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"True." André contemplated Baricci's words with a thoughtful tilt of his head. "Let me ask you this: did anyone see you leave the Mannering home?"
"Other than a few stray drunks, no. On the other hand, no one saw me arrive either. In fact, no one knew I was there."
"Other than me," André supplied in a silky tone. "I knew you were there, Franco. Ironic, isn't it?"
Baricci rose ominously to his feet, shards of ice glinting in his eyes. "Is that some sort of threat, André? Because if it is, I'd reconsider. Should the police learn of my involvement with Emily—which might very well happen anyway, since discretion doesn't ensure secrecy—I'd simply be labeled a lecher, something I've been labeled dozens of times in the past. There's no proof connecting me to Emily's death, only to her bed. If you should try to steer the authorities in my direction, however, I won't hesitate to offer them some very damning proof of my own—for an entirely different crime and with an entirely different suspect. That choice, my friend, is yours."
"No threats are necessary, not on either of our parts," André assured him hastily, feeling a few beads of perspiration break out on his forehead. He'd overplayed his hand. Taunting Baricci had been a foolish move, one that could cost him dearly—and not only because Baricci paid his bills, but because he controlled his destiny.
What's more, the man was right. André's evidence was circumstantial. Baricci's was damning.
It was time to smooth things over.
"I had no intentions of trying to implicate you, Franco," he soothed. "Just the opposite, in fact. I purposely stayed away these past few days to give you time to resolve things, to put your affairs in order. I'm delighted to learn that my caution was unnecessary." Dragging a sleeve across his brow, André flourished the painting. "I'm also delighted to deliver this. I think you'll find it more than large enough to conceal the Rembrandt."
"Excellent." Baricci's polished smile was back in place. He strolled over, lifting the canvas and appraising it not as an art connoisseur but as a pleased businessman who had accomplished his goal. "This will do very nicely. Fine work, André. Late in its arrival, but fine, nonetheless."
"And my payment?"
Baricci's head came up. "Have you heard from Noelle yet?"
"No, but I will. She and the Bromleighs have only been back at Farrington a few days." André frowned. "Is that your way of saying I won't get paid until I do?"
"To some degree—yes." Baricci pursed his lips, ostensibly considering his options. "Still, I'm not an unreasonable man. So what I'll do is to give you a small installment now. A more substantial payment will follow your first sitting with my daughter." He went to his desk, extracted a few pound notes. "Why don't you contact her?" he suggested, offering the bills to André. "It might speed along the process—and the remuneration."
André felt a surge of irritation at this unexpected setback—a surge he purposefully combated by conjuring up an image of Noelle Bromleigh: her vivid beauty, her fire. True, he needed his money—now rather than later—but the steps he'd have to take in order to earn that money would make it well worth the wait.
That bit of rationalization did the trick, and with a flourish André plucked the money from Baricci's hand. "Fine. I'll send a note to Farrington first thing tomorrow morning."
"Good." Baricci refilled his snifter, brought it to his lips. "Let me know when you receive a reply."
* * *
The breakfast dishes were still being cleared away when, for the third time in as many days, Noelle knocked on her father's study door.
"Yes, Noelle." Eric didn't need to ask who it was. "Come in."
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, going directly to Eric's desk and gripping its polished edge. "Papa, when are you going to tell me what was said in the duke's study? We've been home for three days, and you haven't revealed a word about your conversation with Ashford, despite my repeated efforts to pry the information from you."
Eric leaned back in his chair and regarded his daughter thoughtfully. "What makes you think something significant was said? His Grace told you why Lord Tremlett needed to see us."
"And I didn't believe the duke then any more than I believe you now," Noelle replied frankly. "Really, Papa, I mean you no disrespect, but I'm not stupid. You and Mama were closeted in that study with Ashford for nearly an hour. By the time you returned, the ball was almost over. Ashford and I shared just one dance before it was time to say good night. And the next morning, when he saw us off, he behaved so oddly."
"He kissed your hand. That doesn't strike me as odd."
"It wasn't the kiss. It was the pointed way he looked at you while he was telling me he'd be seeing me very soon. As if the two of you shared some secret understanding. You, in turn, were pensive throughout our entire trip home and have been positively somber since then.
"Let the truth be known, your behavior has been even more peculiar than Ashford's was. You evade all my questions—and not because you're too busy for me. On the contrary, you've scarcely let me out of your sight all week, watching me like a hawk who expects his prey to bolt. And Mama hasn't been much better. She lingers at my bedside each night, making inconsequential small talk that I know means as little to her as it does to me. Yet when I try to bring the subject around to something meaningful—such as Ashford and his puzzling behavior—she swiftly reassures me that all will be well, then scoots out the door like a rabbit evading a hunter. The only person acting normally around here is Chloe—and that's because she's as baffled as I am. None of this is a coincidence, Papa.
What on earth is going on?"
Despite his air of gravity, a corner of Eric's mouth lifted. "Nothing as dire as the plot you've conjured up in that fanciful head of yours. It's true your mother and I have a great deal on our minds, and that much of what we're anxious about concerns you. And, yes, it all stems from the conversation we had with Lord Tremlett the other night. As for our evasiveness, the only reason for it is that the earl specifically asked to be the one to relay to you the details of what we discussed. Evidently, he expects you to be somewhat piqued when you learn what he divulged to us." A meaningful stare. "Things, incidentally, that we should have heard from you."
Noelle felt her cheeks flame. "What kind of things?" she asked tentatively.
A scowl. "I wasn't referring to your fascination for Tremlett and his for you, if that's what that blush is all about. What's more, I suggest we speedily retrace our steps and get back to the matter at hand—now—before I change my mind and refuse to allow the earl to visit."
"When will Ashford be coming to Farrington?" Noelle complied at once, taking her father's advice and instead probing a different and chaster area of interest. "Did he at least specify that?"
