The Theft (Thornton 2)
She leaped on his words. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm proposing a compromise."
"What kind of compromise?"
"I'll do as you ask, hire an investigator to see what he can unearth about this blackguard." Seeing the excited glint in Noelle's eyes, Eric clarified hastily: "Bear in mind that this procedure could take months, maybe longer—years, if he's moved from city to city or, worse, from country to country."
Noelle appeared not the least bit deterred. "And once you've uncovered what I want to know—whenever that might be—you'll share your findings with me?"
"Not immediately," Eric replied, meeting Noelle's honesty with his own. "I adore you, Tempest, but you're as impulsive as that reckless cat of yours. Don't bother denying it—" He held up his palm to silence her protest. "We both know it to be true. If this scoundrel should turn up in India or Tibet or even Tasmania, you'd be on the first ship traversing the globe. I can't and won't take that kind of risk. So I'll find out what I can, with the stipulation that the information I unearth stays with me."
"Forever?" Now Noelle looked crestfallen.
"No, not forever. Only until you're older—old enough to think not merely with the intelligence of a woman but with the maturity of one. When I can be certain you'll properly employ whatever details I convey to you. At that point, if you're still interested in pursuing this matter, I'll turn all my findings over to you."
"Older? When is older? When I'm fifteen?"
Eric arched a sardonic brow. "That's hardly a woman, Noelle. How does twenty-one sound?"
"Ancient. How does sixteen sound?"
"Youthful." A hint of a smile curved Eric's lips. No matter how dismal the subject, Noelle had a way of infusing it with filaments of joy—and a healthy dose of debate. "I'll meet you halfway. Twenty-one is a woman; fifteen is a child. Shall we say eighteen?"
Noelle scrutinized him, her lips twitching slightly. "Is that your final offer?"
"It is."
"Very well. I accept. Eighteen." Lightly, she jumped to her feet, her chin set in that all-too-familiar way that made Eric's gut knot, obliterated whatever hope he'd entertained that time might diffuse his daughter's determination to locate her sire. Eric knew that particular look, and it meant only one thing: waiting for Noelle to change her mind would be like waiting for the sun to grow cold.
"Thank you, Papa," she called out, skipping over to the doorway and turning to give him a victorious grin. "I feel ever so much better."
"I might fail to find him," Eric warned.
"You might. But you won't. You've never disappointed me yet." Noelle's glowing faith was absolute, her enthusiasm irrepressible. "My eighteenth birthday is just five and a half years away. On that Christmas Day, I'll learn all the missing pieces of my heritage."
"And then?"
"Then my curiosity will be satisfied, and I can bid the past good-bye." With a conclusive nod, Noelle dismissed the subject. Blowing Eric a kiss, she gathered up her skirts and scooted out of the library.
Eric gazed solemnly after her, the wisdom of adulthood cautioning him that the situation wouldn't resolve itself quite that easily.
In fact, he had a sinking feeling that precisely five and a half years from now all hell would break loose.
* * *
Chapter 1
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Farrington Manor
December 25, 1874
"I must have been insane to agree to this." Eric finished buttoning his shirt, scowling at his own image in the looking glass.
"You didn't have a choice, darling." Brigitte lay her brush on the dressing table, her golden brown eyes soft with compassion—and clouded by more than a tinge of worry. "We both knew Noelle would ask, eventually."
"No, we both didn't know that." Eric abandoned his task, running a hand through his hair. He met his wife's pointed look and nodded resignedly. "Fine, maybe we did. Maybe I just prayed it would go away."