Andrea Kane (46 page)

“Such is not the case.” Williams clasped his hands behind him, walking over to inspect the still life. “Of course we’ll do business with you—if, in fact, it’s business you’ve come to do.”

“You doubt that?”

“To be blunt, yes.”

“Fine. Then suppose I dispel your misgivings by showing you just how serious a buyer I am.” Ashford whipped out a thick pile of folded pound notes. “Better?”

Swallowing, Williams stared at the large sum, then at the still life that Ashford had resumed studying. “You’ve selected a fine piece of work,” he said cautiously. “What are you prepared to offer for it?”

“I’ll offer five hundred pounds.”

Williams started. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Five hundred pounds. Is that an acceptable price?”

“I think you know it’s far more than acceptable, Lord Tremlett. It’s outlandish. I’m sure Mr. Baricci would agree. In fact, I’m sure he’d wonder why you would offer such an excessive sum for a work, however splendid, painted by a relatively unknown artist.”

“Let’s just say I’m eager to win this particular lady’s affections—and to assuage whatever bad feelings the artist in question might harbor. Since we all know he’ll never have the lady, perhaps he’ll settle for a healthy sum of money instead—that is, if Baricci intends to turn a substantial percentage of the payment over to him. I’d hate to think he’d cheat his suppliers.”

“He wouldn’t.” Williams’s tone was icy, but convinced. “Very well, sir. Five hundred pounds it is, of which a healthy portion will go to Mr. Sardo. You can verify it with him yourself once the transaction is complete.”

“Good. Then we have a deal?”

“We do.” Despite his delight over the enormous sum he’d just procured, Williams wanted Ashford gone as quickly as possible. “This won’t require more than a few minutes. I’ll take down the still life, wrap it up for you, and prepare your receipt. You’ll be on your way in no time—”

“That’s not the painting I want.”

Silence. “Pardon me?”

Ashford veered about, stalked to the far wall and pointed at the abstract. “That’s the painting I had in mind.”

An icy stare. “Impossible.”

“Why? As I understand it, Mr. Sardo painted that work as well. Thus, it’s a different painting, but the same—to echo your phrase—relatively unknown artist. So isn’t five hundred pounds still considered to be a very generous offer? Ah. The painting is larger, more intricate. I can empathize with that.” Ashford gazed at the abstract, seemingly weighing his options. “Still, the lady has her heart set on this one. She adores the muted colors. I’ll tell you what. I’ll double the offer. One thousand pounds. How would that be?”

“Still impossible.”

“You’re so quick to refuse,” Ashford noted dryly. “Isn’t it customary to check with Mr. Baricci before rejecting such a lavish profit?”

“Not in this case.” Williams cleared his throat. “You see, that particular painting has already been sold.”

“Ah. A pity.” Ashford circled the painting, rubbing his chin in dismay. “Do you mind telling me what the buyer paid?”

“That’s confidential information, Lord Tremlett.”

“Of course it is. Very well. Please go to Mr. Baricci. Tell him I’ll triple his offer, and add to that my original five hundred pounds.” A tight smile. “I’m a very rich man, Williams. Knowing Baricci’s inherent greed, my guess is he’ll magically nullify the current sale once he hears what I’m willing to pay for it.”

“No, sir, he won’t. Mr. Baricci is a man of his word.”

Ashford had to choke back an ironic shout of laughter. “I see. That
is
a problem.” He snapped his fingers. “I have an excellent idea. Why don’t you give me the buyer’s name, and I’ll speak with him myself? That way we can work it out between us without involving Mr. Baricci. I’m sure this fellow, whoever he is, will appreciate my predicament. Lady Noelle really does have her heart set on this specific painting.”

“I can’t do that, Lord Tremlett. The buyer’s name is confidential, as well.”

“In that case,
you
contact him. I’ll put my offer in writing and show it to you so you know it’s genuine. Then I’ll wait while you address the envelope—in private. After which, we’ll send the messenger off together. What’s more, I’ll even pay Baricci a five-hundred pound fee if his mystery buyer accepts my written offer. How would that be?”

Beads of sweat broke out on Williams’s brow. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? It’s done every day. It’s called business. Good business.”

“Mr. Baricci would never approve. It just wouldn’t be ethical.”

