by Jo Goodman
At first Rhys wanted to believe he hadn’t heard correctly. Perhaps they were talking about an elbow. But it was silly and he knew it, knew in his gut they were discussing Elba, knew as surely as he knew Kenna Dunne hated him that they were talking about an escape for Napoleon from his island exile. Rhys remembered how he had complained bitterly about his present assignment. After nearly a year of peace, while the terms of the truce were being painstakingly drawn up in Vienna, it seemed absurd to suppose that Napoleon had a prayer of upsetting the delicate balance of power and borders on the Continent. Now it was clear to Rhys his superiors had every reason to be concerned. It bothered him not a little that they were correct about a plot to free Napoleon, but he admitted his greater fear, purely selfish in nature, concerned the involvement of Dunnelly lands as a meeting place for the traitors.
Rhys had to breathe deeply to calm himself and slow the thudding of his heart. For a few seconds it was all he could hear. Later he could make out the argument seemed to be about details. The Englishman wanted more of them and the Frenchy was merely repeating he had no more to give. Rhys realized he had missed the important beginning of the conversation. He caught the words “finance” and “benefactors.” He felt sure he had not mistaken the meaning. Someone in England, supported with the money of others, was going to help Napoleon leave Elba and regain France, perhaps all of the Continent.
It seemed too improbable to be true, too evil an undertaking to have any foundation in reality, yet Napoleon’s reign and conquest seemed equally incredible. Rhys listened intently for another ten minutes while money exchanged hands and his patience wore thin. Just when he thought he would hear nothing more of any import, the Englishman asked when he could expect to hear of their success. The Frenchy replied, “Sept semaines” Seven weeks! Rhys ticked them off on his fingers. The Frenchman expected Napoleon to be free sometime during the first week of March.
The time line was everything to Rhys. Seven weeks was long enough for the Foreign Office to formulate some measure to stop the escape, perhaps even long enough for him to put names to the characters in the international drama he had uncovered.
To be certain the men did not return to discuss anything of import, Rhys waited a few minutes after he heard the last sound in the cave before he retraced his steps to the south wing bedroom. Rhys took a minute at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, then slipped off his boots. He had been cautious thus far and was not about to track dirt across the bedchamber floor. Once Rhys was in his own room he immediately went to the window to see if he could catch sight of the night walker heading toward the stables. As he suspected would be the case, the man had already disappeared. Rhys reflected that if he had taken this assignment more seriously he would not have entered the passageway unarmed. Confrontation with the traitor was useless without a weapon and even then it was a risky proposition. If he were killed, and Rhys was not so naive as to dismiss the possibility, then there would be no one to relate the information to the Foreign Office.
Rhys was a long time falling to sleep but with Powell’s help he woke early. “Close those blasted drapes, man!” Rhys muttered, burying his head in his pillow.
Powell felt vindicated for Rhys’s rude behavior the night before but he did nothing about the drapes. “I thought you’d want to go riding with Lady Kenna,” he said innocently.
Rhys sat up and threw the pillow to one side. “Has she gone yet?”
“Just. I saw her leave as I was coming up from breakfast.”
Rhys’s desire was to ride with Kenna, but last night’s events meant there were new considerations to deal with. It was imperative that he speak to Nicholas first and it would be better if Kenna did not get wind of the conversation until he was prepared to share it with her. He glanced over at Powell who was examining the three buckets of water which had never been used. The bewilderment on his craggy face was priceless. Rhys rose from the bed, dragging a sheet with him and put an arm around the man who had been as valuable as his right arm during the years of fighting on the Peninsula. First things first, he thought. “You would not believe the night I had,” he said, and began his explanation.
Powell was leaving Dunnelly Manor for London by the time Rhys sat down to breakfast with Nicholas. His valet’s absence would go unremarked, indeed, it was unlikely anyone would really note it. It was a far safer course for Powell to relate the plot than for Rhys to make excuses and leave Dunnelly himself. Rhys had every confidence in his valet who had proved on many occasions he was a soldier first, a servant second.
