Noelle's breath caught. "That was a much lovelier greeting than your original one," she managed.
"And it pales in comparison to the way I'd truly like to greet you." Ashford glanced about, and seeing that the hallway was temporarily deserted, he drew Noelle close, covered her mouth with his. "Which is like this."
His lips moved over hers poignantly, possessively, the intimate kiss of a man who, scant hours earlier, had made this woman his.
Noelle gripped the lapels of his coat in tight, trembling fists, her mouth opening under his, welcoming his tongue.
"I'd better stop," Ashford muttered thickly, raising his head with a visible effort. "Or instead of going to your father's study to ask for your hand, I'll be anticipating our wedding night and carrying you of to bed."
Reluctantly, Noelle nodded. "I told Mama and Chloe about our plans to be wed."
"And?"
"They were thrilled."
A corner of Ashford's mouth lifted. "But you left the most skeptical family member for me." Seeing uneasiness flicker in Noelle's eyes, he shook his head. "Don't worry. Your father will be equally as pleased as the rest of your family. I promise." His forefinger caressed her cheek. "Let me speak with him alone."
Another nod. "All right. I'll tell him you're here."
Smoothing her skirts, Noelle marched down the hall to the study, wondering why in God's name she felt so nervous. It took a great deal to intimidate her. Least of all her father, who had never tried to squelch her spirit—not even when that spirit bordered on audacity. He accepted her and loved her as she was. Not only that, he was a reasonable and objective man.
Except when it came to his daughters.
At which time, reason and objectivity were cast to the wind.
So need she wonder why she was nervous—especially this time, when she wanted so much more than just her father's acceptance? She wanted his approval, his blessing.
She wanted him to feel the same sense of joy, of rightness, as she.
Taking a deep breath, Noelle knocked on the study door.
"Yes?" Eric's deep voice greeted her.
"Papa, it's I." Noelle poked her head into the room.
An affectionate grin. "Yes, I can see that. Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss?"
"Ashford is here to see you."
Something in her tone must have conveyed itself to Eric, because his eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her face. "Is he? Well, by all means, send him in."
"Very well." Noelle turned and retraced her steps to the entranceway, giving Ashford an affirmative, if slightly anxious, nod. "He's expecting you."
Ashford brushed a kiss to the top of her head. "Stop looking so nervous. All will be well."
With an encouraging wink, he headed toward the study. "Come in, Tremlett." Eric Bromleigh answered Ashford's knock. He rose from behind his desk, gesturing for Ashford to join him. "Noelle says you're here to see me. Is this about the earrings?"
Shutting the door, Ashford walked purposefully into the study, shaking his head as he did. "No, sir, it isn't."
"Is it about another matter concerning Baricci?"
"No. It's about Noelle."
"Ah." Eric walked around the side of his desk, perching his hip against it. "I'm listening."
"I won't mince words," Ashford began, his tone as confident as his stance, his gaze meeting Eric's head-on. "It shouldn't surprise you to learn that I'm in love with your daughter, nor that she's in love with me. I'm now prepared to offer her the lifetime commitment she deserves, the one I believe you want for her. In short, I've come to ask you for Noelle's hand in marriage." Ashford's tone softened. "I'll make her happy, Lord Farrington," he vowed. "I'll keep her safe, nurture her spirit, and provide that nonstop mind of hers with the perpetual challenge it requires. Most important, I'll fill her life with more love than even Noelle's heart can hold. You have my word on that."
Eric's expression had remained unchanged. "And the obstacles you alluded to the last time we spoke?"
"They've been eliminated. With the exception of Baricci. Once he's in prison, my future is my own. And that future belongs to Noelle—Noelle and the houseful of grandchildren we're set on gifting to you and the countess, and to my parents."
