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Leaning her head back against the carriage seat, Ariana vowed to learn the truth, at whatever cost. But regardless of what her trip to Winsham revealed, her belief in her husband would remain steadfast.
In short, someone was guilty.
Trenton was not.
The sun was rising over Winsham when Ariana alit from her carriage. She didn’t pause but climbed the steps and knocked.
“Your Grace?” Coolidge looked stunned—and sleepy.
“I want to see my brother. Now.”
“I returned from my holiday late last night and saw the viscount only briefly. I believe he is still abed.”
“Then awaken him.” Ariana folded her arms across her chest, her chin raised determinedly.
“But—”
“Fine. I’ll awaken him myself.” She headed for the stairway.
“Ariana?” Baxter descended from the second level, tying the belt of his robe, looking thoroughly perplexed. “What on earth are you doing here at dawn? Is everything all right?”
“No. We need to talk.”
A flash of emotion—was it concern or fear?—crossed Baxter’s face, then disappeared. “All right. Come into the morning room. Coolidge can serve tea. Would you like breakfast? He can—”
“I’m not hungry. I’m impatient. No refreshments are necessary, Coolidge,” she assured the flustered butler. “I apologize for disrupting you so soon after your return from holiday. Go back to bed.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Still half-asleep, Coolidge stumbled back to his quarters.
“Ariana, what’s wrong?” Baxter hurried after her as she headed purposefully down to the morning room.
Ariana closed the door firmly behind them. “We are going to have a frank conversation. I’ll begin by telling you the following: I’m in love with my husband. I don’t believe he killed Vanessa, nor do I believe he was responsible for her suicide.” Ariana held up her hand to ward off Baxter’s protest. “That’s not all. Someone has been tormenting Trenton the past week. I have reason to suspect it is you. Is it, Baxter?”
Baxter opened and closed his mouth a few times. Then he shook his head in exasperation. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Where would I get the opportunity to torment your husband?”
“I notice you questioned only your opportunity, and not your motive,” Ariana returned coldly. “In answer to your question, you wouldn’t need the opportunity. You’d do it indirectly, hire others to take care of it for you.”
“Take care of what? What’s being done to Kingsley?”
“The atrocities of the past are being brandished in his face, either as a cruel reminder or a sick joke.”
“Atrocities?” Baxter appeared to be struggling to understand.
“Vanessa’s death. Vanessa herself. Someone is recapturing her death and replaying it for Trenton.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“Quite sure. First, Trenton received a volume of Shakespeare, marked with a rose.” Ariana paused while the significance of the sender having chosen Vanessa’s favorite flower as a page designator sank in. Then she continued. “The rose marked that section of Othello where he contemplates murdering Desdemona.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“According to the merchant who sold the book, the woman who purchased it for Trenton referred to herself as his wife. The shopkeeper described her as being a vibrant red-haired, green-eyed woman. That was only the first incident. There have been many others since. Shall I recount them to you?”
Ariana didn’t wait for a reply. “Late that same night Trenton found a discarded lantern in the sand along the River Arun … a lantern that was identical to the one Vanessa carried on the night she died. As Trenton was examining the lantern, a woman appeared in the trees—a woman who looked astonishingly like Vanessa. She vanished before Trenton could question her.
“But she’s reappeared several times since. Ironically, one of those occasions was on the exact day—at the identical hour that I visited Winsham to accept your check—at your request. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“What are you accusing me of?” Baxter sputtered.
