The Theft

  Tremlett shook his head in amazement. "You, my lady, are as unpredictable as a summer storm—a true tempest, as your father says. Just when I think I understand you, you do or say something—"

  "Pardon me." Williams came up behind them, interrupting whatever the earl had been about to say. "Lady Noelle, I wonder if I could presume upon you to come with me for a moment. Alone," he added, darting a quick glance at Tremlett, then Grace.

  "For what purpose?" Noelle demanded, her eyes widening with surprise.

  "The owner of the gallery would appreciate having a word with you." Williams rubbed his palms together nervously. "He'd like to help you find whatever it is you're looking for."

  "I see." Noelle's heart began slamming against her ribs, and she abandoned all attempts at subtlety, going directly for the answer she sought. "The owner—I assume you mean Mr. Baricci."

  Williams nodded. "That's precisely who I mean."

  Indecision warred inside Noelle's mind. She'd promised herself, Chloe, and—silently—her father that she'd only venture so far as to catch a glimpse of Baricci, not to speak with him. No, that wasn't true. What she'd promised, not only silently, but aloud, was that she wouldn't seek him out. Well, she was keeping her promise. She wasn't seeking him out. It was he who was seeking her.

  That clinched it.

  "Very well," she heard herself reply. "I'll go." She moved to release Lord Tremlett's arm, feeling his muscles go positively rigid at her decision. Why? she wondered, her chin coming up, allowing her to study his expression. Why would he care if she spoke with Baricci?

  Whatever his reasons, he most definitely did care. His clenched jaw left no doubt as to that.

  "You needn't wait for me," she tried, assuming that his annoyance might be based upon the fact that her actions were inconveniencing him. "You've been more than kind. Grace and I can find our own way back to the station."

  "That's very gracious of you," he returned, eyes narrowed, mouth set in hard, grim lines. "But I arranged for my driver to see you safely to your train, and I intend for him to do that. As for me, I recall mentioning to you that I have my own business to conduct here. So, I'll browse about until you conclude yours. Who knows? Perhaps I'll discover some new and worthwhile talent—or another, equally remarkable finding. Either way, Grace and I will be here when you emerge."

  "My lady, this is most improper," Grace sputtered. "I should be accompanying you. You'll be in the company of two gentlemen."

  "One," Williams corrected. "I'll be delivering Lady Noelle to Mr. Baricci's office, then returning to speak with Lord Tremlett."

  "That's even worse!" Grace exclaimed. "Lady Noelle, I must insist—"

  "Stop it, Grace." Noelle drew herself up to her full diminutive height and gave her maid a no-nonsense look. "I understand and appreciate your concern. However, I intend to honor Mr. Baricci's wishes to speak with me in private. I'll be perfectly safe and back before you know it. Wait here."

  Ignoring Grace's protests and Lord Tremlett's icy censure, she followed Williams to the back of the gallery, past the storage and workrooms, to what appeared to be an office.

  The door was shut.

  Williams knocked. "I've brought Lady Noelle to see you, sir," he announced.

  A deep, slightly accented voice replied, "Show her in."

  A minute later, Noelle found herself in a spacious office decorated with rich mahogany furniture and a wide desk, behind which stood a tall, strikingly handsome older man with deep-set eyes, broad shoulders, chiseled features, and thick black hair that was only lightly sprinkled with grey.

  Noelle saw his gaze widen as he caught his first glimpse of her.

  "Mr. Baricci?" she began, hearing Williams leave and shut the door behind him.

  Slowly, Baricci leaned forward, flattening his palms on the desk and studying her as one would a fine painting.

  "Astonishing," he pronounced, as detached as he was amazed. "It's as if Liza just walked into the room. You're the image of her."

  Noelle swallowed hard. "So you know who I am; why I've come."

  "I know who you are. I can only guess why you've come."

  "That's difficult to explain, even to myself," Noelle replied, taking in his expensive clothing, his polished manner—and trying to assess the strange sense of indifference she was experiencing. She hadn't known what to expect when she finally confronted this unfeeling man who'd sired her, but it hadn't been this. Vehemence, fury, even hate were more the emotions she'd anticipated. After all, he'd nearly destroyed her father's life—and at the same time, he'd given her her own. And yet, she felt nothing. No rage, no pain—nothing.

