Andrea Kane (3 page)

“Tell everyone in this room that your daughter cannot marry Baxter Caldwell,” he repeated.

“You don’t have to stand here and take this, James,” Baxter choked out. “I’ll have him thrown out.”

“And I’ll have every bloody pound of my money withdrawn from your bank and deposited in your competitor’s,” Trenton threatened softly, his gaze locked with Covington’s. “I’ve already spoken to Willinger. … He is most eager to receive my millions.”

Covington ran his tongue over cold, dry lips. “But why? Why?” he asked, bewildered. He’d held the Kingsley fortune for decades now, since the late duke had been alive. Richard Kingsley had been not only a business associate but a trusted personal friend. Why, the duke had designed this very manor—a rare honor indeed, and a tribute to their friendship, since Richard rarely applied his unique architectural talent to anything save his beloved Broddington.

James mopped his brow, fervently wishing Richard were alive and vital, still in control of the Kingsley funds.

But he wasn’t.

And while both his sons had inherited their father’s wealth and flair for design, it was his elder, Trenton, who’d acquired Richard’s keen business mind as well as his architectural genius. During Richard’s declining years, Trenton masterfully designed numerous acclaimed churches and homes, while at the same time he assumed the running of Broddington from his aging father, tripling the enormous family fortune in the last years of Richard’s life.

And every pound of that fortune had been deposited in the Covington bank. Where it had remained—until now.

James met Trenton’s unwavering stare, ugly questions crowding his mind. “Why do you want the betrothal severed?” he repeated weakly.

“You know why.”

Covington closed his eyes, remembering the horrid sequence of events that had preceded Trenton’s self-imposed exile to Spraystone, his Isle of Wight retreat. “It’s been six years, Trenton.”

“Yes. And I’ve suffered every one of them for just this moment.” Trenton refused to look at Baxter, knowing if he did he would kill him. “I mean you no harm, James. You are merely a vehicle needed to ensure the viscount’s downfall. In fact, I’m doing you a favor. This parasite doesn’t want your daughter, he wants your money. Believe me or disbelieve me; it makes no difference. Just call off the wedding. Or my solicitor will contact you tomorrow regarding the withdrawal of my funds. Every last penny. Now, is acquiring a title for Suzanne really worth total financial ruin?”

“Why you miserable …” Baxter lunged forward, releasing Ariana, who fell against Covington, clutching his arm for support.

In one lightning move, Trenton caught Baxter by the collar, dragging him up by the throat until his own knuckles turned white. “I wouldn’t suggest it, Caldwell,” he got out between clenched teeth, hearing the appalled gasps around him. “I’d like nothing better than to tear you limb from limb.”

“Then do it, you bastard,” Baxter spat back. “At least this time we’d have evidence of your crime.”

For a moment, Ariana was certain that her brother had breathed his last. Then, slowly, Trenton relaxed his hold, shoving Baxter away as if he were a hideous viper. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he hissed. He jerked around to face Covington, who cowered beneath Trent’s, brutal stare. “Your answer?”

James swallowed, feeling an unnatural silence permeate the room. Despite their attempts to remain discreet, the three of them had put on quite a show for his curious guests. Whatever he did now would be witnessed by a roomful of influential people. He weighed his decision carefully, trying not to hear the quiet, heart-wrenching sobs of his precious Suzanne, who was openly weeping in her mother’s arms. For while her happiness meant the world to him, there were other things to consider: his own position in society, his standard of living, his entire future. In the end, there was no choice to be made.

“All right, Kingsley, I’ll do as you ask. But only out of respect to your father’s memory,” he hastened to add, feeling hundreds of censuring eyes bore into him. “You have your answer. Now get out before I have you thrown out.”

Trenton nodded. “Done.” He cast a scathing look at Baxter, who had turned chalk white, his expression dazed. “I suggest you tend to your sister, Caldwell.” For the first time he allowed his gaze to shift to Ariana, taking in her ruined gown, tear-streaked cheeks, and contorted stance. “Her ankle is badly sprained.”

“Get out,” Ariana whispered. “Just … get out.”

Trenton gave her a mock salute, his features grim. “I shan’t trouble you again, my lady.” He turned on his heels and was gone.

Ariana watched him leave, feeling a sharp pain that had nothing to do with her ankle. Was this truly the compassionate stranger who had so gently examined her injury? How could she have been so wrong about someone?

