by Jo Goodman
Kenna’s view of the surrounding landscape was not wide enough for her to get her bearings but she supposed they were on some portion of the banks of the Charles River. She did not have to see more to know the area was deserted. Mason would not have stopped the carriage otherwise. He carried Alice to the edge of the bank, seemingly oblivious to her struggles, then with no sign of hesitation or the briefest of second thoughts, he dumped her unceremoniously into the churning water.
When Mason returned to the carriage a minute later he discovered Kenna had fainted. Shrugging indifferently, he closed the door.
Rhys tethered his horse outside the stable, thinking he could coerce Kenna into going for a ride before dinner. He walked in the back door, expecting to find her deliciously disheveled. He only had to look at her apron to know what manner of feast she had decided to prepare.
She wore a bit of everything on it by the time dinner was ready.
Rhys wrinkled his nose, wondering if he should suggest they dine with the Lescauts. Kenna had obviously burned something. There was still a hint of smoke in the air. He left the back door open and threw open the window above the sink. How could she have left everything closed? “Kenna!” he called out as he searched the kitchen for the source of the odor. He found the charred remains of a pie he supposed might have been apple in the hearth’s oven. The oven itself was cold and there was no fire in the hearth. He set the pie on the table, calling for Kenna again.
There was no answer and Rhys felt the beginnings of fear clutch at his gut. His first thought was that she had managed to burn herself so he went to the bedchamber, expecting to find her lying abed. When he didn’t find her there he forced himself to remain calm and searched every room on the second floor and the servants’ quarters on the third. Had she injured herself so grievously that she had to go somewhere for help? That thought led him to the stables where he discovered the covered carriage and two mounts gone. He leaned against one of the stalls, breathing easier. She was not hurt. She would have never taken time to ready the carriage if she were.
Clearly she left the house on some errand and simply had forgotten the pie. Perhaps in ten years or so he would let her forget about this incident. Rhys sauntered back in the house, wondering when Kenna would return. She must have left hours ago, judging by the coldness of the oven. There was no evidence that she had started preparing their dinner.
Rhys vowed he was not giving all the servants the same day off in the future. Kenna liked having the entire house to herself on occasion but if just one person had remained behind he would know where his wife was. It occurred to Rhys then that Kenna may have left a note.
He found it on the desk in the study. In the few seconds it took him to read her missive Rhys’s world shattered—but not because he believed a word of what Kenna had written. A note was not her way. She was infinitely more honest than to leave while his back was turned. Kenna would have faced him and boldly announced her plans.
Rhys reread the letter. His eyes kept returning to the line where she had written she was taking her personal maid so he needn’t trouble himself about Alice. Alice? In other circumstances Rhys might have laughed. That young woman had her heart set on her own shop. She would hardly agree to become a lady’s maid. And trouble himself about Alice when his wife had left him? It was an absurd notion.
If he had entertained any doubts that Kenna had willingly left him the pie would have put a period to them. No woman he knew, certainly not Kenna, would have baked a pie for her husband’s dinner if she was preparing to leave him.
But knowing Kenna had not written the letter willingly was not enough. Rhys had no idea who could have forced her. He considered Britt. The lawyer and his friends were facing a possible prison sentence for their part in the fire at Canning Shipping. The trial date had already been set. Had Britt somehow arranged for Kenna’s abduction, hoping that Rhys could be forced to drop the charges? Rhys dismissed Britt as a possibility. The contents of the letter did not make any sense if that was the case. The purpose of the missive as far as Rhys could tell was to make him believe Kenna had left of her own accord. The intention was clear: Rhys was not meant to follow.
Rhys’s expression was grim. He was supposed to believe Kenna was going to London but it did not necessarily follow that it was her abductor’s true destination. Forcing himself to think calmly and logically, Rhys pocketed the note and returned to the bedchamber, looking for anything that might help him understand what had happened. Everything appeared to be in perfect order. The same was true of Alice’s room. Rhys went back to the kitchen.
Mrs. O’Hare had returned while he had been upstairs. She was muttering under her breath, pulling open drawers and slamming them again, working herself into a temper in keeping with her fading red hair.