  "I needed a sense of completion," she murmured aloud, more to herself than to him. "I needed to put a face to your name."

  "And now that you have?"

  "Now that I have—it's over."

  An odd smile played about his lips. "It can never be over, Noelle. My blood runs through your veins."

  Her brows shot up, the first frisson of anger claiming her. "You dare to say that to me after eighteen years?"

  "Ah, you have Liza's fire as well."

  "I'm surprised you remember her name, much less her traits," Noelle returned with brazen candor. "She was but one of Lord knows how many women you've seduced and discarded over the past decades."

  Baricci's chiseled jaw dropped. "Does Farrington know how impertinent you are?"

  Noelle looked him straight in the eye. "He's my father. He knows everything about me."

  Rather than appearing insulted, Baricci pursed his lips thoughtfully—a mannerism Noelle recognized all too clearly as one of her own. "Will taking jabs at me make you feel better?" he inquired at last.

  "I think not. That would only work if you had a conscience. Which, based upon what I've learned about you, is not the case." Objectively, Noelle studied him, noting the outward charm that only could have attracted a woman as shallow as he. "You're classically handsome," she observed. "Even at fifty-four. Liza was a girl—a stupid, selfish girl, but a girl no less. It's easy to see why she was drawn to you."

  Baricci acknowledged her assessment with a half-bow. "Thank you for the compliment." His gaze swept over her, his eyes narrowed in thought. "You're not like her, are you? Other than your beauty, that is. You're a survivor. And there's a streak of intelligence, intuitiveness, I see in you that Liza didn't possess."

  "I'm nothing like her. I'm also nothing like you."

  "Then why were you so eager to meet me?"

  "I wasn't. I never even intended to speak to you. Remember, it was you who summoned me."

  A knowing lift of his brows. "Really? If that's the case, then why did Farrington do such a thorough job of delving into my background? Certainly not for his own sake. Assumably because you were curious about me—a fact that's substantiated by your presence in my gallery right now. Or are you trying to convince me you just strolled in here by chance?"

  "No. I'm not saying that. Papa checked into your background because I asked him to. And I'm here for precisely the reason I gave you a few minutes ago: to put a face to the description I received."

  "A description that spoke only of my wretched reputation with women," Baricci surmised, standing erect and clasping his hands behind his back. "I have attributes, too, Noelle. Many of them. I'm a brilliant businessman and a generous benefactor."

  Ignoring that ludicrous declaration—and whatever Baricci's point was in making it—Noelle demanded, "How do you know my name? And how did you know Papa was investigating you?"

  A gleam of satisfaction. "I'm also extremely resourceful. I watch my back at all times. Thus, I make it a point to know everything that concerns either my assets or my life. You're my child—my only child, so far as I know. I'm aware of your name, your parental situation—and yes, I'm aware of Farrington's scrutiny into my life." A deliberate pause. "What I wasn't aware of was your alliance with the Earl of Tremlett. Are you lovers?"

  It was Noelle's turn to gape. "Lovers?"

  "Don't look so
shocked, my dear. Surely you're aware of Tremlett's reputation with women? It rivals even my own." He frowned at the expression on her face. "You really don't know, do you? I'm sorry. I hope he didn't mislead you into thinking you were his only paramour."

  "If what you're suggesting weren't so insulting, it would be downright comical," Noelle shot back, finding her tongue. "The tactics you just described are yours, Mr. Baricci. That doesn't mean others are equally as unprincipled. As for the earl, I haven't a clue how many lovers he has or who they are. Nor do I care. I just met the man this morning. On the train coming to London."

  "Really." Baricci's tone was laced with disbelief. "You don't strike me as a woman who would take up with a man she'd just met."

  "I didn't 'take up with him.' He merely—" Noelle broke off, sucked in her breath. "This conversation is absurd. Is this the reason you asked to see me? To find out if I'd tarnished your reputation by becoming a trollop?"

