Vanessa tapped her chin thoughtfully, her gaze automatically veering in the direction of Broddington. “Oh, we’ve already begun, dear brother.”
CHAPTER
19
TRENTON 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…
Die … betray … die…
With a hard shudder, he slammed the book shut.
Violently, he crushed the rose beneath his heel. Either Ariana had an unknown affinity for roses and Othello, or this was someone’s very sick idea of a joke.
“Thank you, Jennings.” Ariana smiled absently, handing her wrap to the butler. The outcome of her meeting with Baxter, although unsurprising, had drained her emotionally.
“Is that my wife, Jennings?” Trenton bellowed from the drawing room.
Ariana looked questioningly at Jennings, who had paled at the sound of Trenton’s booming voice.
“Yes, Your Grace, it is,” the butler called back. “The duke wanted to see you the moment you arrived home,” he advised Ariana in a swift whisper.
“Very well …” Ariana began. She had no time to finish her sentence before Trenton stalked down the hall, seized her hand, and dragged her into the drawing room and out of earshot.
“Trenton?” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and startled.
“When was the last time you went shopping?” he de
manded.
“Shopping?”
“Yes: Shopping. Specifically, to a bookstore in London. To buy me a gift … a volume of Shakespearean plays.”
“Trenton, I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about. If I’d been in London I would have told you. As far as Shakespeare, you never mentioned being a great fan of his. Were I going to buy you a gift—”
Trenton snatched the volume from the sofa and held it out to her. “You didn’t purchase this book?”
Ariana gave the volume a cursory glance. “No, of course not. I just told you—”
“Are you certain?”
“My head is not that far in the clouds. I don’t forget the purchases I make.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you interrogating me about this?”
Trenton cursed under his breath. “A merchant delivered this book today. He said my wife had bought it as a present for me and asked him to deliver it personally.”
“Are you sure he said your ‘wife’?”
“Positive.”
“Then evidently he misunderstood whoever purchased it. Is there a note?”
“None.”
“That’s odd.” Ariana’s brow furrowed.
“Or intentional.”
“Trenton, why would someone pretend to be your wife in order to send you a volume of Shakespearean plays?”
“You tell me.” Trenton opened the book, pointing to the underlined section. “Read that passage.” He waited while Ariana read. “The page was marked with that.” He gestured toward the crushed rose.
The color drained slowly from Ariana’s face. “A rose … That was Vanessa’s favorite flower, the scent she always wore. And the section from Othello …”
“Is about death … or, to be more specific, murder. Not merely a rose’s, but a woman’s.”
“This has to be a mistake … a horrible coincidence,” Ariana whispered.
“Oh, it’s no mistake, misty angel.” Trenton’s penetrating cobalt stare bore into Ariana. “The merchant described my wife as an incredibly beautiful woman with masses of red hair and splendid green eyes.”
“Oh my God.” Ariana sank down onto the sofa, feeling lightheaded.
“My sentiments exactly. If you didn’t buy this for me, who did? And why?”
“Red hair and splendid green eyes …” Ariana swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Trenton, that’s not really a description of me. My hair and eye color are not nearly so vivid. That sounds more like …”
“Vanessa,” he finished for her.
“Was the merchant reliable?”
“He was nervous as hell. He said something about his vision not being what it used to be.”
“Could his description be wrong?”
“What do you think?”
Ariana laced her fingers tightly together. “The question is, what do you think?”
“Honestly? That this was someone’s attempt to torture me.”
“Baxter.”
“You said it, not I.”
“I find it hard to believe my brother would be so cruel,” Ariana reasoned aloud. Seeing Trenton’s jaw tighten, she amended, “I didn’t say he wasn’t selfish and greedy. But despite whatever else he may be, Baxter is not a sadistic man.”
“Obviously you’ve been in his company this afternoon,” Trenton said bitterly.
“What you’re implying is unfair and untrue. Meeting with Baxter altered nothing, Trenton. I’m not as easily influenced as you evidently think.”
“What did the bastard tell you?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.”
“He admitted blackmailing me?”
“He had another term for it, but yes.”
Thunderclouds erupted on Trenton’s face. “I can just imagine how he presented his case.”
“That makes absolutely no difference.” Ariana rose, going to stand beside her husband. “Did you think I’d take Baxter’s word over yours, especially after I’ve offered you my love and my trust?”
Trenton turned to face her. “No,” he denied instantly. “But if Baxter didn’t send me the book, who did?”
“I don’t know. Another enemy, perhaps?”
“An enemy with very precise timing, wouldn’t you say?”
Ariana assessed the torment on her husband’s face and ached for his anguish. “Everyone knows you’ve been away from Broddington for years,” she reasoned gently. “Baxter’s rumors riled many people after Vanessa’s death. … You said so yourself. Perhaps your emergence re-ignited someone’s ill feelings. … Why, just think of poor James Covington, whose daughter Suzanne is probably still wailing over the betrothal to Baxter you forcibly severed.” Ariana attempted a smile, determined to ease Trenton’s ominous thoughts. “As you can see, you are not the most beloved man in England. In fact, you are quite a bear. Fortunately for you, I see beneath that brutal exterior.”
