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A challenge he could hardly wait to take on. Especially given the vast grey area that loomed between avoidance and intimacy…
Turning away from the window, Ashford rubbed the back of his neck, tucking away the enticing thoughts of Noelle for later. With some surprise, he noted that dawn had, at some point, given way to day, spilling sunlight through the room. Soon London would be up and about, and he had several visits to pay in order to narrow down the possible suspects in the matter of Moonlight in Florence's disappearance.
It's all a formality anyway, he reflected darkly. Baricci stole that painting. I know it. He knows I know it. Now it's up to me to prove it.
The restlessness intensified.
Prowling over to his breakfast tray, Ashford poured himself a cup of coffee, his brooding gaze sweeping over the morning newspaper, which lay neatly folded alongside his cup. He opened the paper, reflexively scanning the first few pages as he planned his day.
A headline on page two caught his eye:
Gainsborough Landscape Painting Sold to Sir William Lewis for Undisclosed Sum.
The article went on to describe one of Thomas Gainsborough's privately owned masterpieces, which had evidently changed hands—probably for a small fortune.
Ashford scowled, pondering the bald, portly man to whom the painting had gone. Lewis was, at best, a pompous ass, consumed with his title and his assets. Every year, just before the onset of the Season, he embellished the decorum of his already garish London Town house, being sure to add at least three or four treasures about which to brag when society came calling.
The whole exhibition was nauseating.
On the other hand, the painting he'd purchased was a stunning work of art. Gainsborough was a genius, his strokes brilliant and unique, his paintings highly coveted.
And highly valuable.
Making a possession of this nature irresistibly attractive to Baricci.
Abruptly, Ashford's restlessness dissipated, an exhilarating and recognizable surge of excitement pulsing through his veins. Baricci was probably reading about the Gainsborough this very minute; reading about it and planning to steal it—especially once he learned what Ashford already knew: that Lewis took a yearly trip at this same time every January to visit his daughter and her family in Scotland.
By the time Baricci got his information, Lewis would be gone—and the painting would be all too accessible.
A slow smile spread across Ashford's face.
Not this time, you son of a bitch. Not this time.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
It was 2 A.M.
The cold January night shivered through London's deserted streets.
Throughout the city's fashionable West End, servants had long since taken to their beds, enjoying these last few weeks of peaceful nights, the lull preceding an oncoming Season.
Just down the road from Sir William Lewis's expansive manor a sole carriage hovered, nearly invisible from its concealed position among the shadows gathered beyond the glow of the streetlights. The horse at the head of the carriage stood alert but still, trained to remain as such for the brief time that was necessary for its driver to carry out his task.
The hooded figure in black crouched alongside Lewis's manor, peering inside to ensure that, as expected, it was utterly dark and equally silent.
It was.
Satisfied, the bandit crept slowly around the back of the house, his movements lithe and pantherlike.
He paused when he reached the double windows outside the gallery. He didn't dare light a match. He simply pressed close to the pane, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in order to discern if anyone was about. No movement. A tightly closed door.
Perfect.
His teeth gleamed white in the starkness of night.
