Shakespeare and the Three Kings

by Victoria Alexander

  “Shakespeare,” she said in the commanding voice his previous owner had instructed. “Down, boy! Sit!” The Great Dane froze, then obediently smacked his haunches on the carpet. The Yorkies stopped as one and stared.

  “Where in the name of all that’s holy did this great hulking beast come from? Brandy, Miles! Now.” Oliver strode into the room, his angry gaze on the Great Dane. “Who brought this creature into my home? It's not bad enough—”

  “He’s mine.” Her voice quavered and his gaze jerked to hers.

  “And who—” His eyes widened. Astonishment and recognition flashed across his face.

  She drew a deep breath and thrust out her hand. “I’m D. K. Lawrence.”

  Diana?

  “You’re D. K. Lawrence?”

  She nodded. Stunned disbelief flooded him and rooted him to the floor. She dropped her hand. “My aunt hired you? You?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Yes, she did.”

  He stared for a long moment, groping to find words through his shock. Miles stepped into the room bearing a tray laden with a decanter and two glasses. The servant placed it on a table near the fireplace and left without saying a word.

  Oliver turned on his heel and strode to the waiting brandy. He poured a snifter of the amber liquid and his hand shook. “Were you aware that my aunt died last month?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was soft. “I’m very sorry.” She paused. Was she as affected at this moment as he? Or did she simply not care? His fingers tightened on the crystal. “When we—corresponded, she was well aware of that possibility. That’s exactly why she wished me to come at this time.”

  He pulled a deep swallow of the pungent liquor and savored the burn down his throat. He turned to face her.

  Gad, she was far lovelier than he remembered. He would not have thought it possible but the years had molded her in the way a sculptor carves a rough-hewn piece of marble into an exquisite work of art. She'd been a pretty girl. She was a magnificent woman. And he wanted nothing to do with her.

  “My aunt was wrong.” His words were cold and hard. “I have no need of your services. I will have my solicitor see to your fee and—’’

  “I’ve already been paid.” A surprising note of stubbornness rang in her voice.

  “Very well, then. Miles will make arrangements for you to return to London or wherever you wish.” He nodded his dismissal.

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand.” A determined gleam shone in her deep brown eyes. “I’ve been retained to render a service. I’ve received compensation for my work in advance. I have a job to do here and I will not leave until that job is completed.”

  He clenched his jaw. “The need no longer exists. Therefore—”

  “I beg to differ with you. From what I just saw, the situation here is far worse than your aunt led me to believe. She suspected you would not be able to handle the terriers.” She raised a delicate brow. “Or am I mistaken? Was the upheaval in the hall to your liking, then?”

  “The upheaval in the hall was the direct result of that horse you brought into my home!”

  “I see. I assume therefore your walk with the dogs went well? They were well behaved and responsive to your commands?”

  The memory of the last hour with his small herd of dogs flashed through his head. Each of the creatures had insisted on going in his own direction and not one had paid the least bit of attention to Oliver’s vain attempt to instill order from canine anarchy.

  He tossed off the rest of the brandy and slammed the glass down on the table. “Very well. Stay. Just do something about those bloody beasts. They are driving me stark, raving mad.” He stalked toward the door. He had to get away from her. Now. Before the wall he’d constructed so carefully around his emotions, around his heart, shattered. She’d destroyed him once before. He would not permit it again.

  “Wait. Pardon me.”

  “What?” He halted and threw her a scathing glare. She should have cringed. Others had. Instead, she raised her chin and met his gaze.

  “What, precisely, did you wish me to do with the dogs?”

  “I don’t give a bloody fig what you do with them. Roast them for supper for all I care!”

  A low chorus of growls sounded.

  “I mean, what do you wish me to accomplish?” She tilted her head and his heart thudded at the long-remembered gesture. Lord, had he forgotten nothing about her?

  “I just wish them to behave as well-mannered dogs and not overindulged brats.”

