"He'd also better have receipts—the best damned receipts known to mankind—for this abstract. Not only for the purchase from Sardo, but for the sale of the abstract to whomever bought it. He'd better have paid Sardo a fair price and asked a fittingly higher price of this mystery buyer. Because if anything is out of order, it's Baricci's head I'll have on a platter when I uncover that Rembrandt, not Sardo's. Tell that to your employer."
Watching the color drain from the curator's face, Ashford tipped his hat, strode towards the door. "Good day, Williams. See you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."
* * *
Baricci swore violently, lashing his arm across his desk and sending the contents flying in a rare fit of temper.
"Dammit," he ground out, vaulting to his feet and pacing about the office. "Damn that cunning, relentless bastard. He's like a deadly plague I can't escape."
"But he's right, sir." Williams was still mopping his brow, as he had been since he burst into Baricci's office a quarter hour ago. "If the police ask for more intricate records than we've already provided them, we're doomed."
With somber intensity, Baricci weighed his options. "A receipt on the sale of Sardo's abstract," he muttered. "We'll have to fabricate one. But who to name as the buyer…" He made a harsh, trapped sound. "There's not enough time to pressure one of my contacts into cooperating. Besides, I'm not sure any of them would, even if I threatened to expose their illicit dealings. This investigation involves a lot more than fraudulent purchases. It involves an exorbitant theft—and worse, murder. No, Williams. We can't possibly manage that by morning."
"Then why don't we remove the Rembrandt from behind the abstract?" Williams managed, grasping at straws. "We could do it immediately, hide the painting somewhere else."
"Like where?" Baricci snapped. "In the entranceway door? Or maybe on my desk, with a confession propped alongside it." He gave a hard shake of his head. "No, Williams. In order to successfully remove the Rembrandt, we'd need another painting behind which to conceal it. Something that's at least three feet by four feet. We have nothing of that size in the gallery. Nor can we pressure Sardo into painting such a large canvas, not overnight."
"But…"
Decisively, Baricci waved away the implausible notion, becoming increasingly aware of the fact that there was only one option open to them, one sole chance of escape. "Contact the shipping company," he instructed Williams. "We're moving the Rembrandt tonight."
"Tonight?" His curator jerked around to face him. "But the ship isn't leaving for India until next week."
"Then they'll just have to store it until that time. I don't give a damn where—the warehouse, the ship itself—wherever is the least likely place to be searched. We'll pay them whatever they ask. We have no choice."
Williams shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket, disconcerted by the avenue they were being forced to take, yet ready to do anything that would prevent Tremlett from unmasking their scheme. "All right. I'll go down to the docks myself and make the arrangements."
"Good. Tell them we'll deliver the painting between seven and nine o'clock tonight—after it's dark, but when there's still enough activity going on for us to come and go, and make our transfer, unnoticed." With each word he spoke, Baricci's conviction strengthened. "This plan is going to work, Williams," he declared. Malevolent anticipation glittered in his eyes. "And, despite the apprehension and upset that accompanied its formulation, I'm going to enjoy its outcome quite thoroughly."
"I'm not following you, sir."
A slow, sardonic smile curved Baricci's lips. "Just picture Tremlett's face tomorrow morning when the smug son of a bitch pries away that abstract and finds nothing behind it." A bitter laugh. "He'll be discredited, ruined. Yes, Williams, to render Tremlett a laughingstock, to bring him to his knees—that's worth every drop of inconvenience it'll cost us. Every wretched drop."
* * *
The noontime hour came and slipped away.
In her sitting room, Noelle finished the final draft of her upcoming wedding announcement and smiled, wondering when Ashford was going to stop by so she could show it to him.
And so he could tell her the results of his meeting with Williams.
Her smiled faded as she contemplated the plan her husband-to-be was putting into play. She prayed to God it worked—and that it went as smoothly as Ashford believed it would.
It would. It had to. Noelle refused to let herself think anything else.
