Velvet Night (Author's Cut Edition)

by Jo Goodman

  “We?” Loreta asked uncertainly.

  “Yes, we. All of you and me,” she said staunchly as if there had never been any question. “And, everything considered, we don’t have much time.”

  Kenna’s hands trembled as Linda fussed with her hair and made nervous cooing sounds when she patted down curls. The face that was reflected in the glass was not her own, she thought somewhat fuzzily. Her cheeks were not so red, nor her lips. Her hair was darker and shorter than she remembered and her eyelids were painted a light blue. There was a chill in the room and her rouged nipples pressed provocatively against the gossamer gown she had been forced to put on. Beneath it was only her flesh and she felt as naked with the clothing as she had without it.

  “I can’t do this,” she said, though in truth she hadn’t any clear expectation of what was required. Mrs. Miller had explained it to her several times over the last three days, always holding the precious bottle at arm’s length and giving Kenna just a taste before she swept out of the room.

  Linda laid a comforting hand on Kenna’s bare shoulder. “Of course you can,” she said though the words stuck in her throat. “You want more of your medicine, don’t you?”

  Kenna nodded, touching her fingers to her temples, trying to still the throbbing so she could think. “I want it now,” she said petulantly. “I need it. I don’t feel well.”

  Linda knew that was certainly true. In the afternoon Kenna had had severe cramping and a bout of nausea that dropped her to her knees. Mrs. Miller had been forced to give Kenna more of the drug than was her desire to keep the sickness of withdrawal at bay. Linda urged Kenna to her feet. “Over here, Diana. On the bed.”

  Kenna stumbled a little as they crossed the floor. “Don’t call me Diana. ’S not my name.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Linda replied easily. “And Linda’s not mine. We don’t use our given names here unless they’re very pretty.”

  “Oh.” The explanation satisfied Kenna.

  “That’s it. Lie down.” Linda arranged Kenna’s gown prettily. The skirt had been split so the length of one bare leg could be seen.

  Kenna fingered the soft material, little knowing in hours it would be in shreds about her body. “’S very nice.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Katie came in the room somewhat breathless from her run up the stairs. She glanced about the walls, padded with heavy tapestries and grimaced. “God, how I hate this room! Mrs. Miller wants to know if Diana’s ready. She’s fairly frothing at the mouth to let Tremont at her. Diana shouldn’t have attacked her.”

  “I hardly think she knew what she was doing.” Linda bound Kenna’s wrists together and tied them overhead. “Is that bastard waiting for her?”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet. Come, we should go.”

  Linda bent over Kenna and brushed her forehead with her mouth. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

  Kenna smiled a trifle dreamily and said nothing at all.

  Linda and Katie could not leave the chamber quickly enough. They nearly collided with the madam in the hallway.

  “Everything is in readiness, girls?” They nodded simultaneously. “Good. His lordship will be here any moment. In fact, he’s a little late. No matter, he’s paying dearly for this evening. Everything I paid for our stubborn Amazon and more besides. Even if she doesn’t make it through this evening, I’ve recouped my loss.” And my pride, she thought, paying no attention to the drawn faces of her girls.

  Linda and Katie exchanged pained glances. Mrs. Miller was as good as giving license to Tremont to kill Diana. The knowledge weighed heavily upon them but they were helpless.

  Mrs. Miller opened her mouth to speak again when a commotion below stairs drew her attention. “What in God’s name is going on down there?” She hurried to the top of the stairs and what she saw taking place in her drawing room had her rushing down.

  Katie and Linda bumped into her when she stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs and she had to grasp the newel post to keep her balance. One of her carefully arranged curls came loose from the pins and flopped against her ear.

  “She looks much like a basset hound I once had, don’t you think, Lord Tremont?” Polly asked gaily, nudging the ribs of her companion. “That poor dog had but one ear also.”

  Lord Tremont chuckled appreciatively, leaning heavily on Polly’s arm. Surrounding him were six other girls from the Flower House, all in a state of attractive dishabille in spite of the cold temperature outside. “Let down t’other curl, Betty, and you’ll look like the basset I once had!”

