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Ashford's gaze was steady. "Baricci will be itching to get his hands on that masterpiece."
"I'm sure he will. When he finds out about the sale, much less that the painting is in England. Blackstreet says the whole transaction is being kept quite secretive, since Vanley is terrified of robbery. No one will learn of the purchase until the morning after the Goya is safely settled in Vanley's Town house, in plain view for all to see." A pause. "In the drawing room. On the mantel wall. Second door down to your right." Pierce folded the note in two.
Ashford heard his father's message loud and clear. "So Baricci won't find out about the Goya's arrival until the day after tomorrow," he concluded, his adrenaline beginning to pump—despite the resolution he'd come to just moments ago about severing this portion of his life.
"Exactly." Pierce's expression remained nondescript. "By the way, did I mention to you that Vanley's son is in England?"
A puzzled frown. "No, you didn't. Nor do I care. I dislike Gerald Vanley even more than I do his father. He's even more arrogant, if that's possible, probably because his looks are far more appealing than his father's. And he's stupid, to boot. The only good thing about having him in Town is that he wagers huge sums at the whist table at White's. He's conceited enough to believe he'll win, and stupid enough to continually lose. As a result, I divest him of all his funds and can pass those winnings along to you for your next tin cup."
"Then the poor will soon flourish, because he arrived in London this week," Pierce determined.
"Fine. Why are you telling me this? What has Gerald Vanley's arrival got to do with the Goya?"
"Motivation." Idly, Pierce slipped Blackstreet's note back into its envelope. "Evidently, Gerald's reasons for being in Town this Season involve more than just a desire to try his luck at the whist table. From what I understand, he heard that Lord Farrington is bringing out his breathtaking elder daughter this spring—a daughter Gerald met last summer in Brighton. And he's determined to press his suit and win her affections."
Ashford went rigid. "Over my dead body."
"I rather thought you'd feel that way. Thus, the motivation I was referring to. Or rather, the final component of it." Pierce counted off on his fingers. "Let's see, we have an invaluable painting—one that Baricci will be frantic to steal, bought by a stingy cad whose worthless son has cast his eye on Noelle." A pointed look. "Tempting, Ashe. Very tempting."
With a muffled curse, Ashford massaged the back of his neck, his decision made long before his father finished enumerating the reasons why. "If I break in tomorrow night, before Vanley is expecting trouble and before the painting is being guarded…"
"Wait a minute." It was Daphne who interrupted, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "I thought you said you resolved things."
"I did."
"Then why are you contemplating a robbery?" She inclined her head at Pierce. "And why are you provoking him?"
"Because Ashford needs to formally close this chapter of his life," Pierce replied with the quiet certainty of one who'd experienced this transformation firsthand. "He needs to walk away without restlessness or regrets—and he can only do that after focusing all his efforts on one final, meaningful crime. I needed the same. Or have you forgotten?" A reminiscent smile. "You shouldn't have. You were right there by my side when we pilfered Lord Weberling's diamonds. Ashford and Juliet were six weeks old at the time."
"I remember," Daphne said softly. She looked back at her son, understanding grappling with worry. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I always am, Mother." Gently, he touched her cheek. "You know that. And I'll be even more so this time, given what's at stake. But Father's right. And he's certainly given me enough incentive, hasn't he?" Abruptly, Ashford's mouth thinned into a grim line. "Still, Vanley and his son are secondary. Capturing Baricci comes first. There's a part of me that wants to wait the extra night, set him up and catch him in the act."
"But you won't," Pierce countered. "Because Baricci is too smart to do his own dirty work. You know that from the past. If you stake out Vanley's house, grab whoever exits carrying the Goya, all you'll succeed in doing is apprehending a few lowlifes. And whether you beat them senseless or bribe them into talking, they'll never provide Baricci's name, because they don't have it. Williams is the only one they've dealt with, and even he probably uses another name—and some form of disguise—when he hires them. No, Ashford, you'll have to get Baricci on his own turf. But in the meantime…" A challenging look crossed Pierce's face.
"In the meantime, I can infuriate Baricci beyond belief, snatch a valuable painting he's doubtless salivating to own. Hell, he'll be thinking it's as good as his, scheming to sell it for a small fortune, when he gets word that his mysterious competitor has beaten him to it." Ashford nodded, triumph glittering in his eyes. "You're right, Father. I can't think of a better way to bid my old life good-bye."
* * *
Chapter 13
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Noelle shifted on the sofa of Lord Mannering's sitting room, watching Mary grip the folds of her uniform and stare at her as fearfully as if Noelle were a firing squad.
It didn't take a genius to deduce that Emily Mannering's maid was uneasy about this meeting. She'd been uneasy since Lord Mannering had introduced them, quietly telling Mary who Noelle was and what she was here to discuss. Instantly, the maid had erected a barrier, stiffly agreeing to speak with her ladyship—but for a few minutes only, as her duties would permit her no longer than that. Noelle had bitten back the impulse to blurt out, What duties? Your mistress is no longer alive for you to serve—which is precisely why we need to talk. But it would be foolish to alienate Mary before their conversation had even begun. Besides, applying pressure was not the tactic that would win her over, Ashford's interrogation had proven that. No, this was clearly a case of catching more flies with honey.
Bearing that in mind, Noelle had diligently tried to put the nervous woman at ease, choosing the informal sitting room in which to conduct their chat, asking conversational questions about Mary's background, and insisting that she share the pot of tea Lord Mannering had instructed one of his serving girls to fetch for Noelle.
It was twenty minutes and one cup of tea later, and Mary looked as rigid as She had when Noelle walked through the door.
So much for subtlety.
"Mary." Noelle dispensed with the small talk, addressing the maid's fears so they could get to the issue at hand. "I'm not here to upset you, or to tarnish your mistress's memory. You have my word on that."
"Forgive my impertinence, m'lady," the nervous woman replied, perching even closer to the edge of her seat, "but then why are you here? I've already answered all Lord Tremlett's questions. I have nothing more to say." Her eyes misted over. "I wish I did know who stole the painting and killed Lady Mannering. If so, I'd be happy to help put him in Newgate. But I don't."
The woman wasn't stupid, Noelle mused. Nor was she lying. Obviously, she knew nothing of the night of the crime, including the identity of her mistress's assailant.
