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All four men had retreated immediately to the rear.
Just before he'd disappeared from view, Ashford had glanced their way again, this time directing h
is gaze at Grace. In response to his meaningful look, the lady's maid had drawn her stout body up to military stance, nodding her comprehension that, as planned, she would alert Ashford to the slightest impropriety on the part of André Sardo.
Noelle had bitten her lip to keep from smiling, still amazed by the fact that Ashford had managed to win Grace over so completely—a feat that, until now, only Eric Bromleigh could boast having accomplished. Then again, she supposed she should have expected it, given Ashford's incredible charm. Grace had begun succumbing from the onset, since that first day on the train when Ashford had alluded that she was a lady. And the die had been cast yesterday when, before leaving their Town house, Ashford had pulled Grace aside and personally shared with her—Lady Noelle's treasured lady's maid—the news of their betrothal. And then, to add the final, definitive touch, Ashford had entrusted Grace with the critical role of being not only Lady Noelle's chaperon but her protector during this all-important jaunt to the gallery.
From that moment on, Grace was putty in Ashford's hands.
She was also taking her role quite seriously. She'd all but appended herself to Noelle's side, her ample bosom acting as a formidable partition between Noelle and André—something André was finding clearly distasteful. Noelle, on the other hand, was not. In fact, given André's frequent, seductive glances and ardent innuendos, she was relieved to have something tangible to ensure he kept his distance. She was jittery enough about what might be unfolding in Baricci's office without having to stop and peel André off of her every five minutes. So, fortunately for her, Grace's bosom was rendering that job unnecessary.
"…is mine, as well."
Noelle started, realizing that André had just said something he considered to be profoundly important and was awaiting her reply.
"Is it really?" she tried, hoping it was the proper response, given that all she'd heard of his statement were the final four words.
The heavens were smiling upon her, because André beamed, obviously delighted by her enthusiasm. "Yes. Would you like to see it more closely?"
"Of course." Gripping the folds of her mantle, Noelle steeled herself for the job she was here to do. She'd have to squelch her curiosity about whatever Baricci was or was not revealing inside his office. Ashford's goal was explicit: a direct confrontation to get at the truth about Franco Baricci. Her goal was equally defined, if less direct. She had to use the backdoor approach to find that truth. And the vehicle through which she had to do so was André Sardo.
"Come." André extended his arm to her, guided her over to a meticulously authentic, detailed depiction of a flower arrangement.
"That's lovely, André," she said with both surprise and sincerity. "I had no idea you painted still lifes as well."
His brown eyes warmed. "Chérie, there is nothing I cannot paint—and paint better than any of my competitors."
"I don't doubt that for a minute." Shelving the new, unexpected knowledge that André's talents ran far deeper than she'd originally realized, Noelle saw the opportunity that had just been handed to her, seized it with both hands.
Looking somewhat perplexed, she gazed about the gallery, wrinkling up her nose in concentration as she scanned the dozen and a half paintings with which she was unfamiliar. "I can't imagine anyone else's talent coming close to yours. Although, if I must be honest, I haven't actually seen anything here that was painted by one of your competitors."
Abruptly, she found what she sought—or rather, she hoped she did. The problem was that the painting in question was only partially visible, tucked away on the far wall. Not to mention that she was so disgustingly ignorant in the field of art that she couldn't rely upon her own judgments. Nevertheless, the haunting abstract whose sweeping lines and muted tones were incredibly compelling seemed—even to a novice such as herself—to depict a style that was unquestionably the opposite of André's.
It was time to find out whose style it was; to learn the name of at least one other artist employed by Baricci.
Offhandedly, she pointed. "For example, who painted that?"
André followed her gaze, and a tight smile curved his lips. "Why?" he asked in a peculiar tone. "Am Ito assume you admire that particular work?"
Warning bells resounded in Noelle's head. She'd just complimented something created by another artist. And André was not going to take well to that. Not well at all.
"André, I didn't say I admired it. Nor am I qualified to gauge whether or not it's exceptional. All I asked was—"
"You needn't apologize, my beautiful Noelle." He drew her over to it, his expression intense, his gaze assessing as he examined the painting. "I'm taken by it, as well. It's the gallery's most recent addition. Frankly, I find it mesmerizing." Scowling, he reached around Grace long enough to kiss Noelle's gloved fingers. "But I've only viewed it at arm's length and, just recently, as a whole. I'm flattered that your eye was captured from such a distance, and with so little of the painting visible."
Noelle freed her hand in order to wave it in flustered noncomprehension. "I don't understand. Why would you be flattered? It's not as if—" Seeing the self-satisfaction that gleamed in André's eyes, she broke off, realizing she had her answer. "Are you saying you painted this as well?" she demanded.
"I am."
"André, that's astonishing." Noelle stared at the painting, searched its perimeter for a telltale name.
This must be one of the paintings Ashford had been referring to—the ones whose signatures were hidden beneath the frames. Although, in this case, there was an obvious explanation for that concealment. The frame was unusually bulky, its thick wooden border jutting several inches onto each edge of the painting. Then again, the painting itself was long and sprawling, one she supposed would require the additional support of a heavy frame.
"It's breathtaking," Noelle said honestly. "And entirely different from your other work. Obviously, you're even more of a genius than I realized."
"I excel in five or six different styles, all of which are displayed here in the Franco." A heated look, one that even Grace's bosom couldn't obstruct. "Far more impressive than an insurance investigator, wouldn't you say?"
Noelle ignored the pointed barb, still stunned by the range of André's talents. "I'm in awe, especially considering I can't draw a straight line."
