Andrea Kane (49 page)

An icy chill pervaded Ashford’s body. “Baricci, who else knew you were going to visit Lady Mannering that night? Did Sardo?”

Horrified recall—a reaction that couldn’t be feigned—flashed across Baricci’s face. “Yes,” he replied, blanching. “He came to my office while I was dressing. I told him who I was going to see. He got very quiet and then commented on how breathtaking Emily was, how impressed he was by my choice. Now that I think about it, he became very terse after that, almost caustic.”

Mentally, Ashford reviewed Noelle’s conversation with Mary, the phrases the lady’s maid had used in recounting Emily Mannering’s description of her lover

Seductive charm, tall, exotically handsome
—
a man of fire and passion. From the Continent. Immersed in a world of cultural beauty … expressive … colorful … vital. He doted on her.

And he’d given her those earrings.

Ashford’s gut clenched. He’d assumed Emily had been describing Baricci. But she’d been describing another lover, a lover Baricci clearly didn’t know existed.

André Sardo.

And if that night in Baricci’s office André had first learned that Emily was not exclusively his, what had he done? Contacted her? Threatened her? That would certainly explain her fear.

Worse, had he waited until Baricci left her at dawn, until she was totally alone, and then acted upon those threats?

Contemplating Baricci’s story about a man who loathed being betrayed—loathed it enough to kill—the answer was plainly, yes.

Ashford’s eyes strayed back to the woman in the picture, his heart sinking as he focused once again on her features. Slight of height and build, sable hair. Just like Emily Mannering. And just like …

Oh, God, no.

Savagely, Ashford grabbed Baricci’s forearms. “What color were Emily Mannering’s eyes?” he demanded.

Baricci started. “Blue. A bright, vivid blue.”

“Christ.” Ashford uttered the word in a terrified hiss. “Noelle.” He jerked about, pinning Conyers with his stare. “Let Parles take both these bastards in. We’re going to Sardo’s studio. We’ve got to grab him before he gets to Noelle.”

NOELLE GAZED OUT THE KITCHEN
WINDOW, WISHING SHE
could see beyond the rear grounds of the Town house, all the way to the Franco Gallery. It was half after eight and, for the dozenth time in the past hour, she wondered if Ashford had captured Baricci yet.

Sighing, she returned to the task that had kept her busy, both mentally and physically, since dinner—packing tomorrow’s lunch. A hint of a smile touched her lips as she packed the sixth sandwich in her basket. Ashford had asked for a large meal—well, he was getting one.

She rose from the kitchen stool, stretching as she did. The rest of the family was playing cards in the sitting room, and Grace had just gone to fetch a second basket, in the event Lord Tremlett wanted extra fruit and pastries for dessert. Noelle had stifled laughter, wondering if Ashford would ever see the contents of that basket, or if Grace would polish them off an hour after their carriage left London.

The thought of the journey to Markham, of sharing their exciting news with Ashford’s parents and siblings, was enthralling. Noelle might only have spent several days with them, but she adored each and every Thornton. She could hardly wait to see their reactions, to begin thinking of them as her family, too.

A creak from behind alerted her to the fact that she was not alone.

Feeling an inexplicable and dark premonition, Noelle whipped around.

A hard arm caught her in midturn, yanking her back against a rigid, male body. One hand was clapped over her mouth, while the other held a knife to her throat.

“Don’t scream.”

She recognized André’s low-pitched, accented voice at once, although it sounded raspy, odd.

“If you make a sound, I’ll slit your throat, then kill the rest of your family. Is that clear?”

Everything inside Noelle went cold and still at his tersely uttered command. This was not a game. This was real.

Slowly, she nodded.

“Good.” André eased the pressure of his hand at her mouth enough to run his thumb over her lips. “You’re a beautiful woman,
chérie.
We could have been beautiful together.”

Noelle squeezed her eyes shut, as she comprehended the source of his rage. Her marriage announcement. That’s what this was about. But to kill her? Dear God, was he insane?

The answer to that was obvious.

She wanted desperately to wet her lips, which had gone suddenly parched, but the prospect of coming in contact with his thumb was unbearable. So she forced out her question without doing so. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m going to take you to a place where we can be alone,” he murmured, caressing her cheek. “Somewhere we’re assured of privacy. Somewhere that incriminates just the person I want it to.” A demented laugh. “To the flat of your unscrupulous sire. He’s busy tonight, anyway. He’ll never know we were there—not until he finds your body and the police arrive to arrest him. The flat is lovely,
chérie.
Very romantic. And so close by. You won’t have to wait long to have me.” His knuckles caressed her throat alongside the knife. “You do want me, don’t you, Noelle?”