Trenton stared into her eyes, desperate to believe her, incapable of doing so. “What about the bookseller’s description?”
“Whoever is responsible for this obviously went to a great deal of trouble to upset you.” She stroked his cheek. “I won’t let them succeed.”
Trenton drank in Ariana’s tenderness, a balm to his raw nerves. Sifting his fingers through her hair, he murmured, “Who would ever have believed that a slip of a girl would be giving me her strength? … Or that I would be needing it?”
Relief flooded through Ariana as she sensed the tension ebbing from her husband. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin. “Girl? And here I thought I had graduated from girl to woman weeks ago.”
Fervently, Trenton clasped her to him. “You did. You have.” Waves of emotion clogged his chest, and Trenton expressed them in the only way he knew how. “Come to bed with me.”
Smiling, Ariana nodded against his throat. “The perfect place for me to exhibit my great strength and stamina.”
“Ariana …”
His wife leaned back in his arms. “I love you too, Trenton,” she said softly.
Slipping her hand in his, she led him to the door.
Ariana slept peacefully, her hair a bright copper waterfall across Trenton’s chest.
Smiling tenderly, Trenton gathered his wife closer, feeling her warm, even breaths against his skin.
In response, Ariana murmured something unintelligible and snuggled against him, deeply asleep in the aftermath of their soul-shattering passion, secure in the shelter of her husband’s embrace.
Rubbing his chin absently over her satiny tresses, Trenton wondered who he truly sought to comfort by holding his wife so tightly in his arms: Ariana, or himself. Candidly, he acknowledged the blessed relief of feeling her warm, soft body pressed against his. It was almost as euphoric as the exaltation he experienced when he exploded inside her, poured his entire being into hers.
Lord, he loved this woman.
The realization, instant but absolute, elicited only wonder and joy, rather than doubt or reservation. The feeling was not a new one, regardless of Trenton’s cowardice at assigning it its proper name. He’d loved Ariana for weeks: perhaps from that first moment he’d made his way through the mist of the Covington maze, only to lose himself all over again in the melting beauty of her eyes; certainly since their wedding night, when he’d joined his body to hers, made her his wife in every way.
Pressing his lips to Ariana’s forehead, Trenton felt a wave of gratitude that God had seen fit to bring her into his life. In a mere month this extraordinary young woman, with her fundamental love of nature and her unconditional faith in a man that had long since ceased to exist, had broken through Trenton’s rigid walls of isolation, surrounded him with her goodness and her love, and penetrated deep into his heart.
A heart he had thought would never thaw again.
Thanks to Ariana, Trenton could actually visualize himself as the man she believed him to be; and he wanted to be that man, desperately, for her.
Vengeance suddenly seemed a poor substitute.
Tre
nton frowned. At a time when he could actually consider burying the past, looking ahead rather than back, someone was making certain that the past remained very much in the present.
Who?
Staring at the ceiling, he contemplated the possibilities. The most likely, of course, was Baxter. Unlike Ariana, Trenton regarded Baxter not only as a greedy, selfish man, but as a heartless one, as well. He’d never forgotten the bastard’s odious pleasure at refusing Trenton’s request to spare Richard further grief, and the perverse satisfaction Baxter had taken in evicting Trenton from Winsham.
The man was indeed capable of cruelty.
But not without cause.
That was the part that nagged at Trenton’s mind, made him doubt Baxter’s guilt. Vindication alone was not enough to drive Baxter Caldwell; no, not unless he had something tangible to gain from it.
Money.
In this case, money was not an issue. Mentally torturing Trenton would bring nothing of monetary worth to Baxter. Which drastically reduced Caldwell’s plausibility as a suspect.
So who had sent that book? Whoever was guilty had to be motivated by blatant viciousness, enough to pay someone to impersonate Vanessa in order to torment Trenton.
Masses of red hair and splendid green eyes.
Trenton squeezed his own eyes shut to block out the image that conjured up: Vanessa. Damn her even in death.
Rearranging the pillows, Trenton settled himself for sleep, determined to stop agonizing over that bloody book. Purposefully, he ran his hand over Ariana’s soft curves, reaffirming what was real, what was important. Then, cradling her to him, he slept.
The lantern heralded her arrival, piercing the dark of night and illuminating her hair to a fiery crimson blaze. Her lime silk gown was snug, and she wore nothing underneath, clearly defining every tantalizing curve of her body.
He was unmoved.
He could hear her voice, sense the urgency that drove her. He could feel the silk of her gown as his fingers dug into her shoulders, the fragility of her bones as he shook her.… Dear Lord, the venom inside him was such that he could kill her. …
Kill her… kill her… kill her …
Trenton, don’t … don’t … don’t …