by Jo Goodman
“It would appear so since Mrs. Robinson saw everyone else take their leave. What about your other customers, the ones who didn’t spend the night?”
“I can give you their names, but I’ll vouch for every one of them. They’d not be involved in this havey-cavey affair. Besides, they left last night when I locked everything up. You can see the doors yourself. Nothing was jimmied or forced. Everything was right and tight when I opened up this morning. No one broke in here.”
“Which means one of your guests was responsible,” Nick said. “That rather puts a hole in the theory concerning this pair.” He pointed to the names of Thompson and Sweet.
“Not necessarily.” Rhys tore out the page and pocketed it, pulling Nick away from the bar so they could talk in private. “We know Kenna did not leave with anyone else this morning. Isn’t it possible that someone allowed those two in? They took Kenna and left while their accomplice had a leisurely breakfast and departed, perhaps on the stage.”
“But that would make this no simple abduction. From the woman’s description of those two I was willing to believe this scheme began as a whim. An accomplice would make it premeditated.”
“Precisely,” Rhys agreed. “How many people knew of Kenna’s plans?”
“Who didn’t would be easier to answer. It was no secret that she was going to Cherry Hill nor that she was going to be here for the night. I provided pistols for her escorts but not because I suspected trouble of this nature. I did caution Janet that Kenna was not to be out of her sight and you can see where that led.”
“All right,” Rhys said gently. “There is no need to blame yourself. So everyone knew where Kenna would be. This couldn’t be anticipated. I urged her myself to visit Yvonne.”
“So did I,” Nick said bleakly. “Victorine was the one who didn’t want her to go. Damn! I should have forced Kenna’s hand when I had the chance.”
“No more recriminations. I think we should start with the men on the stage. They slept three to a room and their alibis will be the easiest to verify. With some help from Powell and a few friends we should be able to locate them and discern something of the truth for ourselves.”
“What about Thompson and Sweet?”
“They won’t be so easy to find. We must start where we can, by eliminating all the others. Including Deverell. And I haven’t forgotten the widower,” he said as Nick began to speak. “It’s entirely possible that his purpose was a mother for his children and his destination is Gretna Green.”
Nick paled at the reference to the Scottish border town where eloping couples could be married. “Kenna would not stand for that.”
“I doubt she will be given any choice.”
Though they began their search with a fair amount of optimism, by week’s end it had disappeared. A likeness of Kenna was printed in the Gazette and leaflets were distributed throughout London. Some of the stage riders stepped forward before they were located by Rhys and Nick, saying they remembered Kenna, but were of no further use than that. Worse, they were as certain as they could be that no one had left their respective rooms. Sleeping three to a bed did not make for a particularly restful night, but neither had they heard anything out of the ordinary. The widower had no one with him save his two sons when he was stopped short of entering Scotland and he had no information about Thompson and Sweet that Mrs. Robinson had not already offered.
Of Deverell there was no news. Since he did not come forward as a gentleman would, Nick tried him in his own mind and found him guilty. Rhys thought it more likely that he was simply no longer in the country. When Janet Gourley recovered enough to talk she sided with Rhys. Deverell was too fine a man to have anything to do with Kenna’s disappearance, but she would lay her life’s wages that Thompson and Sweet were involved.
On the eighth day of their search, very close to the same time a package was being delivered to Dunnelly Manor, investigators from Bow Street brought some news to Nick at Rhys’s residence. Jeb Thompson and Jake Sweet had been found…belly up in the Thames with their throats slit. They were going to drag the river for Kenna’s body.
Three days later, with no results forthcoming, Rhys accompanied Nicholas back to Dunnelly.
Henderson met the weary riders at the door. “Very good you’re home, m’lord. And you, Mr. Canning. Lady Dunne expressed her wish to see you immediately upon your arrival.”
“My stepmother will have to wait, Henderson. I wish to soak the grime from my body and wash the cobwebs from my head.”
“She was really most insistent, your lordship,” Henderson added somewhat diffidently seeing the shadows beneath Nick’s eyes and the drawn face of his companion.
