Velvet Night (Author's Cut Edition)

by Jo Goodman

  Rhys leaned back in his chair. He would have given almost anything to be able to deny her words. The fact that they were true kept him silent. If he spoke and she detected the lie she would never begin to question the faith she put in her dreams.

  “Have you nothing to say?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “It does not seem I can make you see things differently. There is nothing for it but to go on as we do.” You are determined to lie to her yet, Rhys told himself.

  “That, at least, is something. If you’ll excuse me, there are things that require my attention.”

  He stood as she rose from her chair. “By all means,” he said genially. “I’d like to accompany you this afternoon when you speak to Tom Allen.”

  Kenna looked at him uncertainly. “I don’t think so,” she said at last. “It is all very well that we have achieved a truce of sorts, but I don’t think I can suffer you in my pockets.”

  Rhys’s face showed none of his disappointment. “As you wish. Mayhap Victorine will go for a ride with me in the curricle.”

  “I’m certain she will.” Kenna tried not to think of the painful knot forming in her middle as she left the room.

  Kenna had not spun a complete tale to Rhys when she excused herself. She did have some things that required her attention. There was the matter of this evening’s meal as well as the menu for the remainder of the week. Usually Kenna did not care for this task because it demanded a lengthy conversation with Dunnelly’s temperamental, but excellent, French chef. Today, however, she silently thanked Victorine for relinquishing the duty. Kenna also promised herself she would find Mrs. Parfitt and ask the seamstress to repair the uneven hem on her yellow muslin dress. Kenna had kept putting Parfitt off because she despised standing in one spot, turning by slow degrees, while the seamstress carried on an unintelligible monologue, mumbling her harangue around a mouthful of straight pins.

  She decided the dress was the most distressing thing facing her and opted to be done with it first. She was on her way to her room when she met Victorine in the hallway.

  “Good morning,” Kenna said, giving her stepmother a kiss on her proffered cheek.

  “Good morning, darling. You seem exceptionally bright-eyed, though that shawl is perfectly dreadful with your hair.”

  Kenna laughed. Victorine would never stop trying to change her. At a glance she saw that not so much as a hair was out of place on Victorine’s small head. She was wearing a pale blue empire dress with a white fichu and carrying a sapphire shawl in one hand. Kenna was quite content to have Nicholas and Victorine follow the dictates of fashion. For herself she did not recognize the need. “Janet said much the same to me when I chose it.”

  “You should listen to her then,” Victorine chided. The gentle teasing expression faded from her face as she suddenly remembered something. The look she gave Kenna now was more thoughtful, even concerned. “Nick interrupted my breakfast this morning with some disturbing news.”

  “Oh. You mean Rhys, of course. I left him in the breakfast room. He arrived quite early this morning.”

  Victorine waved her shawl in a graceful gesture. “No. I don’t meant Rhys. Nicholas said you had an exceptionally bad nightmare last evening.”

  “I wish he hadn’t. It was nothing.” Kenna wondered at her own words as she spoke them. Even though Victorine had figured largely in her dream Kenna was moved to protect her by making light of her sleepless night. There was something innocent, even vulnerable, about her stepmother that made Kenna loath to burden her.

  Victorine’s beautiful face softened with a touch of sadness. “Mayhap one day you’ll share the whole with me, Kenna. I’ll not press you now.” She touched Kenna’s arm lightly in a reassuring gesture, then left her alone in the hallway.

  Kenna held Victorine’s hurt expression in her mind’s eye as she went about the tasks that kept her from Rhys’s side. If she gave full credence to her dreams, she reasoned, then it did not make sense to treat Victorine as if she were a porcelain figurine and Rhys as if he were the devil himself. Yet her father had been moved to protect his wife and vilify Rhys. Kenna believed she could do no less.

  On the pretext of going to town Kenna asked that the curricle be readied for her in the afternoon. Kenna enjoyed driving and she handled the ribbons with skill so no one thought anything of it when she left Dunnelly by herself. The snow-covered road forked a mile beyond her home and Kenna took the less traveled road on her left, the one that did not go to the village.

