"Good." The bandit leaned down and scooped up the painting, placing it back in its sack and shoving it into Gayts's greedy fist. "Tell your buyer to enjoy it."
"When will I hear from ye next?"
A shrug. "Who knows? One of these nights."
With that, the bandit took his money and eased stealthily to the front of the alley.
Dashing to his carriage, he took up the reins and raced off.
* * *
Ashford rubbed his eyes wearily as he climbed the steps to his Town house. Dawn would be breaking soon, and he had yet to sleep. He would give himself two or three hours' rest, then be off. He had to ride to Northampton, see his parents, and resolve matters.
He frowned, thinking of the inconvenient delay this sudden trip to Markham would cause—not only in hi
s investigative plans but in his plans to call on Noelle Bromleigh. With regard to his investigation, he had several more people to question about the auction at Baricci's gallery that had resulted in the sale of Moonlight in Florence. And with regard to Noelle…
Ashford's frown deepened. This change in schedule meant he wouldn't be able to get to Farrington Manor for days, a reality that greatly displeased him. He'd intended to see Noelle soon, before the excitement of their meeting had waned. Further, it wasn't as if his parents were expecting him. They weren't, not for another fortnight, at which time he'd be visiting Markham for an entirely different reason. Nonetheless, this visit couldn't be delayed, given the current circumstances. So, like it or not, he would have to wait to close in on Baricci and to call on Noelle.
The message was wedged in his front door.
He brought it inside, tore it open immediately, noting the feminine hand and wondering who had written him. His brows arched in surprise as he saw Noelle's signature, and a surge of anticipation rippled through him.
The surge was quickly checked.
Scanning the first paragraph, Ashford scowled, realizing the letter was a regretful announcement that she had to reverse her earlier decision to accept his social calls. Had to, he reminded himself. Not chose to.
His scowl softened a bit, and he read on. Noelle made no attempt to obscure her reasons, nor to hide her disappointment at this change in plans. It seemed her father was firmly decided that until her coming-out she was not to receive gentlemen callers. Especially, she added in a pointed and flagrantly teasing tone, callers who boasted such extensive and accomplished reputations as his—reputations born in bedchambers, not art galleries.
Ashford felt his lips twitch. Only Noelle would pen such a bold innuendo to a man she'd met on but one occasion. She was as unique and stirring on paper as she was in person.
Well, not quite.
Continuing his reading, Ashford found himself openly grinning at the extent of Noelle's disappointment. She was entirely displeased with her father's orders. However, she amended with a loyalty Ashford couldn't help but admire; she knew her father's decision was inspired by love and concern for her, and she intended to respect his wishes—happily or not.
So, she concluded, until the commencement of the Season, there could be no visits. Unless, of course, Lord Tremlett could think of a way to persuade her father otherwise. If so, that was another matter entirely, and she would look forward to receiving him.
Laughter rumbled in Ashford's chest, and he folded the note, contemplating the less-than-subtle challenge he'd been handed. She wanted to see him. Lord knew, he wanted to see her. They both had faith he could make it happen.
Now the only question was how. How could they meet without violating Lord Farrington's rules?
Changing the earl's mind was a losing bet, despite Noelle's optimistic belief otherwise. Clearly, Eric Bromleigh meant to keep his daughter close by his side, relinquishing her to the ton only after her formal court presentation in March and, even then, in carefully chosen, select doses. Altering those plans wasn't a plausible option. If Ashford wanted to see Noelle, he'd have to find another, more acceptable means of doing so. Either that, or wait until the onset of the Season and fend off dozens of eager suitors in the hopes of claiming one or two meager dances.
That prospect was thoroughly distasteful—for a number of reasons.
Perhaps an accidental meeting. But where? Certainly not at Farrington Manor, he'd never get past the earl. Of course, there was always the church over which Noelle's great-grandfather presided, Ashford mused, recalling from his research on the Bromleighs that Noelle's great-grandfather, Rupert Curran, was the vicar of a local Dorsetshire church. But even if Ashford were to magically appear there on Sunday morning when Noelle was almost assuredly present, all he could hope to gain was a few minutes of swift conversation. Hardly what he intended. He wanted hours with Noelle—hours to get to know her better. No, the church wouldn't do. Then where? Where would her family travel together, spend a prolonged period of time, and feel comfortable giving Noelle a bit of freedom to move about as she chose?
Ashford's head shot up, the answer exploding in his mind like a bolt of lightning.
Markham.
It was perfect—the perfect place, the perfect motivation, the perfect opportunity.
An opportunity that was but a fortnight away.
To hell with sleep. He had arrangements to make. He'd leave for his parents' residence now.
* * *