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"She was kidnapped, but not by Baricci," Ashford replied hoarsely. "By Sardo."
"But this says—"
"We have Baricci in custody, Lord Farrington," Conyers put in quietly. "I'm Detective Conyers. My partner and I arrested him ourselves. Whatever that note says, Baricci doesn't have your daughter. We believe André Sardo does."
"Then let's get the hell to his studio and find her," Eric ordered, letting the note drop to the floor.
Chloe scooted over and picked it up.
"She isn't at his studio." Ashford forced out the words. "Conyers and I just came from there. There was no sign of either Sardo or Noelle."
"Then how do you know he's the one who has her?"
"Because we now know it was Sardo who killed Emily Mannering, and a host of other women who were his obsessions," Ashford explained, trying to retain a shred of sanity. He couldn't lose control, not when Noelle's life was in his hands. "Sardo is deranged. He becomes homicidal when he's betrayed. Earlier today, he visited Noelle at Farrington in order to press his suit. He inadvertently saw the wedding announcement she was working on. In his mind, that signified a betrayal."
A muscle worked in Ashford's jaw as his composure faltered, then slipped. "When Conyers and I broke into Sardo's studio, we found a row of portraits, including likenesses of Emily Mannering and the other women who were his victims. They all had black hair, blue eyes, and those sapphire earrings we now know Sardo gave Lady Mannering. Noelle's portrait was on the floor. It was slashed, her sketches shredded." Memories surged to life, and Ashford gritted his teeth. "We've got to find her. Now. Before he…"
Agonized comprehension flared in Eric's eyes. "Oh my God," he whispered. "Noelle."
"Papa." Chloe gripped his hand, her tear-stained face torn with anguish, yet rife with puzzlement. "Look at this." She pointed to the note. "This doesn't make sense. Noelle never calls you 'father.' Nor does she harbor any sentiments for Liza or the four years she spent prior to her life at Farrington. And most of all, her stuffed cat's name is Fuzzy, not Elizabeth."
Chloe's words were like manna from heaven, and Ashford's head came up, his mind already racing as he snatched the letter from her hands.
"Chloe, I could hug you for your insight," he declared, determination pumping through his blood, along with newfound hope. "You're brilliant, and so is your sister." He turned to Eric. "Does Noelle know where Baricci lives?"
Eric faltered, then gave a dazed nod. "Yes. His address was in the file my investigator compiled—the file I gave her on Christmas morning."
"Then she's telling us where Sardo took her." Ashford shoved the note in Eric's hands. "'Father' must be Baricci. Because Baricci's flat is on Elizabeth Street." Even as he spoke, Ashford was already heading for the door, Conyers at his heels.
"Tremlett." Eric's voice was close behind. "Noelle is my daughter. I'm coming with you."
Ashford never turned. Nor did he hesitate. He simply nodded. "We'll go by foot. It's faster and quieter. Bring a pistol."
* * *
Noelle shifted on the bed, wincing as the knife nicked her skin. The flat was cast in darkness—as it had been from the moment André dragged her inside, taken her directly to the bedroom.
"Stay still," André ordered, looming over her as he slowly unbuttoned the front of her gown. He'd already torn off her mantle, discarded his own coat and shirt. But his trousers were, thankfully, still in place—probably because in his de mind what was transpiring here was a seduction rather than a rape.
He leaned forward to turn up the lamp until a dim glow filled the bedchamber. "There." He straddled her, locking her in place with the powerful columns of his thighs. "Much better. I want to see you when I finally make you mine."
He frowned, studying the stark terror on her face. "Stop looking at me like that. I want to see passion in your eyes, not fear." He abandoned her gown, grabbed her face between his fingers in a biting grip. "Show me your passion, dammit."
Fighting back dread, Noelle swallowed. "How can I feel passion when you have a knife at my throat? Remove it and I'll gladly comply."
André's eyes narrowed. "Is this your attempt to trick me? Are you hoping that if I remove the knife, it will enable you to escape?" he demanded, releasing her face but making no move to withdraw the blade. "Because it won't work, chérie. That I can promise you. You're mine now. And if you try to run away, all you'll succeed in doing is making your death more painful. On the other hand, cooperate and your final moments on earth will be sheer ecstasy."
Silently, Noelle prayed for strength. "I wo
n't try to run," she vowed. She gazed up at him, feigning a quizzical expression. "I don't understand you, André. I've dreamed of us being together. But I always thought that when we finally were, you'd want me to desire you as much as you desire me, not fear you."
His fingers paused on the final button of her gown. "You've dreamed of us being together?"
She forced a smile to her lips. "Of course I have. Surely you guessed that. I made no secret of my attraction to you." She reached out, tentatively caressed his sleeve.
His gaze shifted, watching her stroking fingers. "You're baiting me."
"No, I'm not. Why would I? It would only enrage you. And I have no desire to die an excruciating death. Nor, in truth, have I a desire to escape. If I did, I would have screamed while I was still in my house and there was a better chance of rescue." She settled back against the pillow. "Did it ever occur to you that I didn't want to be rescued?"