Rhys was not amused. “Mrs. O’Hare! Will you have done with it!”
Mrs. O’Hare gasped and spun on her heels. She was not used to be spoken to so roughly and she was more than ready to pitch a fit. “Mrs. Canning made a complete shambles of my kitchen,” she announced, throwing her hands wide so that Rhys would take in the total picture of Kenna’s irresponsibility.
Rhys glanced around the kitchen. Other than the burnt pie on the table, which he had put there himself, he failed to see anything out of order. “I don’t have time—”
“Look at this!” She held up the bread board. “She put it away with my kettles. And this!” She brandished a wooden spoon. “Does this look as if it belongs with the knives?” Mrs. O’Hare reached in the sink and picked up something that looked like a damp crumpled newspaper to Rhys. She dropped it on the table and unfolded the paper, revealing Kenna’s apple peelings. “Do you know where she put this? In my flour barrel! She knows we feed these scraps to the animals! And I can’t find my paring knife. The spices have been misplaced. I don’t like—”
“Sit down, Mrs. O’Hare!” Rhys roared. “Now!”
Mrs. O’Hare sat. Never in her life had she witnessed such fury as she saw on Rhys Canning’s face now. His jaw was clenched. A muscle jumped in his cheek. When he braced himself against the table and leaned forward, towering over her, Mrs. O’Hare recoiled in fear.
“Has my wife ever left the kitchen in this condition before?” he asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “Never. Mr. Canning, I’m sorry—”
“Be quiet, Mrs. O’Hare. Please, just be quiet. I want to think.”
Mrs. O’Hare’s mouth snapped shut, wringing her hands in her lap. Rhys’s eyes were closed, his brow furrowed. The tips of his fingers were bloodless where they pressed against the table top.
Rhys let out his breath slowly and willed himself to speak in clear, calming tone. “Mrs. Canning is not here, Mrs. O’Hare. I don’t believe she has been here most of the day. Someone came to the house and forced my wife to leave. Do you understand me thus far?” Mrs. O’Hare’s head bobbed in assent, her eyes widening in shock. “Given the state of your kitchen it would appear the intruder came while Kenna was working here. In order to give the impression that she did not suddenly take it in her head to leave in the middle of baking he cleaned the kitchen himself or—”
“Or made Mrs. Canning do it,” Mrs. O’Hare said. “And she made a muddle of it on purpose.”
“Very good, Mrs. O’Hare.” He pushed the blackened pie in front of her. “I found this in the oven. Stone cold. Until you mentioned the misplaced items it was the only hard evidence I had the Kenna did not leave willingly. Now I need your help, Mrs. O’Hare.”
She sat up a little straighter. “Anything, Mr. Canning.”
“I want you to read this.” He handed her the letter Kenna had written. “Carefully. Tell me if anything strikes you as odd.”
Mrs. O’Hare squinted, holding the note at arm’s length then bringing it closer as she attempted to make the spidery handwriting clear. She set down the note triumphantly. “Mrs. Canning always did for herself here. She doesn’t have a lady’s maid. Certainly not Alice.”
“Exactly my
thoughts. But I don’t know what to make of it. Why did she write it?”
“For the same reason she made a mess of my kitchen.”
“I don’t think so. Whoever forced her to write this would not have let her mention Alice without reason. But why? Alice had the day off. She was gone with everyone else.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“What?”
“Alice stayed here today. Confidentially, I think she was expecting a visitor.”
Rhys frowned. “A visitor? Who?”
“Someone she met in town. A man.” Her voice lowered as she imparted her opinion. “I think it was too soon to be inviting him here. Sure, and didn’t I tell her so myself. But she wouldn’t listen. Hussy. And her only meeting him not much over a week ago.”
“Do you know his name, Mrs. O’Hare?”
“Made it a point to know,” she said proudly. “Alice said his name was Michael. Michael Downing.”
Rhys’s shoulders slumped. He had hoped for something more, something familiar. Why could he not understand what was happening? Was he overlooking something obvious and dwelling on the unimportant? “Did you ever meet him?”
