The Theft (Thornton 2)

"I boarded at Southampton Station," he supplied, graciously refraining from contradicting her bald-faced lie. Looking the other way? In truth, Grace had been snoring loud enough to awaken the dead when the train had arrived and departed from Southampton. "Your coach was the last remaining first-class compartment with available seats," he concluded. Keeping his expression nondescript, he watched Grace contemplate his words.

"And are all the other first-class coaches filled with male passengers?" she persisted. "Because, if not, perhaps you can switch places with a group of ladies. We have four available seats here, counting yours. And given that Lady Noelle and I are both female…"

"Every seat is filled—either with men or with families. I checked."

"I'd like to see that for myself."

"Grace." Noelle wanted to sink through the floor and die. "That's all right, my lady." Tremlett flashed her one of his heart-stopping smiles before turning back to the maid. "I assure you, madam, I'm telling the truth. Further, nothing improper took place here while you dozed. Lady Noelle and I merely ate and conversed. As to the matter of my continuing to share your coach, even if some of the passengers have left the train since I boarded, I can't very well change compartments while we're moving. And, as we'll be in London in…"—a quick glance at his timepiece—"…twenty minutes or so, the whole discussion is a moot one." He scooped up his newspaper and casually unfolded it, preparing to read. "Until that time, I promise not to bother you. In fact, you're welcome to pretend I'm not even here."

Grace hesitated, torn between propriety and logic.

Noelle shot her maid a chilling look.

"By the way," Tremlett continued, skimming the headlines. "As a thank-you for the delicious and unexpected meal, I'll be arranging for my driver to take you and Lady Noelle into Town, to deliver you to your destinations, then to return you to the station. Well-bred women such as yourselves should not he relegated to a hansom."

That, combined with Noelle's obvious disapproval, definitely had an impact.

Ever so slightly, Grace thawed.

"That's very kind of you, my lord," she managed grudgingly, her stiff posture easing a bit. "And I agree. Lady Noelle does not belong in a hansom."

"Neither of you does" was his gallant response.

The implication that she was being regarded as a lady rather than a servant made Grace's ample bosom inflate and brought a rus

h of color to her cheeks. "We appreciate your chivalrous offer, sir," she declared. "After careful consideration, Lady Noelle and I accept." With that, she folded her hands primly in her lap, adding, "I'm glad you enjoyed the bread and cheese."

"Oh, I did," Tremlett assured her. "I enjoyed them thoroughly. In fact…"—a fleeting, bone-melting glance at Noelle—"I can't remember ever savoring my moments on the railroad as I did today."

A frisson of excitement tingled through Noelle, and she lowered her lashes, deliberately severing eye contact with the earl. She felt singed, her heart pounding disturbingly fast, her pulse beating erratically. With staunch resolve, she battled her reaction, determined to bring herself under control.

Aware of the sudden tension permeating the coach—if not its cause—Grace shot Noelle a sideways glance, displeased by whatever it was she saw. "Read your novel, my lady," she instructed, not so overcome by flattery that she'd abandon her job as Noelle's protector. "As the earl just pointed out, we'll be in Town shortly."

Noelle nodded, opening her book and forcing herself to stare at the pages.

She didn't absorb a word. In fact, she was conscious of nothing save the commanding presence of Ashford Thornton. His magnetism permeated the compartment—and Noelle—despite the fact that he'd dutifully turned his attention to the pages of his newspaper, concentrating fully on whatever article he was reading for the duration of the trip.

It was only as the railroad clanged and lurched its way into Waterloo Station that he raised his head, meeting Noelle's gaze for one imperceptible moment.

A hard, speculative gleam lit his eyes—a gleam that seared Noelle with its intensity.

And then vanished in the space of a heartbeat.

* * *

Chapter 2

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The Franco Art Gallery was tucked away on a quiet side street, a block away from the hustle and bustle of Regent Street. Its high ceilings and wide, circular interior made it appear far more spacious than it actually was. Clean and well lit, the gallery smelled of wood and canvas, and boasted two dozen paintings—displayed at generous intervals about the periphery of the room—varying in size and design from detailed portraits to scenic views created by inventive mixtures of color and light. All in all, the gallery had an inviting, unhurried air about it—one that encouraged visitors to browse and, hopefully, to buy.

Four steps ahead of Grace and Lord Tremlett, Noelle paused where the narrow vestibule widened into the main room, noting the handful of potential customers frequenting the gallery. Some strolled from painting to painting, studying each one in turn; others planted themselves firmly before one creation as they tried to decide whether or not to purchase it.

Which of these people worked here? Noelle wondered. Who would be able to give her information about Baricci?

A more distressing thought struck—one that should have occurred to her earlier, but thanks to her customary lack of forethought, it hadn't. What if Baricci wasn't here? What if he'd left the gallery—or, worse, London—since Christmas Day? What if she'd devised this entire scheme for nothing?

"Lord Tremlett." A solemn man with a thin nose and spectacles appeared out of nowhere, greeting the earl with a formal bow. "Good afternoon. We weren't expecting you today."