His lethal whisper sent cold waves of apprehension down Ariana’s spine.
“Yes, you bloody scoundrel, sister!” Baxter snatched Ariana from Trenton’s arms as if she were a mere parcel, letting her legs drop unceremoniously to the floor.
Ariana whimpered in pain, her ankle giving out beneath her.
“Ariana? My God, what did you do to her?” Baxter caught Ariana’s elbows mere seconds before she crumbled to the floor. “Wasn’t one sister enough for you?”
Black fire smoldered in Trenton’s eyes. “I did nothing to her, Caldwell. She fell … I carried her back. Had I known she was a Caldwell I would have reconsidered.”
Taking in Ariana’s anguished expression and disheveled appearance, Baxter’s mind worked rapidly, acutely aware that a small crowd had gathered around them. “I have no idea why you’ve chosen tonight to reappear, but you’re trespassing, Kingsley,” he proclaimed loudly, twinges of long-forgotten fear awakening inside him. After six years in exile, why the hell had the contemptible bastard chosen now to return?
Ignoring the frantic pounding in his temples, Baxter wrapped one arm tightly about Ariana’s waist, holding her to him with brotherly protectiveness. With his free hand he gestured grandly, summoning a burly footman who stood nearby.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Show the marquis … oh, pardon me, the duke,” Baxter corrected bitterly, “out.” He turned to Trenton with hatred in his eyes. “You’ll forgive me, Your Grace. The last time we saw each other you had not yet acquired the exalted title of the Duke of Broddington.”
Trenton shook off the servant’s hand. “I am not going anywhere.” His jaw clenched with purpose, he turned to James Covington. “Let me suggest that you allow me to have my say, James. Your bank holds too much of my money to risk arousing my wrath.”
After a slight hesitation, Covington nodded, and the footman moved off. “This is my daughter’s betrothal party, Broddington,” Covington said tersely. “So speak your mind and then, please leave.”
“That is precisely what I intended,” the duke replied, ignoring the appalled whispers around him. “I assure you that I loathe being here more than you loathe having me. But you see”—his eyes narrowed—“I cannot allow this mockery of a celebration to continue.”
Icy fingers gripped Baxter’s heart.
“Call off the betrothal, Covington.” Trenton’s voice was an unyielding command, emotionless in its tone, lethal in its determination.
“What?” Covington started.
“You heard me.” Trenton’s quiet order was heard only by those for whom it was meant: the Covingtons … and Caldwell. Both Caldwells, Trenton amended silently, not permitting himself even a brief glance at the pale, tousled beauty w
ho leaned against her brother for support, staring at Trenton with a frightened intensity he could actually feel but refused to acknowledge. Nothing and no one was going to alter his plan.
“Tell everyone in this room that your daughter cannot marry Baxter Caldwell,” he repeated.
“You don’t have to stand here and take this, James,” Baxter choked out. “I’ll have him thrown out.”
“And I’ll have every bloody pound of my money withdrawn from your bank and deposited in your competitor’s,” Trenton threatened softly, his gaze locked with Covington’s. “I’ve already spoken to Willinger. … He is most eager to receive my millions.”
Covington ran his tongue over cold, dry lips. “But why? Why?” he asked, bewildered. He’d held the Kingsley fortune for decades now, since the late duke had been alive. Richard Kingsley had been not only a business associate but a trusted personal friend. Why, the duke had designed this very manor—a rare honor indeed, and a tribute to their friendship, since Richard rarely applied his unique architectural talent to anything save his beloved Broddington.
James mopped his brow, fervently wishing Richard were alive and vital, still in control of the Kingsley funds.
But he wasn’t.
And while both his sons had inherited their father’s wealth and flair for design, it was his elder, Trenton, who’d acquired Richard’s keen business mind as well as his architectural genius. During Richard’s declining years, Trenton masterfully designed numerous acclaimed churches and homes, while at the same time he assumed the running of Broddington from his aging father, tripling the enormous family fortune in the last years of Richard’s life.
And every pound of that fortune had been deposited in the Covington bank. Where it had remained—until now.
James met Trenton’s unwavering stare, ugly questions crowding his mind. “Why do you want the betrothal severed?” he repeated weakly.
“You know why.”
Covington closed his eyes, remembering the horrid sequence of events that had preceded Trenton’s self-imposed exile to Spraystone, his Isle of Wight retreat. “It’s been six years, Trenton.”
“Yes. And I’ve suffered every one of them for just this moment.” Trenton refused to look at Baxter, knowing if he did he would kill him. “I mean you no harm, James. You are merely a vehicle needed to ensure the viscount’s downfall. In fact, I’m doing you a favor. This parasite doesn’t want your daughter, he wants your money. Believe me or disbelieve me; it makes no difference. Just call off the wedding. Or my solicitor will contact you tomorrow regarding the withdrawal of my funds. Every last penny. Now, is acquiring a title for Suzanne really worth total financial ruin?”
“Why you miserable …” Baxter lunged forward, releasing Ariana, who fell against Covington, clutching his arm for support.