The Theft

  That would come. Soon.

  The final three sketches were more intimate, and he smiled as his gaze caressed them. He'd sketched these last, as he sat in the cove, savored every minute of their birth. Then he'd gazed at them for hours before reluctantly tucking them away in his portfolio, leaving them there until the studio door shut behind him and he was alone.

  Alone. Just him and Noelle.

  He spread the three sketches out on the floor, trying to decide which one he favored most. In the first she was draped in a chair. In the second, she was sprawled on the floor. And in the third, she was lounging on the bed. His bed. She was naked in all three of the sketches, and he could almost picture the creamy tones of her skin, the perfect curves of her breasts.

  The bottomless blue of her eyes.

  He was half-tempted to ready his palette and begin painting now. After all, it was the only way to determine which image was the most erotic. But no. André squelched the urge to do so. He'd spent so much of today creating her, gazing at her, even tasting her for the first time. Now was the time for dreaming, for reaping the rewards of his labor.

  And for remembering.

  Remembering the way her lips had softened beneath his, the way her breath had rushed against his mouth, mingled with his—even the way her body had tensed in surprised awareness. Ah, such innocence was more arousing than even he had imagined. He could hardly wait to feel her under him, begging him to take her, to teach her, to love her.

  Yes, now was the time for dreaming. And for envisioning an ecstasy that would soon be his … hers … theirs.

  Emotionally moved, he rose to his feet, taking the candle with him and crossing over to the corner of the studio that embraced his portraits. He held up the taper, watching its glow flicker across the row of canvases, noting that, even in the weak shaft of light, he could make out the vivid colors that defined his subjects, particularly the magnificent hue of their eyes. Soon, Noelle's painting would hang beside these. No—at the head of them. She alone had proved herself worthy. She alone deserved a place of honor. And she'd have it.

  Among the portraits.

  And by his side.

  * * *

  Dusk settled over Northampton.

  The carriage rounded Markham's broad, circular drive, coming to a purposeful stop.

  Daphne looked up from the novel she was reading and peered out the window of the green salon before turning to her husband, who was seated in an armchair, penning some new entries in a ledger.

  "At last," she announced, rising from the settee.

  Pierce's head came up, his brows drawing together in question. "At last—what?"

  "At last, our son is here. I was wondering how long it would take him to come to Markham." She crossed over, perched on the arm of Pierce's chair. "Darling, it's you he'll want to see."

  Slowly, Pierce shut the ledger, placed it aside. "You think he's here about Noelle?"

  "I know he is." Daphne sighed, intertwining her fingers with Pierce's. "I can still remember your anguish when you faced this decision. Why must all things come full circle—good and bad alike? Why isn't it possible for parents to spare their children the pain they themselves endured?"

  "Because only by enduring that pain can our children experience the joys that lie beyond it," Pierce replied, bringing their joined hands to his lips, kissing Daphne's fingertips. "Don't worry, Snow Flame. The fact that Ashford's here means he knows what he wants."

  "Help him attain it," Daphne appealed softly. "Help him to have what we have."

  Pierce's eyes darkened with emotion. "Consider it done."

  Leaning down, Daphne brushed her husband's lips with hers. "I don't care how many years have elapsed," she whispered. "You're still the very best at answering prayers."

  She was halfway to the door when Ashford strode in.

  "Hello, Mother," he said with a weary smile.

  Daphne leaned up, kissed her son's cheek. "You look exhausted. Have you eaten?"

  "Now that I consider it, no." He dragged a hand through his hair. "At least not since noontime."

  "I'll have a tray sent in. You sit down, relax, and have a talk with your father." She continued on her way.

  "Mother?"

  Daphne paused in the doorway. "Yes?"

  "Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?"

  A profound smile. "No."

  She shut the door in her wake.

  Ashford stared at the closed door for a long moment. Then he turned back to his father. "I take it you've been expecting me?"

  Pierce grinned, gestured for his son to take a seat. "Your mother's been waiting for days now."

  "She's amazing." Ashford perched at the edge of the settee, gripping his knees and meeting his father's gaze.