Her knees were trembling so badly she could scarcely stand. “Just don’t hurt my family,” she whispered. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Excellent.” André removed that hand, keeping the knife in place, and reached into his pocket to extract a pen and paper. “Now, this is what I want you to do. Leave your beloved Papa a note. A short, scribbled note, so he’ll assume you hadn’t too much time to scrawl it. Tell him it’s Baricci who has you, that he’s threatening you for helping undermine his scheme. That should do it. My implicating him worked splendidly the last time, even without a letter. But in this case, the letter will add credibility.”

Noelle’s hand was shaking as she reached for the pen. “Why?” she choked out, managing to edge a sidelong glance in André’s direction. “Why are you doing this? Is it because of my betrothal? I told you—”

“That you were marrying Tremlett out of a sense of duty. Yes, I recall,” André supplied conversationally—but Noelle saw the madness in his eyes. “I saw you together,” he added. “Earlier today. You were in his arms. And it was hardly an act of duty. Well, after tonight you’ll be in no one’s arms but mine. Tonight—and all the nights to follow. Just like the others who betrayed me.”

“Others?”

“Um-hum. Other beauties with gemlike eyes and blackened souls. Catherine, Emily … I could name each one, but we haven’t time.”

“Emily …” Noelle went sheet-white as her mind connected André’s revelation with his statement about implicating Baricci. “You killed Lady Mannering,” she gasped.

“She gave me no choice, my love. She was sharing what was mine, bedding down with Baricci. I couldn’t allow that, now could I?” André frowned, his head coming up as he listened intently to a peal of laughter from the sitting room. “Start writing.”

Calling upon an internal strength she didn’t know she possessed, Noelle squelched her own rising hysteria, forced her mind to stay clear. Now was not the time to fall apart. Now was the time to think, to find some way to save herself. She didn’t dare call out, not unless she wanted to endanger Chloe and her parents, not to mention rendering her own death a fait accompli. In fact, she’d better hurry, because any minute Grace was going to return, and in his current state André would doubtless cut the maid’s throat.

But if struggling or calling out for help weren’t options, then what was left to her?

The letter.

Her gaze drifted to the blank page before her. Somehow, some way, she had to convey enough information to her father—and thereby to Ashford—to help them rescue her.

“I said, write.” André’s grasp on his knife handle tightened.

Her mind racing, Noelle lowered her head and complied.

“Very nice,” André commented a moment or two later, reading over her shoulder. “‘Dear Father, I haven’t much time. Baricci has me. He knows I helped Lord Tremlett undo him. I can’t let him hurt you, Mama, and Chloe, so I’m going with him. Just know I love you all. Tell Chloe to take care of my stuffed cat, Elizabeth—the only thing that’s left of my life before Farrington.’“

At the last, André frowned. “Your stuffed cat?” he repeated, a hard, questioning note in his tone.

Fear clenched Noelle’s gut.
Please, God,
she prayed.
Don’t let him figure it out.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said brokenly, releasing the tears she’d held in check. “I have to know Elizabeth isn’t discarded or forgotten. I realize she’s just a child’s plaything. But she was a gift from my mother—my real mother. That’s why I named her Elizabeth, the proper form of Liza. Mother gave me Elizabeth right after I was born. It was the only gift I ever received from her. She died a few weeks later. That stuffed cat is the only thing I have left to remind me of her.”

“Very touching,
chérie.”
André tightened his grip about her waist. “And I’m sure your sister will honor your wishes. Now let’s go.”

Violently, he dragged her down the rear steps and out into the night.

Ashford exploded into Sardo’s gallery, nearly knocking the door off its hinges.

The room was empty.

Holding up lamps, pistols raised, he and Conyers strode inside, surveying the destruction at their feet.

Crossing over to the window, Ashford picked up what was left of the slashed canvas, the remnant of Noelle’s desecrated image.

Bile rose in his throat.

With a harsh sound, he flung the canvas aside and stormed through the studio, the sound of crunching paper beneath his feet.

