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“Really?” Tremlett removed his hat and surveyed the room with the same authoritative insolence with which he’d appraised the railroad. “I didn’t realize an appointment was necessary.”
The other man stiffened a bit. “It isn’t. Won’t you come in?” His cool gaze, behind the spectacles, swept curiously over Noelle and Grace.
“Ah.” Tremlett provided the introductions at once. “My lady, this is Williams, the curator of this gallery. Williams, may I present Lady Noelle Bromleigh and her lady’s maid.”
Noelle was surprised to see Williams start. “Lady Noelle Bromleigh,” he repeated, recovering himself as he said the words. Bowing deeply, he added, “Welcome to the Franco Gallery. Is this your first visit? I don’t recall having had the pleasure of seeing you here before.”
“It is.” Noelle was hardly listening to him. She was half-contemplating his odd reaction to her appearance at the gallery and half-planning how in the name of heaven she was going to subtly inquire about Baricci.
“Are you an admirer of works depicting figure subjects or of those with less concise expressions of color? We have both.”
For the first time, Noelle wished she had sat still long enough to learn painting, drawing, sketching—anything to do with creating visual images. As it was, the only experience she had with paints was the time when she’d been just shy of five years old. Bored by the governess who was teaching her while Brigitte recovered from Chloe’s birth, she’d slipped out of the schoolroom, taken the oil paints, and proceeded to decorate the sitting-room walls with bright streaks of blues, reds, and yellows.
Biting back laughter, she wondered if Williams would consider that to be an expression of color.
“I’m impressed by anyone who can create something beautiful on what was once a blank canvas,” she answered honestly. “I can’t really say what my favorite style is.”
“Why don’t you have a look around?” Williams suggested, a fine sheen of perspiration dotting his brow. “I need to step into the back room for a moment. One of our paintings is in the process of being framed for a customer. I’ll just ensure it’s been completed and then return to show you some of our exceptional works.” A quick glance at Tremlett. “At which time I’ll answer any questions you have as well, sir.”
“Good. Because I have many,” the earl confirmed.
“Of course.” Another half-bow. “I’ll be back momentarily.”
“Fine.” Noelle was eager for him to go. She needed time to browse, time to assess the people around her, time to appear … casual. Then, when Williams returned—assuming no one else had pointed out Baricci to her—she’d make some inquiries. Perhaps at that time she could also figure out why he seemed so unsettled around her.
Or was it Ashford Thornton who unnerved him?
She turned to the earl as Williams hurried off, studying his face as she sought her answer. “Do you have this effect on everyone?”
A slow smile. “What effect is that?”
Noelle flushed. “You know what I mean. That poor man looked as if he might swoon when he saw you. In fact, he was strained throughout your entire exchange.”
“Odd, I thought it was you who rendered him off-balance.”
“I?” Noelle frowned. “Why would my presence upset him? We’ve never even met.”
“You tell me.”
There was that fierce light in Tremlett’s eyes again—as if he were delving inside her, searching for something—and Noelle had the eerie sensation he could see down to her soul.
“My lady,” Grace interrupted, shifting her cumbersome weight from one foot to the other. “Might I suggest you get started with whatever it is you hope to accomplish? It’s nearly half after one, and we’d best leave enough time for a meal before returning to the station. We won’t be home until night, and by then you’ll be weak with hunger.”
Amusement curved Noelle’s lips. She knew precisely whose stomach Grace was concerned about: her own. “Very well, Grace. We’ll begin looking at some of the paintings. Who knows? I might find something perfect to give Papa along with that stunning tiepin.”
“Is that why you wanted to stop here?” Tremlett asked quietly. “For your father?”
The irony of the question obliterated Noelle’s smile. For her father? Lord, no. The man she intended to see was anything but that. Her sire, yes. But her father? Never. She had only one father: Eric Bromleigh.
That sent a resurgence of guilt coursing through her. Eric would be worried and furious if he knew her whereabouts right now. And no birthday gift, no matter how spectacular, would have the power to ease that anguish, nor would it compensate for the fact that she’d deceived him—however minimally—pursuing exactly the course of action he’d asked her not to. She only prayed he’d understand when she told him about it. And tell him she would—the minute the time was right.
“Lady Noelle?” Tremlett sounded concerned. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” With an internal shake, she recovered herself, tucking the self-recriminations away for later. “I was just thinking that Grace is right. I’d best get started if I want to catch the late afternoon train to Poole.”
“With the gifts for your father,” Tremlett prompted.
Noelle wet her lips. “Yes. With the gifts for my father.”
