The Theft

  "I see," Noelle replied after the barest of pauses. "Still, I need to know everything. Then I can let it go. Papa … please."

  With a terse nod, Eric pivoted, striding over to the writing desk and unlocking the bottom drawer. He extracted a thin folder, turning it over in his hands several times. Then he opened it, staring blindly at the pages within, not really needing to read them given the fact that he'd long since memorized every word.

  "His name is Franco Baricci," he began, his gaze still fixed on the papers he held. "He's fifty-four years old. He has residences in Italy, France, Spain, and England—and an alias to go with each one. He makes a career out of courting wealthy, naive young women until he's seduced away their innocence and their fortunes—fortunes that, incidentally, paid for his four homes. He then abandons these women, leaving them stripped of dignity and funds, and goes on to his next victim. Liza met him at the height of his career. She proved to be a complication in more ways than one. Not only was she sadly lacking in wealth—if you recall, she met him during my temporary business reversal—but she had the supreme audacity to conceive his child and to confront him with that fact. Needless to say, he abandoned any plans of waiting while her brother recouped his fortune. The day she told him about the child was the last time she saw him."

  Noelle's eyes had grown wide with astonishment. "But Liza told you he left her for his wife and family…"

  "There was no wife and family. He invented the existence of both in order to disentangle himself from the ties of impending fatherhood." Eric tossed the file onto the table. "You're welcome to read my investigators' findings firsthand. It's a good thing you and I agreed upon a five-and-a-half-year time frame. It took nearly that long to uncover all the sordid details of Baricci's life. He certainly keeps himself busy."

  Eyeing but not touching the file, Noelle asked, "Where is he now?"

  A heartbeat of silence, Eric's reluctance a tangible entity that swelled to fill the room.

  His reply, when it came, was stiff. "In England. He owns an art gallery in London. Evidently, he spends several months a year there."

  "Including this month." Now Noelle stooped, gathered up the file, and perused it thoughtfully. "He really was a snake, wasn't he?"

  "Is," Eric corrected. "He is a snake. He's not dead, Noelle. He's alive. Alive and as unscrupulous as they come." A meaningful glare. "And I want you to stay away from him."

  Noelle's head came up at her father's unusually harsh tone.

  "I mean it, Noelle," Eric reiterated. "I don't want you attempting any contact with Baricci. He's the worst kind of blackguard, polished veneer or not. Further, he forfeited any right to you the day he cast Liza aside. Not that he appears to regret that choice. He hasn't made a single attempt to contact you these past eighteen years—a task, I might add, that would have been far easier to accomplish than the one we took on when we decided to locate him." Eric broke off and walked over to gently lift Noelle's chin. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I'd rather hurt myself. But I can't emphasize enough how unprincipled this man is. Promise me you won't seek him out."

  Noelle wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, contemplating her father's request, weighing it against the curiosity fanning inside her like a brushfire that refused to be extinguished. Slowly her gaze drifted down to the file, then raised back to meet her father's, a reluctant decision flickering in the sapphire depths. "I promise, Papa. I won't seek him out."

  * * *

  "Call it what you will. In Papa's mind, it will still mean seeking him out. And Papa's going to be furious."

  Chloe tucked a strand of velvet brown hair behind her ear, her delicate thirteen-year-old features tight with worry as she perched at the edge of her sister's bed. "Noelle, if he learns what you have in mind…"

  "He won't. Not if you help me." Noelle fingered the edge of her nightgown, sitting up in bed to glance out the window, to ensure it was still dark. "Chloe, please. I'm not breaking my promise to Papa. Not really. You know I'd never do that."

  "No. You're just twisting his words to suit your purpose."

  Noelle couldn't dispute the truth of her sister's statement. Broodingly, she stared down at the bedcovers. "I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish I could just ask Papa outright if he'd take me to London, let me catch a glimpse of Baricci. But if I did, he'd explode. As it is, he and Mama have kept a watchful eye on me every waking moment since last week when they told me the facts." She raised her chin. "Chloe, I need to do this. I can't explain why, except to say that it's my way of making peace with the past. I won't talk to him. I won't even give him my name. I just want to see him, to put a face to those unpleasant descriptions. And today is the only day I can do it, the only day Mama and Papa will be away from Farrington long enough for me to accomplish my goal."