Hopping off the chair, she crossed over and wandered into the hall, intent on seeking out her mother, eliciting her final approval on the announcement. Any minute, their modiste was due, ready to begin fashioning Noelle's wedding dress, as well as the gowns Brigitte and Chloe would be wearing for this special occasion.
Noelle's heart pounded at the very thought of her wedding. Six weeks—an absurdly short time away. No one in their right mind could plan a wedding in so brief a time, especially given that these first few days were cloaked in secrecy so that Ashford's family could be told of their plans before news leaked out to the immediate world. No, no one could possibly manage this monumental task—no one except Brigitte Bromleigh.
In just a few short days, Brigitte had already organized a tentative guest list, taking into account whatever names Ashford could provide off the top of his head for his side of the family, friends and relatives combined. She'd then paid a discreet visit to the printer, where she'd selected elegant invitations, the quantity of which would be determined within a week's time. After that, she'd stopped by her modiste's shop and arranged for Madame Rousseau to come to their Town house this afternoon.
So the initial steps were in place.
But Noelle's favorite step thus far had taken place just this morning when, directly after breakfast, her entire family had driven to the village to see her beloved great-grandfather, the man who'd gifted her with her very first puppet show—and all the ones she'd savored on each successive birthday—and who had taught her so much about sharing one's joys with others.
This was one joy she couldn't wait to share with him.
He'd opened his arms wide, hugging her to him and joyously blessing her upcoming union to the son of such fine, caring people. His lips had quivered when she'd asked him to perform the ceremony, accepted with tears in his eyes.
Noelle had deferred choosing a location for the wedding, because she had a strong suspicion that once Ashford's family was told, they would want the ceremony to take place in the grand chapel at Markham. In truth, it would thrill her to become Ashford's bride in the home where he'd been raised and loved; where he'd grown to be the extraordinary man he was. What more fitting place for her great-grandfather to pronounce the magical words that would make her Mrs. Ashford Thornton.
Humming under her breath, Noelle glanced about the hall and, seeing it was deserted, headed towards the stairs.
She was interrupted by a knock at the front door.
Hastily, she veered about, hurrying toward the entranceway. It was either Ashford or Madame Rousseau. Either way, she was too excited to await Bladewell's announcement.
She was just behind the butler when he opened the door. "Mr. Sardo," she heard him state in a clear, distinct voice that told Noelle he was acutely aware of her presence and was, therefore, alerting her to her visitor's identity.
Unfortunately, it was too late. André had already spied her and was watching her expectantly.
What was he doing here? Noelle wondered in surprise. Did he intend to berate her for leaving the gallery yesterday with Ashford?
Promise me you won't go anywhere near André Sardo.
Ashford's request, the promise she'd given him, screamed into the forefront of her mind.
If he calls on you, feign illness, do whatever you have to. Just send him away as quickly as possible. No heroics, Noelle. Please.
Slowly, she sucked in her breath. She would do as Ashford asked. But feigning illness was no longer an option, not when André was staring directly at her, seeing s
he was in the very bloom of good health. No, she'd have to deal with him, find some way to appease him and then get rid of him. Of course, she had no idea how belligerent he intended to get. Then again, if need be, she'd ask Bladewell to toss him out. Farrington's loyal butler had been apprised, both by her father and by Ashford, of her desire to avoid Monsieur Sardo and would not abandon his post until the gentleman in question had taken his leave.
"Hello, André," Noelle began carefully, forcing a smile to her lips. "I wasn't expecting you."
André stepped into the hall, frowning when Bladewell made no attempt to take his hat or move aside and invite him in.
"I have some sketches I'd like you to see," he informed Noelle coolly. "That is, if I'm welcome."
Noelle studied his face, tried to ascertain his state of mind. But his expression revealed nothing more than his determination to see her. She gestured for him to enter, deciding that the more graciously she behaved, the less likely this conversation had of becoming ugly.
