Glancing briefly around, Noelle's brows drew together in puzzlement. Everywhere she looked, she saw André's telltale frame. In fact, she only spied three, no four, paintings that didn't feature it—including the new abstract, which she knew to be André's despite its heftier frame.
How intriguing.
Wetting her lips, Noelle addressed the issue, being sure to keep her voice casual, off-the-cuff. "With regard to the gallery's newest addition, that exquisite abstract of yours, I assume you couldn't use your customary frame because of its size."
For an instant, André didn't reply, his gaze shifting to the painting in question. "Exactly," he confirmed, seized by a fine, underlying tension. "My standard frame would never have been sturdy enough for a painting that size." Abruptly, he shrugged, the tension vanishing as quickly as it had come. "It's a pity, too. I hated watching that unwieldy block of wood being framed around my work, concealing my colors from view. But it couldn't be helped."
"I assumed as much." Noelle studied his reaction thoughtfully. She hadn't imagined the thread of uneasiness, the wariness, that had gripped him for that brief instant. Then again, given André's artistic temperament, she wasn't sure how much of that uneasiness to attribute to her questions, and how much to attribute to his own moodiness.
Noelle shifted restlessly. She needed time to assimilate the tidbits of information she'd gleaned today, to piece together the few additional facts André had revealed through his attempts to impress her. Most of all, she needed to talk to Ashford, to hear his interpretation of these facts.
Of its own accord, her gaze flickered toward the rear of the gallery. What was occurring in Baricci's office right now? Was it pivotal? Staunchly, she reminded herself that she'd have to wait, to exercise some patience. Still, she wanted to scream with frustration at the thought of doing so, to subjecting herself to yet another bout of André's boasting when her every instinct told her she'd learned all she was going to from him.
What she really wanted was to be a fly on Baricci's wall, to hear what the scoundrel had to say.
* * *
What he was saying was what he'd said from the outset—and Ashford was getting bloody tired of hearing it.
"Gentlemen, you're wasting your time and mine." Baricci smoothed his lapels, rising from behind his desk and regarding the detectives with a cordial, if slightly impatient, expression. "I've said everything there is to say. I know nothing about Lord Vanley's stolen Goya, nor—as I advised you when last we spoke—do I have any information on Lord Mannering's missing Rembrandt. As for Emily Mannering, I repeat what I told you from the outset: I freely admit to our liaison. I also acknowledge visiting Emily on the night of her death. But I assure you, she was quite alive when I left her. Alive and asleep."
"In her bed," Detective Conyers specified, jotting down some notes.
"Yes. In her bed."
"And her husband?" Detective Parles, the younger of the two men, prompted.
An exasperated sigh. "Again, as I stated last time, Lord Mannering had not arrived home when I left. Which, before you ask, was just before dawn—about half after five would be my guess. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Williams and I have patrons to see to." He began walking towards Williams, who was guarding the door like a sentry.
"Not quite yet." Parles blocked Baricci's path, planting himself firmly between their suspect and the door. "We've received some new information."
Baricci gave a slight start. "What kind of new information?"
"According to Lady Mannering's maid, her mistress was very nervous the night she died, almost afraid. Given that you were her expected guest, would you know anything about that nervousness?"
"Afraid?" Baricci wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "That's preposterous. Emily was uneasy about the possibility that her husband might arrive home earlier than expected and discover us together. If her maid perceived any form of apprehension, it would be that."
"Except that she specified her lover as the cause of that fear," Parles refuted quietly. "Again, according to Lady Mannering's maid—who, incidentally, has been with the family for many years—her mistress seemed unusually jittery and distracted that night. And she kept looking over her shoulder, almost as if she expected her paramour to appear in the doorway of her bedchamber, having arrived ahead of schedule. The prospect of which, evidently, alarmed her. Ominous, wouldn't you say?"
"I'd say this maid has been reading too many gothic novels," Baricci retorted, but Ashford could see the pulse in his neck quicken. "Emily Mannering experienced many emotions when we were together, but I assure you, fear was not one of them."