  Kenna could see Tom Allen’s cottage from the road but she did not dare take the curricle closer for fear of breaking an axle on the deeply rutted path to his home. After securing her horses to a tree Kenna walked toward the cottage, waving a friendly hello as Tom stepped out to greet her.

  “What brings you here, Lady Kenna?” he asked as he ushered her into his small home. The cottage had one main room and a loft for sleeping, yet Kenna knew Old Tom had managed to raise five children in its tiny confines. Now, as then, everything was neat and lovingly cared for. The children were grown but living close by, and Tom was still the undisputed head of the scattered family. Kenna was surprised not to find one of his grandchildren in evidence. “Surely you don’t bring another offering from your brother?”

  Kenna warmed her hands and feet at the hearth before she took a seat at the ancient oak table which was the largest piece of furniture in the room. “No, Tom, no offerings. I’ve come about another matter.” Tom looked disappointed and Kenna laughed, looking pointedly at the well fed belly that strained his brown worsted vest. “You don’t appear ill fed. I would say the season’s been good for you.”

  Tom’s deeply lined face crinkled more as he smiled, tapping his middle. “You’ve got the way of it there.” He turned away and began preparing tea for both of them. When he set the cups and pot on the table Kenna poured, serving Tom as if he were her honored guest.

  She lifted the cracked cup to her lips with the same care she would have given delicate china. “I’m glad to see you’re well. The children?”

  “They’re fine. Jean is going to present me with another grandchild in the spring.”

  “That’s wonderful. I believe that will make an even dozen.”

  “A baker’s dozen,” Tom said proudly. “Young Tom and Cathy had a boy just before Christmas.”

  “I didn’t know.” She hesitated, not certain how to pose her concern. Tom’s ability to provide for his family was not a thing to question without giving thought to the matter. “Everyone is doing well then? There isn’t anything you need?”

  Tom bristled slightly then laughed at himself. Young Kenna meant nothing by it. “Aye, well enough.” He winked at her. “If his lordship could part with a bit of venison it would not be turned away.”

  “I’ll see to it. And something for the babies also. A toy perhaps.”

  “Now don’t go spoiling them. It’s better they learn life’s hard at the outset.” He put down his cup. “What’s this matter that’s brought you here? An old man can’t flatter himself that you’ve come because you’ve missed his company. Enough of this roundaboutation. You used to be more direct.“’

  “I’ve come about the trap on Dunnelly land,” she said, looking at him squarely. “I had to release a fox from it this morning.”

  “A trap? On your land, you say? Did you think I put it there then?”

  Kenna nodded but she knew already her suspicions were ill-founded. Tom’s disbelief was not feigned. “I’m sorry I offended you, Tom. I know traps are not your way, but I didn’t know who else might be responsible.”

  “Humph. Not likely. Can’t abide traps. I shoot clean and for the kill.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “I heard you,” he said gruffly, not ready to forgive her yet. “I’d like to see this trap. Is it still there?”

  “I didn’t move it. I don’t think Rhys did.”

  “Rhys Canning is here?”

  “He came early this morning. He is actually the one
who freed the fox. I doubt I would have been able to.”

  “Ach, you would have found a way.”

  Kenna knew then that Tom was going to forgive her insult. “Will you know who set the trap if you see it?”

  Tom shrugged his sloping shoulders. “Might. It’s a puzzle why anyone in these parts would set a trap where you might stumble upon it. Everyone knows where you ride in the morning.”

  This was a surprise to Kenna. “I hadn’t realized,” she said thoughtfully. “It has been pointed out to me that I am frighteningly predictable. It is rather annoying.”

  Tom wasn’t really listening to her. “That damnable trap could have caught your horse. Sorry business, that.”

  “Rhys said so, too.”

  “Then he’s still got a good head on his shoulders.” Tom stood and began gathering his coat, gloves, and scarf. “Can you take me to the trap? I’m going to have someone’s guts for garters before this day is out.”

  Kenna slipped on her own gloves. “Do not do violence on my account, Tom. I wasn’t injured. If the poor soul set the trap is in need of food mayhap I can help.”

