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"Gentlemen, you're wasting your time and mine." Baricci smoothed his lapels, rising from behind his desk and regarding the detectives with a cordial, if slightly impatient, expression. "I've said everything there is to say. I know nothing about Lord Vanley's stolen Goya, nor—as I advised you when last we spoke—do I have any information on Lord Mannering's missing Rembrandt. As for Emily Mannering, I repeat what I told you from the outset: I freely admit to our liaison. I also acknowledge visiting Emily on the night of her death. But I assure you, she was quite alive when I left her. Alive and asleep."
"In her bed," Detective Conyers specified, jotting down some notes.
"Yes. In her bed."
"And her husband?" Detective Parles, the younger of the two men, prompted.
An exasperated sigh. "Again, as I stated last time, Lord Mannering had not arrived home when I left. Which, before you ask, was just before dawn—about half after five would be my guess. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Williams and I have patrons to see to." He began walking towards Williams, who was guarding the door like a sentry.
"Not quite yet." Parles blocked Baricci's path, planting himself firmly between their suspect and the door. "We've received some new information."
Baricci gave a slight start. "What kind of new information?"
"According to Lady Mannering's maid, her mistress was very nervous the night she died, almost afraid. Given that you were her expected guest, would you know anything about that nervousness?"
"Afraid?" Baricci wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "That's preposterous. Emily was uneasy about the possibility that her husband might arrive home earlier than expected and discover us together. If her maid perceived any form of apprehension, it would be that."
"Except that she specified her lover as the cause of that fear," Parles refuted quietly. "Again, according to Lady Mannering's maid—who, incidentally, has been with the family for many years—her mistress seemed unusually jittery and distracted that night. And she kept looking over her shoulder, almost as if she expected her paramour to appear in the doorway of her bedchamber, having arrived ahead of schedule. The prospect of which, evidently, alarmed her. Ominous, wouldn't you say?"
"I'd say this maid has been reading too many gothic novels," Baricci retorted, but Ashford could see the pulse in his neck quicken. "Emily Mannering experienced many emotions when we were together, but I assure you, fear was not one of them."
The detectives fell silent, as they'd prearranged to do, letting the aura of suspicion sink in, find its mark.
Inwardly, Ashford counted to ten, poised and ready to do his part. This interrogation had accomplished its purpose:
Baricci was unnerved, although he was damned good at hiding it. Now it was up to him to push the bastard a bit farther.
On cue, Ashford made his way forward, bypassing the detectives and confronting Baricci head-on. "Gentlemen—let me talk to Mr. Baricci alone," he demanded.
Conyers and Parles exchanged their rehearsed glances.
"Don't worry," Ashford assured them. "I won't kill him. If I were going to, it would have been done by now."
"I quite agree," Baricci concurred with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. "Besides, I have nothing to hide. By all means, let the earl ask his questions."
"All right." Conyers gestured to his partner. "We'll wait outside."
"Williams, too," Ashford instructed.
Baricci hesitated a moment. Then he gave Williams a terse nod. "Go ahead."
Reluctantly, Williams opened the door, waited until the detectives had exited, and then followed suit.
Ashford waited until the door closed behind them. Then he set his plan into motion.
"Okay, Baricci, we're alone," he pronounced. "You can abandon the genteel airs and be your unsavory self."
Baricci's eyes glittered with hatred. "I beg to differ with you, Tremlett. It's you who's the son of a gutter rat, not I."
A corner of Ashford's mouth lifted. "Did you expect that remark to provoke me into violence? Sorry to disappoint you. It's been tried before—many times—and failed. Were my father here, he'd laugh in your face. To continue…" Ashford pulled the earrings out of his pocket and thrust them at Baricci. "Exactly when did you present these to Emily Mannering?"
The older man clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the glistening sapphire chips. Then he raised his head and met Ashford's gaze with an utterly amused expression. "Is that some sort of a joke?"
"I fail to see the humor in it. I repeat, when did you give your paramour this little token of your esteem."
"'Little' is an ideal choice of words," Baricci declared scornfully. "To begin with, I'm not a big believer in gifts, as you well know. It lends an air of permanence to a relationship, something I do my best to avoid. Second, if I were to present my lover with a keepsake, I'd hardly try to impress her with trinkets fit for a scullery maid."
Ashford never averted his penetrating stare. "You're saying you didn't purchase these?"
