Andrea Kane (36 page)

“Home?”

Ariana smiled softly. “Yes: Home. To Broddington. And you.”

“How do I look?”

Vanessa whirled about, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Amazing.” Baxter shook his head. “The resemblance is staggering.”

“Between the gowns? Or the women?”

Baxter shot her an impatient look. “The gowns go without saying, Ness. They’re not only similar, they’re identical. I insisted that the dressmaker ensure that. No, I was referring to the resemblance between my sisters.”

“Then I succeeded?”

“Did you doubt that you would?”

“I had only your description to go by, Baxter. If you recall, I haven’t seen Ariana face-to-face since she was twelve. Apparently”—Vanessa smoothed her gown’s peach bodice with a dark smile—“she’s changed a bit in six years.”

“In all ways but her innocence,” Baxter concurred, with more than a trace of guilt. “Our baby sister is still the naïve dreamer she was as a child. Life has spared her much of its ugliness and disenchantment.” He frowned. “I only wish I could have sheltered you from the same.”

Vanessa’s features hardened. “Well, you couldn’t. But that’s all behind us. Now is the time for retribution. And have it, we shall.” She tucked a loose crimson strand behind her ear. “I’m not used to wearing my hair in so simple and unadorned a style. Are you certain Ariana prefers it this way?” Waiting only for Baxter’s nod, she continued: “Tell me again the best entry to Broddington.”

“Definitely through the chapel. It’s secluded and surrounded by trees. No one will see you approach.”

“Where is Trenton’s room located?”

Baxter started. “Ness, are you crazy?”

“Not in the least. For what I have in mind I need access to his bedroom. Do you know where it is?”

“I couldn’t very well ask Ariana if I might explore the second level of her husband’s home. It was hard enough scrutinizing the main floor and the grounds without being found out. Besides”—he shook his head—“I don’t want you in that madman’s bedchamber.”

“If I can slip through the main hall and up the stairs, I should be able to find the right room without too much trouble,” Vanessa mused aloud, totally ignoring Baxter’s protests. “From what you’ve told me, there are few servants living there. It’s afternoon: too late for the maids to be straightening up and too early for the cook to be preparing dinner. My only problem should be the butler. And, based upon your description of the pathetic, nervous fellow,” she said with a dismissive shrug, “he should be easy to outwit. The rest is up to me.”

The grandfather clock chimed three.

“It’s time,” Vanessa announced.

“I’m worried, Ness.” Baxter rubbed his palms together nervously. “What if someone should see you? Or worse, what if Kingsley discovers your pretense?”

“No one will see me, Baxter. Nor will Trenton figure out who I am. In fact …” Vanessa scooped up a waiting parcel and headed for the door. “By the time I’ve left Broddington, the Duke of Broddington won’t recognize truth from lies, reality from fantasy.” She paused at the threshold. “Or sanity from madness.”

“Trenton is not mad, Theresa.”

“Mad?” Theresa sniffed. “What an absurd notion. The duke is deeply troubled and confused … but never mad.”

Ariana leaned back in the jostling carriage, frustrated and despondent. “Yet he is questioning his own sanity.” She rubbed her eyes. “Oh, he has ceased discussing it, but I feel the anguish that relentlessly gnaws at him. He lies awake half the night, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the bizarre events that have occurred. I don’t know how to help him.”

“Have faith, love.” Theresa patted her arm soothingly. “I know it seems that your husband is walking through a dark tunnel from which there is no return. But he is strong. He will prevail. Remember what Sir Francis said about adversity.”

Ariana had to smile. “What brilliant words did Sir Francis have on the subject?”

“‘Certainly virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed: for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue.’”

“The latter most definitely applies to Trenton.” Ariana tilted her head questioningly at Theresa. “One of my main worries is that the former applies to Baxter.”

“Your brother is indeed a greedy man. If wealth has been placed in or near his hands, he may cast scruples aside.”

“Do you think he is behind the delivery of the book and the eerie incident at the beach?”

Theresa studied her folded hands. “He has both the motivation and the hatred. But he lacks the cunning and the fortitude.”

“My thoughts exactly. Still”—Ariana shook her head, baffled—“I have the nagging suspicion that Baxter’s desire to make amends is just a little too timely to be mere coincidence.”

