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Did he actually believe she and Dustin would deceive him?
Ariana’s hands balled into defensive fists, leaving deep impressions in the soft feather pillow.
She could understand, if not condone, Trenton’s lack of faith in her. She was his wife, yes, but still a veritable stranger, intimate in bed, but not in fact. He’d had no occasion to discover that, unlike her brother, she possessed a fierce sense of loyalty and an unbreachable set of principles. In Trenton’s mind, she was simply a Caldwell: devoid of value, unworthy of trust.
But Dustin? Did Trenton truly believe his brother would ever deceive him, let alone disgrace him in his own home? The very concept was untenable. Surely Trenton must know that.
A gnawing possibility emerged, rearing its ugly head in Ariana’s mind. Could it be, just as Baxter had said, that Trenton was genuinely unable to retain any degree of reason when it came to what he considered his possessions—a category in which she now very much fell? Under certain circumstances, was he beyond rational thought even when the supposed indiscretion involved his own brother?
That question brought her thinking back to Dustin: Dustin who had been nothing but wonderful to her … until she’d implied that Trenton could be guilty of killing Vanessa. Then, from a warm and sensitive friend, Dustin had been instantly transformed into an angry and scornful stranger.
Not only had he defended his brother vehemently, he’d also implied it was Vanessa who had been the true culprit. What on earth had he meant by that?
And Dustin’s reaction disturbed Ariana for another reason. Despite his love for Trenton, Dustin’s verbal onslaught and irrational partiality were totally inconsistent with his personality. She had spent enough time in his company to recognize his innate objectivity, even when it came to assessing the behavior of those he loved. And yet, in this case, he was adamant in his conviction that Trenton was innocent—in spite of all the tangible evidence he must know. Why?
The answer was simple. Dustin believed in his brother, not with a sense of blind sibling loyalty, but with an absolute certainty that struck Ariana with all the force of a boulder. Because deep inside her she knew that Dustin wouldn’t be so sure if there weren’t a solid basis for his belief.
Pushing herself to a sitting position, Ariana dashed the tears from her cheeks, wondering uneasily what undisclosed details of the past Baxter had neglected to relay to her—and how she could uncover them. She might have learned more from Dustin if Trenton hadn’t broken into the stables like a jealous madman, interrupting their conversation.
One thing she had managed to learn was that the subject of Ri
chard Kingsley evoked great emotion in both brothers and that neither of them seemed willing to discuss the details of his death.
Elbows on her knees, Ariana leaned forward speculatively, resting her chin on her hands. Richard Kingsley had died very shortly after Vanessa. That much she knew. If his death hadn’t been caused by the shock of his elder son’s crime, then what had precipitated his sudden passing? And why did both Trenton and Dustin seem so determined to shroud the circumstances surrounding the late duke’s passing in mystery?
Ariana frowned. She had nowhere to turn for her answers. She’d never resort to questioning outsiders; that would both embarrass and scandalize her husband. So how could she gain more information about Richard Kingsley without alerting Dustin and Trenton to her intent and without resurrecting old wounds that could only hurt the Kingsley name?
Trenton’s sitting room.
The idea sprang into her head, an answer and a challenge. What a perfect starting point! She would go to Trenton’s sitting room, explore a bit … and maybe learn something.
Filled with a sense of purpose, Ariana came to her feet with a thud. She hadn’t the slightest notion of what she hoped to find in a room that was virtually bare, but any shred of Richard Kingsley’s memory, no matter how small, would be well worth an investigation of those barren walls. She’d intended to visit the room anyway to begin planning its redecoration—a feat she was determined to accomplish.
Quickly, Ariana ran a comb through her disheveled hair, the vision of Trenton’s anguished expression when he’d spoken of his aversion to the sitting room, to the pain and loss it elicited, materializing instantly in her mind. Why that picture caused her such pain, considering her own fears and misgivings—not to mention Trenton’s bizarre, contradictory behavior toward her—she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was Dustin’s trust in Trenton, perhaps it was her own instinctual faith. She only knew that she desperately wanted to do this for her husband; that if she could give him nothing else, she would give him this small realm of peace, this place to call his own.
And maybe, in the process, unravel the tangled web of the past.
On silent, bare feet, Ariana slipped into the hallway, glancing furtively right and left. The hall was deserted. She padded down to the sitting room and opened the door.
The room was as she remembered it: stark and empty. She glanced at the neglected armchair, which bespoke long, contented hours of reading and sketching, then hurried past it to the desk. For a long moment she stood, hand hovering over the top drawer. Never in her life had she pried into someone else’s things, and guilt fell heavily upon her, reminding her that what she was about to do was a gross invasion of privacy. Determination swiftly intervened, successfully arguing that her cause was a just one. Just and necessary.
Her decision made, Ariana yanked open the drawer.
A pile of sketches filled the drawer, sketches Ariana quickly recognized as various renovations to Broddington. The notes on each were initialed R.K., so she had no doubt as to who had made them. Lifting the stack of papers, she peered beneath. Nothing.
Undaunted, Ariana replaced the documents and closed the drawer, pulling open the one directly beneath. The contents were few and carefully placed: three gold frames containing three old photographs; a woman and two young boys. Her lips curving upward, Ariana studied them, recognizing the late Duchess of Broddington from the portraits of her that hung in the gallery and the younger, midnight blue-eyed lad with the mischievous grin as Dustin.
Still smiling, Ariana turned her attention to the third photo, her tender sentiments vanishing in a rush as her gaze locked with the penetrating cobalt stare of her husband. Dustin had been right: Even as a boy, Trenton was magnificently compelling, handsome as sin, with only a hint of the devastating charm time had yet to enhance. His youthful face, free of the harsh lines he now bore, together with his dazzling smile, equally as infectious as Ariana had noted in the maze where they’d met, made him almost irresistible in his appeal. And yet, even in boyhood, he seemed almost frighteningly intense, holding Ariana prisoner with his piercing stare. A prickle of fear shot up her spine, and she tore her gaze away, her breath coming in shallow pants.
Abruptly, she dropped the photos back in place and slammed the drawer shut.
The noise echoed through the vacant room and Ariana started, having forgotten the threat of discovery, having forgotten everything as she always did beneath Trenton’s hypnotic stare. Anxiously, she squatted behind the desk, waiting to see if she had alerted the household to her whereabouts.
Long minutes ticked by, accompanied only by the violent pounding of her heart.
At last, she heaved a sigh of relief and rose to continue her search.
The bottom drawer yielded only two old volumes of literature: one Milton, the other Chaucer. Ariana looked through them carefully, hoping to find a note or a letter that had inadvertently been left between the pages. She found nothing.