  "Do you want to discuss the investigation first?" Pierce inquired, crossing one long leg over the other. "Or shall we defer that issue and get right to the main purpose of your visit?"

  "The latter." Taking a deep breath, Ashford plunged into his dilemma, wasting no time on preliminaries or diversions. "I've been decisive since I was born, clearheaded since I could think, and unswerving since I could crawl. Why the hell am I floundering now?"

  "Because now you're in love," Pierce replied, equally as straightforward as his son.

  Ashford nodded, releasing his breath in a rush. "That much I know. It's everything else that's suddenly out of focus."

  "I repeat, now you're in love. And love does that to you." Pierce rose, crossing over to pour two snifters of brandy. He handed one to Ashford, planting himself before his son and staring into the contents of his glass as he swirled them about. "My cause is a big part of my soul, Ashford. But you, your brothers and sisters, and—above all—your mother, are my life.

  "I can still remember the moment I realized that fact, knew it to the very core of my being." Pierce's head came up and he gazed solemnly at his son. "It was when your mother placed my palm on her abdomen and told me I was going to be a father. I'll never forget that moment. It followed the most frightening night of my life, a night when your mother dragged me home from a robbery with a bullet in my shoulder, then took over and delivered my tin cup of money, endangered her own freedom, her own safety, because of choices I'd made, a life I'd chosen.

  "I'd never felt so helpless, so terrified. Suddenly, with all the speed and impact of the bullet that had struck me, I realized I could lose everything: my wife, my future—and a life I'd only just acquired and, cause or not, was entitled to."

  Pierce swallowed, visibly moved by his own memories. "Ashford, that night for the first time I realized that I mattered—and not only as a faceless, nameless crusader whose duty it was to establish equity for the oppressed and the needy. I mattered as a man, a man who loved and was loved by a very special woman. At that moment, everything changed. I changed. I made a decision. And I've never once in all these years regretted that decision. Never."

  Ashford absorbed his father's words, took a healthy swallow of brandy. "That night was a dramatic turning point for you. But beforehand—all the weeks and months that preceded it—I can't imagine how torn you must have felt."

  "Yes, I was tom—from the instant I met your mother. I was more than torn. I was tormented. Before she came into my life, there was no decision to contemplate, much less to make. I was motivated solely by anger, vengeance, and emotional wounds that had never healed. Then I met Daphne. She added a dimension to my life that I'd never envisioned: the idea of caring not about many, but about one; one person who needed me, loved me, and whom I needed and loved desperately in return. All at once, I faced a raging conflict: my own life versus the life I owed others. Similar to the conflict you're facing now."

  "With certain differences," Ashford amended. "I never endured the horrors of a workhouse, never stole to eat, never faced the world without a shred of love or security. You did."

  "True." Pierce lowered himself to the settee, settling himself alongside his son. "You grew up with a foundation of love and security, a
nd none of the bitterness that dominated my thinking. Which should, and would, make your decision that much easier to make. Except for one thing. As a result of everything I just described, you're grappling with an emotion I never did. Personal guilt. Not just the conceptual kind I experienced when I made my choice, but a much more specific one, tied to a specific person: me. Well, it's time to get rid of that guilt, Ashford. Because if you think this is the life I want for you, you're a fool."

  Ashford whipped about, startled by the adamancy of his father's tone.

  "Surprised?" Pierce asked. "You shouldn't be. As you said, I grew up penniless, homeless, and alone. And because of that, I swore to myself—on the day your mother told me she was carrying you, and during each pregnancy thereafter—that my children would never go without. Not without food. Not without shelter. But above all else, not without love. I was past thirty when I discovered how precious a gift love is, how necessary it is to survive. Like food, it nourishes. Like shelter, it protects. And like nothing else, it fulfills you, heart and soul. Both Juliet and Laurel have discovered that in their marriages, in their children. Why in God's name would I want anything less for you and your brothers? Do you honestly believe I could withstand seeing any of you end up alone? That would nullify the entire basis for my choice—a choice I made the day I learned that your mother and I had created our first miracle together, two miracles, as it turned out. You and Juliet."