  Mrs. Miller cringed visibly at the familiar use of her name. She stamped her foot hard against the step, demanding quiet, and received another gale of laughter as a sausage curl fell over her other ear. The humiliation was not to be borne. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, glaring at Polly.

  Polly’s eyes widened innocently as some of Mrs. Miller’s customers deserted the corners of the room to be part of the revelry. They gathered around Polly’s girls and were greeted with a great deal of billing and cooing. “Yer ’eart, Betty. Think of yer ’eart. We was only ’aving a bit o’ fun with ’is lordship. Weren’t we, luv? Quite lost his way, he did. The poor dear.”

  “Didn’t,” Lord Tremont said, lifting a glass of whisky to his lips.

  “Did.” Polly insisted sweetly between clenched teeth.

  “S’all right. I did.”

  “There, you see, Betty, he did lose his way.” She dropped her accent and picked up her aitches. “Quite thought my house was yours. Though how he could make such a mistake doesn’t bear thinking. I shall have to do something about the trim and the fence. Look, I’ve brought him back to you. I wouldn’t want you to think I was stealing your business.”

  “He’s foxed,” said Mrs. Miller tersely.

  The young lord agreed. “Quite.”

  “I’m afraid he arrived this way, which possibly accounts for his confusion in the matter of establishments. He kept insisting he had an appointment with a young goddess.”

  “Diana,” offered Tremont helpfully, taking an unsteady step toward the stairs. “Want to see Diana.”

  “Since I don’t have anyone by that name I assumed he meant to come here. Have I the right place?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Miller snapped. “Katie. Linda. Help his lordship upstairs. Get out of here, Polly. You’re not welcome.”

  “Oh.” She feigned disappointment. “How cruel of you. And after I extended myself.” She waved to her girls. “I must be going, ladies. Don’t be late.”

  “And take them with you.”

  Polly’s ladies voiced their objections loudly, wrapping their arms around the gentlemen within their reach.

  “Girls!” Polly admonished them sternly. “Don’t be greedy. You are not without your own guests this evening. They are bound to feel neglected by now.”

  With varying degrees of reluctance, the girls let go of their gentleman friends and followed Polly out the door. The last thing any of them saw was Mrs. Miller hurrying up the stairs to assist the poor efforts of Linda and Katie as they attempted to help Lord Tremont make his drunken climb.

  After waving away Tremont’s driver, it was a silent group of partially clad women who walked briskly down the street toward their own home. There were no congratulations and none of them dared voice the question as to whether they had been successful. They all were thinking along the same lines. Had they given enough time to Sheila and Loreta? What if they hadn’t been able to come in the back entrance? Had they even found Diana, and if so, had she been cooperative?

  The house was as silent as they were when they walked in. In spite of what Polly said there were no gentlemen waiting for their return. She had closed her house for the evening to entertain one guest.

  A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she remembered how overwhelmed Tremont and his driver had been when her girls diverted his barouche. The driver had offered only a token resistance after two of her ladies flagged him down and clambered aboa
rd. Tremont had been harder to convince but four lovelies climbing in his carriage and all over him helped him see reason. Polly could see his mind spinning, thinking what harm would there be in a few drinks with these girls. They clearly had whetted his appetite as they allowed him to tease them with his quirt. Her smile faded as she pushed the door open to the kitchen, hoping it had not been for nothing.

  Apparently it had not. The girls dogging her heels gasped as they saw the state of the usually pristine kitchen and scullery. A keg of flour had been overturned and the white powder dusted the floor and the table. A bucket of water had been spilled, mixed with some of the flour, and gooey footprints led into the pantry. Dishes were broken. Three pots and a kettle littered the floor. The cook’s chair was lying on its side.

  Sheila was hopping on one foot, nursing a cut on the other and Loreta had her shoulder to the pantry door, bracing herself against it to keep it closed. She saw Polly and the others and pointed to the door, motioning to the noise inside. “She’s in there.”

