Echoes in the Mist Page 15

  She smiled, a secret smile, anticipating how she would begin. Within these very bare, unlived-in walls, she would create the actual room she had just imagined, present Trenton with a private refuge that was all his, one that would offer him the solace he sought at Spraystone, yet be far more meaningful, for it would encompass a glowing tribute to Richard Kingsley within a glorious domain that was Trenton’s alone.

  And it would be a giant step in Ariana’s plan to make Broddington a home.

  “P-p-pardon me, Your Grace.” Jennings, the Broddington butler, hovered in the doorway. Smoothing a hand over his cap of red hair, he peered nervously at Trenton over a long, needlelike nose, requiring only a tree trunk beside him to complete Ariana’s vivid image of a tiny, terrified woodpecker.

  “What is it, Jennings?” Trenton snapped.

  Jennings quaked at the duke’s sharp, impatient tone. “I have a message for the duchess.” He inclined his head in Ariana’s direction. “It appears to be important, so I thought …”

  “I’ll take it.” Trenton strode forward and snatched the note from Jennings’s bony fingers. “That will be all for now.”

  “Y-y-yes, Your Grace.”

  No woodpecker had ever taken flight that rapidly.

  “He’s petrified of you,” Ariana said, chewing her lip in distress.

  Trenton scowled. “He is new and totally unsure of himself. I had no choice but to hire him; none of my other estates could part with their butlers, and I didn’t have adequate time to interview properly.”

  “What about Spraystone?”

  “Spraystone has no butler, there is no need for one. There is only myself, my manservant, and his wife. Gilbert assists me on the estate and Clara helps with the meals and the cleaning. The majority of the work is mine.” Trenton awaited his wife’s inevitable distaste and surprise at her first hint of Spraystone’s unpampered lifestyle.

  All he encountered was the surprise. “Truly?” Ariana had heard enough about Spraystone from Dustin to know that the estate was not of diminutive size. “That must be a staggering responsibility!”

  “Not really … I’ve had an inordinate amount of free time these past years,” Trenton responded dryly. “And physical labor keeps many ghosts at bay. So I’ve learned to be tireless.”

  “But not overly kind.”

  His appraisal was cool. “What does that mean?”

  “Give Jennings a chance, Trenton,” Ariana urged him. “You’re a very forbidding man. Don’t intimidate him. He means well.”

  Trenton shook his head in amazement. Always they came back to the same thing: feelings. His new bride was governed by them, he was incapable of them, “You’re hopelessly tender-hearted, misty angel.”

  “Yes I am … hopelessly,” she admitted with a shy shrug.

  A jolt of desire shot through him: desire mixed with a curious swell of protectiveness. “How did you ever survive eighteen years without losing such unheard-of innocence?” Trenton asked in husky disbelief.

  “I thought you preferred my innocence?” Ariana baited softly, giving him an engaging smile.

  “I did.” His eyes darkened, consuming her with their intensity. “I also preferred being its recipient.”

  “I’m glad,” she said simply, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  With a muffled curse, Trenton moved toward her, reaching forward to drag her against him.

  The message crackled its reminder in his palm.

  “Your note.” Trenton halted, staring blankly at the paper as if recalling its presence, then extending it to his wife.

  Reluctantly, Ariana took the page, forcing herself to concentrate when all she wanted was to be in Trenton’s arms. She unfolded the note mechanically, her brows drawing together in puzzlement. “Who could have sent it?”

  “Your brother.” Trenton spat out the words as he would a profanity.

  A cold premonition of dread cloaked Ariana’s heart as she smoothed out the tersely worded page. Sprite, it read, It is vital that I see you. Come to Winsham as soon as possible. B.

  Ariana raised her head to find Trenton’s gaze upon her, his expression that of a vicious predator. A shiver of apprehension tingled up her spine. “Baxter wants to see me immediately,” she said, pushing her words past the constriction in her throat.

