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“Yes. Unlike you, Mr. Baricci, I’m not a liar. Nor am I a fraud.”
“Good. Then, since the earl will soon know of your visit, there’s no reason why I can’t communicate with you directly at Farrington Manor.”
Noelle went rigid. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not? Because your parents wouldn’t approve?”
“No. Because I wouldn’t approve.” Noelle shook her head. “I came here only to see you, Mr. Baricci—not to forge some nonexistent ties. Now, I’ve got to get back. …”
“To which earl—Farrington or Tremlett?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Where does Tremlett fit into all this? Did he accompany you here to meet me?”
“Yes. No.” Baricci’s questions, and his preoccupation, with Ashford Thornton were becoming increasingly more evident. And for some reason—one Noelle couldn’t quite fathom—she didn’t want any part in fostering that preoccupation.
“As I told you, I met Lord Tremlett on the railroad,” she reiterated. “He was assigned to my compartment. That, as well as his accompanying me to your gallery, were strictly chance occurrences.” Groping behind her, she found the door handle and twisted it open. “That’s all there is to it. As for Lord Tremlett’s purpose in coming here, you’re in a far better position to know the nature of his business with your gallery than I. Now I really must be going. Good day, Mr. Baricci. It’s been … interesting.” She turned and bolted.
Baricci watched her go, stroking his jaw thoughtfully. She hadn’t agreed to see him again. Then again, her refusal to do so had been far from adamant. Which, given his gift of verbal charm and Noelle’s obvious allegiance to family, left him more than sufficient latitude to change her mind.
Having reached that conclusion, Baricci retreated into his office, sinking into his chair and making a steeple with his fingers, calmly awaiting Williams’s imminent arrival.
He could hardly wait to hear the tenor of Tremlett’s interrogation this time.
“So you haven’t a clue who took the painting? Who might have taken it?” Ashford probed, lounging against the far wall of the gallery and regarding Williams with deceptive calm.
“Of course not. Why would I?” Williams stood in his habitual stance: back straight and sure, hands clasped tightly
behind him, answering Ashford’s questions with his customary show of haughtiness.
Beneath which lay a core of fear, one that was barely discernible to the average person.
Fortunately, Ashford was far from average.
“But you were aware the painting was stolen?” he pressed, jotting down some fictitious notes on his pad.
“Of course I was aware of it.” Williams’s gaze flickered—ever so briefly—over Ashford’s moving quill. “The entire art community knew within hours of the theft. We always do—even before the newspapers.”
“Really? And why is that?”
“We’re a small, insular group, my lord. Word travels quickly among us—far more quickly than the written word. And in this case, Moonlight in Florence is a renowned work of art. It’s only natural that word of its disappearance would be on everyone’s tongue. Why, it’s worth a small fortune.”
“Indeed,” Ashford concurred, idly scanning the random phrases he’d penned. “And a small fortune is what Viscount Norwood paid for it three months ago. In an auction. Right here at the Franco Gallery.” Ashford’s penetrating stare lifted, impaling Williams with its intensity. “You do recall that, don’t you, Williams?”
An unsettled blink. “Of course.”
“Good. Do you also recall how many others bid on that particular painting?”
Williams frowned. “Not offhand, no. But it was an open auction, so that information isn’t confidential. If you’d like, I could check our records and provide you with those names.”
“Do that. And while you’re checking, try to recall if any of those other bidders reacted badly when the auction didn’t go their way.”
“Badly, sir?”
“Yes, Williams—badly. Angry. Bitter. Spiteful. Any reaction that might suggest they’d consider doing something extreme—something like steal back what they felt was rightfully theirs.”
“I see.” Williams nodded sagely. “I’ll do my best to remember.”