  “You’re too tender-hearted, young Kenna,” Tom admonished her as they left the cottage.

  After leaving the curricle on the road Kenna found it difficult to keep up with Tom’s long strides as they tramped through the woods. Her breath frosted in front of her and the only sounds she could hear were their feet crunching the snow beneath them and her own labored breathing.

  “I think it’s over here, Tom.” She pointed to a circle of tall pines. Dusk was already upon them and the deepening forest shadows made it hard for Kenna to orient herself.

  Tom found the trap by stubbing his toe on it. His vociferous cursing obliterated all other sounds as he bent over to examine the trap. Neither he nor Kenna heard the warning click of the shotgun being aimed in their direction. It seemed to Kenna that Tom collapsed at her side in the same moment she heard the explosion.

  Her shout of alarm faded and she heard the fleeing steps of the hunter as he pushed his way through the underbrush in which he had hidden. Hardly knowing which way to turn, half expecting a lead ball to pierce her, Kenna dropped to her knees beside Tom. He was clutching his shoulder and breathing hard but his eyes were clear.

  “Tis a scratch, nothing more.”

  “Are you certain, Tom? I think our poacher meant to kill you. My shouting frightened him off.”

  Tom’s eyes clouded and an odd, faintly alarmed expression etched his leathery features. “I wonder.”

  “What?” Kenna had been frowning at the blood seeping through Tom’s fingers as he held his wound and had not heard him.

  “Help me up.”

  Tom wobbled precariously once he was standing. It was obvious to both of them that he could not walk without assistance. “I’m going to Dunnelly for help,” Kenna said as Tom leaned against a tree. “I’ll bring some servants and a litter.”

  Tom eased himself down the trunk until he was sitting at its base, “No, don’t go to Dunnelly. Bring Young Tom and Jack. Their cottages aren’t far.”

  “But the way to Dunnelly is easy. I can’t leave you for the time it will take to find your sons.”

  “Do as I say,” Tom ordered roughly. “I want no help from Dunnelly. D’you ken?”

  Kenna didn’t understand but neither was she going to let him bleed to death while they argued. She reached under her dress and tore her slip, wadding up the linen and gave it to Tom to hold on his wound. “I won’t be long.”

  “I know you won’t.” He closed his eyes wearily and when he opened them Kenna had disappeared from his sight.

  By the time Kenna returned with Tom’s sons in tow it was necessary to carry a torch. The light wavered eerily in the dark wood, casting shadows on the grim, sturdy faces of Young Tom and Jack. She had told her breathless story, first to Jack, then to his brother, while pulling at their coat sleeves, urging them to hurry. Kenna held the torch and led the way while Jack carried a hastily improvised litter under one arm and blankets in the other. Young Tom had the presence of mind to take a flask of liquor which he had helped himself to twice.

  Nearing Tom, Kenna’s steps faltered and she raised the torch higher, scarcely believing what she was seeing. Rhys Canning was bending over Tom, his caped greatcoat partially concealing the wounded man from her view. His gloved hands were on Tom’s shoulders and she saw them slide toward the old man’s throat.

  Fear seized her. “Get away from him!” Kenna called, rushing forward. “Don’t you dare touch him!”

  Rhys looked up, surprise in his clear eyes and a grim slant about his mouth. “Kenna. Stay where you are.” When she did not heed his words, Rhys stepped in front of Tom, catching Kenna in his arms and wresting the torch from her hand. “Just once can’t you listen to me?”

  Kenna struggled, bobbing and weaving in Rhys’s hold so that she could have a look at Tom. Rhys’s anger made no impact even though she felt it in the hardness of his grip. “Let me go! I need to see him. Why won’t you let me help Tom?”

  Rhys handed the torch to Jack and dragged Kenna a few feet away while Young Tom knelt beside his father. “It’s too late. He’s dead, Kenna,” Rhys said softly. He thought she hadn’t heard until she sagged against him, burying her face in his shoulder. Before he thought better of it, Rhys slid his hands around Kenna’s waist and held her close, offering her comfort as he had ached to offer it for years. Over her shoulder he watched Jack and Young Tom lay their father on the crude litter and he kept Kenna’s face averted until Jack covered the body with a blanket.