  "Actually, I thought I'd save you the trouble of asking to see me," Baricci replied, carefully gauging her reaction. "That is why you're here—isn't it?"

  Something about his expression, the tension underlying his calmly stated question, struck Noelle as odd. For the first time, she found herself wondering if, in fact, Baricci were probing for something in particular—some ulterior motive he suspected had driven her here today. "What other reason would I have?"

  "You tell me."

  His pointed tone found its mark, and Noelle's eyes widened with stunned realization. "You think I want something from you?"

  "Is that so unlikely? I'm a very wealthy man. On the other hand, so is Eric Bromleigh. He can give you anything you want. So, I assume it's not wealth you've come here to seek. Perhaps excitement, then. You're a very spirited young woman. More so even than Liza. And I? I'm a very worldly man, an extensive traveler. Why, I'm sure Farrington's investigators reported back on the number of cities I visit during the course of one year alone. Could it be that you crave a bit of adventure? That life at Farrington Manor is too tedious for you? Is that why you've sought me out?"

  Bile rose in Noelle's throat. "Your arrogance defies words, Mr. Baricci. Do you truly believe I'd consider, much less strive, to go anywhere with you? Not only are you a total stranger, but I despise everything you stand for. You're self-centered, unfeeling, and unprincipled. So, no, I don't want anything from you. Not money, not excitement—not anything." Abruptly, she turned on her heel. "If you'll excuse me, I believe we've said all there is to say. I'll be on my way."

  "Wait." Swiftly, Baricci walked around his desk, capturing Noelle's arm and staying her departure.

  Whirling about, Noelle gazed up at him, anger and antipathy flashing in her eyes. "What is it?"

  "No one has ever dared speak to me in such a manner."

  "Then perhaps it's time someone did," Noelle retorted, undeterred by his claim. "Maybe my insolence will cause you to reconsider your unscrupulous behavior. I certainly hope so—not for my sake, but for the sake of all the unsuspecting, wealthy young women you have yet to seduce."

  To Noelle's surprise, a smile curved Baricci's chiseled lips. "You are a fiery little thing,"—he acknowledged, something akin to pride gleaming in his dark eyes—"appallingly brazen though you may be. I never considered the notion of fatherhood, but, being that it's found me, I must say I'm rather pleased with the results."

  "You're not my father, Mr. Baricci," Noelle returned, yanking her arm free. "Don't ever forget that."

  "Fair enough." He shrugged. "But I am your sire. Maybe we should use this opportunity we've been given to get to know each other."

  "I know all I need to know about you."

  "You know only what was specified in an investigator's report. I assure you, there's a great deal more to me than can be summed up on paper."

  "I doubt it."

  "Don't. Further, even if you have exhausted your curiosity with regard to me—which I doubt, given your obviously inquisitive nature—perhaps you'll return the favor. Allow me to get to know you."

  Baricci paused, clearing his throat and rubbing his palms together. "Let's begin again. I apologize for interrogating you about your motives for being here. I'm not accustomed to dealing with people who don't want something of me. As for the past—my renouncing you, taking no part in your life—I'd apologize for that as well, were the whole idea of doing so not totally ludicrous at this late date. What's done is done. We can't change the past. We can, however, reshape the future. Today could be the first step toward that—if we want it to be."

  Noelle took an inadvertent step backward, assessing Baricci's striking, composed veneer. Did he actually expect her to believe and accept his sudden change of heart?

  "Why?" she demanded. "Why now and not eighteen years ago? Why suddenly today, when I'm standing before you, and of my initiative—might I remind you—not yours?"

  "An excellent question; one I'm not sure how to answer. Perhaps it's because now that I've met you, you intrigue me. Perhaps it's because I see my own quick mind and clever tongue reflected in you. Or perhaps it's because now that you're real, now that you're no longer just an intangible entity, I find I do have feelings after all."

  Silently, Noelle considered his words, tried to determine if there could possibly be a shred of sincerity in them.

  A clock in the gallery chimed three.

  "I must get back to Farrington Manor," Noelle announced, apprehension gripping her as she realized the time.

