Andrea Kane (24 page)

“I see your point.” Eric stared down at Brigitte, visualizing their elder daughter and coming to the inevitable, the only, decision he could. “Fine. We’ll do it Tremlett’s way.”

“It’s Noelle’s way, too,” Brigitte reminded her husband gently. “She’s head over heels in love with the earl
and,
knowing her, equally as determined to help him apprehend Baricci.”

“That’s our Noelle—ever impetuous, ever unyielding.” A reminiscent light flickered in Eric’s eyes as he reflected on the past fourteen years of antics. “I doubt Tremlett knows what he’s up against.”

“He’s about to learn.”

THE TINY ART STUDIO
was tucked away in a remote London side street. Given that night had already fallen, the room’s interior was cast in shadows, its only light provided by a single gas lamp.

It was alongside that lamp that André stood, assessing the painting in his hands, his practiced eye sweeping the bold strokes and muted colors of the abstract images.

His latest work was good. Very good. Too good to waste as a mere false veneer, even if that veneer was being used to conceal a Rembrandt.

He leaned against his studio wall, angling the canvas closer to the light, pride and frustration surging inside him.

True, Baricci would compensate him for his work with a token sum—a bonus, to coin the gallery owner’s term. But whatever
bonus
Baricci offered would be paltry compared to the painting’s actual worth. Some day, some bloody day, the world would recognize André Sardo for the genius he was. But until that day came, he was at Baricci’s mercy. And not only because the gallery owner paid his bills—although without Baricci’s money, he would surely starve. But because his freedom and future were in the older man’s manipulative hands.

With a perturbed sigh, André lowered the painting and scrutinized the dilapidated studio which also served as his home. The walls were peeling, the wood rotting in places, and the few beams that anchored the ceiling looked as if they might collapse at any moment. The only saving grace of this hovel was the sweeping window that spanned the full length of the southern wall, which—from the instant dawn tinged the sky—allowed in every drop of sunlight, splashing his work area with natural light.

Otherwise, the place was nothing to boast about, containing only a cot, a broken-down chest, and a few shelves for food.

And, of course, his paintings.

Scattered about the studio, hanging in random spots on the peeling walls, were dozens of his masterpieces; the only beauty in an otherwise barren setting. There were a variety of styles—all his; everything ranging from landscapes to still lifes to abstract expressions of color. But André’s favorite of them all was exhibited in a cluster of paintings, sequestered away in a private alcove in the studio’s far corner.

His portraits.

Framed and hanging side by side, they were the true evidence of his genius, a tribute to all the unique subjects he’d sketched over the years—not for them, but for himself—each work a story unto itself.

Ah, the tales these canvases could tell.

With a self-satisfied smile, André approached the alcove slowly, reverently, as one would approach a shrine. He touched a fingertip to each portrait, reveling in their vivid lines and exquisite detail, the expressions of emotion on his subjects’ faces, the brilliant color of their eyes. If only the world could see these masterpieces, understand the passion with which they’d been created.

That, of course, was impossible.

Such a waste, André thought ruefully. So unfortunate that treasures such as these must remain unseen, while lesser talent was paraded before admiring eyes, commanding huge sums of money.

That reminded him of the task at hand, and reluctantly André turned away from his prized creations. He paused only to scoop up his coat and bestow a final glance upon the painting he was about to deliver to Baricci. As a rule, he framed his own work, using his customary unadorned walnut frame so as not to detract from the power of the art itself. But in special cases such as this, he left the framing to Williams, who knew precisely what had to be done.

Without further deliberation, André tucked the painting beneath his arm, extinguished the light, and left his studio, carefully locking the door in his wake.

There was no worry that the paints might smear, he mused as he made his way through the back roads leading to London’s more fashionable West End. The canvas had been dry for two days now. That’s how long he’d stalled before making an appearance at the Franco Gallery. By now, Baricci’s police interrogation—however intensive it was—should be over. It was safe to pay him a visit.

Idly, André wondered if Baricci had been able to extricate himself from this one, even with that glib tongue of his. Theft was one thing, murder quite another.