Rhys flicked Nicholas’s newspaper to get his attention. “Have you finished with the scandal sheet?”
Nick laughed good-naturedly as he lowered the paper and made a production of folding it. He put it to one side and picked up his cup of coffee. “You’re a nuisance, Rhys. More trouble than a wife, I’d wager. At least I’d have her trained not to bother me while I’m reading.”
“Then it’s no mystery why you’ve never married,” Rhys said dryly. “I don’t know many women who will lend themselves to training.”
“Then you haven’t known the right women. I can introduce you to several who would be most accommodating for a few baubles.”
“No, thank you. If you recall, I’m merely the younger son. I don’t have trifles to squander.” It was not precisely true because Rhys had a very adequate allowance from his father and great-grandmother and a fashionable townhouse in London, but it amused him to play at having empty pockets because he knew it goaded the duchess and in turn, his father. The Duchess of Pelham, well into her nineties, had become Roland Canning’s eyes and ears once Rhys finished at Oxford. She wrote dutifully to Boston once a month detailing Rhys’s scrapes and bemoaning his lack of convention and demeanor. At Rhys’s request she used her influence to secure him a commission with Wellington’s troops. That Rhys distinguished himself in battle mollified her only a little. Rhys knew the tenor of her correspondence because she once summoned him to an audience at Pelham and read her latest letter before she sent if off. Rhys had placed a smacking kiss on her wrinkled cheek and taken his leave while the bewildered, sputtering duchess threw up her hands in despair. He did nothing to correct the impression that he used his allowance to honor gambling debts he had accrued the quarter before, though in truth he won more often that he lost. Rhys decided his father should take some comfort in thinking his younger son had turned out no better than he ever thought he would. Above all, Roland Canning liked being in the right of things and Rhys felt a certain perverse pleasure in not disappointing his father.
“Hah!” Nicholas scoffed. “Then the rumors I hear about you and that actress—what’s her name?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
Nick snapped his fingers. “Miss Polly Dawn Rose! Quaint name, that. A chorine from the country, no doubt. Are you saying you haven’t set her up in her own house?”
“It never ceases to surprise me how you hear these things at Dunnelly,” Rhys said, neither confirming or denying the bit of gossip. His business arrangement with P.D. Rose was a private matter and he intended to keep it that way. “Enough of this prattle about my affairs, or the lack of them. I am concerned about your sister at the moment.”
Nick sat up straighter in his chair and gave Rhys his full attention. “What about Kenna?”
“That havey-cavey business yesterday, for one thing, and her attitude toward me for another.” Rhys buttered a slice of toast. “Have you talked with her about Tom Allen?”
Nick nodded. “I managed to catch her as she was going out the door. It wasn’t a satisfactory conversation but I think she heard my displeasure well enough. She’s taking Old Tom’s death to heart and blaming herself. Nothing’s to be served by that and I’m afraid it will complicate matters with McNulty and that other fellow.”
“Wilver.”
“Yes. She told me twice this morning that it could have been her in the trap, or shot, and of course it could have been, but the way she said it made me think she bel
ieved it was meant to be her. I don’t like that at all. Furthermore, I don’t know what I make of it nor do I have any idea what the authorities will think. God forbid Kenna should hear the truth about her riding accident. She would not be able to sleep for a month of Sundays.”
“Riding accident?” Rhys asked, a note of caution in his voice.
“What? Oh, yes. You couldn’t know, could you? She fell from her horse some six months ago, I believe. Nothing noteworthy about that. All riders take a spill now and again. But the head groom brought a girth strap to me that had been maliciously sawed through. I dismissed the man who saddled Pyramid for her that morning though he vowed he knew nothing about it. I’ve forbidden Adams to talk to Kenna about it. I won’t have her upset by that affair.” He waved a hand in front of Rhys when he saw his friend was about to protest his decision. “No. I did the correct thing. That accident occurred shortly after one of Kenna’s worst nightmares and I was not going to risk a string of them. As it happens, she went without another until two nights ago. That’s the longest period ever. There is no telling what will happen now that her imagination is in full swing again.”