  Oliver nodded sharply, strode through the doorway and stalked the short distance down the hall to the library. He threw open the double doors and slammed them shut behind him. A decanter similar to that in the parlor sat on the desk. Thank God for Miles. He poured a glass and downed the contents in one swallow.

  “Diana,” he whispered, and closed his eyes against a wave of pain he’d thought long since vanquished to some irretrievable part of his past.

  He hadn’t forgotten, of course, he’d simply chosen not to think about it. But every moment of the days the young Englishman had spent with the pretty American swept through his mind as vivid as yesterday. They’d met at some social function or other and met again at museums and galleries and parks until they’d made meeting a priority and, for him, the only priority. He loved her with all the passion of his youth and wanted her as his wife. And he thought she loved him as well. Believed it with his whole heart, right up until the time when he came to ask her father for her hand.

  He poured another glass and sank into the chair before the fireplace. Jonathan Ketterson was a wealthy American in London on business. The vehemence of Ketterson’s reaction to Oliver’s suit still rang in the younger man’s mind...

  ***

  “... I would never allow my daughter to marry an Englishman.” Ketterson's voice swelled with bitter anger. “I would see her in her grave before I would permit such a match. “

  “But sir,” Oliver said, struggling to keep his tone calm, “we love each other.”

  “Love? Rubbish. A foolish emotion at best.” Ketterson's eyes narrowed. “If you have dishonored her—”

  “Not at all, sir! I wish her to be my wife.”

  “Not as long as there is breath in my body. I know better than most the deceitful nature of Englishmen. I have taken precautions to prevent any further contact between you and my daughter. I have sent her home. She and her mother sailed this morning.” A spiteful gleam shown in Ketterson s eye. “Besides, she is to marry a man of my choosing. The arrangements have already been made. “

  Oliver shook his head. “Forgive me, sir, but I cannot, I will not, believe that.”

  “Believe what you wish. She, no doubt, was playing you for a fool. Regardless, the fact is that you will not see her again. I will make certain of that, do you understand? Never...”

  Oliver hadn’t believed. He wrote letter after letter to Diana. Every day for weeks, every week for months, with no reply. Until finally he realized the inevitable truth: she had indeed deceived him. He’d been an idle diversion, a distraction to keep her amused during her stay in London. Nothing more.

  ***

  He raked his hand through his hair. Ketterson and his daughter had changed his life forever. His heart hardened. He threw all the passion he’d felt for her into furthering his governmental career. He never permitted another man to speak to him as Ketterson had. He never allowed himself to be taken in by the wiles of a woman. And he never expected to see her again.

  Now, by some dastardly fluke of fate, or the hand of his beloved aunt, she was here. In his own home. Why?

  Diana Lawrence. Lawrence must be her husband's name. Where did he fit into all this? Perhaps she was a widow? Perhaps—no! He drew a deep swallow of the brandy. Whatever her true purpose for being here, he would not fall victim to her charms again. The feelings he’d had for her had died with his youth.

  She’d been hired to do something about those bloody dogs and he’d tolerate her presence for that and that alone. He woul
d resist the impulse to pull her into his arms and taste of the lips he had tasted so briefly so long ago. He would turn his back on the deep velvet of her eyes. He would deafen his ears to the dulcet sound of her voice.

  And he would ignore the ache that centered near his heart and crush the hope that sprang unwillingly from his soul.

  Chapter Three

  Diana stared at the doorway. Unbidden tears clouded her vision and she angrily sniffed them away. She had cried once for him and would not cry for, or because of, any man ever again. Her tears were a surprise; she thought she was stronger than that. Oliver’s reaction, on the other hand, was no surprise at all.

  Lady Eleanor had warned her that he would not welcome her with open arms. Still, somewhere deep inside, she had hoped for some acknowledgement of what they’d meant to each other. Aside from a momentary flash in his eyes, Oliver hadn’t even indicated he remembered her. Even so, he was letting her stay. Diana pulled a deep breath. It was so little but it was a beginning.