Silently, Eric digested Ashford's words, rubbing his palms idly together. Then he walked forward, stopping directly in front of Ashford, a wry smile curving his lips. "It's about time, Tremlett," he pronounced. "I was beginning to think you weren't nearly the man I believed you to be. Which wouldn't do at all. Only the most strong-willed and resourceful of men could make my Noelle happy. She needs someone who can match her in intelligence, tenacity, and spirit. Someone who can keep up with her, even occasionally stay a step ahead of her—if that's possible." He extended his hand. "I'm glad to see I wasn't wrong about you. Even if that does mean I've wasted hundreds of pounds on gowns and accessories for a Season debut that is never going to occur."
Ashford blinked. Then he began to laugh, grasping Eric's handshake. "Thank you, sir. I'm glad I lived up to your expectations."
"More importantly, you lived up to Noelle's." Eric's grin broadened. "Now, let's go to the sitting room—where I suspect we'll find the bride-to-be and her mother and sister awaiting our appearance while already compiling a list of potential wedding guests." A hearty chuckle. "Brigitte isn't one to delay an instant when it comes to planning joyous occasions. Nor is Chloe about to miss the chance to indulge her romantic daydreams. And given the expression on Noelle's face when she announced that you wanted to see me … well, let's just say I have the distinct feeling that news of your betrothal has already leaked out."
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
It was a bleak afternoon, and winter permeated Franco Gallery. The room's widely spaced walls and high ceilings were no match for the February cold. Thus, whatever heat was being generated seeped quickly out, leaving behind only an unpleasant harshness and an inner chill that sank into one's bones.
Or maybe it only seemed that way to Noelle.
Wrapping her mantle more tightly around her, she stood dutifully beside André, admiring the colors of his most recent landscape work, her glance flickering from the painting to Grace to the corridor leading to Baricci's office.
Ashford and two detectives had been closeted in there for twenty minutes. They'd reached the gallery before she and André but had remained out in the open until her arrival scant minutes later. Noelle had spied them at once, hovering in a less congested area of the gallery and talking heatedly with Williams. Ashford had glanced up as she entered, his gaze flickering swiftly but thoroughly over her, ensuring she was safe, before refocusing on Williams. Never once did he break the flow of his conversation, nor did he openly acknowledge her. So subtle was the entire gesture that the curator never noticed. Nor did André. However, he did notice Ashford's presence in the gallery.
Scowling, he removed his top hat. "What is Tremlett doing here?" he muttered.
"H-m-m?" Noelle followed his glare, seemingly noticing Ashford for the first time. "Ah, Lord Tremlett." A shrug. "Apparently, he's speaking with Mr. Williams."
"Apparently." That flash of suspicion had reappeared on André's face, and he'd turned to her, his dark gaze probing. "Would you like to say hello?"
Casually, Noelle had brushed the snowflakes off her mantle. "Perhaps later. He's engrossed in his business." She'd given André what she hoped was an engaging smile. "And soon we shall be engrossed in ours."
Turning to confirm that Grace was behind her, Noelle had plucked at André's sleeve, stepping into the gallery to begin their tour. Simultaneously, she'd overheard Ashford demand to speak directly with Mr. Baricci—a request Williams was happy to honor, given the curious expressions on the faces of the five or six patrons frequenting the gallery at the time.
All four men had retreated immediately to the rear.
Just before he'd disappeared from view, Ashford had glanced their way again, this time directing h
is gaze at Grace. In response to his meaningful look, the lady's maid had drawn her stout body up to military stance, nodding her comprehension that, as planned, she would alert Ashford to the slightest impropriety on the part of André Sardo.
Noelle had bitten her lip to keep from smiling, still amazed by the fact that Ashford had managed to win Grace over so completely—a feat that, until now, only Eric Bromleigh could boast having accomplished. Then again, she supposed she should have expected it, given Ashford's incredible charm. Grace had begun succumbing from the onset, since that first day on the train when Ashford had alluded that she was a lady. And the die had been cast yesterday when, before leaving their Town house, Ashford had pulled Grace aside and personally shared with her—Lady Noelle's treasured lady's maid—the news of their betrothal. And then, to add the final, definitive touch, Ashford had entrusted Grace with the critical role of being not only Lady Noelle's chaperon but her protector during this all-important jaunt to the gallery.