“She can—” He halted abruptly as he saw for the first time the black armband his head of staff was wearing.
Rhys saw the direction of Nick’s gaze and stepped in front of his friend just in time to keep him from lifting Henderson off the floor and shaking him.
“Why are you wearing that thing?” Nick said. His face had gone pale. “She’s not dead. Do you hear? I won’t have it.”
“It was Lady Dunne’s orders three days ago, m’lord,” the butler replied, visibly shaken by his employer’s icy anger. “A package arrived and she opened it. Went straight to her chamber then and hasn’t come out since. The only word we had from her was to observe mourning and that you come to see her immediately upon your return.”
“I shall get to the bottom of this matter, by God,” said Nick, taking the stairs two and three at a time, Rhys on his heels.
Nick shrugged off Rhys’s restraining hand and flung open the door to Victorine’s room. “I demand to know why you have given orders to the staff to observe mourning!”
Rhys stepped around Nick and went to Victorine’s bedside. “Nick. You must see Victorine is in no state to be badgered.”
Nick flushed a trifle guiltily as he looked at his stepmother. She had lost a full stone’s weight since he had last seen her. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyelids were swollen and puffy from crying. Victorine’s skin, always pale, was now nearly translucent, and her hair was dull and matted.
She patted Rhys’s hand. “It’s all right. Nicky is grieving as I am.” She pointed to the box lying atop her cherry wood secretary. “Over there. It came a few days ago, addressed simply to the manor. I opened it. Dear God, I wish I had not!”
Nick went to the desk and lifted the lid of the nondescript box. He swore harshly and his hand trembled as he reached inside.
“Nick?” asked Rhys. “What is it?”
Nick lifted his hand and thrust what he held in Rhys’s direction. “Kenna’s hair. Those bastards cut my sister’s hair!”
Rhys blanched at the sight of Kenna’s red-gold braid swinging like a rope from Nick’s fist.
Nick dropped the length of hair back in the box and sat down in the delicate chair beside the desk, his head in his hands. “It’s over, Rhys. She’s dead.”
Rhys slammed his fist into wall above Victorine’s bed, not feeling the pain or seeing the blood on his knuckles. “It’s her hair, Nick! Her hair! Not her body! She’s not dead!” He hesitated, his voice softening. “I would feel it. I know I would.”
“Well, I do feel it! Just as Victorine does. Why would this be sent to us if she were not dead?”
Rhys had no answer. He walked to the window and stared out, straight into the late afternoon sun.
“You may as well return to London, Rhys,” said Nick heavily. “There is nothing more to be done here.”
In the end Rhys stayed on another ten days, grieving in the solitude of his room, offering what little comfort he could to Victorine and Nicholas. The news of Kenna’s death reached London and was discussed in every conceivable social circle until it was replaced by news of a more threatening nature.
On the first of March, Napoleon escaped Elba.
Chapter 5
“Please,” Kenna begged, holding out her hand to take the bottle from Mrs. Miller. “A little more.”
Elizab
eth Miller appeared to consider the request then shook her head, dropping the bottle into her apron pocket. “You’ve had enough for one morning, deary.” A sly smile touched her thin mouth as she turned to go.
Kenna’s pleading expression changed to one of stark hunger and fear. Her craving was so great she was able to shrug off the languor that had kept her pliant and biddable during the last several weeks. She scrambled off the bed before Mrs. Miller had left the room and lunged at the woman, knocking her against the door and slamming it shut.
Kenna clawed at the madam’s apron, tearing the pocket while Mrs. Miller shouted for help. Kenna lost interest in Mrs. Miller as soon as the bottle fell out of her pocket and dropped to the floor. Both women lunged at the same time, but Kenna came up with it and held it triumphantly over her head out of the madam’s reach. Laughing somewhat hysterically as Mrs. Miller tried to drag her arms down, she uncorked the vial and tipped some of the liquid into her mouth. Most of it fell on her lips and chin but Kenna licked it eagerly with the tip of her tongue, the bitter taste of it bothering her not at all.