“I think you’ll agree it is not a matter of her imagination any longer, Nick. She has the right to be worried. I believe someone is trying to harm her. You can’t protect her if you can’t at least admit the possibility.”
Nick put a hand to his forehead and massaged it, closing his eyes briefly. “I can’t believe someone would want to hurt Kenna,” he said after a moment. “Why? She’s never done anything but get up to mischief. And Father’s death changed that.”
Rhys thought of Kenna crouching in his copper tub and nearly smiled. If he had caused her to “get up to mischief” then he counted his visit as a success of sorts. She had become far too retiring and genteel since Lord Dunne died, “I have a theory,” Rhys said quietly.
“Then share it. Don’t keep it to yourself.”
“I think someone is afraid Kenna’s nightmares will eventually name her father’s murderer.”
Nick laughed but there was nothing amusing in the sound. “Then that would make you the prime suspect. Kenna has never stopped saying it was you with Father that night.”
“I know. But I did not kill him, Nick.”
“I wasn’t saying that.”
“No. I know you weren’t,” Rhys said wearily. “The fact remains that Kenna is. She has already accused me of laying the trap and strangling Old Tom. If she knew that Pyramid’s girth had been tampered with she would find a way to lay that at my door also.”
“But you weren’t even here then.”
“I could have hired someone,” Rhys said to play the devil’s advocate.
“You tied the attempts on her life to her nightmares. How could you have known about the one six months ago, or even the most recent one?”
“Someone on your staff is in my employ. Kenna’s restless nights are no secret among the servants.”
“This is ridiculous,” Nick said heavily.
“I agree. But there it is.”
Nick frowned, his sharp blue eyes leveled on Rhys. “There what is?”
“I have reason to believe someone on your staff is collecting a salary from your father’s murderer.” Rhys thought of the night walker, but held his tongue. There was no way he could tell Nick of last evening’s rendezvous on Dunnelly land. He was certain there was a connection between the attempts on Kenna’s life and the business in the cave, but the proof would be long in coming, if it ever did. “If Kenna comes too close to remembering the details of the night of the masquerade, I’m certain he has orders to kill her.”
“But Kenna only discusses her nightmares with me,” Nick protested. “And I only discuss them with Victorine.”
Rhys could see that Nick was being swayed. His protest lacked conviction. “Are you certain Victorine has never mentioned them to a servant? Or Kenna?”
“Victorine? No, she would never discuss such a personal matter with one of the staff. You know her well enough to know that is true. She would never think of it. But Kenna…” He paused thoughtfully. “Kenna has never been particularly discreet with her personal maid or those servants she counts as friends. I never considered before that she might share something with any one of them.”
“Then you admit she may.”
“As you said, it’s possible. Poor Kenna. She will be so hurt if she finds out someone she trusts is not her friend.”
“I don’t want her to know,” Rhys said quickly. “Not yet. It’s imperative that we do not allow this person, whoever he is, to get his guard up. Kenna would give herself away. Can you promise not to say anything to her about my suspicions?”
“Is that what you really want, Rhys?” Nick asked with insight. “She’ll continue to hold you responsible. That can’t be easy for you.”
“It’s what I want…for now. I can deal with Kenna.” He smiled ruefully as he took a bite of buttered toast, now stone cold. “At least I think I can. What I need from you is patience and no small amount of cooperation.”
“You have the latter. The former will take some doing.”
Rhys nodded, expecting the answer he got. “I want a list of all the people who attended the masque. Can you make me one?”
“I suppose,” Nick said slowly, “though my memory may not serve me. It was nearly ten years ago. If I may speak to Victorine of this matter, she can assist me. After all, she helped my father draw up the guest list.”