  Chloe frowned. "And that's only if we can manage to convince Mama you're sick. If not, you'll be traveling to the village with us, listening to Great-Grandfather's sermon and giving out food to the needy families in his parish."

  Regret slashed across Noelle's face. "That's the part that makes me feel most guilty. Not only lying to Mama about being ill, but not being there to help Great-Grandfather. He's so stubborn about doing everything himself. But he's getting older now and—"

  "I'll be there to help him," Chloe inserted, her dark eyes—the same fiery obsidian chips as their father's—determined. "Besides, you've already done more than your share this holiday season. You gave out all the sweets and three-quarters of the gifts on Christmas day. I could scarcely keep up with you. Consider today to be my turn. As for Great-Grandfather, he's stronger than most men half his age. He says the Lord keeps him that way so he's able to help the Lord help others. I believe him."

  "So do I." Noelle smiled faintly, recalling the wonderful times she'd spent with their great-grandfather, who was not only a splendid vicar but an expert puppeteer. How many of her birthdays had culminated in one of his entertaining puppet shows? More than she could count. "I'm letting him down, aren't I?" she said softly. "Misleading Mama and Papa, abandoning my responsibilities to satisfy a need I can hardly explain?"

  "No. You're not," Chloe disputed with quiet wisdom. "Great-Grandfather would be the first to understand. Do you know what I think he'd say? He'd say, 'Noelle, the Lord can spare you for a day. Especially knowing that by doing so He'll be ensuring you find the peace that will enable you to serve Him better."'

  With a quavering breath, Noelle eyed her sister. "How did you ever become so smart?"

  "I had an extraordinary teacher—you." With an impish grin. Chloe jumped to her feet. "The towels must be ready now. Lie back. I'll fetch them." Scurrying into the bathroom, she carried out a basin that had three steaming cloths soaking in it. "Put these on your face, neck, and forehead. Leave them there for a few minutes—or for as long as you can withstand the heat. After that, I'll fetch Mama. One glance at you, one brush of her fingertips, and she's bound to think you have a fever."

  "Chloe—" Noelle caught her sister's hand. "I feel dreadful making you lie for me."

  Her sister's expression was the epitome of innocence. "Who said anything about lying? I'll simply tell Mama that you claim not to feel well, that you look flushed, and that you feel warm to the touch." She placed one cloth gingerly on Noelle's forehead. "Which, after I'm through, won't be a lie."

  "Thank you," Noelle whispered.

  "Just be careful. Don't do anything foolish. And be back before we are."

  "I will. I won't. And I will." Noelle's mind was already racing. "I've devised the perfect plan to convince Grace to accompany me."

  "Grace?" Chloe's brows shot up at the mention of Noelle's stout, fiercely protective, ever-militant maid. "Why on earth would you want to take her along?"

  "I need a chaperon. It's the only way I can board the railroad without arousing suspicion."

  "She'll never agree to it."

  "Oh, yes, she will. I'll win her over the same way I always do—by telling her I'm doing this for Papa." Noelle wince
d as Chloe placed the second hot cloth on her face, draping it from one cheek to the other.

  "I can't wait to hear the details." Chloe peered out the window, seeing the first rays of dawn trickle in. "But they'll have to wait until later. We're running out of time. Mama and Papa will be up any minute, preparing to go. We'll talk tonight, after they're asleep."

  Noelle nodded, holding her breath as she pressed the third towel to her neck. "I think I've caught fire."

  "Not quite." Chloe lay a palm against Noelle's cheek, smiling with satisfaction as she headed toward the door. "Hold the towels against your skin until you hear my voice coming down the hall. Then stuff the cloths and the basin under your bed."

  "I'll probably be numb with pain by then."

  "No," Chloe assured her, easing open the door. "But you will be if Papa finds out what you've done."

