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Decisively, Baricci waved away the implausible notion, becoming increasingly aware of the fact that there was only one option open to them, one sole chance of escape. "Contact the shipping company," he instructed Williams. "We're moving the Rembrandt tonight."
"Tonight?" His curator jerked around to face him. "But the ship isn't leaving for India until next week."
"Then they'll just have to store it until that time. I don't give a damn where—the warehouse, the ship itself—wherever is the least likely place to be searched. We'll pay them whatever they ask. We have no choice."
Williams shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket, disconcerted by the avenue they were being forced to take, yet ready to do anything that would prevent Tremlett from unmasking their scheme. "All right. I'll go down to the docks myself and make the arrangements."
"Good. Tell them we'll deliver the painting between seven and nine o'clock tonight—after it's dark, but when there's still enough activity going on for us to come and go, and make our transfer, unnoticed." With each word he spoke, Baricci's conviction strengthened. "This plan is going to work, Williams," he declared. Malevolent anticipation glittered in his eyes. "And, despite the apprehension and upset that accompanied its formulation, I'm going to enjoy its outcome quite thoroughly."
"I'm not following you, sir."
A slow, sardonic smile curved Baricci's lips. "Just picture Tremlett's face tomorrow morning when the smug son of a bitch pries away that abstract and finds nothing behind it." A bitter laugh. "He'll be discredited, ruined. Yes, Williams, to render Tremlett a laughingstock, to bring him to his knees—that's worth every drop of inconvenience it'll cost us. Every wretched drop."
* * *
The noontime hour came and slipped away.
In her sitting room, Noelle finished the final draft of her upcoming wedding announcement and smiled, wondering when Ashford was going to stop by so she could show it to him.
And so he could tell her the results of his meeting with Williams.
Her smiled faded as she contemplated the plan her husband-to-be was putting into play. She prayed to God it worked—and that it went as smoothly as Ashford believed it would.
It would. It had to. Noelle refused to let herself think anything else.
Hopping off the chair, she crossed over and wandered into the hall, intent on seeking out her mother, eliciting her final approval on the announcement. Any minute, their modiste was due, ready to begin fashioning Noelle's wedding dress, as well as the gowns Brigitte and Chloe would be wearing for this special occasion.
Noelle's heart pounded at the very thought of her wedding. Six weeks—an absurdly short time away. No one in their right mind could plan a wedding in so brief a time, especially given that these first few days were cloaked in secrecy so that Ashford's family could be told of their plans before news leaked out to the immediate world. No, no one could possibly manage this monumental task—no one except Brigitte Bromleigh.
In just a few short days, Brigitte had already organized a tentative guest list, taking into account whatever names Ashford could provide off the top of his head for his side of the family, friends and relatives combined. She'd then paid a discreet visit to the printer, where she'd selected elegant invitations, the quantity of which would be determined within a week's time. After that, she'd stopped by her modiste's shop and arranged for Madame Rousseau to come to their Town house this afternoon.
So the initial steps were in place.
But Noelle's favorite step thus far had taken place just this morning when, directly after breakfast, her entire family had driven to the village to see her beloved great-grandfather, the man who'd gifted her with her very first puppet show—and all the ones she'd savored on each successive birthday—and who had taught her so much about sharing one's joys with others.
This was one joy she couldn't wait to share with him.
He'd opened his arms wide, hugging her to him and joyously blessing her upcoming union to the son of such fine, caring people. His lips had quivered when she'd asked him to perform the ceremony, accepted with tears in his eyes.
Noelle had deferred choosing a location for the wedding, because she had a strong suspicion that once Ashford's family was told, they would want the ceremony to take place in the grand chapel at Markham. In truth, it would thrill her to become Ashford's bride in the home where he'd been raised and loved; where he'd grown to be the extraordinary man he was. What more fitting place for her great-grandfather to pronounce the magical words that would make her Mrs. Ashford Thornton.
Humming under her breath, Noelle glanced about the hall and, seeing it was deserted, headed towards the stairs.
She was interrupted by a knock at the front door.
Hastily, she veered about, hurrying toward the entranceway. It was either Ashford or Madame Rousseau. Either way, she was too excited to await Bladewell's announcement.
She was just behind the butler when he opened the door. "Mr. Sardo," she heard him state in a clear, distinct voice that told Noelle he was acutely aware of her presence and was, therefore, alerting her to her visitor's identity.
Unfortunately, it was too late. André had already spied her and was watching her expectantly.
What was he doing here? Noelle wondered in surprise. Did he intend to berate her for leaving the gallery yesterday with Ashford?
Promise me you won't go anywhere near André Sardo.
Ashford's request, the promise she'd given him, screamed into the forefront of her mind.
If he calls on you, feign illness, do whatever you have to. Just send him away as quickly as possible. No heroics, Noelle. Please.
