"I understand." Sensing his distress—and realizing now was not the time to challenge it—Noelle steered the conversation in a safer direction. "Six years," she repeated. "That's quite a long time—long enough for Mr. Baricci to feel comfortable sharing elements of his past with you." She inclined her head, gazed quizzically at Sardo. "I notice you didn't ask what emotional scars I was referring to. Is that because you were being tactful or because you already know what those scars are?"
Without responding, Sardo pivoted, retracing his steps and bypassing the set palette and waiting canvas. Silently, he extracted a sketch pad and pencil from his portfolio. "I'm going to do some preliminary sketches as we talk," he informed her. "Later, I'll move to canvas."
Noelle nodded, half-tempted to repeat her question, but refraining from doing so. Somehow she knew that André would address the issue when and if he chose to. Very well; she'd wait.
He began drawing with long, sweeping strokes, his concentration shifting from Noelle to the pad to Noelle again.
Long minutes passed before he spoke.
"Excellent," he appraised, surveying his work thus far. "A promising beginning." He folded the first sketch over the top of the pad, began a second. "To answer your question, I have my suspicions with regard to the cause of your emotional scars. Judging from the way Mr. Baricci speaks of you, I realize you mean a great deal to him. I also know his affections toward you are deep, but not romantic. Combine that with the fact that you share several identical facial expressions, and the same lightning-quick minds, and … well, it doesn't take a scholar to guess the nature of your relationship. Given that relationship, and considering that you'd never met before a fortnight ago…" André shrugged. "As I said, I can guess what those emotional scars must be."
"An artist's eye—it misses nothing," Noelle murmured, certain that André's entire speech was a fabrication. She'd bet a lifetime of piquet winnings that Baricci had told him everything—who she was and why he wanted her affections won.
Fine. She'd let him think he was on his way to accomplishing just that.
"Tell me, André." She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Is Mr. Baricci a compassionate employer?"
"He's fair. Demanding but fair. He's also a brilliant businessman, one who knows just how to maximize his profits. It's remarkable to watch him do his work." A rueful grin. "Then again, I feel the same awe toward superb businessmen as you feel toward artists. My business skills are severely lacking."
"Not nearly as lacking as my artistic awareness," Noelle commiserated, carefully gauging André's reaction at her next words. "When Mr. Williams asked me which technique I preferred, I almost wept. I wouldn't know an amateur from a Rembrandt."
Not even a flinch. "Don't underestimate yourself, chérie. What you've deemed inadequacy is, in fact, inexperience. All you need is the right tutor to awaken you to the beauty of art. Among other things."
His meaning was so blatant that Noelle lowered her lashes, a tinge of color staining her cheeks. Evidently, she mused, he'd decided the time was right for making his first move.
Taking her reaction as encouragement, André tossed aside his pad, crossing over to where she sat, his gaze heated, purposeful. "You have such fire, such passion," he said fervently, leaning forward, his knuckles brushing the curve of her shoulder. "The right artist—the right man—could coax forth that fire, fan it into a blazing inferno." He bent his head, brushed his lips to the pulse at her neck. "Let me be that man, Noelle."
Before Noelle could respond, chaos erupted.
Unseen, Ashford acted purely on instinct. Fully intending to thrash Sardo senseless, he lunged forward—stopping himself a split second before he revealed his presence and undid all their hard work. Just as swiftly, he lurched backwards, remaining undetected and, in the process, trapping Tempest's tail between his shoulder and the underside of the ledge.
The cat let out a startled yowl, darting to life and springing from her perch. She bounded across the sitting room, leaping from sofa to settee to chair, crashing into the easel and then the end table, toppling the canvas and palette to the floor.
Paint splattered everywhere, dousing the rug and furniture, leaving streaks of rainbow hues on every surface. Tempest herself followed in their wake, racing across the palette's mahogany surface—once, twice, then in rapid circles—repeatedly immersing her paws in the wet colors, then tracking them every which way, until the entire sitting room resembled a patchwork quilt.
André swore in French, leaving Noelle and rushing to salvage his materials and stop the damage. He grabbed for Tempest, who responded by clawing his face and hissing, retaining her freedom and flying across the room, where she collided with Eric's legs in the now-open doorway.
"What in God's name…?" Eric thundered.
Tempest whizzed by him, a tawny cat splashed with primary hues, who disappeared down the hall, leaving behind only a vivid trail of multicolored paw prints.
Silence descended—a silence that was broken by Noelle's helpless shout of laughter.
"Oh, André, I'm sorry," she managed, tears of mirth stinging her eyes. She climbed down from the stool, bending to gather up the sketch pad and canvas—all of which was splattered with paint—and to try reassembling the crippled easel. "Papa, would you ask Bladewell to send in some towels? Many towels," she clarified. "It seems something unnerved Tempest, and she decided to live up to her name."
Eric surveyed the room—a mass of upset jars, overturned furniture, and rivers of muddied color—his lips twitching despite his best attempts to still them. "I'll see to it." He turned into the hallway, issuing the command to the startled group of servants who'd gathered nearby to find out what the cause of the commotion was.
"I don't think you can salvage this sketch," Noelle assessed, frowning at the speckled picture of herself. "But even covered in paint, it's an extraordinary likeness. You're very talented, André."
That seemed to mollify him somewhat, although he still looked quite piqued—his mouth set in a grim line, angry splotches of red darkening his cheeks. "True, but even I must have some semblance of normalcy in which to paint—exquisite subject or not. Not this … this…" He waved his hands, shaking his head as he sought words t
hat were dire enough to describe the upheaval that had just taken place. "I can't believe one cat is capable of wreaking this much havoc."
"Yes, well, you don't know Tempest." Eric remained where he was, looming in the doorway. "She doesn't do this often, but when she does, her destruction is never half-measure. In any case, today's session is clearly at an end. You'll have to resume another day."
"Another day indeed," André muttered. "It will take at least that long to purchase new supplies—paints, pens, pencils, brushes—for all I know, a whole new palette and easel."
"Use this to do it." Eric handed him a ten-pound note. "Consider it compensation from me and a peace offering from Noelle's cat. As for your next sitting, when I said another day, I didn't mean tomorrow. We'll need more time than that to restore this room." A quick scan of his surroundings. "The floor, the furnishings, even the drapes must be scrubbed. So take your time and buy whatever supplies you need. Come back … let's see, how does three days from now sound? Or is that too soon?"