last letter began with 'Uncle Ashe."'
"As good as done," Ashford agreed with another chuckle. "That little moppet is going to be breaking hearts before we know it."
"Sheridan and Blair will be here, too," Daphne informed him, referring to Ashford's two younger brothers who, at twenty-eight and twenty-six years old, were still very much confirmed bachelors. "Only Laurel can't make the trip—not with the babe due next month. She's terribly upset about it, but I convinced her that to ride here from Yorkshire in her current condition would be absurd. Nor do I want Edmund to leave her alone at this time. I'm grateful for their desire to help. But Laurel's well-being must take precedence—hers and their child's."
Ashford nodded his agreement. His younger sister had a heart of gold. Still, with her second child about to make his or her appearance into the world, it was hardly the time to assist at a charity ball. "We'll send her a note the instant we've counted our winnings and figured out what our overall donation will be. That should put her mind at ease. Then next year, she can help us increase that amount."
"Try telling that to Laurel," Pierce muttered, shaking his head. "She may be a slip of a girl, but she's got a will of iron."
"She's not a girl anymore, Pierce," Daphne reminded him gently. "She's a twenty-three-year-old woman—married, a mother, with her second child on the way."
Pierce's jaw set. "That might be the case, but it doesn't change the way I view her."
"No," Daphne agreed, caressing his forearm. "It doesn't. Nor will it ever."
Witnessing this particular exchange, Ashford was struck by a most unwelcome analogy. His father's protectiveness toward Laurel, and for that matter toward Juliet, was identical to Eric Bromleigh's protectiveness toward Noelle. Clearly, the earl beheld his daughters much as Pierce did his: as precious extensions of himself, irreplaceable entities to be nurtured and cherished, sheltered from life's transformations, isolated from its awakenings.
And those awakenings included men.
Ashford knew he should feel like a snake. After all, hadn't he stood right beside his father more times than he could count, adding his formidable presence to Pierce's in order to discourage suitors from overstepping their bounds when it came to Juliet and Laurel? Hadn't he personally "persuaded" the wrong men to never return to Markham but instead to cast their eyes elsewhere and leave his sisters alone?
Suddenly here he was, one of those men, his powerful response to Noelle the very type that had caused warning bells to resound in his own head, time after time.
Yes, he should feel like a snake.
The problem was, he didn't. Not enough to dismiss Noelle from his mind or to relinquish his plan to bring her here. After that … well, then he'd call upon his memories and his conscience, remind himself of his principles and his limitations.
But for now, he had to see her.
Shelving his ambivalence, Ashford pushed back his chair, coming to his feet in one fluid motion. "I'll transfer that money to your safe," he informed his parents, heading toward the door. Pausing, he turned to glance back over his shoulder. "You'll send that invitation to the Bromleighs?"
A reflective look from his mother, followed by a nod. "At once."
"Thank you." Ashford exited the room, shutting the door in his wake.
"What do you make of that?" Pierce inquired when he and Daphne were alone.
"I'm not sure," his wife replied thoughtfully. "But I have the distinct feeling this year's party is going to exceed our wildest expectations."
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
A lazy spray of snow flurries bandied about in the midday skies, their progress halted briefly by the wind before they broke free, drifting slowly to the ground.
Curled against the broad sill overlooking Farrington's sitting-room window, Noelle gazed outside, oblivious to the grey skies and snowflakes, her mind preoccupied with the events that had shaped her venture to London.
Her reaction to Mr. Baricci had been the least surprising of the day's events. More puzzling had been his reaction to her. Why had he been so insistent about initiating a relationship with her—or, at the very least, in making overtures to get to know her better? Could he truly possess enough humanity to feel remorse or regret about the past, to want to make amends for deserting Liza and forsaking his unborn child?
Doubtful. Not given all she'd learned about him, not only from her father's reports but from her own firsthand experience at the gallery. No, Franco Baricci was a pompous, manipulative, and immoral blackguard whose only concerns were himself and his interests.
Which led to another, more intriguing question. Could any of those interests be illegal in nature? Because Noelle would be willing to bet that Ashford Thornton thought so. Oh, the earl had never actually voiced his suspicions aloud, instead claiming he'd merely gone to the Franco Gallery to make inquiries into the theft of a valuable painting. But Noelle didn't believe for a minute that that was the full extent of his speculation with regard to Baricci's involvement. Ashford's distaste and distrust for her sire were strikingly obvious, as was Baricci's fear and dislike of Ashford. All of which added up to one conclusion.
Franco Baricci was a suspect. And Ashford Thornton meant to prove his guilt.
Tucking her knees beneath her chin, Noelle wrapped her arms about her legs, feeling a flutter of excitement—followed by a surge of impotent frustration. She was itching to know the extent of Baricci's alleged crimes: How many valuable paintings had he stolen? Had he sold them? Kept them? Did he blackmail their owners into buying them back or did he sell them to the highest bidder? How much evidence did Ashford have? More important, how much more did he need to implicate Baricci?