Well, soon enough he’d have his answer.

Intentionally avoiding Regent Street, André slipped through an alley and rounded the corner leading to the quiet side street that was his destination. Given the lateness of the hour, all the shops had been locked up for the night, their owners having hurried home to warm the winter chill from their bones. It looked to André as if the entire block was deserted. Still, he moved along cautiously, reserving judgment for when he caught site of the gallery.

Sure enough, it was quiet—no police, no customers.

He went around back and knocked quietly on the gallery’s rear door—twice, then twice again.

A minute later the lock turned and Williams peered out.

“Well, it’s about time,” he muttered, opening the door to admit Sardo. “We were expecting you days ago.”

“Really?” André stalked by, heading directly towards Baricci’s office. “Under the circumstances, I should think you’d understand my staying away, even applaud my decision to do so.”

Williams scowled. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” André paused outside Baricci’s door. “He’s alone?” Receiving Williams’s nod, he rapped sharply.

“Who is it?” Baricci called, his tone muffled.

“Sardo. I brought the painting.”

“Finally. Come in.”

André complied, maneuvering the painting into the office, then shutting the door behind him. He glanced at Baricci, who was nursing a drink at his desk, and his brows lifted with interest as he took in his employer’s drawn expression.

“You look haggard, Franco. Were the police brutal?”

Baricci raised his head, regarded André through wary eyes. “What makes you think the police have been here?”

“Haven’t they?”

“No.”

With a quiet thud, André lowered the painting to the floor, propped it against the wall. “You’re telling me no one’s questioned you about Emily Mannering’s death?” he asked in astonishment.

A steely stare. “I repeat, why would you think they might?”

André blinked. “Because you were lovers. Because you were with her the night she was killed. Because you were probably the last person to see her alive—and the first person to see her dead. Are those reasons enough for you?”

Slowly, Baricci sipped at the contents of his snifter. “You’re implying I killed her. I didn’t.”

“No?” One dark brow rose in disbelief. “Odd that she should die the very night you robbed her home—or are you telling me you don’t have the Rembrandt?”

“I have it. But Emily was alive when I left her just before dawn. Although she was understandably upset, given she’d just discovered the painting was missing.”

“Perhaps a bit
too
upset?” André inquired. “More so than you anticipated? Tell me, Franco, did she see you take the painting? Is that what caused you to panic?”

With a smoothly controlled motion, Baricci lowered his goblet. “I did
not
panic. Nor did Emily see me take the Rembrandt. She had no idea who was responsible for the theft. She was also very much alive—and on the verge of summoning the police—when I took my leave.” An icy pause. “Further, I don’t owe you any explanation.”

“True.” André contemplated Baricci’s words with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “Let me ask you this: did anyone see you leave the Mannering home?”

“Other than a few stray drunks, no. On the other hand, no one saw me arrive either. In fact, no one knew I was there.”

“Other than me,” André supplied in a silky tone, “
I
knew you were there, Franco. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Baricci rose ominously to his feet, shards of ice glinting in his eyes. “Is that some sort of threat, André? Because if it is, I’d reconsider. Should the police learn of my involvement with Emily—which might very well happen anyway, since discretion doesn’t ensure secrecy—I’d simply be labeled a lecher, something I’ve been labeled dozens of times in the past. There’s no proof connecting me to Emily’s death, only to her bed. If you should try to steer the authorities in my direction, however, I won’t hesitate to offer them some very damning proof of my own—for an entirely different crime and with an entirely different suspect. That choice, my friend, is yours.”

“No threats are necessary, not on either of our parts,” André assured him hastily, feeling a few beads of perspiration break out on his forehead. He’d overplayed his hand. Taunting Baricci had been a foolish move, one that could cost him dearly—and not only because Baricci paid his bills, but because he controlled his destiny.

What’s more, the man was right. André’s evidence was circumstantial. Baricci’s was damning.

It was time to smooth things over.

