, assessing the area before hauling out the sack that held the Gainsborough.

The road was forsaken.

Clutching the sack, he crept forward.

The designated alley, just beyond London Bridge, was so narrow that even urchins bypassed it in their search for scraps of food. Not that they would have found any. There was nothing there but a broken path, missing bricks, and an occasional rat—and even those crept away hungry.

Slipping into the alley, the bandit gave a discreet cough, then gazed steadily toward the alley’s far end. He waited until he saw the customary flare of a match, which was then extinguished, followed by the glow of a second match, this one remaining lit.

Making out Gayts’s burly form—the thick muscles and squat frame that filled the alley’s entire width—the bandit flattened his back against the wall and made his way forward, the sack kept close by his side.

Gayts’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes assessed the bandit’s approach with more than a touch of wariness. Then, reassured that his visitor was indeed the one he anticipated, he touched his match to the end of a candle, transferring its illuminating glow in order to provide enough minutes of light to accommodate their brief meeting.

He blew out the match and stood, unmoving, until the bandit halted a mere foot away.

“Don’t ye ever sleep?” Gayts demanded in a rough voice.

“On occasion,” was the terse reply. “I’m glad my message reached you in time. This particular job was unforeseen, but urgent.”

“Ain’t they all?”

The bandit didn’t reply. His steely gaze intensified, icy pinpoints glittering through the slits in his mask. “You have a buyer, I presume?”

“Are ye kidding?” Gayts’s scraggly brows shot up. “If that’s the Gainsborough, hell yeah, I got a buyer.”

“One that’s not on English soil,” the bandit emphasized.

“He’s in the Colonies. And his collection is real private. No one will see it.”

“And the money?”

“I got five thousand pounds of my buyer’s money. I’m authorized to spend as much of it as I need to.”

“You’ll need to spend all of it and then some,” the bandit returned calmly.

“What?”

“You and I both know how much Gainsborough’s paintings will be worth one day. Also, how few of them are privately owned and, therefore, … obtainable. I want ten thousand pounds. Tell your buyer to think of it as an investment in the future.”