“James … you can’t really mean to—” Baxter was saying.

“You’d best take your leave as well, Baxter,” Covington interrupted him. “I’ll see to the guests.”

Ariana acted, seizing her brother’s taut, trembling forearm. “Please, Baxter. We’ve provided enough gossip for one night Please … let’s go home.”

Baxter stared down at her with unseeing eyes. Then he turned abruptly and stalked from the room.

Ariana blinked after him, wondering what she should do. Her brother’s reaction didn’t particularly surprise her, for it was typically Baxter. No, her dilemma was not born of emotional distress but of simple pragmatism: She didn’t think she could make her way to the front door unassisted.

Easing forward gingerly, she attempted to hobble, then whimpered at the pressure it exerted on her ankle.

“I’ll accompany you to your carriage, my dear,” James Covington offered. “Come.”

Ariana had no choice but to accept his assistance, though she was not at all certain she forgave his severing Baxter’s betrothal. Silently, she leaned against him, allowing him to escort her to the Caldwell carriage, where Baxter sat slumped and brooding.

“Oh … Ariana … did I leave you there?” he muttered, affording her a mere cursory glance.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, sliding onto the seat and nodding her thanks to Covington.

With a helpless shrug, the older man moved aside and gestured for their driver to commence.

The ride home was agonizingly quiet.

“Baxter …” Ariana tried at last.

“What do you want, Ariana?”

“Why would he return after all these years?”

“To ruin me; why else? He killed Vanessa, nearly destroyed our family, and now he intends to complete the task.” Baxter leaned back, throwing his arm across his eyes.

Ariana winced. Since the age of twelve she’d listened to the sinister recounting of how Trenton Kingsley had charmed her older sister Vanessa: courting her with gifts and promises, leading her to believe they had a wondrous future together, compelling her to fall deeply in love with him.

And then … terrifying her with his bizarre possessiveness and violent threats, stripping her of joy and laughter and finally her will to live.

Forcing her to take her own life.

Or taking it himself.

The accusations were never proven and no charges were brought. But Baxter still believed, despite the passage of time, that Trenton Kingsley was, unequivocally, a murderer.

Ariana clenched the folds of her rumpled gown, wishing for the hundredth time that she could recall more details of the months prior to Vanessa’s death. Perhaps then she could separate actual facts from exaggerations born of rage and grief. But as a mere child of twelve, she had hardly been her older sister’s confidante. In truth, they rarely even saw each other. For while Ariana had been engrossed in learning the names of all the flowers that filled Winsham’s gardens, Vanessa had been perpetually out, swept up in a storm of fervent suitors, each vying for her elusive hand.

And who could blame them? At two and twenty years of age, Vanessa had been extraordinarily beautiful, in love with life, eager to experience it all. With scores of avid escorts, settling down seemed the farthest thing from her mind. And with both parents succumbing to a fever in 1858, Vanessa had savored her freedom, answering only to Baxter, who was three years her senior and ever indulgent of his charming sister.

So despite Ariana’s deep love and admiration for Vanessa, her memories were dim and few: quick good-night pecks on her cheek amid a flurry of dressing and the lingering scent of roses. And a vague but endless flow of handsome, earnest gentlemen callers.

Until Trenton Kingsley.

Vanessa had whispered his name to Ariana, implied that he was different, special. She would slip out mysteriously each night, staying away until dawn. Ariana could remember overhearing arguments between Vanessa and Baxter … the first they’d ever had. From what Ariana had understood, Baxter vehemently objected to Vanessa’s new suitor, and Vanessa deeply resented Baxter’s interference.

Ariana could recall nothing more, other than the shock and grief of that final nightmarish day and the lethal accusations that had followed in its wake.

But while she wasn’t quite certain what had occurred the night Vanessa died, of one thing she was certain: She had never seen Trenton Kingsley before this night. For the turbulent Duke of Broddington, with his steely blue eyes and disturbing, feral sensuality, was a man she would never have forgotten.

With a shiver, Ariana recalled the penetrating intensity of his stare—as hypnotic as her white owl’s—and the hatred that had blazed within when he learned she was a Caldwell.

Why in God’s name did
he
hate
them?
If anything, it should be
they
who hated …

Baxter’s groan interrupted her troubled thoughts, yanked her from her musings.