  A soft head nudged her hand. She glanced down to meet Shakespeare’s mournful gaze.

  “Did you understand all that, boy?” Diana sank to the floor, and Shakespeare settled next her. She scanned the room. The Yorkies sat beneath a sofa, black eyes trained on her. She patted the carpet beside her. “Come.”

  Obediently, all three trotted to line up before her. She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re all quite adorable, you know.”

  The terriers seemed to smile in a smug manner. “Ah, I see, you know what darlings you are. Let’s see if I can remember who is whom.” Diana studied the dogs, each subtly different from the next. “You are Gaspar.”

  The smallest dog wagged his tail.

  “And you are Balthazar.”

  The ears of the dog next in line perked upward. This animal had more of a silver color in his coat than the other two.

  “And that means you must be Melchoir.”

  The last and roundest animal tilted his head. Diana smiled. “I do hope that’s right. Lady Eleanor said I should be able to tell you apart after a few days. Of course, what I’m going to do with you will be a bit more difficult to determine.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “I’ve never even owned a dog, you know. Why, I only acquired Shakespeare last month and he was already trained. The man who owned him gave me some advice and a pamphlet on the training of canines but”—she shrugged—” I suppose we'll simply have to work together on this. Everything would be so much easier if Lady Eleanor were here.”

  Diana shook her head in regret. She’d loved Lady Eleanor from the moment she’d walked into Thornton Manor in October in hopes of finding Oliver, and had wondered since then how differently life might have been for them all if she’d met his aunt when she’d first met him. The elderly woman had put Diana at ease at once and listened to her story without censure or criticism. Diana had related only the bare facts but the shrewd look in the other woman’s eye told her Lady Eleanor could well guess the portions of Diana’s story left unsaid. The woman she’d become was embarrassed, even ashamed, of the weak, frightened girl she’d been.

  Absently, she scratched behind Balthazar’s ears. Even now, the horror of the day she’d told her father of her feelings for Oliver haunted her. Jonathan Ketterson had flown into a rage unlike anything she’d ever seen. He’d called her a fool and worse. He’d said Oliver was merely toying with her affections and was in fact already betrothed. He’d screamed and raved and torn her dress from her back, beating her at the base of her spine with his cane until she swooned from the pain. Anna, her mother, tried to interfere but he backhanded her with enough force to fling her halfway across the room.

  From that moment on, nothing in her life was the same. Jonathan had never been especially affectionate toward her and his attitude grew ever worse. Her sweet, quiet mother seemed to lose whatever meager spirit she had possessed and died within six months of their return home. Diana had often wished she could follow her.

  Jonathan kept her isolated from the rest of the world after that. She was more servant than daughter and she lived in terror of his displeasure; one misunderstood word and he’d take his cane to her. While he ventured into society, all invitations for her were refused. When at last he died, three years ago, she grieved not for his death but for the life he had denied her.

  It clearly wasn’t his intention, but his treatment fostered the growth of a strength and an instinct to survive that would have shocked him, and as well, prepared her to manage with an unfeminine ruthlessness his finances and his business. She never had the courage to defy him in life, but, upon his death, vowed no man would cause her pain again. She had wealth now and therefore power. She handled his affairs with a shrewd, firm manner that surprised herself and everyone she dealt with. And she reentered society. It wasn’t until she began seeing dressmakers that she discovered the latticework of scars crossing the small of her back. Jonathan Ketterson’s legacy.

  With his death she thought his ability to hurt her had died as well, but she was wrong. In the past year, she’d discovered a cache of letters among some overlooked papers. All but one were from Oliver to her. He had not been engaged. And he had loved her.

  The letter that remained had been written before her birth by her mother to her father. It was a tale of confession and a plea for forgiveness. While on a trip to visit distant relatives, Anna Ketterson had apparently fallen in love with another man, an Englishman, and had conceived a child: Diana.

