The Theft (Thornton 2)
Conyers and Parles exchanged glances.
"Fine," Parles said. "I'll hang onto Williams here. Conyers, you join Tremlett in the gallery. Keep your gun on Baricci. We don't want to lose him."
Conyers nodded tersely, shoving Baricci forward, letting him know that the pistol was close behind.
Slowly, Baricci made his way through the gallery, leading Ashford to the Yorkshire landscape that was Sardo's first contribution to the gallery.
"That's Catherine," he said, pointing to the woman in the painting. "I recognized her the instant Sardo flourished this painting for me to see. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance to have it, given what I'd planned for Sardo's part in my business operation. I bought the painting outright rather than taking it on consignment as I customarily would. My reasons were obvious: I wanted my ownership of the painting documented by receipts, lest Sardo suddenly decide to reclaim his work.
"Once the transaction was complete, I informed Sardo that I recognized Catherine's likeness and reminded him what he'd confessed to having done. It was too late for denial; he was trapped. He agreed to my terms, partly out of fear and partly out of conceit; he relished the thought of being the sole artist displayed in my gallery. I then hung this painting right in the center of the gallery as a reminder to him that I could send the police in his direction at any time. It's been most effective in ensuring his cooperation."
Ashford stared at the painting, assessing the young woman standing atop the cliffs and looking sadly into the water. Her hair was windblown, revealing delicate features and dramatic coloring. He wished he didn't notice it, but that coloring resembled Noelle's: ebony hair, vibrant blue eyes. Obviously, Sardo had specific taste in women.
Something else about the woman bothered him—but what?
Abruptly, it struck him.
"The earrings." Ashford peered closer, recognizing the intricate facets of the blue stones hanging at her lobes. "Those are identical to the ones Emily Mannering received from her lover." He turned to Baricci, beginning to feel sick. "I'm asking you one last time, did you give Emily Mannering those earrings?"
Lord help him, he already knew the answer.
"Absolutely not," Baricci confirmed.
An icy chill pervaded Ashford's body. "Baricci, who else knew you were going to visit Lady Mannering that night? Did Sardo?"
Horrified recall—a reaction that couldn't be feigned—flashed across Baricci's face. "Yes," he replied, blanching. "He came to my office while I was dressing. I told him who I was going to see. He got very quiet and then commented on how breathtaking Emily was, how impressed he was by my choice. Now that I think about it, he became very terse after that, almost caustic."
Mentally, Ashford reviewed Noelle's conversation with Mary, the phrases the lady's maid had used in recounting Emily Mannering's description of her lover:
Seductive charm, tall, exotically handsome—a man of fire and passion. From the Continent. Immersed in a world of cultural beauty … expressive … colorful … vital. He doted on her.
And he'd given her those earrings.
Ashford's gut clenched. He'd assumed Emily had been describing Baricci. But she'd been describing another lover, a lover Baricci clearly didn't know existed.
André Sardo.
And if that night in Baricci's office André had first learned that Emily was not exclusively his, what had he done? Contacted her? Threatened her? That would certainly explain her fear.
Worse, had he waited until Baricci left her at dawn, until she was totally alone, and then acted upon those threats?
Contemplating Baricci's story about a man who loathed being betrayed—loathed it enough to kill—the answer was plainly, yes.
Ashford's eyes strayed back to the woman in the picture, his heart sinking as he focused once again on her features. Slight of height and build, sable hair. Just like Emily Mannering. And just like…
Oh, God, no.
Savagely, Ashford grabbed Baricci's forearms. "What color were Emily Mannering's eyes?" he demanded.
Baricci started. "Blue. A bright, vivid blue."
"Christ." Ashford uttered the word in a terrified hiss. "Noelle." He jerked about, pinning Conyers with his stare. "Let Parles take both these bastards in. We're going to Sardo's studio. We've got to grab him before he gets to Noelle."
* * *
Chapter 18
« ^ »