Andrea Kane (29 page)

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.

Ashford’s eyes snapped open and he stared, unseeing, at the compartment ceiling. He’d all but interrogated the woman into tears and had succeeded only in alienating her more. Leaving had seemed the best option, for now. But he had to return with a fresh and, hopefully, successful approach. Because other than Mary, he hadn’t found a single link to Baricci.

So, professionally, Ashford’s frustration stemmed from his lack of headway in this investigation.

Personally, it stemmed from his internal conflict over Noelle—a conflict that could only be resolved by relegating the different components of his life to their appropriate places. Or by eliminating some of those components.

But which? And how?

He’d intended to use these past three days to decide. What he hadn’t expected was to be so caught up in his feelings that he couldn’t think straight. Instead, he’d spent three sleepless nights—nights filled with memories of Noelle’s taste, Noelle’s laughter, Noelle’s fiery sensuality—trying to uncloud his reasoning and make some headway in resolving his dilemma.

Time was running out.

Another week had passed since he’d vowed to Eric and Brigitte Bromleigh that, if for whatever reason he was wrong, if Noelle didn’t care for him the way he believed or if he was incapable of resolving things so he could make her happy, give her everything she wanted and needed, he would step aside and let them introduce her to the fashionable world as intended.

Well, that choice was unthinkable.
That
much he knew.

To begin with, Noelle
did
care for him. She more than cared for him. It was there in her eyes when she gazed at him, in her smile when she sparred with him, even in her fervor when she argued with him. And when she was in his arms, when she expressed the budding passion inside her—God, her body told him everything he needed to know.

As for his own feelings, he acknowledged them here and now, without permitting any of his concerns or life’s complications to color their truth: he was in love with Noelle, crazily and unimaginably in love with her. Their relationship had struck him with all the impact of a boulder—crushing and unexpected. Yet somehow he’d known, at least peripherally, from the onset, that this was far more than attraction, that it’s culmination was as permanent as it was inescapable.

Inescapable, hell. The truth was, he didn’t want to escape it, nor did he have any problems acknowledging it. That acknowledgment had been hovering inside him for days now, perhaps weeks, waiting only to be brought to light. As for assigning the words, he had no trouble with that either. He came from a family whose foundation was rooted in love, from parents who’d want nothing less for their son—for all their children—than what they’d found in each other.

Loving Noelle, welcoming her love for him—that was the easy part. So was recognizing how right this was, how permanent. Despite his long years as a bachelor, or perhaps because of them, Ashford knew in his heart that he and Noelle were meant to be. No, that didn’t concern him either.

His big concern—his only concern—was: Could he simplify his life enough to offer that life to her? Not just a portion of himself, but all of him? With Noelle there could be nothing short of totally and forever. The forever was easy. But the totally was entirely different, something he’d never contemplated and wasn’t sure he had the right to.

He had a responsibility, one he’d assumed years ago. It wasn’t something he could explain, nor something his father had ever asked of him. Still, it was his and his alone.

He’d carried on the legacy of the Tin Cup Bandit.

Oh, he knew his parents had never stopped fulfilling the bandit’s role, leaving tin cups filled with money on the doorsteps of needy schools, churches, and orphanages. But their more exciting role—robbing the ignoble rich, righting the world’s injustices—that had been relinquished years ago.

It had made him proud to carry on his father’s burning cause, a cause that Ashford had adapted to fit into the patterns of his own life, his own work. The world had never guessed there was a new Tin Cup Bandit, one who practiced the same unorthodox methods as his predecessor. Nor did they ever need to know. As far as they were concerned, the bandit was a legend. He’d continued to live in their hearts and minds, never aging, never breaking stride, only changing courses, in that he now gave from some miraculous, bottomless cache of money, rather than seizing funds from those whose wealth was born in cruelty and corruption.

The image was intact, precisely as Ashford wanted it.

Thus, no one linked the disappearance of valuable art paintings to anything other than a clever burglar—no one, of course, but Baricci, who knew he had an expert and mysterious competitor out there somewhere. To everyone else, it was assumed that whoever was stealing the masterpieces was the same thief each time, perhaps several thieves over the past decade or so. But Ashford knew better. And to him, outwitting ruthless noblemen by breaking into their homes, robbing them of their treasures, and offering them to those less fortunate was a tribute to his father’s childhood, his struggle for survival, his commitment to those who were needy and impoverished. By doing things this way, Ashford felt he was creating an equity that couldn’t be established with mere charitable donations.