The detectives fell silent, as they'd prearranged to do, letting the aura of suspicion sink in, find its mark.
Inwardly, Ashford counted to ten, poised and ready to do his part. This interrogation had accomplished its purpose:
Baricci was unnerved, although he was damned good at hiding it. Now it was up to him to push the bastard a bit farther.
On cue, Ashford made his way forward, bypassing the detectives and confronting Baricci head-on. "Gentlemen—let me talk to Mr. Baricci alone," he demanded.
Conyers and Parles exchanged their rehearsed glances.
"Don't worry," Ashford assured them. "I won't kill him. If I were going to, it would have been done by now."
"I quite agree," Baricci concurred with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. "Besides, I have nothing to hide. By all means, let the earl ask his questions."
"All right." Conyers gestured to his partner. "We'll wait outside."
"Williams, too," Ashford instructed.
Baricci hesitated a moment. Then he gave Williams a terse nod. "Go ahead."
Reluctantly, Williams opened the door, waited until the detectives had exited, and then followed suit.
Ashford waited until the door closed behind them. Then he set his plan into motion.
"Okay, Baricci, we're alone," he pronounced. "You can abandon the genteel airs and be your unsavory self."
Baricci's eyes glittered with hatred. "I beg to differ with you, Tremlett. It's you who's the son of a gutter rat, not I."
A corner of Ashford's mouth lifted. "Did you expect that remark to provoke me into violence? Sorry to disappoint you. It's been tried before—many times—and failed. Were my father here, he'd laugh in your face. To continue…" Ashford pulled the earrings out of his pocket and thrust them at Baricci. "Exactly when did you present these to Emily Mannering?"
The older man clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the glistening sapphire chips. Then he raised his head and met Ashford's gaze with an utterly amused expression. "Is that some sort of a joke?"
"I fail to see the humor in it. I repeat, when did you give your paramour this little token of your esteem."
"'Little' is an ideal choice of words," Baricci declared scornfully. "To begin with, I'm not a big believer in gifts, as you well know. It lends an air of permanence to a relationship, something I do my best to avoid. Second, if I were to present my lover with a keepsake, I'd hardly try to impress her with trinkets fit for a scullery maid."
Ashford never averted his penetrating stare. "You're saying you didn't purchase these?"
"That's precisely what I'm saying."
"And I'm saying you're a liar."
One dark brow rose. "You've called me far worse things than that. Still, I'm disappointed in your unusually poor powers of deduction. If you know anything at all about me, you know my taste is impeccable. I'm drawn to far more lavish possessions than those."
"We're discussing jewelry, not women. And as you just said, you've never been known to bestow gifts upon your paramours. So I have no basis upon which to judge your taste in gems."
"Then let me enlighten you. My taste in jewelry is much as it is in women: extraordinary, unique, rare—virtually flawless." Baricci's chin lifted a notch. "All of which you know for a fact. Not only through observing my lovers, but through observing the mirror image, the result, of my most breathtaking liaison." His ga
ze narrowed. "I'm speaking, of course, of my little Noelle."
"I know who you're speaking of." Ashford kept his tone even with the greatest of efforts.
Baricci's lips pursed. "Do you know, Tremlett, this is the first time I've seen that stony facade of yours crack, even a hair? You really do want her, don't you?"
Something about Baricci's tone urged Ashford on. "And if I do?"
"Then keep her out of this. In fact, stay out of this yourself. I wouldn't want Noelle to get hurt."
Ashford's jaw tightened. "Is that a threat?"
"Does it need to be?"
Staunchly, Ashford bit back his anger. Baricci was scared. That was a good sign, a sign that he was getting close.
Bearing that in mind, Ashford tucked the earrings back in his pocket. "You really are a son of a bitch," he stated flatly. "You'd jeopardize your own flesh and blood just to protect yourself—and to make a fortune in the process." A cutting stare. "And to answer your question, save your breath—and your threats. They won't work. I don't intend to rest until you're locked up and the key is thrown away."
