Echoes in the Mist (Kingsleys in Love 1)

“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.