Andrea Kane (7 page)

“Your loyalty, my good man, is admirable, though misplaced.” Trenton gestured for his crisply efficient solicitor, Lawrence Crofton, to follow him into the hallway. “Now, where can we find the viscount?”

“He is in his study, sir.” Coolidge bristled. “Now, who shall I say is calling?”

Trenton stopped in his tracks. “Tell him the Duke of Broddington is here to see him.”

Coolidge blanched. “The Duke of …”

“Dammit, Coolidge, what is going on out here?” Baxter slammed open the door to his study, glowering in the direction of the ruckus. His gaze locked with Trenton’s, and hot color flooded his face. “You! What the hell are you doing here?”

Trenton held up a silencing hand. “Spare me the theatrics, Caldwell. I’ll be brief.” He gestured toward Crofton. “My solicitor … should his verification be needed.”

Baxter’s flush deepened. “Your solicitor? I have no debt to pay you, Kingsley.”

Trenton’s temples pounded with rage, and it took every shred of control he possessed not to kill Caldwell where he stood. “I beg to differ with you,” he bit out. “What you
owe
me can never be repaid.” He drew his breath in slowly. “But I’m here to collect nonetheless.”

“Get out!” Baxter crossed the hall, prepared to bodily evict Trenton.

Trenton stopped him in his tracks, grabbing him roughly by the arm, wishing it were the viscount’s treacherous neck in his grasp. “Read the edict, Lawrence,” he commanded, never dragging his smoldering gaze from Baxter’s.

Nervously, the solicitor adjusted his spectacles, rustling the official-looking document and clearing his throat. Trenton had warned him this would be unpleasant, and he, of all people, knew the history behind Trenton’s hatred. Still, his hands trembled a bit, the bitter tension a palpable entity in the quiet entranceway.

“This is a royal edict from Her Majesty, Queen Victoria,” he began.

Baxter looked stunned. “A royal edict?”

“Yes, my lord,” Crofton confirmed. “Now, if I may continue …”

“Read it, Lawrence.” Trenton’s tone was lethal, his heart pounding with triumph as, beneath his rigid grasp, he felt Baxter’s blood pump faster, his pulse beat accelerate.

“Very well.” Crofton stood up straighter. “‘Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India, wills and commands Lady Ariana Caldwell be joined in wedlock to His Grace, Trenton Nicholas Kingsley, the seventh Duke of Broddington, on the 5th day of August, 1873, the ceremony to take place without fail at the appointed hour of—’”

“No!”

The protest was torn from Ariana’s chest, a horrified cry uttered midway down the staircase where she stood, frozen with shock and outrage. Clutching the banister, she shook off Theresa’s supporting hand and fought for composure, staring into the sea of faces below.

For a minute, no one moved or spoke, incredulity pitted against fury and determination.

Trenton reacted first, walking purposefully to the foot of the stairs, addressing Ariana with businesslike composure. “Obviously, you heard the Queen’s edict. That saves me the trouble of repeating it.”

“I … won’t … do … it.” Ariana choked out each word, descending until she was but three steps from the bottom, eye to eye with her enemy.

Trenton appraised her with slow deliberation, his probing blue eyes missing nothing. Then, maddeningly, he smiled. “It?”

“Marry you!” she clarified in a frigid hiss.

“Ah, but you will, misty angel,” he corrected, seizing her elbow and tugging her the remaining distance to him. Holding her captive with his gaze, he extended his hand toward Crofton. “Give me the edict.”

His solicitor complied, walking over and hastily placing the official paper in Trenton’s outstretched hand.

Unblinking, Trenton offered the page to Ariana. “Read it yourself.”

Ariana snatched it, scanning the contents, her cheeks growing flushed. “Why?” she demanded, thrusting the paper back at Trenton.

“My reasons are my own. But the signature belongs to our Queen. Will you disobey her order?”

“Baxter is right … you are a bastard,” Ariana breathed, her voice breaking.

Trenton’s jaw tightened. “Then on August 5th you will become a bastard’s wife.”

“Please … don’t do this.” She tried one last time to beseech him.

Something flashed in his eyes, something sympathetic and vulnerable … then it was gone. “Until August 5th, misty angel,” he repeated, backing away. “After that you belong to me.”