“No. Mrs. Alcott saw him once though. She and Alice were in town on an errand and he spoke to Alice. Bold, Mrs. Alcott says. But a splendid looking man.”
Rhys was about to ask her if Mrs. Alcott had perhaps described Mr. Downing in a bit more detail when the back door was flung open and Mr. Alcott stumbled in. His face was mottled and he was breathing heavily. He leaned against the wall, clutching his crushed hat over his heart. “Mr. Canning! Thank God you’re here!”
Rhys pushed away from the table and went to the butler’s side. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
Alcott shook his head, struggling for breath. “Not me. Alice. Someone tried to…she’s in a bad way…they found her near…she’s asking for you, Mr. Canning. Not much time.”
Rhys’s insides roiled. “You’ll take me to her?”
Alcott nodded. “Right away, sir.”
Rhys held the door open and followed Alcott outside. Alcott’s horse was lathered but he refused to take the time to harness another. “Have to return the animal anyway,” he told Rhys. “Borrowed it. Mrs. Alcott is waiting with the buggy and one of your horses is still hitched to it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out of town. Follow the Charles.”
Rhys was unhappy with the pace Alcott set but he had no choice but to keep his horse in check. Alcott was exhausted and doing the best he could to ride and answer Rhys’s questions.
“Mrs. Alcott and I were in Cambridge, visiting her sister,” he explained. “We were just about to take our leave when a young man announces himself without even so much as a knock on the door. He tells us there’s been a horrible thing happen along the river and the girl was asking for us. Poor Alice.” He shook his head sadly. “She didn’t have anyone except us to turn to. Knows we spend our days off in Cambridge though, so that was lucky. I don’t think she knew quite where to find you. Mrs. Alcott and I went with the boy right away. He took us to his father’s farm, not much above twelve miles from here. Said he found Alice when he went fishing, lying curved against a rock. Barely able to keep her head up. Arms and legs bound, then bound together, bending her like a bow.”
Rhys listened to the remainder of Alcott’s recitation with a growing tightness in his chest. If Alice had suffered so at the hands of the abductor, then what of Kenna? He would not allow himself to consider the possibility that she was already dead.
When they arrived at the farmhouse Rhys was immediately shown inside and led to the back bedroom where Alice lay. She appeared to be sleeping but when he knelt beside the bed her eyes fluttered open. For a moment they were dull with pain, then she recognized him and they cleared. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Rhys thought he was prepared to see Alice after listening to Alcott’s description of her condition but he realized nothing could have prepared him for this. Her face was lacking all color though a livid bruise circled her throat like a choker. Her thin arms, lying outside the blanket that covered her, were all that Rhys could see of her body. It was enough. They were marked with ugly scratches. Her left arm was held at an awkward angle and Rhys sucked in his breath as he saw that it was broken.
“Mr. Canning.”
“Shh, Alice.” He touched her head gently. “Don’t talk.” No matter that he had a hundred questions for this girl, there was nothing he would ask of her now.
Tears appeared in her eyes. “Must,” she whispered. “Mrs. Cann…”
Rhys said nothing. He took out a handkerchief and wiped away the tears that slid over Alice’s hollow cheeks.
“It was my Michael. Sorry. So sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“Don’t hate me,” she begged piteously.
“I don’t, Alice.”
“He didn’t want me. Wanted…her.” Her voice faded and Rhys had to lean closer to catch her next words. “She knew him. Called him Mason. I wanted you to know.” She coughed and gasped for breath, looking to Rhys wildly for help, fear clear in her eyes. He reached for her hand and felt her squeeze his fingers in an amazingly strong grip.
A tiny bubble of blood and river water came to her lips and Rhys touched the linen to the corner of her mouth. Her fingers relaxed. With infinite gentleness Rhys closed Alice’s sightless eyes and brushed his lips against her forehead. He adjusted the blanket so that it covered her arms and then he left the room.
The Artemis was two days out of Boston when her lookout sighted a ship bearing down on them from the northwest. Tanner Cloud gestured to his wife. Alexis disengaged herself from the conversation she was having with two crewmen and went to stand beside Tanner at the starboard taffrail.