He was honest enough to admit that his cause was not completely altruistic. He was every bit his father’s son. The excitement, the exhilaration of planning and executing his thefts—all while retaining his anonymity—ignited his blood as it had Pierce’s. And with Baricci in the picture, as he had been for a few years now, the game had taken on a new dimension, giving Ashford a new determination to best the enemy.

But Baricci would soon be caught, and that chapter of the adventure would be over. So after that—what?

Could Ashford give up that part of his life for Noelle? Could he keep her safe if he continued? Could he separate her from it, somehow manage to have it. all, do it all?

The last was a virtual impossibility. Hiding things from Noelle would be as easy as converting that cat of hers into a sedate lap pet.

So what the hell was he to do? Even if he were willing to bid good-bye to the heart-pounding excitement, the thrill of outwitting those who deserved no less, could he sever that facet of his life? Was it right or fair to place his own needs ahead of others’?

Damn. He couldn’t think straight. His questions kept going around in circles, each feeding into the next, none inspiring any solutions. His only concrete thought was that he loved Noelle and he couldn’t let her go, selfish or not. He needed her, he wanted her, and hell and damnation, he intended to have her.

Which led back to a quandary that, clearly, he was ill-equipped to surmount alone.

Abruptly, his head came up and he leaned forward in his seat. All right, so he couldn’t surmount it alone, but with the help of someone who’d been there …

Some of the tension eased from Ashford’s shoulders as he made his plans, more and more certain of what he had to do.

Immediately following the next sitting with Sardo, he’d ride to Northampton and speak with his father.

It was late afternoon by the time Ashe’s carriage rounded the drive at Farrington Manor.

He realized it was probably too late in the day for callers, but he needed to see Noelle—partly to reassure himself that all was well, partly because he’d missed her like hell.

He knew it wasn’t the time for grand declarations of love. He hadn’t the right yet—not with the terms of their future still undefined and their opportunity for privacy unlikely.

In truth, Ashford mused as he alighted from his carriage, Eric Bromleigh would be less than pleased by the improper timing of this visit. Not only was the hour late, but the visit was unplanned. Ashford wasn’t expected until tomorrow morning, right before Sardo arrived to conduct Noelle’s portrait sitting.

On the other hand, Ashford countered silently to himself, since his frank discussion with the Bromleighs on the night of the ball, Eric’s disapproval had mellowed into grudging acceptance. So perhaps he wouldn’t be too irritated by the impromptu visit.

There was only one way to find out.

Bladewell opened the door at Ashford’s knock, peering outside to see the identity of their caller. His reaction, however, was the utter antithesis of what Ashford had expected. Rather than put off, the butler looked utterly relieved to see who was on their doorstep.

“Lord Tremlett. Please come in.” He moved aside, gesturing for Ashford to enter. “The earl has been trying to locate you all day.”

In the process of crossing the threshold, Ashford stiffened. “Why? Is something wrong?”

An unconvincing pause. “Not to my knowledge, sir. All I know is that Lord Farrington is extremely anxious to see you. He’s sent messages to your Southampton home, your London Town house, even to your parents’ estate.”

Now Ashford was really becoming alarmed. “Where is the earl now?”

“In his study,” Bladewell replied. “I’ll advise him you’re here.”

“Wait.” Ashford stayed him with his hand. “Where is the rest of the family?”

The butler inclined his head in surprise. “Why, I believe the countess is in the study with her husband, sir. And Lady Chloe is hovering outside the blue salon, awaiting Lady Noelle’s emergence.”

Ashford wanted desperately to ask more questions, but he knew that to do so would be unproductive, not to mention totally unfair to Bladewell. The wisest course of action would be to let the poor butler announce his arrival to Lord Farrington. Then he could get the answers he sought directly from Eric.

But one thing was for sure: something wasn’t right.

He was more convinced than ever when, mere seconds after Bladewell disappeared into the study, Eric himself strode out, stalking past the butler to reach Ashford’s side, his expression taut with worry. “Where have you been?”

“I wasn’t due until tomorrow.” Ashford’s eyes narrowed. “What’s happened?”

Eric glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “Come with me. It’s probably best you aren’t seen.”

“Seen? By whom?”