Andrea Kane (32 page)

“Answer me: yes or no.”

“It isn’t as simple as that, sprite. Yes, Kingsley paid me … I believe it was fifty thousand pounds. But it wasn’t blackmail. It was a debt he owed me.”

“For what?”

“For what he did to our sister.”

“That’s blackmail,” Ariana retorted, shaking her head in disbelief. “I was half hoping you would deny it, or at least explain it. But you can’t, can you?”

“I’m trying to, Ariana. If you would just listen.”

“You really believe you were justified, don’t you? That’s the most frightening part.” Ariana dropped her arms dejectedly to her sides. “That’s always been your problem, Baxter. You do what you want, then explain it away by blaming others. Ever the victim, never the culprit.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t need to ask about Richard Kingsley. I know the answer. I suppose I knew it before I asked. Oh, Baxter, I pity you.” She turned to leave.

“Ariana!” He stormed up behind her and whirled her around. “You’ve only been married to the man for a month. How can you believe his word over mine?”

“Because he is telling the truth.”

“And what about Vanessa?”

“What about Vanessa? I don’t think we’ll ever really know the truth about her death. The only thing I do know is that my husband didn’t kill her. Nor did he drive her to suicide.” Ariana gave a hollow laugh. “The ironic thing is that he never even touched her.”

“That’s a lie!” Baxter bellowed, a vein throbbing in his temple. “If you’d seen her agony each night when she came home from him, when she left his bloody bed …”

“I’m not listening to another word.” Ariana turned on her heel. “I may forgive you someday, Baxter. But only because you’re my brother. What you did was despicable.”

The door slammed behind her.

“Ariana!” He recovered slowly, then took off after her. He reached the front door in time to see the Kingsley carriage disappear around the drive.

The echo of a solitary round of applause rang out behind him.

“That was quite a performance. Worthy of the stage. I
am
impressed: Our baby sister has indeed become a creature of great passion.”

Baxter swung around. “You heard?”

“How could I help but hear?” Vanessa asked, her brows raised in a sarcastic question. “Evidently, she and Trenton have become exceedingly close since wedlock.” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Did you say Ariana is pretty? I’ve only caught glimpses of her from a distance.”

“Yes, but what the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“I was only wondering if
His Grace
has seen fit to take her to his bed.”

“You can stop wondering: He has.”

“How can you be sure?” Vanessa snapped.

“I asked. Ariana told me.” Baxter peered out the window to make certain there were no more surprise visitors, thus missing the look of twisted rage on his sister’s face. “Ness, you shouldn’t be out in the open like this.”

“Stop being so jumpy, Baxter. No one will see me.” Deliberately, Vanessa composed her features. “Ariana actually,
told
you that Trenton had bedded her?”

Baxter nodded. “Yes. At first I was livid, thinking he had forced her … the way he did you. I haven’t forgotten the stories you told me, Ness, or the way you looked some nights when you’d arrive home. I knew the man could be brutal. It sickened me to think he’d be that way again, this time with Ariana.”

“And was he?”

“No. That’s the strange part. She seems … well, happy, when she speaks of him. She cares for the scoundrel: It’s written all over her face.”

“I cared for him too.” Venomous hatred filled Vanessa’s eyes. “He used me. Discarded me like a pile of rubbish, destroyed my reputation. Or have you forgotten? He took my innocence, just as he took Ariana’s. Only
mine
he stole
before
we wed, with the promise that I’d soon be his wife, a promise he had no intention of fulfilling. The whole world expected me to become Mrs. Trenton Kingsley. I could have been with child …
his
child—but did he care? Not a whit! He threw me into the wet sand and walked away, not giving a damn if I was alive or dead.” She turned away, trembling with rage. “I’d forgotten how much I hate him. It’s because of Trenton Kingsley that I was forced to marry Henri, flee to France, and live six years of hell.”

“All that’s behind you now.” Baxter came to stand in back of her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“It will never be behind me,” she hissed. “Trenton Kingsley destroyed our lives. I thought we’d destroyed his in return. But apparently the price we extracted was far too low. He has enormous wealth, the highest of titles, great success, newly acquired acceptance, and now our sister. While we have nothing.”

