Andrea Kane (11 page)

Gayts scowled, rubbing a sweaty palm over his face. “But I’ll have to put up some of my own money. …”

“You’ve got more than enough to do that—five times over. I keep you very rich and very happy.” The bandit’s glance flickered over Gayts’s hand, which seemed to be inching reflexively toward the blade he kept in his pocket. “Don’t think of doing anything stupid, Gayts. We both know which one of us would end up dead. And you have too good a life to let it be snuffed out so senselessly.”

Gayts’s fingers froze where they were. “Ye’re backing me into a corner and bleeding me dry.”

“I’m offering you a valuable painting for a fair sum. That’s called business, not bleeding. You, in turn, will charge your buyer one thousand pounds more than I’m charging you, enabling you to buy several years’ worth of liquor and women. That, too, is called business. So, what’s your answer?”

A heartbeat of silence. “Fine,” Gayts muttered. “Ten thousand. Let me see the painting.”

The bandit slipped the Gainsborough from its casing, raising it up until it caught the light of the candle. “Satisfied?”

A careful study, then a nod. Gayts might be scum, but he knew his business. He could tell authentic from fake at a glance. “Yeah. Satisfied.” Gayts reached behind him, opening his own bag and glowering into it. “I only got the five thousand with me.”

“I’m not worried.” The bandit leaned back against the wall, lounging in a deceptively calm stance. “I’ll wait here while you go up to your room and get the other five thousand.”

“Fine. And while I’m at it, I might as well take the painting with me.”

“No. The painting stays right here at my side until you return with the rest of your payment.”

Gayts cursed, slicing the air with an ineffectual palm. “Why is it I’m supposed to trust ye, when ye don’t trust me?”

“Simple. I’ve got what you want.”

“
I’m
the one who gives
ye
money.”

“They’re not exactly charitable donations, Gayts. As I said, you make a fortune off your customers when they buy my wares. So don’t make yourself sound so bloody noble. Besides, if you’re unhappy with our arrangement, you’re free to end it whenever you choose. It will take me approximately ten minutes to find another fence who’d be delighted to handle my trade. Just say the word.”

Silence.

“Well?” The bandit folded his arms across his chest, the painting propped against his leg. “Which is it going to be? Are you severing our ties? Or are you going upstairs to get those other five thousand pounds?”

A resigned sigh. “I’m going.” Gayts moved, bag in hand, not toward the front of the alley but toward the back, taking the few steps that separated him from the rear wall. Flattening himself against it, he inched his way to the corner, then squirmed through a concealed opening—an opening the bandit knew emptied into a dilapidated side street that was a mere block away from Gayts’s quarters.

Gayts disappeared, the thudding of his boots fading into silence.

Eight minutes later the thudding resumed and he reappeared, sweaty and winded.

“Here.” He thrust both bags at the bandit. “Ye don’t need to count it. It’s all there.”

A tight smile. “I never doubted it. You wouldn’t swindle me, Gayts. You’re too smart for that. Right?”

“Right.”

“Good.” The bandit leaned down and scooped up the painting, placing it back in its sack and shoving it into Gayts’s greedy fist. “Tell your buyer to enjoy it.”

“When will I hear from ye next?”

A shrug. “Who knows? One of these nights.”

With that, the bandit took his money and eased stealthily to the front of the alley.

Dashing to his carriage, he took up the reins and raced off.

Ashford rubbed his eyes wearily as he climbed the steps to his Town house. Dawn would be breaking soon, and he had yet to sleep. He would give himself two or three hours’ rest, then be off. He had to ride to Northampton, see his parents, and resolve matters.

He frowned, thinking of the inconvenient delay this sudden trip to Markham would cause—not only in his investigative plans but in his plans to call on Noelle Bromleigh. With regard to his investigation, he had several more people to question about the auction at Baricci’s gallery that had resulted in the sale of
Moonlight in Florence.
And with regard to Noelle …

Ashford’s frown deepened. This change in schedule meant he wouldn’t be able to get to Farrington Manor for days, a reality that greatly displeased him. He’d intended to see Noelle soon, before the excitement of their meeting had waned. Further, it wasn’t as if his parents were expecting him. They weren’t, not for another fortnight, at which time he’d be visiting Markham for an entirely different reason. Nonetheless, this visit couldn’t be delayed, given the current circumstances. So, like it or not, he would have to wait to close in on Baricci and to call on Noelle.