"I'm sorry for the commotion at the gallery yesterday," she said, walking towards him. "Truthfully, I'm not quite sure what happened. I realize Mr. Baricci needed to see you. Even so, I would have waited for you to finish your business and see me home. But Lord Tremlett was right. My father is very protective of me and would have been sick with worry if I'd been gone much longer. So forgive me for leaving so abruptly. I had no choice."
The artist's eyes warmed to that velvet brown Noelle was accustomed to seeing, and he sidestepped Bladewell, joining her in the hallway. "I suspected that was the case. Think nothing of it, chérie. Incidents happen. That was yesterday. This is today. And I'm eager to show you these sketches."
A frown knit Noelle's brows. "I was under the impression Mr. Baricci no longer wanted my portrait painted."
"Who told you that—Tremlett?" André asked, a faint note of bitterness underlying his words. Before Noelle could respond, he shrugged. "No matter. It's true. Baricci has decided against commissioning your portrait—for reasons of his own. The loss, I'm sad to say, is his." André's expression grew tender. "Don't let him upset you. He's a strong-willed man. Much like his—" He broke off, glaring at Bladewell again, wordlessly telling him this was a private conversation and he was not welcome.
Unmoved, Bladewell stood his ground.
"In any case," André continued, pointedly turning his back to the butler and fixing his gaze on Noelle. "Mr. Baricci's decision does nothing to alter the feelings that have blossomed between you and me these past weeks. I needed to see you. And I want you to have these sketches."
Noelle's gut tightened at the intimacy of his tone. Still, there was no way to refuse the sketches without provoking him. "That was very thoughtful of you." Noelle glanced beyond him, her gaze finding Bladewell. "Monsieur Sardo and I will visit right here, and only for a minute. I know Mama is expecting me upstairs. I won't keep her or Madame Rousseau waiting."
"Very well, my lady," Bladewell concurred, taking his cue. "But one minute only. The countess gave me explicit instructions about your afternoon fittings."
Noelle sighed, turning her attention back to André. "As you can see, today is hectic. I'm sorry our visit must be so short, but I do appreciate the sketches." She reached out her hand to take them—realizing an instant too late that she was still clutching her wedding announcement.
The words were printed clearly, staring André in the face. Automatically, his eyes skimmed the page as he handed Noelle his sketches.
Sardo fancies himself in love with you.
Ashford's claim resounded in Noelle's mind, and her insides clenched as she watched André's expression as he read. She gauged his reaction: first puzzlement, then disbelief, then shock.
She steeled herself for his response.
It took a long minute for him to raise his head, and when he did, his eyes were veiled, his lids hooded. "It would seem congratulations are in order." His tone was smooth, controlled, his arm steady as he withdrew it.
If he was heartsick, he was doing a damned good job of masking it. However, he was angry. Noelle could sense the ire simmering beneath his flawless composure, his charming facade. And she had to admit, he was entitled to it. After all, she had flirted with him, led him to believe something was happening between them. Considering the basis for her charade, she felt no guilt. But that did nothing to alter the fact that André's anger was justified. The question was, should she ignore it or try to appease it?
Appease it, her instincts advised. By tomorrow, he'd be sharing a prison cell with Baricci, gone from her life forever. So the best thing she could do right now was to soothe his ruffled feathers and convince him to leave.
That in mind, she lowered her lashes, feigned embarrassment. "Thank you, André. That's very generous of you." Self-consciously, she tucked her announcement beneath the sketches, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I was going to tell you myself. I just wasn't certain how to do it. The earl's proposal came as a total surprise. As you're aware, he and I hardly know each other. But he is from a respected family, and my parents feel it's the right choice for me to make. I hope you understand."
"Understand." André repeated the word woodenly. "So you're saying you're marrying Lord Tremlett out of respect for your parents? That your decision was based on a sense of duty?"