Baxter’s jaw clenched. “I was pondering that very thing when you surprised me with your appearance. Somehow, some way, I intend to make that bastard pay.”

“If my plan works, we’ll bring Trenton Kingsley to his knees. We’ll emerge victorious … and very, very rich.” She averted her head to glance at Baxter. “Doesn’t that sound intriguing?”

“Fill me in on this plan of yours.”

“If Trenton were proved to be mad, completely insane, he would be committed and Ariana would have total access to his money, right?”

Baxter frowned. “Right, but you and I know he’s not mad. Just as we know he’s not guilty of murder.”

“But
he
doesn’t.”

“You’ve lost me, Ness.”

Vanessa laughed, spinning around to grip Baxter’s hands. “Don’t you think that after six years of bearing the onus of suspicion, there’s a whisper of doubt in Trenton’s mind as to what
really
happened that night?”

“I don’t know; I never thought about it.”

“Well, think about it now. A woman dies suddenly. Trenton Kingsley was the last person to see her alive. He had both motive and opportunity to kill her. The world deems him guilty. The cause of the woman’s death is never determined, as her body is lost forever in the River Arun. Maybe, just maybe, as the years wear on, Trenton Kingsley occasionally awakens, bathed in sweat, wondering if he actually
did
kill her.”

“That’s an interesting possibility. I rather like the idea of Kingsley being tortured by doubt.” On the heels of his taunting remark, Baxter sobered. “Let’s suppose you’re right. A shred of doubt is hardly enough to drive the man insane, especially if it hasn’t done so already. Plus you’re forgetting something else: Ariana believes Kingsley. You heard her. She thinks he’s completely innocent. So if anything, she’ll help to eliminate any doubts he might have.”

“Unless we create new ones … doubts so powerful that neither Ariana nor Trenton can ignore them.”

“We
can’t do anything. You’re dead, remember?”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” Vanessa smiled triumphantly. “Only you and I know otherwise. So what do you think it would do to Trenton’s mind if a dead woman suddenly returned from the grave? If she mysteriously reappeared—for his eyes only, of course—during sporadic moments and in specific places? How long do you think he’d remain sane?”

A victorious light shone in Baxter’s eyes. “I always said you were brilliant, Ness.”

“And I always agreed with you, Baxter.”

“I presume you’ve worked out all the details?”

“Of course. Mysterious appearances are just the beginning of our little scheme. Can I count on your help?”

Baxter’s lips curved into a vindictive smile. “When do we begin?”

Vanessa tapped her chin thoughtfully, her gaze automatically veering in the direction of Broddington. “Oh, we’ve already begun, dear brother.”

T
RENTON WAS AS RESTLESS
as a caged tiger.

Prowling from one room to the next, he could concentrate on nothing save what was transpiring at Winsham right now. It seemed days, rather than hours, since Ariana had marched from Broddington into the waiting Kingsley carriage, set on confronting her brother. She’d made no attempt to conceal her destination, nor to camouflage the fact that she intended to go alone.

Despite his anxiety, Trenton had to smile. He hadn’t seen this side of Ariana before, this fiercely determined woman hell-bent on discovering the truth and avenging the apparent wrongs she felt her husband had endured. Evidently, his beautiful, ethereal bird-watcher could be as passionate in her principles as she was in her bed: a fact that Trenton found thoroughly exhilarating.

Sinking down onto the drawing-room sofa, Trenton leaned his head against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. His own emotions were extremely complex and raw at the moment: a combination of shock and pleasure that Ariana believed in him, tentative hope and wonder that she loved him still, unsettled agitation that the past had once again been resurrected—and a strange premonition of dread, the most troubling emotion of all.

Vaulting to his feet, Trenton began to pace, attempting to analyze the reason for his feeling of foreboding, simultaneously wondering how Baxter was responding to Ariana’s onslaught. Was he denying all her accusations? Was he upsetting her? Frightening her?

The ironic thing, Trenton realized, halting abruptly, was that the only worry he never entertained was that Baxter might be swaying Ariana’s opinion. Her faith was, quite simply, too strong. Lord alone knew what Trenton had done to deserve it, but he was as sure of its existence as he was that the sun would rise each day.

As sure as he was that he, in turn, trusted his wife.