From that moment on, Grace was putty in Ashford's hands.
She was also taking her role quite seriously. She'd all but appended herself to Noelle's side, her ample bosom acting as a formidable partition between Noelle and André—something André was finding clearly distasteful. Noelle, on the other hand, was not. In fact, given André's frequent, seductive glances and ardent innuendos, she was relieved to have something tangible to ensure he kept his distance. She was jittery enough about what might be unfolding in Baricci's office without having to stop and peel André off of her every five minutes. So, fortunately for her, Grace's bosom was rendering that job unnecessary.
"…is mine, as well."
Noelle started, realizing that André had just said something he considered to be profoundly important and was awaiting her reply.
"Is it really?" she tried, hoping it was the proper response, given that all she'd heard of his statement were the final four words.
The heavens were smiling upon her, because André beamed, obviously delighted by her enthusiasm. "Yes. Would you like to see it more closely?"
"Of course." Gripping the folds of her mantle, Noelle steeled herself for the job she was here to do. She'd have to squelch her curiosity about whatever Baricci was or was not revealing inside his office. Ashford's goal was explicit: a direct confrontation to get at the truth about Franco Baricci. Her goal was equally defined, if less direct. She had to use the backdoor approach to find that truth. And the vehicle through which she had to do so was André Sardo.
"Come." André extended his arm to her, guided her over to a meticulously authentic, detailed depiction of a flower arrangement.
"That's lovely, André," she said with both surprise and sincerity. "I had no idea you painted still lifes as well."
His brown eyes warmed. "Chérie, there is nothing I cannot paint—and paint better than any of my competitors."
"I don't doubt that for a minute." Shelving the new, unexpected knowledge that André's talents ran far deeper than she'd originally realized, Noelle saw the opportunity that had just been handed to her, seized it with both hands.
Looking somewhat perplexed, she gazed about the gallery, wrinkling up her nose in concentration as she scanned the dozen and a half paintings with which she was unfamiliar. "I can't imagine anyone else's talent coming close to yours. Although, if I must be honest, I haven't actually seen anything here that was painted by one of your competitors."
Abruptly, she found what she sought—or rather, she hoped she did. The problem was that the painting in question was only partially visible, tucked away on the far wall. Not to mention that she was so disgustingly ignorant in the field of art that she couldn't rely upon her own judgments. Nevertheless, the haunting abstract whose sweeping lines and muted tones were incredibly compelling seemed—even to a novice such as herself—to depict a style that was unquestionably the opposite of André's.
It was time to find out whose style it was; to learn the name of at least one other artist employed by Baricci.
Offhandedly, she pointed. "For example, who painted that?"
André followed her gaze, and a tight smile curved his lips. "Why?" he asked in a peculiar tone. "Am Ito assume you admire that particular work?"
Warning bells resounded in Noelle's head. She'd just complimented something created by another artist. And André was not going to take well to that. Not well at all.
"André, I didn't say I admired it. Nor am I qualified to gauge whether or not it's exceptional. All I asked was—"
"You needn't apologize, my beautiful Noelle." He drew her over to it, his expression intense, his gaze assessing as he examined the painting. "I'm taken by it, as well. It's the gallery's most recent addition. Frankly, I find it mesmerizing." Scowling, he reached around Grace long enough to kiss Noelle's gloved fingers. "But I've only viewed it at arm's length and, just recently, as a whole. I'm flattered that your eye was captured from such a distance, and with so little of the painting visible."
Noelle freed her hand in order to wave it in flustered noncomprehension. "I don't understand. Why would you be flattered? It's not as if—" Seeing the self-satisfaction that gleamed in André's eyes, she broke off, realizing she had her answer. "Are you saying you painted this as well?" she demanded.
"I am."
"André, that's astonishing." Noelle stared at the painting, searched its perimeter for a telltale name.