Sketches, torn into shreds. Sketches of Noelle. Dressed, undressed, in seductive poses. God, this was worse than he thought.

“Tremlett.” Conyers summoned him, beckoning him to the rear corner of the room.

Ashford reached the designated area, held up his lantern to increase the light cast by Conyers’s. Together, they viewed the gallery of portraits. There were likenesses of Catherine, Emily Mannering—and four other black-haired women with porcelain complexions, blue eyes …

… and sapphire earrings shimmering on their lobes.

A pounding at the Town house door brought Bladewell scurrying to answer it.

“Lord Tremlett … ,” he began, glancing from Ashford to the stocky man beside him. “What can I—?”

“Where’s Noelle?” Ashford shoved past Bladewell, striding rapidly down the hall. “Noelle!” he shouted.

“Tremlett.” Eric stalked out of the sitting room, Brigitte and Chloe at his heels. “What in the name of heaven is going on?”

“Noelle—where is she?” Ashford demanded.

Eric knew instantly that something was wrong—very wrong. “In the kitchen,” he replied, pointing. “Why? What’s happened?”

“First I’ve got to see Noelle. Then I’ll explain.” He shot off down the hall, nearly hurtling the kitchen door to the floor. “Noelle!”

The room was empty.

He spied the note lying on the counter, just as Conyers burst in behind him, followed by the Bromleighs.

Scanning the words, Ashford felt his soul shatter. “God … no.”

Eric snatched the page from his hand, reading with an expression of stark disbelief on his face. “Baricci broke in here—and kidnapped Noelle?”

Brigitte let out a wordless cry, and Chloe went to her, tears welling up in her eyes, trickling down her cheeks.

“She was kidnapped, but not by Baricci,” Ashford replied hoarsely. “By Sardo.”

“But this says—”

“We have Baricci in custody, Lord Farrington,” Conyers put in quietly. “I’m Detective Conyers. My partner and I arrested him ourselves. Whatever that note says, Baricci doesn’t have your daughter. We believe André Sardo does.”

“Then let’s get the hell to his studio and find her,” Eric ordered, letting the note drop to the floor.

Chloe scooted over and picked it up.

“She isn’t at his studio.” Ashford forced out the words. “Conyers and I just came from there. There was no sign of either Sardo or Noelle.”

“Then how do you know he’s the one who has her?”

“Because we now know it was Sardo who killed Emily Mannering, and a host of other women who were his obsessions,” Ashford explained, trying to retain a shred of sanity. He couldn’t lose control, not when Noelle’s life was in his hands. “Sardo is deranged. He becomes homicidal when he’s betrayed. Earlier today, he visited Noelle at Farrington in order to press his suit. He inadvertently saw the wedding announcement she was working on. In his mind, that signified a betrayal.”

A muscle worked in Ashford’s jaw as his composure faltered, then slipped. “When Conyers and I broke into Sardo’s studio, we found a row of portraits, including likenesses of Emily Mannering and the other women who were his victims. They all had black hair, blue eyes, and those sapphire earrings we now know Sardo gave Lady Mannering. Noelle’s portrait was on the floor. It was slashed, her sketches shredded.” Memories surged to life, and Ashford gritted his teeth. “We’ve got to find her. Now. Before he …”

Agonized comprehension flared in Eric’s eyes. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “Noelle.”

“Papa.” Chloe gripped his hand, her tear-stained face torn with anguish, yet rife with puzzlement. “Look at this.” She pointed to the note. “This doesn’t make sense. Noelle never calls you ‘father.’ Nor does she harbor any sentiments for Liza or the four years she spent prior to her life at Farrington. And most of all, her stuffed cat’s name is Fuzzy, not Elizabeth.”

Chloe’s words were like manna from heaven, and Ashford’s head came up, his mind already racing as he snatched the letter from her hands.

“Chloe, I could hug you for your insight,” he declared, determination pumping through his blood, along with newfound hope. “You’re brilliant, and so is your sister.” He turned to Eric. “Does Noelle know where Baricci lives?”

Eric faltered, then gave a dazed nod. “Yes. His address was in the file my investigator compiled—the file I gave her on Christmas morning.”

“Then she’s telling us where Sardo took her.” Ashford shoved the note in Eric’s hands. “‘Father’ must be Baricci. Because Baricci’s flat is on Elizabeth Street.” Even as he spoke, Ashford was already heading for the door, Conyers at his heels.