  Polly nodded and took command briskly. “Amanda, see to Sheila’s foot. Pamela, you and Renata, start to clean up this mess. We have to get Diana out of the pantry before Betty comes looking for her. Deborah, get some linens from the closet and make a room for her of sorts in that large cupboard in your chamber. Pad it well. We’ll hide her there until Betty’s done with her search. The rest of you, prepare for battle.”

  “She was no trouble at all, quite docile in fact, until we got her outside in the cold. Then there was no controlling her. Sheila gave her a clip on the jaw and that settled her some, enough for us to drag her here anyway. The trouble began again when we were inside. She wants to go back for her medicine, she says.”

  Polly glanced over her shoulder. “One of you get the potion we laced Tremont’s drink with. It will have to do for now. Hurry. We’ve got to bribe her with something. Step away from the door, Loreta.”

  As soon as she did so, Kenna, who was on her knees on the other side, fists raised against the door, fell forward. Momentarily stunned, she shook her head weakly and looked up. The number of faces staring down at her completed her disorientation and she began keening softly, curling into a ball to ease the cramping inside her.

  “Poor thing’s all but worn out,” Polly said. “Let’s take her upstairs while we can.”

  It was awkward carrying Kenna through the kitchen which had not completely been restored to order but they managed it. She was taken to Deborah’s room on the second story and deposited on the bed. Polly took the vial of liquid when it was handed to her and showed it to Kenna.

  “Just a little to help you sleep, Diana, until it is safe again. There’s time enough to rid your body of this wicked stuff.” She touched the tip of the bottle to Kenna’s lips and measured the dose carefully. “That’s enough, child.”

  Kenna moaned as the bottle was taken away but her tongue felt thick in her mouth and she could not form the words to ask for more.

  “As soon as she’s sleeping put her in the cupboard, pack some linens in front of her and lock it. We’ll hope Betty does not investigate, but if she does then we’ll pray Diana does not make a shambles of her hiding place.”

  Mrs. Miller’s arrival was not long in coming and though she railed at Polly, swore she would ruin her, and searched the Flower House with the aid of her footman and two of her girls, in the end she had to admit defeat. Polly considered her own performance as the wronged innocent in this affair to be worthy of Covent Garden—she had been truly magnificent and her supporting players no less so.

  Polly pulled Mrs. Miller to one side as she was making ready to leave. “What has Tremont to say about the missing Diana?”

  “That young sot doesn’t even know. He passed out on the bed.”

  “Has he paid you for Diana’s company?”

  Mrs. Miller nodded, her eyes narrowing on Polly. “Handsomely. It was arranged days ago.”

  “Then you’ve lost nothing.”

  “But he’ll demand his payment. If I want to keep my house open, I’ll have to give it to him.”

  “Not if he thinks he’s had her.” Polly smiled wickedly. “Tell him he whipped her to death. He’d like to believe that. No one need ever know your girl escaped…on her own, naturally.”

  “Naturally.” Mrs. Miller pulled her cloak about her and stomped out the door followed by her retinue.

  Rhys cushioned his head behind his arms and stretched out on Polly’s bed. Polly sat at his side, brushing back a few strands of dark hair that had feathered his forehead. She frowned, noting his haggard appearance, the rough growth of beard he had not bothered to shave. His eyes had a bruised, vacant look and there were lines about his mouth that had not been there before.

  He closed his eyes at the gentle touch of her hand. “You should come with me to America, Polly.”

  She teased to keep the tears in her own eyes at bay. “Wot? ’Ave they a shortage of ’ores there?”

  Rhys held her wrist, keeping her cupped hand on his face. “Come as my wife.”

  “You’re daft!”

  “No.” His eyes opened and his expression was earnest. “Marry me, Polly, no one will ever know what you were here.”

  “It’s what I am, Rhys, darling.” Her tears spilled over. “There’s no changing it. I’m doing what I want. Can you never accept that?”

  “Can you never accept that it is possible to change?”

  “If I wanted to,” she said gently. “But I don’t.” She drew her hand back and wiped her eyes. “You honor me, Rhys. More than I can say, but it’s better if I don’t take you too seriously. We’d both be bitterly hurt in the end.”

