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"You have no idea." Ashford's grin broke free. "Then again, I guess you do."
He felt suddenly lighter of heart than he had in weeks. "I've always admired and respected what you and Mother share, but it never occurred to me that I'd experience it myself one day. I suppose I never thought of myself as the type to fall head over heels in love, to behave like an impulsive schoolboy and an irrational fool all rolled into one. But I'll be damned if that's not exactly what's happened to me." He shook his head in amazement. "I love her so bloody much…" Tenderness vanished, supplanted by a fierce, unrelenting protectiveness. "That's why I've got to get Baricci. I'll kill him if he makes one move that jeopardizes Noelle in any way. The same applies to Sardo."
"I don't blame you." Pierce folded his arms across his chest. "On the subject of Baricci, why don't you tell me what's happened since you left Markham."
Ashford polished off his brandy, then proceeded to explain his visits to the police and to Lord Mannering's house, Noelle's intentions to question Emily Mannering's maid, and Sardo's ever-intensifying amorous pursuit of Noelle.
"I want to put my fist through his face every time he touches her," Ashford muttered. "Even when he looks at her—that lustful stare—I can feel my blood start to—" Hearing himself, seeing his father's knowing expression, Ashford broke off, rolled his eyes. "See what I mean? I've lost all self-restraint, all objectivity. I'm a bloody raving lunatic."
"An inescapable consequence of being in love," Pierce consoled him. Frowning, he contemplated all Ashford had relayed. "You did say Eric Bromleigh went to London with Noelle?"
"The entire family went, including Noelle's sentry of a lady's maid. I never would have agreed to the idea otherwise."
"Good. I know Baricci is usually subtle in his craft, but still, the notion of him being in such close proximity to Noelle—and with Sardo there, as well…" Pierce shook his head. "Let's just say I'm glad Noelle's father is there to keep an eye on her."
"And I'll be there tomorrow," Ashford added. "I'll spend the night here, have breakfast with you and Mother, then be on my way. Eric Bromleigh is a wonderful father, but I'd feel better if I were nearby. I suppose that sounds absurd, given that up until a month ago, I wasn't even a part of Noelle's life."
"No, it sounds just as it should. You love her. You want to be the one to protect her. It's as simple as that."
A light rap on the door interrupted them.
"Yes?" Pierce called.
Daphne stepped into the room, carrying a dinner tray. "I decided to send Langley to bed and bring this to you myself." She glanced from her husband to her son, the anticipatory glow on her face a clear indication that an ulterior moti
ve had prompted her to personally deliver their food.
With a twinkle of amusement, Ashford watched her lower the tray to a table.
"You've resolved things," she pronounced, a statement of fact, rather than a question.
Ashford's brows arched in amusement. "Did you doubt it?"
"No." Eyes sparkling, Daphne rose on tiptoe, kissed her son's cheek. "I adore her, Ashford. So does Juliet."
"Unfortunately, so do Blair and Sheridan," Ashford grumbled.
"Fear not. They're aware you've staked your claim." Daphne paused, squeezing Ashford's forearm before plucking a sealed envelope from her pocket. "Tell us the instant you have an announcement to make."
A wink. "You'll be the first to know."
"What is it, Snow Flame?" Pierce was eyeing the envelope.
"Blackstreet was here," she replied, offering it to her husband. "He wanted you to have this. He couldn't stay, but he said to tell you it's very important."
"Really." Pierce ripped open the envelope, extracting the brief page within. "Interesting. That magnificent Goya every art dealer in England wants to get his hands on has been sold. It's being exported from Spain tomorrow."
"Exported—to England?" Ashford studied his father intently. "Who won the bidding war?"
A snort of disgust. "That pompous ass Lord Vanley."
"Vanley." Ashford said the name with utter distaste. The elderly miser—whose roots dated back to Henry I and yet whose impeccable lineage did nothing to offset his unfeeling nature and incomparable arrogance—acted as though he were more a god than a nobleman. A greedy, cold, and garish god.
"We shouldn't be surprised," Pierce was saying. "Vanley talked about the Goya nonstop during our house party. For three days he did nothing but boast about how he'd be the one to eventually get his hands on that painting."
"He's been claiming that fact for months now, ever since the Goya was rumored to be up for sale."
"Well, now he has it." Pierce glanced up, catching Ashford's eye. "Or rather, he'll have it tomorrow night."