“Your instincts again, pet. Heed them well.”

“But Baxter’s potential involvement still doesn’t address one important question: Who is impersonating Vanessa?”

“Ah. Now we need to return to my view of appearance.”

“Your view of appearance?” Ariana was completely at sea. “How does that apply here?”

“Because as I’ve said, appearance varies depending upon one’s perspective and is often not as one believes it to be.”

“Meaning that Vanessa’s impostor is not what she seems?”

“Indeed.” Theresa turned to look out the window, a clear indication that the subject had been exhausted. “Think about it, love,” she advised. “Think hard; think well.”

“Do you know who the woman is?”

“I only know that she is a threat to your husband’s sanity, and that she represents danger,” Theresa replied. “The rest is still in shadows … shadows you must unveil.”

Broddington was silent.

Staring moodily out the window, Trenton wondered why he had sought out the sitting room in which to think. Aside from his visit here the other day, he never ventured into his father’s domain.

The answer was simple: He felt closer to the truth here.

Hands clasped behind his back, Trenton gazed into the late-afternoon sky, wishing the hours would speed by and bring Ariana safely home. Rational or not, he felt terribly uneasy about her meeting with Baxter. True, she had lived with the man for eighteen years, during which time no real harm had befallen her. But that was before she’d become Trenton’s wife, before she’d come to care for the man who was her brother’s enemy.

Before Trenton had fallen in love with her in return.

Warily, Trenton pondered Baxter’s intent. Was he engineering some sinister plot to drive Trenton to his knees? Did he plan to use Ariana as an unsuspecting accomplice? If so, would Ariana be able to recognize his ploy? She was so damned trusting and innocent.

So unlike Vanessa.

Trenton began to prowl the room fitfully, the concept of Vanessa crowding his mind, consuming his thoughts. The one thing he couldn’t accuse Baxter of was conjuring up Vanessa’s image the other night at the river. Had Baxter paid someone to play the part? Was that possible? Could
anyone
so closely resemble the vivid bitch who had destroyed Trenton’s life?

And the most frightening question of all: Had anyone actually been present that night, or was Trenton truly losing his mind?

Sweat breaking out on his brow, Trenton stalked out of the sitting room, the ghosts of the past too powerful to withstand. He stood in the hallway, his breathing shallow, grateful that no one was about to witness his uncharacteristic loss of control. Grimly, he battled the emotional weakness, reminding himself that his reserves were depleted, for he’d had little more than two hours’ sleep the past few nights.

Sleep. The very solution.

Trenton made his way to his chambers, determined to rest, if not doze, until Ariana’s return. Perhaps then his mind would be fresh and he’d be able to view the entire situation more objectively.

The room was warm with late-afternoon sunlight. Trenton leaned back against the closed door and inhaled deeply.

Roses.

Instantly, the scent accosted him, icy fear encasing his soul, bile churning through his gut. In a rigid, trancelike state, Trenton crossed the room, each step bringing him closer to some inescapable, unknown atrocity. He sensed it with every fiber of his being, steeling himself for its discovery.

No amount of fortification prepared him for what awaited.

With a low groan, Trenton clutched his nightstand, staring at the scene before him. His bed was carefully turned down, a tattered lime silk gown crumpled on the floor at its foot. The stark linen was barren, but for a single rose that lay upon the pillow amid a bright crimson stain.

Blood.

With shaking hands, Trenton bent to lift the gown from the floor, already knowing what he would find. More blood was streaked across the delicate fabric, the bodice ragged, but still discernible.

It was the gown Vanessa had worn on the night she died.

Flinging the garment to the bed, Trenton backed away, shaking his head in denial. It couldn’t be. Dear Lord, it couldn’t be.

And yet it was.

He took the stairs two at a time, unsure exactly where it was he was running—and from whom. A lone maid glanced curiously in his direction, but she was far too timid to approach the duke in his obviously agitated state.

The conservatory door was open, the flowers bright and beckoning. Mindlessly, Trenton stumbled inside, unconsciously seeking whatever haven Ariana seemed always to find here, desperately craving peace.

It was unattainable.