“By all means, speak to Victorine,” Rhys said easily. “But no one else. Victorine will want to help and it’s important she knows what is happening to Kenna. Until I can find a satisfactory way to protect your sister, it remains for the three of us to be watchful.”
At that moment the door opened and Victorine glided into the breakfast room. She looked radiant in a pale rose morning gown and matching kid slippers. She gave Nick and Rhys an arch look before she turned to serve herself from the sideboard. “It is in the worst possible taste to stop talking when a woman enters the room. It is bound to make her think you were discussing her.”
Rhys rose and held out a chair for Victorine, giving her a kiss on her smooth, unlined cheek as she sat down.
“Rogue,” she said teasingly, patting the hand that rested on the back of her chair. “But don’t think I’ll be put off. Now what exactly were you men discussing?”
Rhys smiled, looking over Victorine at Nicholas. “I’ll leave this very lovely lady in your hands, Nick. I’ve no strength to withstand her interrogation.”
Nick nodded. “Where are you going now?”
“To find Kenna.”
Victorine raised an eyebrow. “And you say you haven’t the strength to face me?”
Nick laughed at her dry poser, but Rhys had already left the room.
Certain that Kenna was not likely to ride in the wood where Tom Allen had been murdered, Rhys waited for her in the stables. He passed the time by rubbing down his horse and talking to Donald Adams about Kenna’s riding accident. Learning of Donald’s mysterious illness the morning of the accident only served to confirm Rhys’s suspicions. At the same time he was unable to learn anything at all about last evening’s visitor to the stables. Although he was not direct in his questioning, he talked long enough with Donald to know the man hadn’t seen anything the night before.
He had heard a lot more than he ever wanted to about Donald Adams’s life by the time Kenna led Pyramid into the stables. Rhys saw the head groom being given the full force of her smile until she looked past Donald’s face and saw him standing there.
Kenna’s smile froze. She gave the reins to Adams and nodded slightly at Rhys. It was only the head groom’s presence that kept her from running from the stables.
“Did you have a good ride, Lady Kenna?” Donald asked, patting Pyramid’s neck.
“Very fine,” Kenna replied, her voice not much above a whisper. “Very fine,” she repeated louder.
Rhys saw Donald give Kenna a questioning look, then glance
in his direction as if sensing something amiss. “Walk with me, Kenna,” he said.
“I…I don’t…” She saw Donald’s furrowed brow and interested gaze. “Very well,” she said as graciously as she was able. “Where would you like to walk?”
Rhys took Kenna’s arm, knowing she would hardly fight him off in front of the groom. “The summerhouse, I think,” he said as he led her from the stables.
Kenna walked quietly by Rhys’s side until she was sure Donald could not hear them. “Let go of my arm,” she said stiffly.
“Not yet, Kenna,” Rhys said genially. “In the summerhouse, perhaps.”
Kenna tried to pull away but he held her fast and with very little effort, she noted miserably. “In the summerhouse, you most certainly will.” She thought she heard him say, “We’ll see,” but she knew he was trying to goad her and she refused to give him the satisfaction.
Rhys took the key from the door frame ledge and unlocked the door. He gave Kenna a courtly bow and ushered her inside, releasing her arm when he shut the door behind them. He watched her quickly put some distance between them as he casually leaned against the wall. “So eager to be out of my reach?” he chided.
“Do you blame me? I have suffered enough at your hands.”
Pain clouded Rhys’s eyes when he thought Kenna was once again taking him to task for her father’s death. When he saw her hands drift unconsciously to her backside he realized she was referring to the spanking. “That still rankles, does it?”
“To be treated as a child when one is nothing less than a lady?” she asked sarcastically. “I would say I have cause to take exception to your methods.”
“Point taken,” Rhys said dryly. “In the future I will simply call you out.”
Did the man feel no remorse? she wondered. His smug riposte was insufferable. Deciding to behave better than he, Kenna ignored Rhys’s taunt, rubbing her arms briskly as she glanced about at the sheet-shrouded furniture. “Couldn’t we have talked at the manor? It’s quite cold here.”
