The Theft (Thornton 2)

"No. Because of my interest in you."

A charged silence, during which Ashford's driver came around and opened the door. "Waterloo Station," he announced, offering a hand to the ladies.

Fortunately, Grace was seated closer to the door. With a disapproving scowl at Lady Noelle, she accepted the driver's assistance and descended to the street.

Ashford waited until Grace was poised outside the carriage. Then he made his move. He lurched forward, his fingers closing around Noelle's, staying her as she made to rise. "I want to see you again."

Those exquisite sapphire eyes glinted with anticipation. "Are you asking to call on me, Lord Tremlett?"

"Ashford," he corrected, his thumb caressing her wrist.

"Ashford," she reiterated, whispering his name in a breathless way that made his blood heat.

He brought her fingers to his lips, as much on instinct as on design. Whatever the hell he was doing far transcended his hunt for Baricci, and he knew it. "Yes, I'm asking to call on you—Noelle. May I?"

With apparent fascination she watched her fingers against his lips, shivering as he lightly kissed her fingertips. Slowly, her chin came up and her gaze met his. "I'd like that, my lord," she admitted. "I'd like that very much."

"Good. Then expect to hear from me."

"I shall."

"My lady!" Grace bellowed her summons over the noise of the busy London station.

"I'm coming, Grace," Noelle called back. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, gathered up her skirts, and exited the carriage. "Thank you, my lord," she said, turning to face Ashford. "For the ride, the game of piquet, and the fascinating conversation."

"Don't thank me," he replied, holding her with his gaze. "At least not yet."

* * *

Chapter 3

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Williams paced about Baricci's office, displaying none of the cool, collected demeanor he'd exhibited in Ashford's presence.

Halting, he pivoted to face his employer. "What do you think he knows?" he demanded, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"I don't believe it's a question of what he knows," Baricci amended, seated calmly behind his desk, preparing to eat an apple. "But rather what he suspects."

"In that case, we're as good as caught."

"Not at all." Baricci sliced his apple into neat little sections, then placed one piece in his mouth. Methodically, he chewed and swallowed, only continuing to speak after he'd dabbed at either corner of his mouth with his napkin. "It's no secret that Tremlett suspects I'm involved in the thefts of those paintings—Moonlight in Florence included. Then again, Tremlett suspects my involvement in anything even remotely disreputable that transpires in the art community. It's our job to keep his suspicions from becoming facts." A sip of Madeira. "Now, tell me again what he asked you."

"Not nearly as many questions as he customarily asks—nor, I believe,

as many as he originally intended to ask," Williams replied uneasily. "In fact, he left the gallery with little more than when he came in, requesting only the names of those besides Norwood who bid on Moonlight, as well as confirmation of whether any of the bidders were excessively upset when they lost."

"Logical requests." Baricci's finger grazed the rim of his glass. "Certainly nothing alarming that would connect us with the theft. Then again, that's not what's troubling you."

"No, sir, it isn't. Tremlett's interrogations—even at their most grueling—are a regular part of my job. They take place every time a valuable painting disappears. I'm more than equipped to handle them. What's disturbing me, greatly, is the earl's choice of companions on this particular visit."

"Ah, yes. My little Noelle." Baricci rose, walking over to stare pensively out the window. "That was a surprising coincidence, wasn't it?"

"Do you truly think it was a coincidence?"

"Actually, yes." Baricci turned, rubbing his palms together. "A most unfortunate one, but a coincidence nonetheless. Noelle herself convinced me of that, without even realizing she was doing so. You see, my daughter…"—a smile played about his lips as he uttered the word—"is far too genuine to lie, much less to manage a grand deception. I asked her point blank what her relationship was with Tremlett. She said she'd just met him on the train from Poole."

"And you believe her?"