  “Of course he does,” Trenton returned with mocking bitterness. His mouth tightened into a grim line, his eyes glittering contemptuously, raking deep inside her. Turning on his heel, he stalked to the door and crashed it wide open, gesturing grandly into the empty hall. “Then by all means, Mrs. Kingsley … go.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  WINSHAM WAS THE SAME … and yet it was so very different. Had it changed overnight? Or had she?

  Ariana rested her chin on her hand as she leaned out the carriage window, watching her old home loom closer. Certainly Winsham was modest-sized compared to Broddington, but size was not the cause of Ariana’s odd feeling of unfamiliarity. It was as if, after only two days, she didn’t belong here anymore, that it was a part of her previous life … a life that was no more. Stranger still, that realization evoked no sadness, only a peaceful acceptance.

  For despite his grim complexity, Trenton was her husband, and her home was with him now.

  The carriage stilled with a jolt, and Ariana swiftly gathered her skirts, her mind turning to Baxter and the cryptic note he’d sent her. Was something amiss? she wondered uneasily. Could Baxter be in some kind of trouble?

  Alighting, she ascended the stairs, just as Coolidge opened the front door and bowed deeply. “My lady … pardon me … Your Grace,” he hastily corrected, “the viscount is expecting you.”

  “Thank you, Coolidge.” Ariana followed him down the hall to Baxter’s study, amused at the solemn formality of the greeting. Just last week she’d resided here, floated in and out of the house at will, with no grand proclamations trumpeting her arrival. Was it her newly acquired title or her husband’s black past that elicited such awe?

  Coolidge rapped purposefully on the study door.

  “Yes … come in,” Baxter called.

  “The Duchess of Broddington, sir.”

  Shuddering with distaste at the mere mention of the Broddington name, Baxter rose, folding the letter he had just completed and gifting Ariana with his most charming smile. “Hello, sprite.” He extended his arms, coming forward and embracing her affectionately.

  Ariana drew back. “Is everything all right?” she demanded.

  Baxter blinked. “Of course.” From the corner of his eye he noted that the butler was about to take his leave. “Oh … Coolidge,” he called, making his way back to the door.

  “Sir?”

  “See that this message is sent at once,” Baxter said quietly, pressing the note into Coolidge’s palm. “By telegraph. It’s urgent.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Baxter nodded tersely. “And please arrange to have tea served in my study,” he said in a pointed return to his normal tone.

  “Certainly, my lord.” With the note clutched tightly to his side, Coolidge made his exit.

  For a moment Baxter stared idly after him, lost in faraway thoughts. Then, abruptly, he recalled Ariana’s presence and, drawing a sharp breath, he turned, his smile restored. He had to tread carefully, seize this opportunity to elicit Ariana’s help. For without her cooperation he hadn’t a prayer of securing Kingsley’s vast fortune.

  “So, how is my beautiful little sister?” Baxter asked with a wink. “I’ve missed having you underfoot. Let me look at you. … You are quite a vision.”

  “I’ve only been gone two days, Baxter,” Ariana said wryly, wondering if the reason for his flattery had anything to do with the urgency of his summons. “I don’t think I’ve changed that much.”

  He chuckled. “Still convinced you are the ordinary mouse, I see.”

  “Baxter, in all due respect, you hardly sent for me in order to discuss my physical attributes, did you?”

  A sh
adow crossed his face. “Do I now need a reason to see my sister?”

  A pang of conscience tugged at Ariana’s heart. “Of course not. I only wondered why you delivered so formal and insistent a message.”

  Baxter gave a mirthless laugh. “Well, I could hardly visit you, now could I? Stroll into Broddington and announce myself … I who am your brother and the head of the Caldwell family? I think not.”

  Ariana dropped her gaze sadly. “I see your point.”

  “I rather thought you would.” Catching her chin, Baxter lifted her face for his inspection. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Kingsley hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

  Ariana averted her head.

  “Has he?”

  “No!” She felt her cheeks burn. On a cognizant level, she was aware that Baxter’s question pertained only to her physical well-being, bearing no resemblance to the wanton thoughts it immediately evoked. Still, the images of her sensual intimacy with Trenton sprang vividly to mind: the intensity, the fervor, the indescribable pleasure he induced. But hurt her? “No, of course he hasn’t,” she denied hotly.