“Ethical—an ironic trait to ascribe to Baricci.” Ashford rubbed his palms together, his last bit of ammunition now in place. “I’ll tell you what, Williams. Now you may give your employer a different message for me. Tell him he’s not going to win, not this time. Nor is he going to absolve himself by implicating Sardo—which I’m sure was his intention should I put two and two together.”

With a taunting expression, Ashford ran his thumb over the edge of the abstract, then turned away. “You see, I’m not going to play into Baricci’s hands. Nor am I going to yank off that veneer and reveal the Rembrandt we both know is underneath. What I am going to do, now that I’ve determined that my lavish offer is acceptable for one of Sardo’s paintings but not another, is to return tomorrow morning—with the police. And Mr. Baricci had better have his records available; records that demonstrate how ethical he truly is, that he’s never reneged on an offer after receiving a better one.

“He’d also better have receipts—the best damned receipts known to mankind—for this abstract. Not only for the purchase from Sardo, but for the sale of the abstract to whomever bought it. He’d better have paid Sardo a fair price and asked a fittingly higher price of this mystery buyer. Because if anything is out of order, it’s Baricci’s head I’ll have on a platter when I uncover that Rembrandt, not Sardo’s. Tell that to your employer.”

Watching the color drain from the curator’s face, Ashford tipped his hat, strode towards the door. “Good day, Williams. See you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Baricci swore violently, lashing his arm across his desk and sending the contents flying in a rare fit of temper.

“Dammit,” he ground out, vaulting to his feet and pacing about the office. “Damn that cunning, relentless bastard. He’s like a deadly plague I can’t escape.”

“But he’s right, sir.” Williams was still mopping his brow, as he had been since he burst into Baricci’s office a quarter hour ago. “If the police ask for more intricate records than we’ve already provided them, we’re doomed.”

With somber intensity, Baricci weighed his options. “A receipt on the sale of Sardo’s abstract,” he muttered. “We’ll have to fabricate one. But who to name as the buyer …” He made a harsh, trapped sound. “There’s not enough time to pressure one of my contacts into cooperating. Besides, I’m not sure any of them would, even if I threatened to expose their illicit dealings. This investigation involves a lot more than fraudulent purchases. It involves an exorbitant theft—and worse, murder. No, Williams. We can’t possibly manage that by morning.”

“Then why don’t we remove the Rembrandt from behind the abstract?” Williams managed, grasping at straws. “We could do it immediately, hide the painting somewhere else.”

“Like where?” Baricci snapped. “In the entranceway door? Or maybe on my desk, with a confession propped alongside it.” He gave a hard shake of his head. “No, Williams. In order to successfully remove the Rembrandt, we’d need another painting behind which to conceal it. Something that’s at least three feet by four feet. We have nothing of that size in the gallery. Nor can we pressure Sardo into painting such a large canvas, not overnight.”

“But …”

Decisively, Baricci waved away the implausible notion, becoming increasingly aware of the fact that there was only one option open to them, one sole chance of escape. “Contact the shipping company,” he instructed Williams. “We’re moving the Rembrandt tonight.”

‘Tonight?” His curator jerked around to face him. “But the ship isn’t leaving for India until next week.”

“Then they’ll just have to store it until that time. I don’t give a damn where—the warehouse, the ship itself—wherever is the least likely place to be searched. We’ll pay them whatever they ask. We have no choice.”

Williams shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket, disconcerted by the avenue they were being forced to take, yet ready to do anything that would prevent Tremlett from unmasking their scheme. “All right. I’ll go down to the docks myself and make the arrangements.”

“Good. Tell them we’ll deliver the painting between seven and nine o’clock tonight—after it’s dark, but when there’s still enough activity going on for us to come and go, and make our transfer, unnoticed.” With each word he spoke, Baricci’s conviction strengthened. “This plan is going to work, Williams,” he declared. Malevolent anticipation glittered in his eyes. “And, despite the apprehension and upset that accompanied its formulation, I’m going to enjoy its outcome quite thoroughly.”

“I’m not following you, sir.”

