The Theft (Thornton 2)

Dear God, why had Ashford stolen a painting? And from whom? What in the name of heaven was he involved in?

Wildly, Noelle's thoughts converged, exploding in a rapid fire of questions—the very questions that had plagued her since the day she and Ashford had met, except that now she viewed them in a new and sinister light.

What was he hiding from her? What was the secret part of his life he valued so highly and guarded so fiercely?

Clearly, she had one fundamental answer.

Ashford was a thief.

But why? She'd seen the reality with her own eyes, but she refused to believe it—not without an explanation. It made no sense. He recovered paintings; why would he steal them? Certainly not for the money. Nor for the paintings themselves; he was hardly an ardent collector. Then why? And for whom? Or with whom?

An immediate name came to mind.

Pierce Thornton.

Ashford had gone to see his father two days ago, presumably to resolve his past. Was this robbery what they'd actually discussed? Were they partners in some intricate crime scheme?

That brought back the events that had taken place the night of the charity ball—events Noelle had never managed to dismiss, no matter how hard she'd tried. She'd been unable to grasp why the duke's behavior that night, along with Ashford's, had continued to nag at her. Perhaps now she had her answer.

She could clearly recall the way Pierce Thornton had summoned his son from the charity ball, the imperative aura that had hovered between them, the feeling that some clandestine matter needed to be discussed—a matter that couldn't wait until their guests had left. Had they truly been discussing Lady Mannering's death? And, for that matter, how had the duke learned about that murder before anyone else, possibly even the police?

Or did she have that backwards?

An icy chill shivered through Noelle.

Had it been Ashford who told his father, rather than the other way around? Was it he who had advance knowledge of the robbery and resulting murder at the Mannerings—firsthand knowledge, based upon what he'd seen, done? Had it been he who…?

No.

Beneath the blanket, Noelle gave an adamant shake of her head, squelching that line of thinking almost before it began. There was no way she'd believe that of Ashford—not even if she found him leaning over the body with the murder weapon in his hand. He was the most principled man she'd ever met, possessing as much honor and integrity as her father. He was inherently moral and decent—and he would never, ever harm anyone who didn't deserve it.

But what if they did?

Murder, never.

But theft…?

Noelle pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to still the pounding in her head. She felt even more confused now than she had before climbing into this phaeton, filled with a wealth of new, unanswerable questions.

The only person who could answer those questions was Ashford himself. She'd confront him, this very night, the instant this inconceivable jaunt of his was over.

As if in response to her thoughts, the phaeton pulled over and stopped.

Now where were they?

Probably wherever Ashford delivered his paintings.

On the heels of that prospect, Noelle lurched backwards, away from the sack, lying perfectly still until Ashford had climbed down, reached around to extract the bag and its contents, and crept away from the phaeton.

This time, she was too overwrought to worry about caution.

The instant Ashford's footsteps faded away, she tossed off the blanket, rising to her knees and peering about her.

The area was vile, even without benefit of light. The stench of ale and dung was in the air, and the quick, scurrying sounds emanating from the roadside could be nothing but rats.

By now her eyes were accustomed to the darkness and by focusing intently, Noelle could make out a broken path that led to what appeared to be the entrance to an alley.

Ashford's contact must be waiting for him in there.