The Theft (Thornton 2)

Like a drowning man, Eric clutched at his final straw. "But our plans—"

"Our plans to bring Noelle out aren't the basis for your objections to Lord Tremlett. You know that as well as I do. To the contrary, if the earl's love for our daughter is deep and lasting, then that realizes more than any London Season could ever hope to. It fulfills all the dreams we've ever had for Noelle. We never cared a whit about the extravagant parties she might attend or the hordes of wealthy noblemen she might meet. We wanted her to find her future—the right future for Noelle." Brigitte's fingers feathered across Eric's jaw. "Knowing our daughter, we should have expected she'd find that future on her own."

Eric swallowed hard, turned his face into Brigitte's palm. "You're right. We should have." A pause, rife with internal struggle. "He'd damn well not take advantage of her."

"He won't."

Slowly, Eric nodded. "He does seem to care for her," he deliberated aloud. "And he is bent on ensuring her wellbeing."

"Indeed he is. He'll keep her safe, Eric—safe from Baricci, safe from her own impulsiveness."

The very mention of Baricci's name brought reality crashing down around them, enveloping them in a suffocating shroud of fear.

Eric's worried gaze met Brigitte's. "This whole pursuit of Baricci, knowing what he's capable of, knowing that Noelle could be at risk—it terrifies me," he confessed.

"It terrifies me, too," Brigitte replied in a thin voice. "That's why I want the man most familiar with Franco Baricci—with his associates and his behavior—watching over Noelle. And that man is Lord Tremlett."

"I see your point." Eric stared down at Brigitte, visualizing their elder daughter and coming to the inevitable, the only, decision he could. "Fine. We'll do it Tremlett's way."

"It's Noelle's way, too," Brigitte reminded her husband gently. "She's head over heels in love with the earl and, knowing her, equally as determined to help him apprehend Baricci."

"That's our Noelle—ever impetuous, ever unyielding." A reminiscent light flickered in Eric's eyes as he reflected on the past fourteen years of antics. "I doubt Tremlett knows what he's up against."

"He's about to learn."

* * *

Chapter 9

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The tiny art studio was tucked away in a remote London side street. Given that night had already fallen, the room's interior was cast in shadows, its only light provided by a single gas lamp.

It was alongside that lamp that André stood, assessing the painting in his hands, his practiced eye sweeping the bold strokes and muted colors of the abstract images.

His latest work was good. Very good. Too good to waste as a mere false veneer, even if that veneer was being used to conceal a Rembrandt.

He leaned against his studio wall, angling the canvas closer to the light, pride and frustration surging inside him.

True, Baricci would compensate him for his work with a token sum—a bonus, to coin the gallery owner's term. But whatever bonus Baricci offered would be paltry compared to the painting's actual worth. Some day, some bloody day, the world would recognize André Sardo for the genius he was. But until that day came, he was at Baricci's mercy. And not only because the gallery owner paid his bills—although without Baricci's money, he would surely starve. But because his freedom and future were in the older man's manipulative hands.

With a perturbed sigh, André lowered the painting and scrutinized the dilapidated studio which also served as his home. The walls were peeling, the wood rotting in places, and the few beams that anchored the ceiling looked as if they might collapse at any moment. The only saving grace of this hovel was the sweeping window that spanned the full length of the southern wall, which—from the instant dawn tinged the sky—allowed in every drop of sunlight, splashing his work area with natural light.

Otherwise, the place was nothing to boast about, containing only a cot, a broken-down chest, and a few shelves for food.

And, of course, his paintings.

Scattered about the studio, hanging in random spots on the peeling walls, were dozens of his masterpieces; the only beauty in an otherwise barren setting. There were a variety of styles—all his; everything ranging from landscapes to still lifes to abstract expressions of color. But André's favorite of them all was exhibited in a cluster of paintings, sequestered away in a private alcove in the studio's far corner.

His portraits.

Framed and hanging side by side, they were the true evidence of his genius, a tribute to all the unique subjects he'd sketched over the years—not for them, but for himself—each work a story unto itself.

Ah, the tales these canvases could tell.

With a self-satisfied smile, André approached the alcove slowly, reverently, as one would approach a shrine. He touched a fingertip to each portrait, reveling in their vivid lines and exquisite detail, the expressions of emotion on his subjects' faces, the brilliant color of their eyes. If only the world could se

e these masterpieces, understand the passion with which they'd been created.