“I had no intentions of trying to implicate you, Franco,” he soothed. “Just the opposite, in fact. I purposely stayed away these past few days to give you time to resolve things, to put your affairs in order. I’m delighted to learn that my caution was unnecessary.” Dragging a sleeve across his brow, André nourished the painting. “I’m also delighted to deliver this. I think you’ll find it more than large enough to conceal the Rembrandt.”

“Excellent.” Baricci’s polished smile was back in place. He strolled over, lifting the canvas and appraising it not as an art connoisseur but as a pleased businessman who had accomplished his goal. “This will do very nicely. Fine work, André. Late in its arrival, but fine, nonetheless.”

“And my payment?”

Baricci’s head came up. “Have you heard from Noelle yet?”

“No, but I will. She and the Bromleighs have only been back at Farrington a few days.” André frowned. “Is that your way of saying I won’t get paid until I do?”

“To some degree—yes.” Baricci pursed his lips, ostensibly considering his options. “Still, I’m not an unreasonable man. So what I’ll do is to give you a small installment now. A more substantial payment will follow your first sitting with my daughter.” He went to his desk, extracted a few pound notes. “Why don’t you contact her?” he suggested, offering the bills to André. “It might speed along the process—and the remuneration.”

André felt a surge of irritation at this unexpected setback—a surge he purposefully combated by conjuring up an image of Noelle Bromleigh: her vivid beauty, her fire. True, he needed his money—now rather than later—but the steps he’d have to take in order to earn that money would make it well worth the wait.

That bit of rationalization did the trick, and with a flourish André plucked the money from Baricci’s hand. “Fine. I’ll send a note to Farrington first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Baricci refilled his snifter, brought it to his lips. “Let me know when you receive a reply.”

The breakfast dishes were still being cleared away when, for the third time in as many days, Noelle knocked on her father’s study door.

“Yes, Noelle.” Eric didn’t need to ask who it was. “Come in.”

She pushed open the door and stepped inside, going directly to Eric’s desk and gripping its polished edge. “Papa, when are you going to tell me what was said in the duke’s study? We’ve been home for three days, and you haven’t revealed a word about your conversation with Ashford, despite my repeated efforts to pry the information from you.”

Eric leaned back in his chair and regarded his daughter thoughtfully. “What makes you think something significant was said? His Grace told you why Lord Tremlett needed to see us.”

“And I didn’t believe the duke then any more than I believe you now,” Noelle replied frankly. “Really, Papa, I mean you no disrespect, but I’m not stupid. You and Mama were closeted in that study with Ashford for nearly an hour. By the time you returned, the ball was almost over. Ashford and I shared just one dance before it was time to say good night. And the next morning, when he saw us off, he behaved so oddly.”

“He kissed your hand. That doesn’t strike me as odd.”

“It wasn’t the kiss. It was the pointed way he looked at you while he was telling me he’d be seeing me very soon. As if the two of you shared some secret understanding. You, in turn, were pensive throughout our entire trip home and have been positively somber since then.

“Let the truth be known, your behavior has been even more peculiar than Ashford’s was. You evade all my questions—and not because you’re too busy for me. On the contrary, you’ve scarcely let me out of your sight all week, watching me like a hawk who expects his prey to bolt. And Mama hasn’t been much better. She lingers at my bedside each night, making inconsequential small talk that I know means as little to her as it does to me. Yet when I try to bring the subject around to something meaningful—such as Ashford and his puzzling behavior—she swiftly reassures me that all will be well, then scoots out the door like a rabbit evading a hunter. The only person acting normally around here is Chloe—and that’s because she’s as baffled as I am. None of this is a coincidence, Papa. What on earth is going on?”

Despite his air of gravity, a corner of Eric’s mouth lifted. “Nothing as dire as the plot you’ve conjured up in that fanciful head of yours. It’s true your mother and I have a great deal on our minds, and that much of what we’re anxious about concerns you. And, yes, it all stems from the conversation we had with Lord Tremlett the other night. As for our evasiveness, the only reason for it is that the earl specifically asked to be the one to relay to you the details of what we discussed. Evidently, he expects you to be somewhat piqued when you learn what he divulged to us.” A meaningful stare. “Things, incidentally, that we should have heard from you.”