  Ashford's throat worked convulsively. "I never viewed it that way before."

  "Well then, it's time you did," Pierce said quietly. "I need your happiness far more than I need your continuation of my quest. Besides,"—a faint smile played about his lips—"I would hardly describe myself as idle nor my cause as having been abandoned. In fact, retirement hasn't slowed me down at all—with the exception of limiting myself, by and large, to legal means of expression. Nothing is stopping you from doing the same."

  "I realize that."

  "But there's more to this conflict of yours than we've already discussed." Having made that assessment, Pierce tossed off the contents of his snifter and set it on the end table. "So let's get to those other aspects, shall we?"

  Leaning forward, Pierce met Ashford's gaze head-on. "You're a lot like me, son—sometimes more so than I wish. Aside from your loyalty to me and your commitment to righting the world's wrongs, you get a surge of excitement from being at the heart of danger. That's part of the reason why you're reveling in this battle with Baricci—and why you're so hell-bent on beating him at his own game. Oh, I know the man is a lowlife of the first order, a self-serving thief, a fraud, and now we suspect, a murderer. But he also has one hell of a success ratio. And that sends your juices flowing, issues an unwritten challenge you can't resist. You've got to confront—and best—him. Before Baricci, there were others like him. And there will be more to follow. I know. I've been there."

  Pierce grasped Ashford's shoulder, alerting him to the significance of his words. "But now you have more than your crusade to consider, even more than yourself. You have Noelle. As a result, you have a choice to make. Is the excitement you feel when you make off with those paintings worth the risk? Is it worth jeopardizing your life, your future? Is it worth endangering the woman you love, even indirectly, by taking part in something illegal? No one can answer those questions but you. Still, I'm willing to bet money on what your answer would be."

  A corner of Ashford's mouth lifted. "And as the extraordinary gambler you are, you'd win." He shot his father an admiring look, recognizing the truth to his claim. "How did you become so insightful?"

  "From experience. As I said, you're a lot like me. You thrive on challenge. And speaking of challenges—" Pierce chuckled, shaking his head as he recalled the night of the ball. "I don't think you need to worry about becoming complacent. On the contrary, I suspect the new challenge you're embarking upon will be more than enough to stir your blood. In fact, it's quite possible it will turn out to be more exciting than outwitting your burglary victims. Trust me, son. I've met Noelle. You'll never be bored."

  Visualizing the woman he loved, Ashford's lips curved. "You're right about that, as well."

  "So we understand each other?"

  Relief surged through Ashford in great, wide streaks. He'd come to Markham seeking resolution. And thanks to his father, he'd found it.

  "Completely," he replied.

  "Good." Pierce stood, taking both snifters and refilling them. "Then it's time to toast to the future." He handed one glass back to Ashford, raising his own in tribute. "To you and Noelle Bromleigh—a beautiful, spirited young woman who, I suspect, will never have that coming-out her parents planned, nor embark upon her first London Season as an eligible debutante."

  "I'll gladly drink to that." Emphatically, Ashford raised his snifter, thinking that if he had his way, Noelle would walk straight from her Court presentation into his waiting arms. "She won't regret missing her debut," he murmured. "I intend to make very sure of that, offer her every excitement, every diversion, every shimmering pleasure imaginable."

  "And here I thought London Seasons were dull," Pierce noted wryly. "Or isn't that what we're discussing?"

  Ashford said nothing, merely sipped at his brandy, biting back a grin.

  Laughter rumbled from Pierce's chest. "You're even worse off than I thought."

  "You have no idea." Ashford's grin broke free. "Then again, I guess you do."

  He felt suddenly lighter of heart than he had in weeks. "I've always admired and respected what you and Mother share, but it never occurred to me that I'd experience it myself one day. I suppose I never thought of myself as the type to fall head over heels in love, to behave like an impulsive schoolboy and an irrational fool all rolled into one. But I'll be damned if that's not exactly what's happened to me." He shook his head in amazement. "I love her so bloody much…" Tenderness vanished, supplanted by a fierce, unrelenting protectiveness. "That's why I've got to get Baricci. I'll kill him if he makes one move that jeopardizes Noelle in any way. The same applies to Sardo."