"And what of Noelle's safety?"
Enough was enough. It was time Baricci knew just where things stood on that score. "You won't get near her, Baricci. Try, and you'll regret it. That's a promise. Speaking of which, call Sardo off. Tell him to start sketching the countryside again. His portrait-painting sessions with Noelle are over. And his little seduction charade is at an end."
Baricci chuckled. "I'd be happy to deliver your message—although I'm dismayed to hear I won't be receiving a portrait of my beloved daughter. As for the rest, I'm sorry to tell you this, Tremlett, but it's no charade. Not to André. He's totally smitten with my beautiful Noelle. So if you're miffed about him beating you to her bed, take it up with him, not me."
Never had Ashford had to fight so hard to keep from putting his fist through someone's face. "I'll be watching you, Baricci," he said, his tone lethal. "Watching you and putting the final pieces together. And when I do, you're going to spend the rest of your life in a very cramped cell. Better still, in the gallows awaiting your hanging." He turned, walked to the door. "By the way, the detectives are staying behind to search the gallery's storage rooms. I assume you don't mind?"
Another flicker of fear—ever so subtle. "Not at all. Why should I?"
"Good. Oh, and find something to keep Sardo busy for the remainder of the afternoon. He won't be escorting Noelle home; I will."
Ashford walked out of the office, aware that Baricci was close behind him, equally aware that he'd left Noelle alone with Sardo far too long to suit him.
Pausing in the hallway, Ashford nodded at the waiting detectives. "Search away," he said, indicating the storage rooms. "Mr. Baricci here is being most cooperative."
With that, he veered into the gallery, searching until he spotted Noelle, then bearing down on her.
"Good afternoon, my lady." Ashford greeted her politely, then turned, his gaze narrowing on Sardo, noting his irritated expression. "Sardo," he added with a terse nod.
"Tremlett," Sardo replied icily. "I assume you're on your way out?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Ashford planted himself firmly before them, gazing steadily at Noelle.
Noelle cleared her throat, looking uncertain of how she was supposed to handle this. "Lord Tremlett. It's a pleasure to see you again."
Ashford solved the problem for her. "I'm accompanying you and Grace back to your Town house," he announced. "It seems Mr. Baricci has business with Mr. Sardo. Therefore, I've appointed myself your escort."
"That's out of the question, Tremlett," Sardo began, his shoulders going rigid. "I fully intend to escort—"
"Not this time, André," Baricci intervened, coming up behind Ashford. "As it happens, I do need to see you with regard to your next painting. Lord Tremlett will see the ladies to the door. But not before I've had the chance to say hello." He gave Noelle a practiced smile, captured her fingers in his. "Good afternoon, my dear. You look absolutely lovely."
Distaste was written all over Noelle's face. "Mr. Baricci," she responded in a wooden tone.
If Baricci was offended, he hid it well. "I'm delighted you took the time to visit my gallery yet again. And what a coincidence—Lord Tremlett happened along this time, just as he did on the previous occasion when you dropped by. It does my heart good to see what excellent care he's taking of you, that he'd never let any harm befall you. Isn't that right, Tremlett?"
"As a matter of fact, yes, it is." Ashford caught Noelle's elbow, his eyes glinting at Baricci's implicit threat. "Come, my lady. Your father will be worried."
With long, purposeful strides, he ushered her and Grace to the door.
He wondered how long it would take Sardo to demand an explanation from his employer.
More intriguing would be to hear the explanation Baricci chose to give.
* * *
André shut the door to Baricci's office, his movements stiff with anger. Sharply, he turned to face his employer. "What was that all about?"
Baricci poured himself a much-needed drink. "To begin with, keep your voice down. Those blasted detectives are ransacking my storage rooms. Williams is keeping an eye on them. But I'm not taking any chances. And I don't want them overhearing us." His lips narrowed into a grim line. "Is that understood?"