Trust: That elusive feeling that had evaded him for so long, that same intrinsic belief Ariana felt for him, unfolded inside Trenton now. A miracle, perhaps, but real nonetheless. He trusted his wife.

Jennings cleared his throat from the doorway. “P-p-pardon me, Your Grace …” He blinked rapidly from beneath his cap of red hair.

“Yes, Jennings, what is it?”

“There’s a gentleman here, sir. He has a package for you.”

“Fine. Accept it.”

“But he demanded that you—”

“Just accept the package, Jennings,” Trenton snapped impatiently. “I don’t need to meet with the delivery boy.”

“N-n-no, sir.” Jennings swallowed convulsively. “But you don’t understand. The gentleman is a merchant…. He is insistent that he deliver the package to you himself.”

“Oh, bloody hell, all right. Send him in,” Trenton boomed back.

Jennings leaped a foot off the ground. “Yes, sir. Right away, Your Grace. Yes, sir.” He mopped his brow with his sleeve.

Belatedly, Trenton remembered Ariana gently chastising him about his brusqueness toward Broddington’s new butler. “Thank you, Jennings,” he added curtly.

The butler blinked in surprise. “You’re welcome. My pleasure, Your Grace.”

Trenton cleared his throat. “In case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m very pleased with your performance at Broddington. You’re doing a fine job.”

“Oh, thank you, Your Grace.” Jennings nearly swooned with joy. “Thank you, sir. … thank you …” He was still bowing and spouting effusive thanks as he left the room.

Seconds later, an elderly man with white hair, dangling spectacles, and a small, flat box was ushered into the room. “Your Grace?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Wiltshire. I own a small bookshop in London. This package”—he extended it to Trenton—“is a gift. I’m sorry I was so persistent about seeing you, but I did promise your wife I would deliver it myself. Personally.”

“My wife?” That got Trenton’s attention. Striding forward, he took the box from Wiltshire’s hands.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Wiltshire shoved his spectacles back onto his nose. “The duchess was very specific … and very earnest. The book was to be a special gift from her to you. She wanted to be certain you got it.”

Trenton smiled fondly. “I see. Well, you have my thanks, Wiltshire. It was very kind of you.”

“Your Grace.” The man bowed. “Good day.”

Carrying the flat parcel over to the sofa, Trenton sat and proceeded to open it, strangely touched that Ariana had purchased a present for him. Probably an anthology of birds, he thought with a grin.

It was a book of Shakespearean plays.

Trenton removed the volume from its wrapping, his eyes narrowed quizzically. Shakespeare? He didn’t remember mentioning a fondness for Shakespeare to Ariana.

Looking more closely, he saw that something was wedged in between the pages, clearly designating a specific section for him to read. He complied, opening the volume accordingly.

A blood-red flower toppled out, somewhat crushed, its petals emitting a strong, sweet aroma that accosted him instantly.

A rose.

Trenton’s stomach lurched, his eyes automatically focusing on what he had opened to: a portion of
Othello,
clearly marked with ink.

Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.

When I have pluck ‘d the rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again,

It needs must wither. …

Stunned disbelief gripped Trenton’s gut, lodging his breath in his throat. Regaining his composure, he leapt to his feet, dropping the volume to the ground. He sprinted out the door, through the hallway, and into the drive.

Wiltshire was just climbing into a cab.

“Wait!”

The old man paused and turned at Trenton’s command. “Are you summoning me, Your Grace?”

“Yes.” Trenton stalked up to him. “You said my wife purchased this book?”

“She did, sir.”

“What did she look like?”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“My wife: What did she look like?”

“Well, Your Grace, my eyes are not what they used to be.” Wiltshire appeared distinctly uncomfortable and utterly bewildered by the question. “But your wife is not an easy woman to forget. A real beauty, the duchess is. All that glorious red hair and those splendid green eyes.” He smiled fondly. “And so eager to please you, she was. Yes, Your Grace, if you don’t mind my saying so, you are a lucky man.”

Trenton nodded woodenly, an eerie, sick sensation forming in the pit of his stomach. Wordlessly, he returned to the manor, leaving Wiltshire to his cab. In the drawing room, he scooped the book off the floor and reread the marked passage.

She must die … betray more men … The rose, it needs must wither
…