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"Ah, Noelle." Deliberately relaxing his stance, Pierce greeted her with a smile, every bit the charming host. "Are you enjoying your first ball?"
"Very much, Your Grace," she assured him. "Every moment of my time at Markham has been memorable."
"I'm so pleased to hear that." Pierce turned to Ashford, his expression politely inquiring. "Please forgive the intrusion, but may I borrow you for a moment? I promise to return you to your charming companion in record time."
Ashford's instincts screamed to life. "Of course. I'll just show Noelle back to the ballroom…"
"I can find my own way, my lord," she assured him.
"Are you sure?"
An impish grin. "It's twenty feet away, Lord Tremlett. I think I'm capable of navigating that far."
"I won't be long."
"I'll be waiting."
Pierce watched their exchange with a subtle flicker of interest. "Before I forget," he apprised Noelle, keeping his tone carefully bland, "your father was somewhat worried about your whereabouts. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."
Noelle gave a resigned sigh. "I imagined he might be. Thank you, Your Grace. I'll find Papa at once." She gathered up her skirts and moved off.
"What is it?" Ashford demanded without preamble. "Let's go into my study." Pierce led the way, not pausing until the door was shut tightly behind them. "I'm sure you figured out that Blackstreet was here."
Ashford nodded. "Whatever happened must be serious or he'd never have interrupted the party."
"It is. There was another theft last night."
"Last night?" Ashford's brows arched in surprise. "And you're first learning about it now? What took Blackstreet so long?"
"There were extenuating circumstances." Pierce gripped his desk. "The stolen painting was a valuable Rembrandt. The person from whom it was stolen was Lord Mannering."
"Mannering? His wife is Baricci's current paramour."
"Was his current paramour," Pierce corrected, jabbing his hands into his pockets. "Yes, I know."
"What do you mean 'was'? They've ended it?"
"In the worst way possible. She's dead."
"Dead?" Ashford sucked in his breath as the ominous note in his father's voice found its mark. "You mean murdered?"
A terse nod. "That's exactly what I mean. Evidently, she was killed during the course of the theft, struck over the head with a heavy sculpture. And the reason it took Blackstreet so long to unearth the details is that the police were trying to suppress any mention of the incident until they finished their preliminary investigation."
"In other words, they wanted to quietly rule out Lady Mannering's husband or any other prominent members of the ton who might have wanted her dead," Ashford correctly interpreted.
"Exactly." Pierce's tone was rife with disgust. "Prominent, influential members of the ton who might make the Metropolitan Police's lives miserable if falsely accused. But now that those delicate situations have been cleared up and the aristocrats' alibis established, the investigation can become public."
"Murder." Ashford whistled. "Even I never suspected Baricci would go this far. What details did Blackstreet give you?"
"Only unsubstantiated ones provided by ruffians who talk to pound notes, not to policemen. As it happens, Baricci was with Lady Mannering last night—all night. He left her Town house shortly before dawn. Her husband was away on business."
"How convenient. Did these ruffians happen to mention if there was a painting tucked under Baricci's arm when he left? Or if perchance anyone else, such as an accomplice or two, visited the Mannering home during the night?"
"Blackstreet's snitches were too drunk to remember much of anything they saw. We're lucky they provided a description of Baricci and approximate times of his arrival and departure."
"Where was Mannering's staff through all this? Never mind," Ashford answered his own question. "Knowing Baricci, he sent them away. Dammit, we've got nothing."
"We've got a description of Baricci and an accounting of his comings and goings."