Noelle was grateful her gaze was lowered. There was no way she could have successfully executed this lie if she and André made eye contact. "In effect, yes. Not that he isn't dashing or kind. He is. And I'm sure that, in time, I'll come to care for him. I can't explain my decision any better than that. In my world, André, one marries for different reasons than…"
"Passion?" he supplied. "Desire? Love?"
She nodded. "Yes."
Another pause, and she could feel André scrutinizing the crown of her head. "I'm sorry for you, chérie." he murmured at last. "I'm sorry for us both." He turned away, walked to the door, and seized its handle. "Au revoir, Noelle."
* * *
It was a half hour later when Ashford arrived at the Farrington Town house.
Bladewell showed him to the sitting room, announcing that Lady Noelle was ensconced in her mother's chambers with their modiste and would be down shortly.
Too restless to sit, Ashford paced about the room, reviewing what had proven to be a most successful baiting session with Williams. By now, Baricci would be assessing his options, inevitably choosing the only one left to him—the one that would prove to be his undoing.
Ashford could hardly wait to apprehend him.
Passing by the settee, Ashford paused, seized by the sudden, peculiar sensation that he was being watched. His head came up, and he surveyed the room. But no one had entered and he was still entirely alone.
He veered, walking over to the window, peering intently into the street. The area was quiet, other than a few carriages and some casual passersby. Certainly no one near enough to be accused of scrutinizing him.
Odd.
Frowning, Ashford turned away, rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps he was more on edge than he realized, he mused. Perhaps that was what happened when one's long-term nemesis was on the verge of being undone.
His misgivings vanished the instant Noelle burst into the room. Without preamble, she flung herself into his arms, as much to ensure he was all right as to share the details of her own day. "I was so worried. Did everything go as planned?"
Ashford caught her to him, fitting her body against his and taking her mouth in a deep, fervent kiss. "Yes," he replied a few heated moments later. "Precisely as planned. The trap has been set, the police advised. By tomorrow it will all be over." His gaze darkened, his fingers threading through her hair. "Now where were we?"
Noelle smiled, twining her arms about Ashford's neck and losing herself for another long, exquisite minute. Then reluctantly, she drew away. "Ashford, there's something you should know. André was here."
His jaw clenched. "And? Did your father throw him out?"
"Papa is visiting h
is solicitor." An attempted smile. "He says he's making financial arrangements for the wedding, but truthfully I think he wanted to escape our session with Madame Rousseau. She does tend to get overbearing."
"Noelle." Ashford wasn't going to be sidetracked.
She sighed, met his probing stare. "André never got farther than the entranceway. Bladewell saw to that." Noelle hesitated, then blurted out the rest of the story, right down to André spying the wedding announcement.
"So he knows we're betrothed." Ashford mulled over that fact. "I'm not sure whether to be relieved or worried. You say his reaction was civil?"
"Very, under the circumstances. Then again, I told him I was marrying you out of a sense of duty."
"Duty." Ashford's lips twitched. "Somehow that image doesn't coincide with the woman I just held in my arms." His smile faded. "However, it was a good way of mollifying Sardo. And it sounds as if he left with an air of finality, which eases my mind a bit." A scowl. "I just wish I knew how deeply involved with Baricci he really is. Is he just providing the paintings, or is there more? And where the hell is the money he's receiving in payment?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
Ashford nodded, tilting back Noelle's head, framing her face between his palms. "Just the same, humor me. It's only for another day. Stay inside—far away from the entrance-way door. Let Bladewell attend to whatever visitors arrive." Tenderness softened his features. "In the meantime, you help Grace pack one of her huge lunches for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Um-hum. We're traveling to Markham. I can't wait to see my parents' faces when we tell them our news."
Noelle's entire face lit up. "Nor can I. Ashford, I spoke with my great-grandfather this morning. He's agreed to marry us. He was thrilled by the news." She inclined her head. "Before we ride to Markham, I'd love to stop in the village, have you meet him."