The message was wedged in his front door.

He brought it inside, tore it open immediately, noting the feminine hand and wondering who had written him. His brows arched in surprise as he saw Noelle’s signature, and a surge of anticipation rippled through him.

The surge was quickly checked.

Scanning the first paragraph, Ashford scowled, realizing the letter was a regretful announcement that she had to reverse her earlier decision to accept his social calls.
Had to,
he reminded himself. Not
chose to.

His scowl softened a bit, and he read on. Noelle made no attempt to obscure her reasons, nor to hide her disappointment at this change in plans. It seemed her father was firmly decided that until her coming-out she was not to receive gentlemen callers. Especially, she added in a pointed and flagrantly teasing tone, callers who boasted such extensive and accomplished reputations as his—reputations born in bedchambers, not art galleries.

Ashford felt his lips twitch. Only Noelle would pen such a bold innuendo to a man she’d met on but one occasion. She was as unique and stirring on paper as she was in person.

Well, not quite.

Continuing his reading, Ashford found himself openly grinning at the extent of Noelle’s disappointment. She was entirely displeased with her father’s orders. However, she amended with a loyalty Ashford couldn’t help but admire; she knew her father’s decision was inspired by love and concern for her, and she intended to respect his wishes—happily or not.

So, she concluded, until the commencement of the Season, there could be no visits. Unless, of course, Lord Tremlett could think of a way to persuade her father otherwise. If so, that was another matter entirely, and she would look forward to receiving him.

Laughter rumbled in Ashford’s chest, and he folded the note, contemplating the less-than-subtle challenge he’d been handed. She wanted to see him. Lord knew, he wanted to see her. They both had faith he could make it happen.

Now the only question was how. How could they meet without violating Lord Farrington’s rules?

Changing the earl’s mind was a losing bet, despite Noelle’s optimistic belief otherwise. Clearly, Eric Bromleigh meant to keep his daughter close by his side, relinquishing her to the
ton
only after her formal court presentation in March and, even then, in carefully chosen, select doses. Altering those plans wasn’t a plausible option. If Ashford wanted to see Noelle, he’d have to find another, more acceptable means of doing so. Either that, or wait until the onset of the Season and fend off dozens of eager suitors in the hopes of claiming one or two meager dances.

That prospect was thoroughly distasteful—for a number of reasons.

Perhaps an accidental meeting. But where? Certainly not at Farrington Manor, he’d never get past the earl. Of course, there was always the church over which Noelle’s great-grandfather presided, Ashford mused, recalling from his research on the Bromleighs that Noelle’s great-grandfather, Rupert Curran, was the vicar of a local Dorsetshire church. But even if Ashford were to magically appear there on Sunday morning when Noelle was almost assuredly present, all he could hope to gain was a few minutes of swift conversation. Hardly what he intended. He wanted hours with Noelle—hours to get to know her better. No, the church wouldn’t do. Then where? Where would her family travel together, spend a prolonged period of time, and feel comfortable giving Noelle a bit of freedom to move about as she chose?

Ashford’s head shot up, the answer exploding in his mind like a bolt of lightning.

Markham.

It was perfect—the perfect place, the perfect motivation, the perfect opportunity.

An opportunity that was but a fortnight away.

To hell with sleep. He had arrangements to make. He’d leave for his parents’ residence now.

Markham was an enormous estate in Northampton, comprising hundreds of acres of manicured lawns and exquisite gardens, beyond which sat the manor’s palatial walls and turrets.

For Ashford, it was home—the place he and his siblings had been raised, loved, and, as a result, now always managed to make their way back to, no matter how hectic their lives became.

But none of that was because of Markham’s grandeur.

All of it was because of its master and mistress.

Pierce and Daphne Thornton were as unique as they were inspiring, both having overcome great personal hardship in order to find the joy and peace that was now theirs.