  “I love you.”

  She sniffed. “I know you do. But not like you loved her. And that’s the only kind of love that could change my life.” She bent over him and kissed the single tear that trickled down his temple. Before he could hold her to him and she could take back her refusal Polly moved off the bed and sat at her vanity. “So when do you leave?”

  “In three days. I’ve put it off as long as I could. I received another packet of letters in yesterday’s post, asking when I was returning to take over the property and the business. The lawyer’s hands are powerless to dispose of anything or make any changes without my approval. What do I know of shipping? I’m a soldier!”

  “Ah,” she said knowingly. “You’re frightened.”

  “You have your countrymen’s gift of understatement. Bluntly put, I am bloody well terrified.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’m expected to put my father’s shipping concern back in order after it’s been made a shambles by that stupid war.”

  “To which stupid war are you referring?”

  “The one the Americans call the War of 1812,” he said impatiently. “The one that just ended in December and they were still fighting it in New Orleans in January. That stupid war! President Madison’s embargoes ruined trade in New England and now I’m to make it right again. I doubt a tenth of the Americans are even aware that Napoleon’s in Paris now, amassing his army. For them it is back to their shops and businesses and their peculiar notions of free trade. How free will their trade be if they are only dealing with Napoleon?”

  “Then it’s up to you to explain it to them,” Polly said reasonably, unruffled by Rhys’s tone. “And you cannot do it from London. You’re an American after all. They might listen to one of their own.”

  Rhys was not convinced. “They may not accept me. My own father didn’t.”

  “Your father was a fool. Until now I thought you had nothing in common. But here you are, judging your own people without proof, and damning your own abilities without making any attempt to discover the breadth of them.”

  Rhys turned on his side and smiled a trifle sheepishly. “Are you certain you won’t marry me?”

  Polly fluttered her lashes playfully. “Me, sir? You’d not get a welcome reception with me dangling from your arm. Better you should find a sturdy young American lass.” She would have expanded on her
theme, describing the attributes his intended should possess, but a shrill voice crying out from down the hall interrupted her. Polly’s hand flew to her throat and she stood up.

  Rhys stiffened at the shriek and jumped off the bed. “What was that?”

  “It’s Diana, the one I sent you a message about.”

  “I received no message, unless I overlooked it.”

  “No matter.” She rushed into the hall and explained as she went. “Can you help us with her? We stole her from Betty before Tremont could use her and we haven’t been able to free her from the drugs yet. We’ve only had two days with her, but it’s going very slowly. She has terrible nightmares and…” She threw open the door to Kenna’s chamber and ceased to talk.

  Kenna’s hands had been wrapped in thick batting to keep her from scratching her face or hurting those who assisted her. At the moment she was trying to wrest the bottle from Sheila who had her hand in Kenna’s short curls and was attempting to pull her away.

  Rhys stood in the doorway, paralyzed. He watched as if outside of himself, incapable of movement or thought. The bottle was squeezed from Sheila’s fingers and flew in an arc across the room, splintering against the floor. Kenna squealed as its precious contents flowed outward. She pulled away from Sheila, dropped to her knees, and began dipping her wrapped hands in the wet and then sucking on the ends greedily, oblivious to the shards of glass that cut her lips.

  Polly and Sheila moved at the same time to pull Kenna back but Rhys reached her first, slapping her hands away from her mouth then gripping her wrists and yanking her to her feet. Kenna pounded on his chest and shoulders and when that brought no results she folded like a rag doll in his arms and began weeping.

  “Sheila,” said Rhys as he held Kenna tightly to him. “Polly and I can take care of her now. She’s exhausted herself.”

  Sheila hesitated until Polly motioned to her that it was indeed all right to leave.

  When Sheila was gone, Rhys lifted Kenna in his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her on it and she immediately curled in a ball, her eyes tightly shut while tears squeezed through her lashes. Rhys touched the beads of perspiration on her forehead and asked Polly for a cool, damp cloth. He wiped Kenna’s face and throat gently then laid the cloth across her brow.