For the first time, André sensed Baricci's tension. "Did something happen?" he asked in a more controlled tone. "Did those detectives uncover anything?"
"An interesting choice of words," Baricci returned dryly. "And no, not really. Nothing concrete. They're just too damned interested in me to suit my taste. I don't want them here. And I'm going to have to do something to ensure they're not." He lowered his goblet with a thud. "That, however, is my problem. Your problem is my daughter—my daughter and your inability to win her over."
André shot him an incredulous look. "I've all but wooed Noelle into bed. But I can't very well seduce her if you send her off with Tremlett."
"Fool," Baricci hissed. "You haven't wooed her anywhere. It's Tremlett she wants, Tremlett she cares for. She's using you, using you in the same way you intended to use her." A hard shake of his head. "Your overwhelming conceit defies words. And it blinds you to the truth."
"You're wrong, Franco," André insisted in a quiet, fervent tone.
"Am I?" Baricci's head shot up. "Tell me, then, did Noelle ask you any questions during this tour of yours? Worse, did you give her any answers?"
A heartbeat of silence.
"What did you tell her, Sardo?"
André inhaled very slowly, then released his breath. "I merely showed her around, pointing out some of my finer works."
"In other words, you all but announced that the entire gallery is a one-man testimonial to you." Baricci gripped the edge of his desk, his gaze boring into Sardo's. "And what of your unobtrusive frame—your brilliant contribution to the enhancement of your creations? Did you show that to her, as well?"
Another ponderous silence.
Baricci swore under his breath. "Then she's definitely figured out that a disproportionate number of paintings in my gallery are yours. And within minutes she'll be advising Tremlett of that fact." A mirthless laugh. "As I said, you're a fool, André. A fool who thinks with his loins. But no matter. Ironically, in this case, if you've incriminated anyone, it's yourself."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that if Tremlett walks into this gallery and demands an explanation, I'm throwing you to the wolves. You supplied the paintings—and everything that went with them. I was unaware of your illegal dealings." Baricci leaned forward, his hands balling into fists on the desk. "And if you're stupid enough to deny that, I'll make sure you're charged with far more than mere theft."
"Enough." A vein throbbed at André's temple. "This entire conversation is moot. Even if Noelle does put two and two together, she would never betray me, certainly not to a man she scarcely knows."
"Scarcely knows?" Baricci spoke through cl
enched teeth, so his voice wouldn't reach the detectives. "That man she scarcely knows just stood in my office not a quarter hour ago and warned me to stay away from Noelle. He ordered me to call you off, to discontinue the portrait. And he vowed to come after me if I tried to harm her. Does that sound like an uninvolved man to you?"
"He might be involved, but I refuse to believe that she is." André raised his chin, his handsome features set with conviction. "You're wrong. You think you know women, but your insights there pale next to mine. You're a businessman. I'm a lover. You might wish it to be otherwise, but it's not. You want to renege on commissioning me to paint Noelle's portrait? Fine. I'll put away my palette. But either way, Noelle is mine."
"The same way Catherine was yours?"
André went very still. "Go to hell, Franco," he muttered thickly.
He turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.
* * *
"Are you sure dragging me out of the gallery right in front of André was a good idea?" Noelle asked, rubbing her palms together before the sitting-room fire.
Ashford leaned back against the closed door, watching her. "Oh, I think it was an excellent idea. It will convey a message. And we'll be rid of Sardo. I only wish I could say the same for Baricci."
He began pacing about the room, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pondered all Noelle had told him in the past ten minutes, since he'd finally convinced Grace to leave them alone. "You're saying Sardo crafted nearly every painting in the Franco?" he reiterated.
"All but two or three—and yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Noelle paused, abandoning the fireplace to walk over to Ashford. "Whatever other artists' works might once have been displayed at Baricci's gallery are essentially gone. The Franco is now, in effect, a one-man exhibition of André's paintings. And that includes one of the unsigned works. The new one, that striking abstract hidden away on the far wall."