  * * *

  The railway station at Poole was crowded with people awaiting the morning train to London. The January day was grey and cold, inspiring many passengers—especially those with small children—to stay inside the musty one-story building after purchasing their tickets rather than going out to brave the chilly winter air.

  Noelle wasn't one of those people.

  Urging Grace along, she pushed through the door and hurried outside to stand as close as possible to the fence bordering the tracks that would soon bring their train. Impatiently, she shifted from one foot to the other, wrapping her mantle more tightly about her and praying the train would arrive on schedule. No one else appeared to be concerned, she noted, observing the businessmen who leaned on their walking sticks, skimming the pages of the London Times and taking an occasional peek at their pocket watches, or the women who chatted gaily amongst themselves, keeping a watchful eye on their frolicking children whose peals of laughter emerged in frosty puffs.

  Then again, none of these other passengers shared Noelle's frenzied haste.

  "Are you sure the gift you want to buy Lord Farrington can be found only in London?" Grace demanded, retying her bonnet with a scowl.

  Noelle sighed, answering that question for the dozenth time since she'd presented her dilemma to the all-too-suspicious lady's maid—offering her the same vague, easily fulfilled objective as she had the last eleven times. "I'm sure, Grace. The tiepin I spotted for Papa was in a shop on Regent Street. It was exquisite and most unusual. I'm certain we could never find anything even remotely like it in the village."

  "Still, with your parents away from Farrington all day, I'm uneasy about traveling—"

  "It's for Papa, Grace." Without mincing words, Noelle went straight for the maid's Achilles' heel, unwilling to lose the battle now when she was so very close to achieving her goal. "I want his birthday to be special, and I know how much he admires that tiepin. He's said so countless times—in a most wistful tone."

  "Very well. Since it is for Lord Farrington…" With a conceding sniff, Grace folded her arms across her ample bosom and fell silent.

  Thank goodness. Noelle nearly sagged with relief—although mollifying Grace's objections was but a small portion of the battle. She'd feel a lot better if they were already seated in their first-class carriage on that bloody train, en route to London. She chewed her lip, reminding herself that, with a modicum of luck she'd be in Town in just over four hours. That would give her several hours before she needed to catch a return train to Poole, then summon a carriage to transport them the five miles back to Farrington Manor.

  If her family left the village even one minute earlier than was customary on these full-day excursions, their arrival at Farrington Manor would precede hers, and they'd discover she was gone.

  At which point her father would have her head.

  Noelle rubbed the folds of her soft blue day dress between nervous fingers. She'd mapped things out thoroughly. The investigation file had clearly stated the location of the art gallery. It was one block off Regent Street, right in the heart of London. Her plan was simple and direct. She'd walk in, stroll about, casually inquire which gentleman was Mr. Baricci, then look her fill—trying to perceive exactly what made such a man tick—and take her leave. She'd have plenty of time to stop off in that dignified men's shop on Regent Street and purchase her father's tiepin before she veered off to the art gallery, and more than enough time afterwards to hurry back to the railroad station and catch the late afternoon train to Poole.

  Unless something went wrong.

  It wouldn't. She wouldn't allow it.

  A clamor of clanging and hissing interrupted her thoughts, heralding the arrival of her train, and Noelle smiled, triumph surging through her veins. It was on time. She had both Grace's and her tickets. All she had to do was climb into the first-class coach, settle herself in the compartment to which she'd been assigned, and heave an enormous sigh of relief.

  London was at her fingertips.

  Promise me you won't seek him out.

  Her father's words echoed in Noelle's head, spawning a twinge of guilt.

  I won't, Papa, she vowed silently, squelching the unwanted twinge. I won't seek him out. All I'll do is look.

  * * *

  "It appears we're traveling alone," Grace commented, wedging her chunky body into the high-backed seat.

  Noelle nodded, looking about her and noting the four empty seats. "That should please you. Now you can get that extra sleep you were grumbling I'd deprived you of."