  At once, everything in her life became clear. Her father had never cared for her because he was not her father at all. He obviously viewed her love for Oliver, another Englishman, as betrayal, just like her mother’s. It was a relief to discover the vile man who had nearly destroyed her was not connected to her in any way.

  She liquidated all of his holdings with a bitter pleasure. He loved his businesses and his mansion and his possessions, and she sold them all, just payment for the scars on her body and her soul, and sailed for England, determined to find Oliver. To see if there was even the slightest chance that they could recapture the love they’d shared so long ago.

  Melchoir rolled on his back and waved his paws in the air. She smiled and rubbed his fat tummy. This ridiculous deception of posing as a dog trainer had been all Lady Eleanor’s idea...

  “It's the perfect ruse, my dear. As much as I hate to admit it—” Lady Eleanor clucked her tongue in dismay, “—I fear Oliver's heart is too, shall we say, hardened, by the pain of your past for him to accept your story at once. No, it would be far better if we could manage to put the two of you in close proximity and allow nature to take its course. And this is really exceedingly clever.”

  “I don’t know.” Diana shook her head. “It sounds rather deceitful. “

  “Well, of course it’s deceitful, my dear. That is entirely the point.” Lady Eleanor leaned forward as if to impart well-kept secrets shared only by women about men. “Women have been deceiving men since the world began, usually for their own good. It all works out quite nicely in the end.

  “You see, Diana, men rarely, if ever, know what’s good for them. It is up to us to guide them in the right direction. Train them, as it were. In that, they are not unlike my little darlings...

  Diana had her doubts but she was certainly willing to try. Oliver was the only man she’d ever had and, probably, ever would love. If there was even a remote chance of recapturing what they'd once shared, it was worth any effort. She simply had to be patient. She had waited for him for ten years, a few more weeks shouldn’t matter.

  Now, she had to put on something of a show of training these little creatures. But training them to do what?

  Diana surveyed the dogs lined up before her like children before a schoolteacher. The kings sat to her left, Shakespeare to her right.

  “Very well, then.” Diana pulled her brows together. “The gentleman I purchased Shakespeare from had already given him a considerable education. Pay attention now. Shakespeare.” The Great Dane cast her a steady gaze. “Sit
up.”

  Shakespeare stared for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not to obey, then rolled his weight back on his tail, hoisted his front legs and pawed the air.

  “Good boy.” Diana grinned at the huge beast. ‘What a wonderful dog you are. Now, were you watching?” She turned toward the terriors. They eyed Shakespeare with identical expressions of doggy disdain. “It’s your turn. Sit.”

  The little dogs shifted their attention from the Great Dane to Diana.

  “Sit. Up.”

  Gaspar yawned. Balthazar scratched behind his ear. Melchoir sniffed. Shakespeare dropped his front feet to the floor.

  “Very well.” Diana studied the animals. “Perhaps we can start with something a bit easier. Shakespeare, roll over.”

  Obediently the big dog tumbled to the carpet, rolled and stood.

  “Perfect.” Diana beamed. “Let’s try that. Melchoir, Balthazar, Gaspar, roll over.”

  Gaspar stretched. Balthazar scratched his other ear. Melchoir lay on the carpet and rested his head on his paws.

  Diana narrowed her eyes. “This is not precisely the spirit of cooperation I had hoped for.”

  Shakespeare cast the small dogs a questioning look, as if he had definite concerns about their intelligence, then padded to the doorway, let out a low “woof” and returned.

  “A walk?”

  Shakespeare sat down in front of her and thumped his tail on the floor.

  “I think a walk will do us both—” the Yorkies stared intently, their manner abruptly interested. She laughed. “Very well, then—all of us—a world of good. I suspect your recent outing with your new master was more a trial than a romp. Besides, if I am to do anything at all with you three, we should get to know one another.” Diana headed toward the hall. “We’d best hurry, there’s a hint of rain in the air. I’ll get my cloak and then we’ll go.”