  Baxter studied her another moment, then nodded. “Very well.” He crossed the room and poured himself a drink. “Would you like one?”

  “No.” Ariana sank into a chair. “I’ll wait for the tea.”

  “Suit yourself.” He took a deep swallow. “So, you’ve survived two days of marriage to Trenton Kingsley.”

  “Survival was never an issue.” Her fingers tightened on the folds of her gown, bracing her for an unpleasant exchange.

  Baxter tossed off the rest of his drink. “In other words he’s returned to the Isle of Wight, as I suspected, and you haven’t been burdened with his presence.”

  “He’s at Broddington.”

  “What?” Baxter looked stunned.

  “For the most part,” she clarified. “He did visit Spraystone, but not for long. Predominantly, he’s stayed with us at Broddington.”

  “Us?”

  “Dustin’s been there since the wedding. He’ll be returning to Tyreham in a few days.”

  “Ah … the marquis.” Baxter refilled his glass.

  “He’s a wonderful man,” Ariana said defensively.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Inclining his head, Baxter gave her a curious look. “You’re enjoying his company, then?”

  “Who?”

  “Your husband’s brother … wasn’t that who we were discussing?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ariana felt unusually flustered. “Yes, Dustin is great fun. He’s teaching me to play croquet. Or at least he’s trying to,” she added ruefully.

  Baxter traced the rim of his glass. “Well, that certainly explains your rapid adjustment.” He raised his probing gaze to Ariana’s, weighing her reaction. “So you’ve had very little time alone with Kingsley, then.”

  Twin spots of red reappeared on her cheeks.

  Baxter’s glass slammed to the desk as comprehension struck, the true cause of Ariana’s embarrassment finally registering its full impact. “Did he force himself on you?” When Ariana only blinked in total stupefaction, Baxter stalked across the room and yanked her to her feet. “Did that bloody bastard force you into his bed?”

  Ariana snapped out of her stunned silence. “Force me? For God’s sake, the man is my husband! Surely you knew what that meant when you agreed to the marriage!”

  “I didn’t agree to it,” Baxter shot back. “The blackguard had a royal edict from the Queen! My hands were tied.”

  “You certainly didn’t try very hard to untie them.”

  Baxter winced at his sister’s cutting accusation. “What could I have done?” he beseeched, his grip tightening in frustration. “Kingsley is a close personal friend of Victoria’s. From the day Vanessa died, the Queen made it clear she believed unconditionally in his innocence. Given that fact, what grounds did I have to prevent her decree that you wed him?”

  Ariana twisted free of Baxter’s grasp and turned away. “There’s nothing to be gained by this argument. The point is a moot one. … My marriage is a fait accompli and cannot be undone.”

  The finality of Ariana’s proclamation descended upon Baxter like a heavy boulder, crushing him—but at the same time making him supremely aware of how ludicrously he was behaving. Yes, the marriage was a fait accompli—perhaps not with his blessing, but without his vehement objection. Ariana was Kingsley’s wife now … and that meant in body as well as name.

  Baxter stared at Ariana’s tense back, assailed by a sense of melancholy that his baby sister was a child no longer. The looming reality was that Kingsley’s entire purpose in forcing Ariana to the altar had been to steal her innocence and possess her as his own, thus seizing the ultimate opportunity to destroy the Caldwells. And despite Ariana’s obliviousness to her own desirability, she was indeed a rare beauty, one any man would want in his bed.

  Baxter fought back his anger and regret, reminding himself that the Caldwell reward was still to come.

  Clearing his throat roughly, he placed gentle hands on Ariana’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, sprite. I had no right to rant at you like that. It’s just …” His voice faltered. “You’re all I have left and I worry about you.”

  Ariana twisted slowly to face him. “I know,” she said softly, covering his hand with her own. “But there’s no need. Trenton would never hurt me.”

  A blaze of fury re-ignited Baxter’s eyes. “Trenton …” he repeated, more horrified by her use of Kingsley’s given name than by the knowledge that they’d lain together. The latter was a necessary evil, the former an unwelcome warning.