  "Humph." Muttering a bit, Grace folded her hands in her lap. "I can't sleep in trains. They're too noisy."

  She was snoring before they left the station.

  With an inward chuckle, Noelle leaned her head back and gazed out the window, watching the final passengers board. Her breath released in a rush when the coach finally jerked into motion, leaving the station behind. Thank goodness. They were on their way.

  Twenty minutes later, she was bored.

  Shifting restlessly in her seat, Noelle reached into her mantle pocket, extracting the two items she'd brought along to entertain herself: a novel and some playing cards. Well, neither would do. She was far too excited to read, and given that Grace's head had now drooped into her bosom, there was clearly no partner with whom to share a rousing game of piquet. She'd simply have to watch the passing scenery until she either died of boredom or fell asleep.

  The former was more likely than the latter.

  She was thumbing idly through her novel when the train reached Southampton's station about an hour and a half later. With some degree of interest, she studied the crowd of passengers that were boarding, the largest number thus far. Again, mostly businessmen, their faces hidden beneath top hats, only their whiskers peeking out as they climbed into their respective coaches. A few families, children in tow, headed for the second-class section, coats wrapped about them to keep out the chill.

  A solitary man standing on the platform, hands jabbed in his pockets, caught Noelle's eye.

  There was something formidable about him, she decided. Maybe it was his size, or perhaps the power of his build. No, more likely it was his stance—straight and unyielding, taut, rigidly still. His massive shoulders were thrown back; his head, even beneath a top hat, was held visibly high—as if he were surveying his army and, as their commander, preparing to lead his men into battle.

  Noelle found herself straining to make out his features. But only his chin and mouth—both hard, his lips full, severely set—were visible from this distance and with that bloody impeding hat in the way.

  As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned his head in her direction.

  Hastily, Noelle looked away. The last thing she needed right now was to daydream about some dark and forbidding stranger. The only stranger she could focus on today was Baricci.

  An icy chill shivered up her back as she contemplated coming face to face with her sire. Now that it was no longer a notion but a reality, she wondered how she'd feel when she set eyes on him for the first—the only—time. Oh, he wouldn't know who she was. But she'd know him: the man who'd impregnated Liza Bromleigh
and bolted; the man who, then and now, made a career out of exploiting innocent women, then abandoning them.

  Her papa was right. Baricci was a scoundrel. In fact, the only thing more despicable than his actions were those of Liza herself.

  Now that Noelle had grown to adulthood, and thanks to a lifetime of familial love, she could reflect on her natural mother with incredulity and denunciation rather than with pain and rage. Although how in the name of heaven a woman could reject her own child, refuse to hold it, nurture it, was beyond Noelle's comprehension. Still, for her it had turned out to be a blessing, giving her Brigitte and Eric as a mother and father.

  It was for that extraordinary father that she ached. Because while she herself had never known Liza, never had to come to terms with who, what, her natural mother really was, Eric had raised Liza from when their own parents had died, loved her and protected her more as a daughter than a sister. And what had she offered him in return? Renunciation. Desertion. Degradation. And more grief and pain than he'd been able to withstand. He'd been emotionally dead when Brigitte came into his life, and without her healing love he might never have recovered.

  Just pondering her father's agony, Noelle's hands balled into fists at her sides. Sometimes, late at night, she'd lie awake, staring at the ceiling and aching for the torment he'd endured those years after Liza's death—years she herself had been too young to fully understand. It was that torment, that suffering Liza had caused him, that Noelle could never forgive.

  Would seeing Baricci conjure up within her a wealth of resentment for the pain he had caused her father? Probably. But even so, Noelle had to go.

  Abruptly, the compartment door slid open and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark wool coat stepped in.

  It was the man from the platform.

  "Good morning, ladies." He tipped his hat, a flicker of amusement crossing his face as he realized Grace was sound asleep. "Good morning to you, then," he amended, his gaze meeting Noelle's as he tossed his hat negligently to the seat.

  "Good morning," Noelle managed, unable to look away, her curiosity spiraling along with her pulses as she openly studied her new companion.