“Baxter?” Ariana averted her head, gazing pleadingly in her brother’s direction, wondering why he remained so deadly silent.

Baxter’s mind was still reeling. Ariana … marry Kingsley? Was this the scoundrel’s final revenge? To rob Baxter of his only remaining sister and force her to become
Mrs.
Trenton Kingsley?

Baxter closed his eyes. The idea was abhorrent, intolerable. If he honored the Queen’s command, Ariana would belong to his most despised enemy, the bastard who had taken all he had, the anathema of his existence.

The most affluent man in Sussexshire.

That realization brought Baxter’s conjecturing to a dead halt, as greed reared its ugly head. Pride intervened, warring with greed, determined to prevail. But need pride be sacrificed? If he and Ariana found a way to outwit the blackhearted snake, couldn’t Baxter retain his pride
and
usurp Kingsley’s fortune? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate form of vengeance?

A twinge of guilt pricked Baxter’s conscience. This was Ariana’s life he was toying with. Wasn’t she entitled to more than an empty life with a husband who despised her?

No, he corrected himself. It wasn’t Ariana who Kingsley despised; it was
he.
And Baxter knew Trenton well enough to know that, no matter what else he was capable of, he wouldn’t abuse an innocent girl.

As for Ariana, well, she would prevail. Despite her diminutive size, his sister was a survivor. She could withstand a life with Trenton Kingsley … especially if it meant partaking in his vast fortune.

And sharing the wealth with her brother.

“Let me see the edict,” Baxter heard himself say.

Stiffly, Trenton extended his arm, clearly unwilling to take even one compromising step in Baxter’s direction.

Ignoring the blatant insult, Baxter strode over and seized the paper, wondering how Trenton had managed to gain Her Majesty’s cooperation. Despite her fondness for the Kingsley family, Victoria had never interfered on their behalf. At least until now.

Suspiciously, Baxter studied the mandate to make certain it was what Kingsley claimed it to be. But the decree was genuine, the Queen’s signature authentic.

Baxter raised compassionate eyes to Ariana. “I’m sorry, sprite.” He winced at her agonized expression. “There’s nothing I can do.” He ignored the triumph on Trenton’s face, reminding himself that it was temporary.

Ariana’s eyes filled with tears. “This is barbaric!”

“My lady.” Undetected, Theresa had descended the stairs. Now she took Ariana’s arm gently. “You are overwrought. Come. I’ll take you to your room.”

“It’s settled, then,” Trenton concluded, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “The wedding will take place on August 5th. The reception will be held at Broddington. Hundreds of guests will attend to see the Viscount Winsham’s little sister become the Duchess of Broddington.”

Ariana stared at him, numb with increasing rage and shock. “I hate you,” she said in a fierce whisper.

His lips twisted into a cynical smile. “Do you, misty angel? Well, I look forward to seeing how much.”

A
RIANA WAS DRAINED.

Pushing herself into a sitting position, she blinked at the small walnut clock on her nightstand. Three o’clock … more than two hours since she’d fled to the sanctuary of her four-poster bed. Her tears had long since dried, her resistance dwindled to despair. She
had
to face her dilemma … alone.

For the first time in her life Ariana had refused both Theresa’s comfort and company, dismissing her the instant they reached the bedroom door. Overcome with emotion, she’d then flung herself across the bed, sobbing violently into her pillow. Shock, outrage, hurt, humiliation: all the emotions she had anticipated and held at bay poured out in a rush. She wept for the act of vengeance that had decided her fate, for her helplessness to alter the outcome, for Baxter’s indifference to her plight. She wept for every reason she had expected to weep.

Harder still for the one she
hadn’t
expected.

She could deny it no longer: She was drawn to Trenton Kingsley.

Pondering the silent admission, Ariana’s hands balled into fists of self-loathing, pressing heavily into the soft feather pillow. How could she? cried her conscience, immediately providing her with every heinous act the man had committed.

But she was.

She could label it curiosity, fascination, bewilderment; but whatever name she gave it, the pull was there. She felt it. Worse still, so did he.

Her traitorous heart thudded as she recalled the explicit, knowing look in the duke’s probing eyes. She might be a total innocent when it came to men, but her body understood his message nonetheless—and responded with a will of its own, caring nothing for the dictates of her conscience.