Pierce hadn’t been born a future duke. In fact, not only hadn’t he been the Duke of Markham’s chosen heir, he hadn’t even been acknowledged, much less titled, until he was thirty. He’d been born a bastard, grew up in a filthy Leicester workhouse, and nearly died on the streets. His life had been lonely and brutal; it wasn’t until he’d met Daphne that it had turned around.

Ashford’s mother was the most amazing of women, as emotionally strong as she was physically delicate. Before meeting her husband, she’d survived years of cruel beatings by her father, she not only survived but retained a purity of spirit that by all rights should have been splintered into fragments, vanished along with her faith.

She’d lost neither. Instead, she’d gifted both to Pierce.

Now, some thirty-four years later, Ashford’s parents still had the kind of fairy-tale marriage others dream of but never attain.

They passed that love on to their children. Not only their love, but their values: respect others, recognize who and what defines true worth, and most of all, never act without considering the consequences. All that had been ingrained in Ashford and his brothers and sisters from the day they were born.

That and a few other intriguing things …

Swinging down from his carriage, Ashford issued a few quick instructions to his driver, then hurried up the front steps to the manor.

By the time he reached the entrance door, it had opened.

“Master Ashford, what a pleasant surprise.” A white-haired man, who stood as straight as an arrow despite his extremely advanced years, bowed a formal greeting.

“Hello, Langley,” Ashford replied warmly. “You’re looking well.”

“I try, sir.” The butler smoothed the coat of his impeccably pressed uniform.

“I apologize for the unexpected arrival,” Ashford continued, as if his unpredictable comings and goings were rare rather than routine. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“Nonsense. Your parents will be delighted to see you.” Langley stepped aside, having long since acclimated to Ashford’s unorthodox entrances. “The duke and duchess are in the breakfast room. You’ll show yourself in, I presume?”

A grin. “As always.”

“Splendid. I’ll arrange for your bags to be taken upstairs to your chambers.”

“Thank you, Langley.” Ashford strode down the hallway, sparing not a glance at the dozens of elegant rooms he passed. He had but one goal in mind: seeing his mother and father.

He reached the breakfast-room doorway and paused, watching them chatting over their coffee, totally absorbed in each other.

At past sixty, Pierce Thornton was still an imposing man. Tall, fit, strikingly handsome, the silver-grey at his temples and distinguished lines about his mouth were the only signs of his age. Otherwise, he had changed very little since Ashford had been born.
Very
little, Ashford reflected with a wry grin, in more ways than appearance. Ironically, people often commented that Ashford was a younger version of his father, other than his eyes, which were the same unusual melding of colors as his mother’s.

Daphne Thornton was classically lovely: slender, delicate, with tawny hair and fine features, all highlighted by those kaleidoscope eyes she’d passed on to her son. Despite having borne five children—beginning with a set of twins, Ashford and his twin sister Juliet—Daphne still managed to retain the fresh quality of a woman twenty years her junior.

Many claimed it was the uncommon love that existed between the Duke and Duchess of Markham that kept them young. And Ashford would be the first to agree—their love … plus an occasional, covert dose of adventure.

With tender amusement, Ashford leaned against the door frame, wondering how long it would take before he was spied. Probably about ten seconds. Engrossed or not, nothing escaped his parents, certainly not the appearance of one of their beloved children.

As if on cue, Daphne’s head came up. “Ashford.” She sounded more excited than surprised. Springing to her feet, she hurried across the room, reaching up to hug her son. “We were just discussing you.”

“That sounds dangerous,” he chuckled, returning her embrace. “Perhaps I’d better leave.”

“Don’t even consider it,” she warned, stepping back and squeezing his hands.

“Hello, son.” Pierce joined them, clasping Ashford’s shoulder and studying him intently. “I thought we might be seeing you today.”

Ashford’s gaze locked with his father’s and he half-turned, carefully shutting the door to ensure their privacy. “You heard already?”

“About an hour ago.” Pierce’s sources were incomparable. “It didn’t sound like Baricci’s work.”

“It wasn’t.” A glint of humor. “Baricci’s not nearly that good.”

“He’s also not nearly that arrogant,” Daphne commented dryly. “Honestly, Ashford, you sound more like your father every day.”