  “You still hate him so,” Ariana murmured, studying the enmity in her brother’s eyes.

  “Have you forgotten that he was responsible for Vanessa’s death?”

  “Was he?” she responded swiftly, her body going rigid. “Tell me how.”

  Baxter’s expression grew savage.

  “I want to hear the details of Vanessa’s death,” Ariana repeated. “All these years I’ve been told only the barest of facts … plus endless speculations. I understand I was merely a child at the time and you wanted to protect me. But I’m not a child any longer … and I need to know.”

  “No, dammit!” Baxter jerked away and walked to the window. “I have no intention of reliving that day.”

  Ariana’s palm struck the desk. “I am wed to the man, Baxter. Exactly how did he factor into Vanessa’s death?”

  Baxter lurched around. “Vanessa loved that bastard. She planned to marry him. She gave him everything … her heart, her love … everything. And he abused her.”

  “Physically?” Ariana interrupted, her heart screaming an instant denial.

  “He brought her to the very depths of despair.” Baxter jabbed his hands in his pockets, either oblivious to Ariana’s question or unwilling to answer it. “He taught her the meaning of jealousy, fear, and cruelty. Until she had nothing left inside her. Nothing.”

  Ariana forced herself to consider Baxter’s implication objectively, striving to reconcile her memories of their stunning, vibrant older sister with Baxter’s description of the despondent, lethargic woman who had lost all will to live. Had Vanessa truly been that devastated? Over a man?

  Ariana pressed her lips together, contemplating the Trenton she knew: his anger and vengeance, his potential for ruthless brutality. Then, with an adamancy she never knew she possessed, she shook her head in definitive repudiation. “No. It makes no sense.” Ignoring Baxter’s stricken expression, she pressed on, purposefully avoiding any mention of Trenton. “Vanessa was an independent, self-assured woman.”

  “Perhaps she appeared that way to a twelve-year-old.”

  For a second, Ariana faltered. Could her memories of her sister be merely the misconceptions of youth, clouded further by the passage of time?

  As Ariana hesitated, Theresa’s words crystallized in her mind, unbidden yet strangely enlightening. I don’t believe love was ever the issue… You recall y
our sister—how can you not be sure of that?

  “No, Baxter.” With renewed strength, Ariana stood her ground. “One man’s rejection would not be enough to incite Vanessa to take her own life.”

  “Then he took it for her.”

  Ariana inhaled sharply. It wasn’t the first time Baxter had uttered those words aloud, but it was the first time they had cut through her like a knife. “Why would he?”

  “He’s a vicious animal … that’s why.”

  “That’s an opinion, not a reason,” Ariana refuted, trying to still her body’s involuntary trembling. “What proof do you have?”

  “Proof?” Now Baxter’s anger was directed at Ariana. “If I had actual proof, the bloody madman would be in Newgate!” He advanced toward her, his eyes narrowing on her face. “What’s happened to you, Ariana? You never questioned my word before. You’re a Caldwell, dammit! And we’re talking about our sister!”

  “I know we are!” Tears stung Ariana’s eyes. “But why are you so certain that her death was either murder or suicide? Why couldn’t it have been a horrible accident?”

  “Because it wasn’t.” Baxter clamped his fists together. “Why? Has your husband”—he spat out the word—“managed to convince you of that fact?”

  “Trenton and I haven’t discussed Vanessa.”

  “Of course not! If you’d discussed Vanessa, then Trenton would be forced to tell you of her journal!”

  An onerous silence descended, heavy as a fatal blow.

  “Journal?” Ariana managed at last. “What journal?”

  Baxter’s mouth snapped shut, as if by doing so it could recall his hastily blurted words.

  “What journal, Baxter?” Ariana prodded.

  “The one she kept during the months preceding her death,” he answered reluctantly.

  “Why wasn’t I ever told of this?”

  Baxter snatched up his glass and refilled it, desperately in need of fortification. “You said it yourself, Ariana. You were barely twelve years old. You were told as much as you needed to know.”