“The bloody madman has achieved his goal. I’m ruined.”

Ariana frowned at her brother’s melodramatic words. She knew his distress was not rooted in head-over-heels love for Suzanne Covington. Baxter’s capacity for feeling was simply not that great. Then … what?

“How will severing your betrothal ruin you?” she asked.

“Because without Suzanne’s money I am practically destitute,” he snapped. “And Kingsley obviously knew that.”

“Destitute?” Ariana sat up straighten “But what about your inheritance, all the money Mother and Father left you?”

Baxter leaned forward and stared moodily out the window. “That’s been gone for some time now.”

Ariana started. She knew Baxter had always been extravagant with money and that lately he’d been gambling more than usual. Still, their parents had left Baxter a sizable sum when they died. How could he have squandered it all away?

Irate words crowded Ariana’s mind, rushed to her lips. And just as quickly were silenced. Watching the quiver in her brother’s taut jawline, she felt her anger waver and a surge of sympathy tighten her chest.

Life hadn’t been easy for Baxter, she of all people knew that. From age sixteen, he had been forced to manage the Caldwell estate and simultaneously act as guardian for his two younger sisters. In truth, Ariana could scarcely remember her mother and father. Other than Theresa, her treasured lady’s maid, Baxter and Vanessa were the only parents she had ever really known. And despite their impatience and occasional disinterest, Ariana truly believed that her brother and sister had done their best.

With that sentimental thought in mind she made a decision. “If your inheritance is gone, we can use mine,” she declared with an encouraging smile.

If gratitude and elation were the reactions she’d expected, she was severely disappointed.

“I already have,” Baxter muttered, without meeting his sister’s gaze. “Most of that is gone as well.”

A stunned silence filled the carriage.

“You spent the money Mother and Father left me? … Without asking, without even mentioning it?”

Baxter tossed her a dark look. “How else was I to run the estate?”

“Perhaps with the funds you squandered at the James Street gambling houses.”

Baxter scowled at Ariana’s uncharacteristic display of defiance. “I didn’t gamble away your funds. I gambled in an attempt to recover them.”

Ariana opened her mouth, then just as quickly shut it. Baxter’s matter-of-fact tone told her he actually believed his actions had been justified. Further confrontation would serve no purpose. “How will we live?” she asked instead.

Baxter’s fists clenched in his lap. “My marriage to Suzanne would have solved all our problems. But Kingsley deliberately obliterated that prospect.” He fell silent, apparently deeply engrossed in the pattern of his trousers. At length, he lifted his head, giving Ariana a measured look. “Now our only hope is you.”

“I?” Ariana gasped, still reeling with the staggering reality of their impoverished state.

“Yes … you,” he repeated more decisively. “You’re eighteen now. It’s time that you marry … that I select a proper husband for you.”

Ariana stiffened, regarding Baxter with grim understanding. “What you’re saying is, you plan to snare the first affluent gentleman you can find and then whisk me down the aisle with him.”

“Nothing so coldblooded as that, sprite.” His expression softened. “But, after all, you’re not exactly a child any longer. In fact …” He studied her with deliberate impartiality, inspecting her from the top of her tousled auburn tresses to the hem of her soiled evening gown, a surprised, satisfied smile curving his lips. Where had he been these past years? Obviously, and right before his unseeing eyes, his little sister had grown to be a ravishing beauty, something that not even her current disheveled state could disguise.

“Well, well,” he murmured, shaking his head. “My tiny caterpillar has become a butterfly. You are truly magnificent, Ariana.”

“Don’t stoop to false flattery, Baxter,” Ariana retorted, unmoved by his words. “I am fully aware that, at best, I am no more than average.” Her tone was frank and completely devoid of malice. “Vanessa was beautiful. Perhaps I resemble her in my coloring. But ‘magnificent’? Hardly.” She set her small jaw, folded her hands in her lap. “You’ll have to try another method to win my cooperation.”

Baxter chuckled. “You really don’t see it, do you? Very well, then; you are merely passable in your looks. However, you are both loving and biddable. On most occasions,” he added pointedly. “Other than when you are lost among your precious flowers or off chasing birds. Still, your customary adaptability should provide the proper incentive for, as you put it,
snaring
a suitable mate.”