This must be one of the paintings Ashford had been referring to—the ones whose signatures were hidden beneath the frames. Although, in this case, there was an obvious explanation for that concealment. The frame was unusually bulky, its thick wooden border jutting several inches onto each edge of the painting. Then again, the painting itself was long and sprawling, one she supposed would require the additional support of a heavy frame.
"It's breathtaking," Noelle said honestly. "And entirely different from your other work. Obviously, you're even more of a genius than I realized."
"I excel in five or six different styles, all of which are displayed here in the Franco." A heated look, one that even Grace's bosom couldn't obstruct. "Far more impressive than an insurance investigator, wouldn't you say?"
Noelle ignored the pointed barb, still stunned by the range of André's talents. "I'm in awe, especially considering I can't draw a straight line."
André's warm chuckle filled the air. "Your beauty is gift enough. It's up to others, such as I, to capture it."
"Five or six styles—is there anything here you didn't paint?" Noelle asked, half in jest.
A fierce expression crossed André's face, and his dark gaze swept the periphery of the room with restless intensity. "If given the chance, I could out-paint the masters. Someday I'll have that chance."
"I'm sure you will." Noelle wondered at his odd reaction. Was it professional jealousy he was grappling with, or was there something more?
Striving to find out, she pivoted about, her stare following the same path his had taken, flitting over the gallery's entire inventory. Tread carefully, Noelle, she warned herself. Don't offend or alienate him.
She drew a slow, cautious breath. "This room contains the great works of the future. But with regard to the present, I know the Franco Gallery holds auctions, and that several valuable paintings have been sold here. Have you ever seen any of those masterpieces? The ones done by the brilliant artists whose ranks you'll soon be joining—if not exceeding?"
An offhanded shrug. "Occasionally. I prefer to study and learn from my own creations rather than to survey those of others. My belief is that a true artist thinks with originality rather than with an eye toward replication."
"That sounds daunting," Noelle murmured, wishing there were some way she could get him to elaborate on his "occasionally." She needed to know precisely what valuable works had passed through these walls. But André was so taken with himself that all he ever focused on were his accomplishments, his creations. Lord, if Michelangelo's David danced through the room and struck him on the head, André wouldn't even notice
it because it didn't come equipped with his signature.
A tremor ran through Noelle, her own image conjuring up a memory of the way poor Lady Mannering had died.
Had it been at Baricci's hand?
She had to find out, to expose Baricci for the criminal he was. But it was beginning to look like pumping André wasn't going to yield a shred of information.
She was getting nowhere fast. And time was running out. "I have a unique gift, Noelle," André was informing her, reaching out to capture a strand of her hair. "A passion that is unmatched—in any capacity."
Grace made a loud harumph! and, reluctantly, André released Noelle's hair, dropping his arm to his side.
"Let me show you something." He walked Noelle over to a heart-stopping landscape: the Yorkshire cliffs as they dropped off to the North Sea, at the very top of which stood a young woman, her face angled toward them, her dark hair blown back, her blue eyes sad, wistful. At the bottom of the painting, scrawled among the waves, was André's signature.
"What do you see here?" he asked.
Noelle wrapped her mantle more tightly around her, the painting's remote isolation heightening the harsh chill that already permeated the room. "I see an extraordinary depiction of the cliffs at Yorkshire jutting out over the waves of the North Sea—and a woman who looks filled with despair."
"Precisely. You not only see it, you feel it." André tapped the edge of the painting alongside his signature. "What you don't see is a cumbersome frame that obstructs the scene from view. That's no accident. I use the narrowest, simplest frame possible. It's a technique I adopted years ago, realizing that a viewer's eye should be drawn to the work itself, not to what amounts to a piece of garish furniture encasing it. This landscape is my first contribution to the Franco Gallery."
He ran his fingertip over the subtle walnut frame. "My frame just brushes the periphery of my paintings. It's scarcely noticeable and does nothing to detract from the creation itself. Do you see what I mean?"
"Indeed I do." Noelle nodded, André's explanation prompted a new avenue to try. How many paintings had he claimed having done for Baricci? About a dozen. Perhaps by the process of elimination, she could determine which of these works had been created by others.