  "I don't blame you." Pierce folded his arms across his chest. "On the subject of Baricci, why don't you tell me what's happened since you left Markham."

  Ashford polished off his brandy, then proceeded to explain his visits to the police and to Lord Mannering's house, Noelle's intentions to question Emily Mannering's maid, and Sardo's ever-intensifying amorous pursuit of Noelle.

  "I want to put my fist through his face every time he touches her," Ashford muttered. "Even when he looks at her—that lustful stare—I can feel my blood start to—" Hearing himself, seeing his father's knowing expression, Ashford broke off, rolled his eyes. "See what I mean? I've lost all self-restraint, all objectivity. I'm a bloody raving lunatic."

  "An inescapable consequence of being in love," Pierce consoled him. Frowning, he contemplated all Ashford had relayed. "You did say Eric Bromleigh went to London with Noelle?"

  "The entire family went, including Noelle's sentry of a lady's maid. I never would have agreed to the idea otherwise."

  "Good. I know Baricci is usually subtle in his craft, but still, the notion of him being in such close proximity to Noelle—and with Sardo there, as well…" Pierce shook his head. "Let's just say I'm glad Noelle's father is there to keep an eye on her."

  "And I'll be there tomorrow," Ashford added. "I'll spend the night here, have breakfast with you and Mother, then be on my way. Eric Bromleigh is a wonderful father, but I'd feel better if I were nearby. I suppose that sounds absurd, given that up until a month ago, I wasn't even a part of Noelle's life."

  "No, it sounds just as it should. You love her. You want to be the one to protect her. It's as simple as that."

  A light rap on the door interrupted them.

  "Yes?" Pierce called.

  Daphne stepped into the room, carrying a dinner tray. "I decided to send Langley to bed and bring this to you myself." She glanced from her husband to her son, the anticipatory glow on her face a clear indication that an ulterior moti
ve had prompted her to personally deliver their food.

  With a twinkle of amusement, Ashford watched her lower the tray to a table.

  "You've resolved things," she pronounced, a statement of fact, rather than a question.

  Ashford's brows arched in amusement. "Did you doubt it?"

  "No." Eyes sparkling, Daphne rose on tiptoe, kissed her son's cheek. "I adore her, Ashford. So does Juliet."

  "Unfortunately, so do Blair and Sheridan," Ashford grumbled.

  "Fear not. They're aware you've staked your claim." Daphne paused, squeezing Ashford's forearm before plucking a sealed envelope from her pocket. "Tell us the instant you have an announcement to make."

  A wink. "You'll be the first to know."

  "What is it, Snow Flame?" Pierce was eyeing the envelope.

  "Blackstreet was here," she replied, offering it to her husband. "He wanted you to have this. He couldn't stay, but he said to tell you it's very important."

  "Really." Pierce ripped open the envelope, extracting the brief page within. "Interesting. That magnificent Goya every art dealer in England wants to get his hands on has been sold. It's being exported from Spain tomorrow."

  "Exported—to England?" Ashford studied his father intently. "Who won the bidding war?"

  A snort of disgust. "That pompous ass Lord Vanley."

  "Vanley." Ashford said the name with utter distaste. The elderly miser—whose roots dated back to Henry I and yet whose impeccable lineage did nothing to offset his unfeeling nature and incomparable arrogance—acted as though he were more a god than a nobleman. A greedy, cold, and garish god.

  "We shouldn't be surprised," Pierce was saying. "Vanley talked about the Goya nonstop during our house party. For three days he did nothing but boast about how he'd be the one to eventually get his hands on that painting."

  "He's been claiming that fact for months now, ever since the Goya was rumored to be up for sale."

  "Well, now he has it." Pierce glanced up, catching Ashford's eye. "Or rather, he'll have it tomorrow night."

  Ashford's gaze was steady. "Baricci will be itching to get his hands on that masterpiece."