A slow, sardonic smile curved Baricci’s lips. “Just picture Tremlett’s face tomorrow morning when the smug son of a bitch pries away that abstract and finds nothing behind it.” A bitter laugh. “He’ll be discredited, ruined. Yes, Williams, to render Tremlett a laughingstock, to bring him to his knees—that’s worth every drop of inconvenience it’ll cost us. Every wretched drop.”

The noontime hour came and slipped away.

In her sitting room, Noelle finished the final draft of her upcoming wedding announcement and smiled, wondering when Ashford was going to stop by so she could show it to him.

And so he could tell her the results of his meeting with Williams.

Her smiled faded as she contemplated the plan her husband-to-be was putting into play. She prayed to God it worked—and that it went as smoothly as Ashford believed it would.

It would. It had to. Noelle refused to let herself think anything else.

Hopping off the chair, she crossed over and wandered into the hall, intent on seeking out her mother, eliciting her final approval on the announcement. Any minute, their modiste was due, ready to begin fashioning Noelle’s wedding dress, as well as the gowns Brigitte and Chloe would be wearing for this special occasion.

Noelle’s heart pounded at the very thought of her wedding. Six weeks—an absurdly short time away. No one in their right mind could plan a wedding in so brief a time, especially given that these first few days were cloaked in secrecy so that Ashford’s family could be told of their plans before news leaked out to the immediate world. No, no one could possibly manage this monumental task—no one except Brigitte Bromleigh.

In just a few short days, Brigitte had already organized a tentative guest list, taking into account whatever names Ashford could provide off the top of his head for his side of the family, friends and relatives combined. She’d then paid a discreet visit to the printer, where she’d selected elegant invitations, the quantity of which would be determined within a week’s time. After that, she’d stopped by her modiste’s shop and arranged for Madame Rousseau to come to their Town house this afternoon.

So the initial steps were in place.

But Noelle’s favorite step thus far had taken place just this morning when, directly after breakfast, her entire family had driven to the village to see her beloved great-grandfather, the man who’d gifted her with her very first puppet show—and all the ones she’d savored on each successive birthday—and who had taught her so much about sharing one’s joys with others.

This was one joy she couldn’t wait to share with him.

He’d opened his arms wide, hugging her to him and joyously blessing her upcoming union to the son of such fine, caring people. His lips had quivered when she’d asked him to perform the ceremony, accepted with tears in his eyes.

Noelle had deferred choosing a location for the wedding, because she had a strong suspicion that once Ashford’s family was told, they would want the ceremony to take place in the grand chapel at Markham. In truth, it would thrill her to become Ashford’s bride in the home where he’d been raised and loved; where he’d grown to be the extraordinary man he was. What more fitting place for her great-grandfather to pronounce the magical words that would make her Mrs. Ashford Thornton.

Humming under her breath, Noelle glanced about the hall and, seeing it was deserted, headed towards the stairs.

She was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

Hastily, she veered about, hurrying toward the entrance-way. It was either Ashford or Madame Rousseau. Either way, she was too excited to await Bladewell’s announcement.

She was just behind the butler when he opened the door.

“Mr. Sardo,” she heard him state in a clear, distinct voice that told Noelle he was acutely aware of her presence and was, therefore, alerting her to her visitor’s identity.

Unfortunately, it was too late. André had already spied her and was watching her expectantly.

What was he doing here? Noelle wondered in surprise. Did he intend to berate her for leaving the gallery yesterday with Ashford?

Promise me you won’t go anywhere near André Sardo.

Ashford’s request, the promise she’d given him, screamed into the forefront of her mind.

If he calls on you, feign illness, do whatever you have to. Just send him away as quickly as possible. No heroics, Noelle. Please.

Slowly, she sucked in her breath. She would do as Ashford asked. But feigning illness was no longer an option, not when André was staring directly at her, seeing she was in the very bloom of good health. No, she’d have to deal with him, find some way to appease him and then get rid of him. Of course, she had no idea how belligerent he intended to get. Then again, if need be, she’d ask Bladewell to toss him out. Farrington’s loyal butler had been apprised, both by her father and by Ashford, of her desire to avoid Monsieur Sardo and would not abandon his post until the gentleman in question had taken his leave.

“Hello, André,” Noelle began carefully, forcing a smile to her lips. “I wasn’t expecting you.”