“Trenton …”

The chanting sound of his name accosted him, struck a chilling chord of recognition. It was
her
voice: not only the one he’d heard two nights ago at the river, but the one he’d heard six years ago.

It was Vanessa.

“Trenton …”

Feeling as though he were living some heinous nightmare, Trenton forced himself to turn his head, following the sound with his eyes.

She stood directly outside the conservatory door leading from the manor. As he stared, ashen-faced, she raised her arms, beckoning him toward her.

“Please, Trenton … don’t hurt me … don’t leave me … not again.” She raised her chin, gazing at him with brilliant emerald eyes. “Come to me, Trenton. Stay with me.”

A hoarse cry rose in Trenton’s throat, and something inside him seemed to snap. Violently, he erupted, knocking flowers and plants out of his way, racing toward the loathsome apparition, wild fury and terror converging.

She was gone.

He shaded his eyes with his hand, dragging air into his lungs in hard, shallow rasps. Each breath was accompanied by the lingering scent of roses, a taunting reminder of Vanessa’s presence. Trenton raked the grounds with his savage cobalt stare, refusing to concede defeat by allowing the apparition to escape. Whoever … whatever … she was, he would find her.

A snatch of color caught his eye and he took off in pursuit. Rounding the corner of the house, he stopped dead in his tracks.

She was leaning against the trunk of a sweeping oak tree, gazing intently at the sky and jotting idly in some kind of notebook.

Trenton closed the gap between them in ten long strides, seizing her elbows and slapping the notebook from her hands.

“Damn you! You won’t get away from me this time!”

She blinked up at him, her green eyes wide and startled. “Trenton? What is it? Why are you so upset?”

Of their own volition, his fingers wrapped around her throat, digging into the soft skin. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

She began to struggle, looking totally bewildered and utterly terrified. “Trenton … it’s me: Ariana. Don’t you recognize me?”

All the color drained from his face. “Ariana?”

“Yes … your wife.” She shoved at his forearms, trying to ease his biting grip. “I’m not doing anything to you; I saw a robin feathering her nest and was noting it in my journal. Why are you so angry at me?”

Trenton’s hold grew lax, and he swallowed the sickness that rose in his throat, staring at the woman as if seeing her for the first time. Ariana? This wasn’t Ariana. It couldn’t be. Where was the gentle turquoise of her eyes, the copper softness of her hair, the delicate innocence of her fine features?

“No!” he denied vehemently, shaking her shoulders until she whimpered aloud. “No!”

“Trenton … you’re hurting me.” She began to struggle, the loose waves of her hair spilling over her shoulders. “Please … let me go.”

He stared at the soft tendrils, thinking of all the times Ariana’s unbound tresses had cascaded around them, a bright, unrestricted waterfall. Could it be?

Dragging the woman closer, Trenton’s granite features hardened to stone as he studied her face, her coloring.

No. This wasn’t his misty angel. This was her detestable older sister. Hard. Vicious. Bitter. Vanessa. It had to be.

Didn’t it?

“Trenton?” The woman reached up to touch his cheek.

“You’re frightening me …
Why are you looking at me like that?”

Vanessa was dead; this couldn’t be Vanessa.

“Would you like to walk with me? It’s a glorious day, and the robin I mentioned is on that thick branch just over our heads.” She pointed. “If I were dressed differently, I’d be tempted to climb this old oak myself so that I might see the nest firsthand.”

Dressed differently.

The words triggered a thought in Trenton’s dazed mind and, automatically, his gaze dropped to the woman’s morning dress: the same dress Ariana was wearing when she’d left Broddington hours before.

A harsh groan escaped his lips. “Your gown …”

She glanced down at herself and sighed. “Do you really dislike it? Or is it only because Baxter gave it to me? He means well, Trenton, truly he does.” She inclined her head. “Still, if it troubles you so, I’ll return it.”

“Dear God, what’s happening to me?” Trenton flung her from him, grabbing his head and stumbling backward in a haze of disorientation.

The apparition opened her mouth to speak, but her words were lost amid the deafening buzz inside Trenton’s head.

“What’s happening to me?” he repeated in a horrified whisper, cold sweat drenching his entire body.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Propelled by the fires of hell, he staggered back toward the manor.