  “It was only a shoulder wound,” she mumbled against his coat. “Tom said it was nothing.” She sobbed jerkily. “He wouldn’t let me go to Dunnelly for help.” Even in her misery she could feel Rhys stiffen. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Your friend did not die from his wound,” Rhys said.

  “What?” She tried to push away from Rhys but he would not let her go.

  “Tom Allen was strangled.”

  “No! It can’t be. You’re lying.” This time she did manage to get away and ran to where Tom and Jack were standing over their father’s body. Blind to everything but her own horror and grief, Kenna yanked at Jack’s rough sleeve. “Rhys says your father was—”

  “Murdered,” Jack said between clenched teeth. “His lordship is right. It weren’t any lead shot that killed me dad.”

  Kenna pressed the back of her hand to her eyes, impatiently clearing away the tears that would not stop. “But how…who would do…? Not Old Tom! He never hurt anyone!” She felt Rhys at her back, his hands resting lightly on her arms.

  “Come away, Kenna. Let these men see to their father. I’ll send someone from Dunnelly for the authorities.”

  Kenna shook off Rhys’s touch and began searching the area, kicking up snow with her feet. “Where is the trap?”

  “Kenna.”

  “No, dammit! Don’t patronize me! Where is the trap? Tom came here to catch the poacher and I owe it to him to find the thing. Jack or Young Tom may be able to identify it.”

  There was nothing for it but to assist her search, though none of the men had much hope of finding it. After a few minutes they stopped.

  “We can’t find it now, Lady Kenna,” Young Tom said heavily, taking a swallow from his flask then offering it to his brother. “Jack and I will look again in the morning. If it’s around, we’ll get it. Do as his lordship says and go back to Dunnelly. We’ll send your curricle around in the morning.”

  Kenna nodded wearily, not bothering to correct Young Tom’s assumption that Rhys was titled. “I’m so sorry,” she said, hating the inadequate words. “I wish—”

  Jack reached out and touched her hand. “We know, m’lady. We’ll find the poacher and when we do, well, hangin’s too good for his kind.”

  Rhys put one arm about Kenna’s back, nodding to Jack and Young Tom. “I’ll talk with you both tomorrow. Mayhap we can make some sense of it.” Gently he led Kenna away befo
re she could see them lift Tom’s lifeless body on the litter. “Higgins is waiting on the edge of the wood.”

  Kenna made no reply and allowed herself to be seated on Rhys’s saddle in front of him. The chill she felt had nothing to do with the dropping temperature. The closeness of Rhys’s body did little to assuage the cold and she bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering. Rhys’s arms slid around her to gather the reins and she shifted uneasily, not wanting him to touch her. She doubted she would ever forget the humiliation she had suffered at his hands this morning. Before they had gone very far her body ached because of the stiff way she held it. A vague fear kept her still as surely as Rhys’s arms beneath her breasts.

  “What were you doing there?” she asked. She could not help the suspiciousness in her tone.

  It was the question Rhys had been waiting for and dreading. The way she asked it told him she had already reached her own conclusions. He sighed, feeling a headache begin to develop behind his eyes. “Victorine decided she did not want to ride this afternoon so I went alone.”

  “There are many places you could have ridden. Why there?”

  “I wanted to get rid of the trap. It was dangerous.”

  “I don’t understand,” she persisted. “It had already been sprung. There was little danger in it.”

  “I didn’t want the poacher resetting it.”

  “You have an answer for everything, Rhys.” Kenna twisted her head to look at him.

  Rhys kept his eyes straight ahead, refusing to meet her questioning, accusing glance. “And you never believe anything I say. Why ask?”

  “Tell me you didn’t kill Old Tom.”

  Rhys felt as if the breath had been knocked from his lungs. His eyes closed for a moment, shuttering his pain. “Believe what you will, Kenna.”