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Another tight smile. "You neglected to mention wealthy. She's that as well." Baricci inspected the ruffles on his shirt, ensuring that each one lay perfectly. "She's also the owner of our next masterpiece—an exquisite Rembrandt worth a small fortune."
"Stealing from your paramours?" André murmured. "That's a first for you, Franco."
"Only because the opportunity never before presented itself. But now that it has, think how much simpler it will all be to accomplish."
"Ah." A flicker of admiration lit André's eyes. "I begin to see the logic of your thinking. Court the lady—I presume her husband is away?"
"On business. For two days," Baricci confirmed. "And her servants have been given both days off. So her ladyship and I will be quite alone."
"Splendid. So you lavish her with attention, drown her in passion, and then…" A puzzled frown. "Then what? Do you sweep the painting away while she's soundly asleep in the glowing aftermath of your love?"
Baricci shot the artist an icy, disparaging look. "That's your problem, André. You think with your heart and your loins, not your head. The former should be reserved for pleasure, the latter for business. Of course I don't whisk away the painting while she's asleep. Who do you think she'd suspect of stealing it when she awakened and found both the painting and me gone?"
"I see your point. Then how do you arrange for the theft?"
"Carefully. Subtly. Using both charm and skill. Tonight is for laying the groundwork—groundwork I began by ensuring the lady's husband was called away on urgent business."
"Very clever."
"The last time her ladyship and I had occasion to be alone in her Town house, I spied the Rembrandt. Tonight I'll have the opportunity to survey her home more closely, to locate the various points of entry. I'll decide upon the best and least conspicuous door or window for my purposes—and then ensure it remains unlocked until my men return late tomorrow night, quietly letting themselves in while her ladyship and I are upstairs abed. They'll have more than ample time to remove the Rembrandt from its prominent place over her music-room mantel and make their exit.
"I, of course, will be properly shocked when, at dawn, my lovely paramour—who will be ushering me downstairs for a subtle departure prior to her husband's return—discovers the painting gone. I'll also be most understanding when she insists that I leave immediately, so as not to cause a scandal when the police, who will naturally be summoned, arrive."
"A brilliant plan," André praised. "But you've piqued my curiosity. Who is this alluring paramour of yours? I vow I'll reveal her name to no one."
Baricci's eyes gleamed. "Very well, André. If you insist. Actually, who better than you to appreciate the exhilaration of acquiring a particularly beautiful woman?" He adjusted his cuffs. "It's Lady Mannering."
A profound silence. "Emily Mannering?"
"Ah, I was sure you'd heard rumors of her beauty. Tell me, have you also had occasion to see her for yourself? If so, you know the rumors don't begin to do her justice."
"I have indeed seen her. And I agree—she's breathtaking. I'm duly impressed, Franco."
Baricci acknowledged the praise with a swift nod. "I must admit I haven't been so captivated by a woman since Liza," he confessed. "Perhaps it's that fragile beauty, those exquisite, startlingly blue eyes, and that porcelain complexion. Or perhaps it's the rarity of seeing both delicacy and passion, typically contrasting qualities, in one woman—and in such equal measures. Anything is possible. All I know is that her affect on me is astounding."
"Except that Liza Bromleigh was fresh from the schoolroom," André pointed out.
"True. Which was in some ways exciting, in other ways a burden. Liza was a wildly avid pupil. She was also, unfortunately, too young to possess any of her own funds and too romantic to consider remaining unwed. Neither of which fit into my plans—then or now. With Emily, however, it's different. True, I wasn't the first man in her bed, but I was the first to awaken her to the heights of her own passion. She also has the added appeal of being stunningly wealthy and quite married to another. I'm more than satisfied with the outcome. Our liaisons have been difficult to arrange, but well worth the effort."
A triumphant light glistened in Baricci's eyes as he glanced about, spied his black silk top hat, and seized it. "This was one conquest I relished making and continue to relish each time Emily and I are together. How fitting that such a delightful affiliation will also prove to be a lucrative one as well."
With a final tug at his waistcoat, Baricci turned to glance at André. "Enough chatter. Let's get to the purpose behind my summoning you. How quickly can you complete another painting for me?"
André straightened in surprise. "I just gave you a painting—the one intended to conceal the Gainsborough. I thought you planned to use that on your next prize instead."
"I did. But upon more thorough reflection, I realize the Rembrandt has different dimensions than the Gainsborough; it's wider and much longer—a hand span for each, I should say. Plus, I'm thinking ahead. It occurred to me that Noelle should be back in a few short days, after which your time and efforts must be devoted entirely to crafting her portrait and winning her affections. You'll have no time to indulge in other dabbling."
"I don't dabble, Franco. I paint," André corrected tersely.
"I'm aware of what you do." A stiff pause. "In any case, I think it would be a good idea to have several finished canvases on hand, including one that fits the Rembrandt." Baricci's lips curved into a brittle smile. "Who knows? Perhaps Lord Mannering has other valuable paintings about, in sections of the house I have yet to see. Thus far, Emily and I have made love only in her bedchamber with the door tightly locked lest the servants return early and intrude. Well, this time, there's no fear of that. So maybe I'll enjoy her in every room, simultaneously seeking out other treasures to divest her husband of."
"I wouldn't jeopardize your theft by making it too complicated—and lengthy—a procedure," André inserted in a dry tone. "That mystery bandit is probably right on your heels. You wouldn't want him to beat you to so profitable a target."
Baricci's smile vanished in a heartbeat, supplanted by a fine yet tangible undercurrent of rage. Faint spots of color stained his cheeks, and his gloved hands balled slowly into fists. "Not this time," he refuted, the pulse in his neck quickening every so slightly. "That common bastard robbed me of the Gainsborough. He won't do the same with the Rembrandt."
André's pupils dilated in wary assessment, but he swiftly recovered himself. "I'm sure you're right," he conceded. With a discreet cough, he turned his attention back to Baricci's original question. "If you're willing to accept one of my personal projects—the less commercial, more unconventional creations I work on in my spare time—I believe I can provide something that would nicely conceal the Rembrandt and deliver the finished painting to you in under a week. Would that suffice?"
"Yes." Baricci glanced down at his own clenched fists and frowned, abruptly relaxing them. "That would be fine." He turned back to the looking glass, placing his top hat at the proper angle on his head. "I'm late, André. Besides, you'd best get home and work on that painting."