“What is it?”
“You know Harry sighted a ship?”
Alexis nodded. “I heard him. He said it was an American merchant. Is there a problem?”
Tanner gave her the eyeglass. “Tell me what you make of it.”
Alex peered through the glass, silent for several minutes as the two ships sailed steadily closer. “It’s a Canning ship.”
“Yes, and the man at the bow?”
Alexis put down the glass, frowning. “It looks like Rhys, but that couldn’t be.”
“That’s what I thought, which is why I called you over.”
There was a shout from above. “Her captain’s signaling! They want to board!”
Tanner gave orders which altered the course of the Artemis and cut her speed in half. Twenty minutes later he was extending his hand to Rhys.
Rhys exchanged brief greetings with Tanner and Alexis then grimly explained his purpose. “I need to talk to Deveraux. Kenna’s been abducted.”
Alexis sucked in a breath, putting her hand on Tanner’s forearm. “When? How did it happen?”
At the same time Tanner spoke. “Deveraux’s not here.”
Rhys felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. He had barely slept in the last three days, making arrangements to leave Boston, plotting the course of the Artemis based on what Alexis had told him, and then taking most of the watches, afraid to trust anyone else lest they miss sighting the Garnet vessel. Now he was finally here, prepared to force Michael Deveraux’s memory if he had to, and he was being told the man wasn’t on board. “You never overtook his ship?” he asked.
“We caught the Harmony days ago. Michael wasn’t there. He never sailed with the ship, Rhys. He’s still in Boston.”
“Not any longer.” Rhys gripped the taffrail. “Christ! That I could have been so thick-witted!” It was clear suddenly. So transparent that he could not forgive his own stupidity. “Michael Deveraux. Mason Deverell. The same person. Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I see it before?”
Kenna had no concept of time. In the dark hold where Mason Deverell kept her like an animal she could not distinguish between day and night. Time flowed unhindered by the interruptions that would have oriented her. She wa
s served two meals each day, always the same fare of broth, hard tack, fruit, and cold biscuits. No one spoke to her. No one answered her questions.
Her room had few amenities. There were several thin blankets which she laid out on a bed of straw, a chamber pot that was emptied when she complained about it, and a wooden crate she used as a chair. She had her valise, filled with the clothing Alice had packed for her, but Kenna had no use for any of it. She was too dispirited to care about anything so inconsequential as her appearance.
Days and nights melded, becoming weeks. The steady motion of the ship rocked Kenna to sleep at odd hours. She never dreamed and she never saw Mason Deverell.
Nicholas Dunne frowned at the interruption. He had finally been dealt a hand worth playing and now a stone-faced waiter was hovering at his shoulder bearing a message for him on a silver salver. With thinly veiled impatience Nick put down his cards and took the note. He read it once, then, hands trembling, he read it again. Ignoring the questions and protests of his fellow players, Nick excused himself, a curious tightness in his voice. “I must return to Dunnelly,” he said. With no more explanation than that he turned on his heel and strode briskly out of White’s.
Rhys was not the sort of man who usually questioned his decisions, yet he found himself wondering time and again if he had done the right thing by telling Alexis and Tanner to return to Boston while he went on to England. They were more than willing to let him stay aboard their ship, change their route, and sail for Dunnelly, but Rhys refused their help. He had not done so out of hand. Rhys had carefully considered their offer, yet he felt bound not to involve them in this matter. He could not be certain that Mason was taking Kenna to England. He hadn’t even the assurance that Kenna was still alive. He was resting his entire hope on past evidence of Mason’s greed, motivated, he was certain now, by his loyalty to Napoleon’s cause. Mason was pursuing money to finance Napoleon’s return to power and he saw Kenna as a means to his ends. Rhys was convinced that if Mason had only been interested in protecting his identity, his links to Dunnelly, he would have killed Kenna at the house. The elaborate charade he had undertaken would have been unnecessary. Mason seemed to be after a larger prize and the only place where Rhys could imagine him going was back to England.
