The Theft (Thornton 2)

With a husky sound, Ashford sealed their lips in a slow, tantalizing caress that burned through all the unanswered questions, the obstacles, the reservations.

It was only the sound of Chloe's approaching voice—a clear warning that their time together was about to be shattered—followed by the grounds for that warning: her father's answering baritone, that forced them to end the kiss.

Noelle drew a slow, shuddering breath, her fingers still clutching Ashford's coat. "Hurry back."

"I will."

"And Ashford?"

"H-m-m?"

"Discern and sort quickly."

His husky chuckle shivered across her lips. "I will, tempête. You have my word—I will."

* * *

Chapter 11

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It was three days later and Ashford wasn't smiling.

He leaned back in his seat on the railroad, closing his eyes and thinking how grateful he was to be the sole occupant of the first-class compartment, left alone with his thoughts as the train sped toward Poole.

His time in London had yielded naught but frustration. Consequently, he had a wealth of things to think about, all of which addressed the most significant issues and aspects of his life.

He hadn't made nearly enough headway at Lord Mannering's house. Oh, he'd succeeded in convincing Mannering to assign him the job of recovering the Rembrandt—and unearthing Emily's killer in the process. In fact, the poor, grief-stricken fellow had all but begged him to do so, his wan face lined with the pain of loss and shock as he praised Ashford's reputation and expressed his faith that if anyone could find out who'd killed his Emily, Lord Tremlett could.

That task wasn't going to be easy.

Ashford had requested the right to question the staff, and Mannering had given him a free hand to do so—one servant at a time, and in a private salon with no one present but Ashford. That final stipulation had been a delicate one to make, much less to elaborate upon. Nonetheless, Ashford had done so, quietly explaining that if Mannering were present during these interviews, any servant who might know something significant that was at the same time morally tarnishing to Lady Mannering's reputation could very well refuse to reveal the information in Lord Mannering's company, whether out of loyalty for the master or out of fear of being discharged.

Mannering had winced but retained his dignity, agreeing to Ashford's terms, then walking off stiffly, withdrawing to his study and to his open bottle of brandy.

Ashford had been besieged by pity, wondering bitterly why a decent man like Mannering was being punished, while a scoundrel like Baricci walked free.

Not for long, if he had his way.

Filled with resolve, Ashford had spent two afternoons at Mannering's home, questioning each and every servant, jotting down notes and searching for the slightest detail that might place Baricci here on the night of the crime or—even better—that would place him here not only then but on other nights, nights when the servants had been present and might possibly have overheard something, seen something, that would help incriminate Baricci of more than just a torrid affair.

Ashford intentionally saved Emily Mannering's lady's maid, Mary, for last. Of the entire staff, Mary was the one who, as sheer logic dictated, would have had the closest contact with her mistress. She'd known Emily's habits, her likes and dislikes—and, with a modicum of luck, her selections in men. By deferring his chat with Mary, Ashford had hoped he'd go into that meeting having acquired some unsubstantiated tidbits that he could verify with her.

Not only did he have no tidbits to be verified, Mary had no desire to talk.

The maddening thing was, Ashford knew she had something to say.

He'd sensed she was hiding something from the minute she entered the salon. It wasn't only the strain with which she perched her birdlike frame at the edge of her seat—looking for all the world like a robin about to take flight. Nor was it only the staunch way she clutched the folds of her uniform, as if to fortify herself with strength. It was also the way she averted her gaze each time he asked her a question and fidgeted as she supplied her token answers; then, the instant Ashford paused, she blurted out her request to be excused.

It wasn't hard to deduce she was hiding something. But it was virtually impossible to get her to disclose what that something was.

Ashford had tried everything, from explaining to Mary how she had the power to help find the man who'd killed her beloved mistress, to sternly defining the phrase "obstructing justice."

Nothing had worked.

How could he reach this woman? How could he make her tell him the truth—a truth he knew in his gut she could shed some light on?

Damn.