  Baricci's eyes narrowed as he contemplated her unsettled reaction. "Farrington doesn't know you're here, does he?" he guessed shrewdly. Seeing the flash of guilt dart across Noelle's face, he chuckled. "He doesn't. You got here on your own—and without your parents' knowledge. Very resourceful." He patted her shoulder, as if she'd done a wonderful, commendable deed rather than a deceitful one. "I'm impressed. I also understand your need to hurry home. If Farrington were to discover your absence, much less where you'd gone…"

  "I plan to tell him."

  "Do you?"

  "Yes. Unlike you, Mr. Baricci, I'm not a liar. Nor am I a fraud."

  "Good. Then, since the earl will soon know of your visit, there's no reason why I can't communicate with you directly at Farrington Manor."

  Noelle went rigid. "You can't do that."

  "Why not? Because your parents wouldn't approve?"

  "No. Because I wouldn't approve." Noelle shook her head. "I came here only to see you, Mr. Baricci—not to forge some nonexistent ties. Now, I've got to get back…"

  "To which earl—Farrington or Tremlett?"

  She blinked. "What?"

  "Where does Tremlett fit into all this? Did he accompany you here to meet me?"

  "Yes. No." Baricci's questions, and his preoccupation, with Ashford Thornton were becoming increasingly more evident. And for some reason—one Noelle couldn't quite fathom—she didn't want any part in fostering that preoccupation.

  "As I told you, I met Lord Tremlett on the railroad," she reiterated. "He was assigned to my compartment. That, as well as his accompanying me to your gallery, were strictly chance occurrences." Groping behind her, she found the door handle and twisted it open. "That's all there is to it. As for Lord Tremlett's purpose in coming here, you're in a far better position to know the nature of his business with your gallery than I. Now I really must be going. Good day, Mr. Baricci. It's been … interesting." She turned and bolted.

  Baricci watched her go, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. She hadn't agreed to see him again. Then again, her refusal to do so had been far from adamant. Which, given his gift of verbal charm and Noelle's obvious allegiance to family, left him more than sufficient latitude to change her mind.

  Having reached that conclusion, Baricci retreated into his office, sinking into his chair and making a steeple with his fingers, calmly awaiting Williams's imminent arrival.

  He could hardly wait to hear the tenor of Tremlett's interrogation this time.

  * * *

  "So you haven't a clue who took the paint
ing? Who might have taken it?" Ashford probed, lounging against the far wall of the gallery and regarding Williams with deceptive calm.

  "Of course not. Why would I?" Williams stood in his habitual stance: back straight and sure, hands clasped tightly behind him, answering Ashford's questions with his customary show of haughtiness.

  Beneath which lay a core of fear, one that was barely discernible to the average person.

  Fortunately, Ashford was far from average.

  "But you were aware the painting was stolen?" he pressed, jotting down some fictitious notes on his pad.

  "Of course I was aware of it." Williams's gaze flickered—ever so briefly—over Ashford's moving quill. "The entire art community knew within hours of the theft. We always do—even before the newspapers."

  "Really? And why is that?"

  "We're a small, insular group, my lord. Word travels quickly among us—far more quickly than the written word. And in this case, Moonlight in Florence is a renowned work of art. It's only natural that word of its disappearance would be on everyone's tongue. Why, it's worth a small fortune."

  "Indeed," Ashford concurred, idly scanning the random phrases he'd penned. "And a small fortune is what Viscount Norwood paid for it three months ago. In an auction. Right here at the Franco Gallery." Ashford's penetrating stare lifted, impaling Williams with its intensity. "You do recall that, don't you, Williams?"

  An unsettled blink. "Of course."

  "Good. Do you also recall how many others bid on that particular painting?"

  Williams frowned. "Not offhand, no. But it was an open auction, so that information isn't confidential. If you'd like, I could check our records and provide you with those names."

  "Do that. And while you're checking, try to recall if any of those other bidders reacted badly when the auction didn't go their way."

  "Badly, sir?"

  "Yes, Williams—badly. Angry. Bitter. Spiteful. Any reaction that might suggest they'd consider doing something extreme—something like steal back what they felt was rightfully theirs."