Coupled with her disturbing physical reaction was the small but insistent voice of some deeply submerged instinct, which refused to be silenced, negating all the evidence her reason presented, reminding her instead of the glimpses of compassion she’d seen beyond the duke’s iron mask, both today and when he’d rescued her from the Covington maze.

And yet the final emotion she’d seen gleaming in his eyes just before she’d fled was vengeance and triumph, telling her that she was no more than a pawn in some sick attempt at retribution.

Or was it resurrection?

Was it Vanessa the duke saw when he scrutinized Ariana so thoroughly? Did he wish it were Vanessa he was punishing, breaking …

Possessing as his wife?

If all the stories Baxter had told Ariana were true, it was irrational jealousy over Vanessa that had driven Trenton Kingsley to madness, to torment … to murder.

Ariana shuddered at the thought.

For two hours her conflicting impulses warred, tearing her apart. Numbness was her body’s method of self-protection, her message that she could no longer sustain this heightened level of emotional turmoil. Besides, the issue was a moot one. No matter which emerged victorious—be it her reason, her conscience, her instincts, or her attraction—the end result was the same. The Queen had issued a decree. So, like it or not, on the 5th of August, Ariana would become Mrs. Trenton Kingsley.

The bedroom door eased open, and then closed just as quietly. “You’re ready for me now, my lady.” It was a statement, rather than a question, and Theresa crossed the room to sit beside Ariana on the bed.

Ariana turned slowly to face her. “You knew.”

“Yes.” Theresa smoothed tousled wisps of coppery hair from Ariana’s flushed cheeks. “You’ve been alone long enough. I knew you were ready to share your thoughts with me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” This time Ariana was giving her friend no quarter. “You knew about the Queen’s edict.”

Theresa paused. “No.”

“But you knew Trenton Kingsley was her messenger?”

“I knew he was your future.”

Ariana gripped Theresa’s hands. “But you told me yourself he was a murderer!”

“No,” Theresa countered again. “I only said that it
appeared
that way. And that appearances—”

“Are often wrong,” Ariana finished for her. “He didn’t kill Vanessa?”

“I wasn’t there that night, my lady.” Theresa’s fingers tightened around Ariana’s. “What do you think?”

Their eyes met.

“I
think
and
feel
too many things to recount,” Ariana whispered. “Anger, betrayal, hurt, humiliation …” A small pause.

“Attraction?”

“Yes.”

“And fear?”

Ariana blinked. Trenton had asked that very question of her in the maze, and her answer had surprised them both. Regardless, it had been true then; it was true now. She looked Theresa squarely in the eye. “Fear? No. The duke has made no move to hurt me.”

“One could argue that marriage to a murderer would incite fear,” Theresa pointed out. “And yet you feel none. Does that not tell you something?”

“That I am a fool?”

“That you doubt the duke’s guilt.”

“I don’t know if I doubt his guilt. … I simply see another side of him.”

“There are many sides to a man, just as there are many sides to a story. Each of them is part truth and part illusion. It is up to us to discern the difference.”

Ariana absorbed Theresa’s words quietly. “You’re talking about more than Trenton Kingsley’s character now. You’re talking about his involvement in Vanessa’s death.”

“Am I?”

“But I’ve heard the story a thousand times, Theresa. From Baxter, yes, but also from hushed conversations among the servants, an occasional slip from Baxter’s colleagues—”

“And from the duke?” Theresa interrupted.

Ariana’s brows rose. “Of course not.”

“Hmmm,” Theresa murmured thoughtfully. “Since Trenton Kingsley is directly involved in these ‘details’ you’ve heard, isn’t it sensible that he should be allowed his say?”

“He chose not to say anything. Instead, he made his guilt clear by running away.”

“Did he?” Theresa asked wisely. “Was that guilt that compelled him to go? Or was it injustice?”

“I don’t know.” New tears sprang to Ariana’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “I’m so confused. Just as I have been ever since the night I met Trenton Kingsley. Please, Theresa, help me.”

Theresa gathered Ariana close, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. “As Sir Francis said, ‘If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.’ Some things must be left to fate, my lady. And fate presents many questions before she supplies the answers. Your course, as I see it, is clear. You cannot disobey Queen Victoria’s mandate, so you must marry Trenton Kingsley. After that, time will clarify your future.”