Echoes in the Mist Read online

  “No, you haven’t,” Trenton replied in a gentler tone. “And for that I thank you.”

  Victoria dismissed his uncustomary acknowledgment with a brusque wave of her hand. “You also know how highly I regarded your father. He was a fine and honorable man, a dear friend to both Albert and me. That, however, does not mean that I condone what you’ve become since his death. You’ve become a moody, bitter, vengeful recluse.” She cleared her throat. “I assume by her surname that the young lady you feel suddenly compelled to marry is related to Baxter Caldwell.”

  “His sister,” Trenton supplied.

  “His sister?” The Queen looked startled. “But Vanessa …”

  “Not that sister.”

  “Ah, the child,” Victoria murmured, remembering back six years to the tragic drowning that had rocked the ton … and the family whose lives it had altered. “Ariana, I believe her name was. I’d nearly forgotten. … She was such a shy little girl, so very much in Vanessa’s shadow.”

  The Queen stared off thoughtfully, her memory conjuring up the image of a diminutive, copper-haired child with huge, turquoise eyes and a wistful, faraway expression. “But she wasn’t even in her teens when Vanessa died!” Consternation registered on Victoria’s face. She cast a quick glance at Beatrice, who was now being helped into the house by two fussing maids. Satisfied with the renewed color in her daughter’s cheeks, the Queen turned back to Trenton, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard. “Why, Ariana Caldwell cannot be more than a year or two older than Beatrice!”

  Trenton’s lips twitched. “And were you so advanced in years when you wed the Prince Consort?”

  Victoria was in no mood to be dissuaded from her course. “Precisely how old is she?”

  Trenton shrugged. “Significantly younger than Vanessa; probably by a decade or so. I would judge Ariana to be seventeen or eighteen.”

  “You don’t even know her age?” Victoria burst out, appalled. “How long have the two of you been acquainted?”

  “We met last night.” A glint of humor flickered in his eyes. “In fact, she was the other damsel in distress I rescued.”

  The Queen drew herself up angrily. “Just how far are you willing to carry your hatred, Trenton? In the name of heaven, she is but an innocent—”

  “As was my father,” Trenton said grimly, all traces of amusement having vanished.

  “That changes nothing. I will not allow you to vent your hostility on a blameless young girl.”

  “You did give me your word, Your Majesty,” Trenton reminded her. “Any request I made you would honor.”

  “Not at a guileless child’s expense.”

  “She is no longer a child,” he countered, recalling Ariana’s vivid beauty, her soft and very feminine body against his as he carried her back to the party. “And I have no intention of harming her.”

  Victoria ingested this declaration silently, a meditative look on her face. “Tell me,” she said at last. “Is there more driving you to the altar than mere vengeance?”

  Trenton went rigid. “Ariana is a very beautiful woman. I assure you, she will not find marriage to me distasteful.”

  A faint smile touched the Queen’s lips. “Very well, Trenton. You shall have your royal edict … and your wife. Lady Ariana Caldwell will soon be the Duchess of Broddington.”

  Trenton’s eyes narrowed on Victoria’s suddenly composed face, scrutinizing it for clues to explain her abrupt reversal He found none. “And the stipulations?” he asked suspiciously.

  “None.” She shook her head, silently urging her instincts to be reliable in their direction. “You saved my daughter’s life. This is the least I can do to express my immeasurable gratitude.” She walked over to the fountain, gripping the back of the chair where Beatrice had sat. “I shall issue the decree at once.” A private light glinted in the Queen’s eyes. “Congratulations, Trenton, on your forthcoming marriage. May it yield all you truly crave.”

  “How is your ankle faring, my lady?”

  Blinking, Ariana lowered her novel, reluctantly leaving Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to return to the more mundane reality of her own morning room. Putting the irrepressible caterpillar on hold, she smiled at Theresa.

  “My ankle is much better. Practically all healed.” She lifted her right leg from the sofa and wiggled her foot in an exaggerated motion. “See? A mere three days of your ministrations and my ankle is as good as new.”

  “Not quite, but nearly,” Theresa agreed, propping up the slightly swollen foot on a feather pillow. Gently, she traced the circles beneath Ariana’s eyes. “Yet your mind remains troubled.”

  “Baxter tells me we are practically penniless.”

  Theresa shook her bead. “Your unrest is caused by more than that.”

  Ariana leaned her head back, rays of summer sunlight trickling through the bay window to warm her face. “I have no other reason to be troubled; yet I am,” she admitted in a small voice. “I have a nagging feeling that something else remains amiss. …” Restlessly, she shifted the drapery, gazing out over Winsham’s southeast garden, seeking serenity … finding none.

  “Amiss … perhaps,” Theresa murmured without conviction. “More likely, unsettled.”

  Ariana’s head snapped around. “You know what it is,” she accused.

  “As do you.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  A profound smile creased Theresa’s wrinkled face. “You choose not to know. But the point is a moot one. Soon the choice will no longer be yours.” Abruptly, her smile vanished. “Your blue silk day dress! I haven’t freshened it!”

  “My day dress? What has that to do with my dilemma?”

  Theresa shot her an exasperated look. “Well, you can hardly wear it unless it is properly pressed, can you?”

  Ariana sat up, totally at sea. “I have no urgent need to wear my blue dress, Theresa.”

