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"Which is as good as nothing—and not only because it was provided by witnesses of dubious character whose own criminal records would prevent them from talking to the authorities. Even if the Queen herself saw Baricci leave Mannering's Town house, and she was willing to attest to that fact under oath, what would it prove—that he was bedding a married woman? All that would succeed in doing is labeling him an immoral snake, not a murderer. Besides, knowing how clever Baricci is, I'm sure he's anticipated that someone—such as Emily Mannering's lady's maid, for instance—might supply his name as the current paramour in her ladyship's life. As a result, he's doubtless prepared his answers to the inevitable police interrogation." Ashford slammed his fist into his palm. "That son of a bitch is the most thorough, meticulous planner I've ever seen. He takes the time and care to cover every one of his tracks."
"Do you think the murder was premeditated?"
"No." Ashford gave a dubious shake of his head. "Shootings and stabbings are premeditated. Clubbing someone over the head isn't. Besides, Baricci's basically a runner, a coward. He uses and discards women, makes his fortune through deception and theft. Killing isn't his forte—that is, unless he's cornered. My guess is that he took Emily Mannering to bed, then waited until she was asleep before he tried to make off with the Rembrandt. She probably awakened, threatened to contact the authorities—"
"And he panicked and killed her," Pierce concluded.
"Right." Ashford met his father's sober gaze. "That particular Rembrandt was worth a fortune. I know; I've seen it. I'd have taken it myself if Mannering were as contemptible as Lewis and so man
y others. But he's not. He's a pathetic fellow who treats his staff kindly, adores his wife, even gives to charity. He has no idea Emily is unfaithful, nor that the entire ton thinks him a foolish old cuckold. I feel sorry for him."
Pierce nodded his understanding. They both knew the criteria Ashford used to choose his victims. It was the same criteria Pierce himself had used in his days as the Tin Cup Bandits the anonymous thief who'd stolen precious jewels and transformed them into money left on the steps of needy workhouses.
Ignoble noblemen, as Pierce and Ashford sarcastically called them. Men of wealth and position, lacking in character and compassion. The ideal targets.
"So we agree this was Baricci's handiwork," Pierce concluded.
"Yes."
"Do you expect to be retained to find and restore the Rembrandt?"
Ashford pursed his lips. "I'll make sure I am—if not by Lloyds, then by Mannering himself. My first order of business will be to drop by his home, to offer my condolences—and my assistance. Once I convince him that I'm the one most capable of unearthing both his wife's killer and his stolen painting, I'm sure I won't have any trouble getting the job."
"Not with your success record," Pierce concurred, pride lacing his tone. "Mannering can't help but be impressed."
"That might be true, but you and I both know that my so-called success record is not based entirely upon skill," Ashford reminded his father dryly. "It's aided by knowing when to keep a low profile and not take an assignment—such as with the Gainsborough. I became extremely busy and unavailable when the investigation into that theft was launched."
"A logical step, given that hunting for it would have been rather futile. It was already en route to the states and wouldn't have turned up."
"True." Ashford's jaw set. "But the Rembrandt? I'd take great pleasure in recovering that—and all the other paintings Baricci has stolen."
"Stolen and now killed for." Pierce's mouth thinned into a grim line. "You realize this opens up a whole new realm to your investigation of Baricci—a very dangerous realm?"
"Oh, I realize it all right." Ashford's mind was racing. If he could prove Baricci guilty of murder as well as fraud and theft, he could see him hung or at the very least jailed for life; either of which would ensure he never again hurt anyone…
Noelle.
Abruptly, Ashford's insides clenched, and he stiffened, the ramifications of Noelle's relationship to Baricci, her current involvement in his life, registering in his mind with menacing clarity. How would she be impacted by all this? What new dangers would she be exposed to?
The very fact that Baricci was using her as a means to his end took on a new and ominous light, given last night's murder. It didn't matter if the bastard only intended Noelle as a pawn. Even a pawn might someday represent a threat—a threat that required eliminating. No. Noelle could have no part in this. She had to sever all ties with her sire—with him and his budding artist. There was no possible way Ashford could allow her to become further involved in Baricci's undoing.
Allow her?
The irony of that thought would have made Ashford laugh had he not been so worried. Permission was not something Noelle sought—not from him or anyone. She pursued things with the same reckless, tenacious spirit that he found so bloody arousing. Once she heard about this latest development, she'd be more determined than ever to see Baricci punished, to use Sardo to her advantage. And there would be no convincing her otherwise.
Ashford had to protect her—from Baricci, and from herself.
But how? How?
The answer exploded in a rush. Of course. It was the ideal solution, one that would solve a great many problems, the most critical of which was Baricci.
If Eric Bromleigh agreed to it.
"Father, I need you to do something for me," Ashford announced.
"Name it."
"Go back to the ball. Tell Lord and Lady Farrington I need to see them—now. In your study. Tell them it's urgent. Tell them anything you want, only get them down here without anyone suspecting it's more than a social chat. And then find a way to keep Noelle occupied. I don't want her knowing the details of this conversation—not yet. If you can't manage that part alone, get Mother's help. If anyone can find a way to divert Noelle, Mother can."
