"About an hour ago." Pierce's sources were incomparable. "It didn't sound like Baricci's work."
"It wasn't." A glint of humor. "Baricci's not nearly that good."
"He's also not nearly that arrogant," Daphne commented dryly. "Honestly, Ashford, you sound more like your father every day."
A hint of a smile touched Pierce's lips. "Now why doesn't that sound like a compliment, Snow Flame?"
"Perhaps because it isn't," Daphne retorted, her tone more anxious than sharp. She inclined her head to gaze up at her husband. "Aren't you the one who taught me that arrogance breeds overconfidence? And that overconfidence has the power to undo you?"
r /> Gently, Pierce caressed her cheek, soothing away the lines of worry. "Indeed I did. But rating Baricci's skills as being inferior to those of the bandit's doesn't demonstrate overconfidence. It speaks fact."
Daphne gave an exasperated sigh. "I give up. You're both impossible." She turned to scrutinize her son's face. "Are you all right? You didn't take any unnecessary risks?"
"Not a one," Ashford assured her. "Really, Mother, I'm quite intact." A teasing pause. "Arrogance and all." His voice dropped to a murmur. "I have a contribution for your next tin cup."
"How much?" Pierce questioned, as casually as if he were inquiring about the weather.
"Ten thousand pounds."
A low whistle. "Excellent."
"I'm not surprised," Daphne put in. "That particular Gainsborough was exquisite. A shrewd investor will make a fortune on it."
"An American investor," Ashford clarified. "That way, there's no chance of anyone encountering the painting during the upcoming London Season." A grin. "After all, we wouldn't want an unnerving episode to mar the glittering array of parties, now would we?"
Pierce made a disgusted sound. "I don't know how you tolerate attending those garish affairs, one after the other."
"They serve their purpose."
"Which purpose is that?" Pierce returned bluntly. "Investigating Baricci or seeking out new female companions?"
"A lot of the former, a bit of the latter." Ashford answered with a good deal less enthusiasm than usual. Rubbing his palms together, he made his way into the room, idly pouring himself a cup of coffee. "In addition to the painting, there's something else I wanted to discuss with you," he announced at length.
"I gathered as much," Daphne replied. "Otherwise I doubt you would have sacrificed whatever precious little sleep you might have gotten in order to arrive here at this early hour." She walked back to the table, gesturing for her son to sit. "Shall I have Cook bring you some breakfast?"
"No. I'd much rather talk."
"Very well." Pierce joined them, exchanging glances with his wife before refilling his own coffee cup. "What is it?"
"It pertains to your charity ball."
Daphne's brow furrowed at the mention of their annual donation event—a three-day house party consisting of card games, horse racing, and a grand ball, all of which was designed to collect money for poor and orphaned children. "You're not bowing out?"
"No, nothing like that. I'll be here." Ashford sipped at his coffee. "But I have a favor to ask of you."
"Name it," Pierce responded at once.
"I want you to invite the Earl and Countess of Farrington—and their family."
Pierce's brows rose. "Has this something to do with Baricci? Do you now have reason to suspect Eric Bromleigh is involved—"
"No."
"I thought not. From what I know of the man, he's decent and honest."
"He is. This has nothing to do with Baricci. At least not in the way that you mean."
"Not in the way that I mean?" A puzzled frown. "You've lost me."