  “Ah, but you have.” Theresa stood, glancing quickly at the imposing grandfather clock that stood in the far corner of the room. She exclaimed at the lateness of the hour, then scurried toward the door with a look of total consternation on her face, vividly reminding Ariana of Lewis Carroll’s errant white rabbit. “Fear not, my lady,” she called over her shoulder, jabbing a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I shall have it ready for you in a quarter hour. That will give us just enough time …” Her final words were lost in the hallway, cut off by the click of the door as it shut.

  Ariana shook her head, sliding down to return to her reading. “And Alice thought the caterpillar was daft?” she muttered to herself.

  She had just begun to enjoy the mad hatter’s tea party when Theresa exploded back in.

  “Come now, my lady,” she urged, tugging Ariana to her feet.

  Ariana dropped her novel to the couch. “Where?”

  Theresa supported Ariana’s right side and eased her forward. “To don your gown, of course.”

  “But I am already dressed, Theresa.” Ariana indicated her beige morning dress. “Why must I change clothes?”

  Theresa was concentrating on leading her mistress into the hallway, then up the stairs. “Because the blue gown suits you better, of course.”

  “Better for what?”

  “For your eyes, my lady.” She maneuvered Ariana gently to the second-floor landing. “The pale blue of the gown makes them shine like the ocean.”

  “Thank you. But I didn’t mean why the blue gown. What I meant was—”

  “Here it is!” Theresa exclaimed triumphantly, running into the bedroom and waving the full, ruffled skirt in Ariana’s direction. “I’ve added a darker ribbon at each sleeve. Every shade of blue will be reflected in your glorious turquoise eyes.”

  Ariana made an exasperated sound. “Theresa, I am not taking another step until you tell me why I am donning that gown.” She waited just inside the doorway.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Theresa looked surprised.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Really, my lady, if your head weren�
��t so steeped in fanciful books, you would have heard me.” Theresa shut the door purposefully behind Ariana.

  “But you never …”

  “Our guests will be here any moment.”

  “Guests?” That got Ariana’s attention. Rarely did Winsham attract visitors—at least since Vanessa had died. Baxter customarily went out; gambling, Ariana suspected. Which left only herself and the servants. “What guests?”

  “Now how would I know that, my lady?” Theresa was already unbuttoning Ariana’s gown, whisking it off her. “I am, after all, only a maid and hardly provided with the afternoon guest list.”

  “But then, how did you know …”

  “I just told you I don’t.” She smoothed Ariana’s petticoats, then slid the blue silk gown over her head. “Now hurry, or I won’t have time to arrange your hair.”

  “Is Baxter home?”

  “He’s in his study.”

  A sudden unpleasant thought occurred to Ariana. “Theresa, did Baxter ask you to ready me for something—or, rather, for someone?” she demanded.

  Theresa smoothed the swirling folds to the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Your brother shall not be deciding your fate,” she replied.

  “But …”

  “My lady,” Theresa took her hands, “the answer to your question is no. The viscount asked nothing of me, nor would it change what is destined to occur.”

  Ariana’s fingers tightened around her faithful companion’s. She wanted no more riddles; only the benefit of Theresa’s far-seeing eyes. “Please … tell me. Who is coming to Winsham?”

  “A spokesman for the Queen.”

  “The Queen!” Ariana gasped. Hurriedly, she pulled the pins from her hair, shaking out the loose waves. “Perhaps Baxter has done something commendable at last and all our worries are over!” She limped over to the dressing table, sitting obediently and awaiting Theresa’s help. “Maybe this will be the answer to all we seek.”

  “I am certain it will be, my lady.”

  Ariana met Theresa’s gaze in the gilded mirror. “You’re not going to elaborate, are you?”

  In response, Theresa reached for the silver-handled brush and proceeded to arrange Ariana’s tresses.

  Ariana let out a deep sigh. “I was afraid of that. Very well, Theresa. I won’t press any farther.”

  “I pressed it perfectly, my lady,” Theresa defended instantly, smoothing the fine silk of Ariana’s sleeve. “There is not a crease to be found.”

  Ariana’s lips twitched. “No, you are most thorough. I wonder if any of us truly recognizes your full capabilities.”

  Theresa laced a blue velvet ribbon through Ariana’s hair. “I believe a carriage has just arrived. We’d best prepare to greet our guests.” She turned Ariana gently to face her, placing aged but steady hands on her mistress’s narrow shoulders. “I shall subdue your brother. You need only subdue your temper.”

  “Subdue Baxter? Why?” Ariana’s brow furrowed. “And why on earth would I lose my temper?”

  “Most of all,” Theresa continued as if Ariana hadn’t spoken, “remember to follow your instincts. They will not fail you.”

  “Instincts about what?” Ariana rose to her feet. “You’re frightening me, Theresa. What news could the Queen’s messenger possibly be bringing that would involve my instincts?”

  “Fear will not be an issue, nor does it need to be. But then, you already know that. Your instincts have confirmed it. Now come, my lady.” Theresa took her arm. “Your walk is still a trifle unsteady. That should grant us just enough time before we are needed.”

  A door slammed downstairs, and angry male voices reached Ariana’s ears.

  Theresa shook her head at the stricken look on her mistress’s face. “Do not be distressed. It is time.” With that, she led Ariana to meet her fate.

  “I cannot allow you just to barge in unannounced! What are your names? Why do you wish to see the viscount?”

  Coolidge, the portly Caldwell butler, made another unsuccessful attempt to block Trenton’s entrance to the house.

  “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.