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“Maybe I should talk to Baricci.” Ashford’s gaze strayed—for the tenth time in as many minutes—toward the corner of the gallery through which Noelle Bromleigh had disappeared. What the hell was going on in that office?
“No, my lord.” Williams’s refusal was instantaneous and absolute. “Mr. Baricci is in a meeting right now. He’s authorized me to answer your questions, provide you with whatever information we have that might help in your investigation.”
“In a meeting … with Lady Noelle?”
Silence.
“Why would Baricci be interested in meeting with a young woman who couldn’t differentiate a novice’s canvas from a Rembrandt?”
“I don’t discuss Mr. Baricci’s alliances,” Williams replied curtly. “Not with him, and certainly not with strangers.”
“Alliances.” A muscle flexed in Ashford’s jaw. “Very well, Williams. If I need to speak with Baricci, I’ll return another time. For now, let’s see if your assistance is sufficient. Fetch your records. I’ll wait here.”
“Yes, you will, my lord,” Williams concurred, the look he shot Ashford as knowing as it was explicit. “I wouldn’t suggest surprising Mr. Baricci or even venturing toward his office. You’d be discovered and removed.”
A corner of Ashford’s mouth lifted. “You know me better than that, Williams. I don’t prowl; I stride. If I wanted to see Baricci, I’d demand to do so. I wouldn’t slink about his office like a common thief. So save your threats. I’ll be in this very spot when you return.”
He watched Williams walk off toward the rear, not quickly enough to look intimidated, not slowly enough to look reluctant. Just steadily, calmly, as if he had nothing to hide.
Ashford knew better. But he also knew that it was too early in his own investigation to push, too soon to reveal his hand. All that would come later. Later—after he had all the evidence he needed to lock Baricci up for good.
The gallery was quiet, only Lady Noelle’s overbearing maid and a few stray patrons strolling about. Once again Ashford’s attention shifted toward Baricci’s office. Damn. What words were being exchanged behind that closed door? What was Noelle Bromleigh’s involvement in all this? How much did she know about Baricci’s activities? Given her relationship to the scoundrel, anything was possible.
One thing was for certain—that private little meeting taking place was anything but a coincidence.
It was up to him to find out what had prompted it. But how? What was the best way to gain the details he sought?
The answer was glaringly obvious. Weighing Baricci’s practiced facade against Noelle’s youthful candor was like comparing an expert marksman to a first-time shooter. There was no doubt as to who would be more likely to miss his target.
On that insight, Ashford made a decision. Interrogating Baricci would have to wait until later. For now, his tactics would have to diverge a bit. He’d finish his conversation with Williams, use whatever information he derived from the gallery records, and wait for Lady Noelle to emerge from her meeting.
Then he’d insist on escorting her back to the railroad station.
It was ten minutes later, and Williams had just provided the names of the three men who had bid against the viscount for Moonlight in Florence, when Ashford spied Lady Noelle hastening back into the gallery. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth was set in a tight, worried line, and her expression was anxious as she scanned the room, ostensibly searching for her lady’s maid.
For the second time that day, Ashford was startled by the impact her appearance had on him.
Lady Noelle Bromleigh was a natural beauty, yes, but he’d seen many beautiful women in his life. This one, however, was different—more than just beautiful. She was a profusion of color and fervor, an exhilarating contrast of boldness and delicacy.
Her cloud of raven-black hair was nearly as vivid as the brilliant blue of her eyes—eyes that glittered with the jewel-like intensity of sapphires. Her features were fine, exquisitely fragile, yet behind those fine features and diminutive height burned a fiery spirit, a quick tongue, and a keen mind destined to challenge all those she met. And beneath her charming honesty and innocence hovered an exciting, as yet untapped passion Ashford could actually feel—the combination of which he found uniquely and overwhelmingly arousing.
As he watched, she spied her maid, and relief flooded her expressive face.
“Grace.” She gathered up her skirts and hurried over. “My business here is finished. Let’s start back to the station.”
The maid scowled. “You were in that office, alone with that man, for twenty minutes. What on earth … ?”
“Grace, please.” Clearly, Lady Noelle was at her wit’s end. “Let’s just say I made the inquiries I needed to. There’s nothing here for me. Let’s go home.”
Ashford slipped his pad and quill into his pocket and strode over, catching Lady Noelle’s arm. “Are you all right?”
She started, her head whipping about. On the verge of yanking herself free, she saw who addressed her and visibly relaxed. “Oh. Lord Tremlett. Forgive me. I didn’t realize it was you. I …” Her voice quavered as she battled against whatever emotion was claiming her.
“You’re upset.”
Her small jaw set. “I must go home.”
“I’ll take you to the station,” Ashford said swiftly.