“Little bitch,” Mrs. Miller swore as she managed to pry open Kenna’s fingers and take the bottle from her hand. “We’ll see who’s laughing tomorrow when there’s none at all for you.”
But Kenna didn’t care anymore, smiling dreamily as she waited a few minutes for the potion to complete its work. Tomorrow would take care of itself. This moment, this feeling, was the only thing that mattered.
There was a rush of noise on the stairs and in the hallway and the door to Kenna’s chamber was flung open.
“You took your own sweet time getting here,” Mrs. Miller said, observing the brawny footman’s disheveled state with distaste. “It’s over now, as you can see for yourself.” Kenna had dropped back on the bed, knees folded into her chest. She was smiling serenely. “Give her a few more minutes and then tie her to the bed. I won’t have her scratching and clawing at my girls when they come to prepare her. I have a young lord who has expressed an interest in seeing our Diana this evening.” Mrs. Miller swept out of the room, straightening her disarrayed coiffure. “In a few days I think she’ll be most anxious to please him.”
Kenna made not the slightest protest when the footman bound her wrists to the brass headboard with silk scarves, nor was there a murmur later when Linda and Katie came to style her hair, apply creams and rouge to her face and the tips of her breasts, and dress her in a whisper of silk that passed for a nightgown. She never noticed their pitying looks as they washed her or understood their comments that her fair skin might never recover after the visit from young Lord Tremont. Kenna merely accepted their attention quietly, content to stay in her world of drifting color and light.
“If you’ll come this way, m’lord,” Mrs. Miller said, ushering Tremont up the narrow staircase to the top story of her establishment. “I’m confident our Diana is everything you could want.”
He smiled faintly but none of it reached his eyes as they narrowed on the madam’s back. “I’ve been disappointed before. Even you have shown me girls who could not address my needs,” His quirt bumped gently against his thigh. “Tell me about Diana.”
“She’s been named after the goddess of the hunt, m’lord. A young woman of rare beauty and spirit.”
“It is the latter in which I am most interested.”
Mrs. Miller cleared her throat uneasily as she opened the door to Kenna’s chamber. “You will find her a trifle lacking in it this evening. It is only a preview after all. If you should choose her, I can assure you, you will not be disappointed.”
Tremont’s thin lower lip quivered slightly as he looked past the madam’s shoulder to the young woman bound to the bed. Her pale, shapely arms had been extended over her head and she lay in an attitude of supplication and submission. Short mahogany curls framed her face but her finely arched brows were of a lighter hue. Her dark eyes, fringed with ebony lashes, were open but unfocused. Her cheeks were flushed with color and her mouth was slightly parted, damp, as if she had just swept her tongue across it. Her breasts were plainly visible through the silk of her gown and it had been arranged to tie over one shoulder, baring the other, in the fashion Diana herself might have worn. A belt of beaten gold outlined her narrow waist and the gentle swell of her hips.
Tremont brushed past Mrs. Miller and walked slowly to the bed. Using the tip of his quirt he caught the hem of her gown and edged it over her ankles and calves. The silk became trapped at her knees but he had seen enough. He lifted the quirt and stroked Kenna’s neck, her bare shoulder, and passed it lightly over the tip of her breast.
She made a little moue and tried to shift away from the feather-light touch. “Tickles,” she murmured, her lips barely moving.
“Does it, m’dear?” Tremont’s thin wrist gave an expert flick and the quirt’s braided leather lash struck Kenna’s hip sharply.
Kenna moaned and turned to the other side, biting her lip. The quirt descended again, this time on her thigh. Her protest was a soft mewling sound as tears sprang to her eyes.
Satisfied, Tremont backed away from the bed and addressed the madam. “She is no good to me so heavily drugged,” he said, tapping his quirt against a small dressing table.
“I said this was but a preview. If she is as you desire, I will not administer too much of the drug.”
“I want to hear her scream,” he went on impatiently, whining much like a child. A lock of his fair hair fell on his forehead and he brushed it aside with a jerky motion.
Mrs. Miller strove to placate him, wearing her most ingratiating smile. “It will be as you wish, m’lord. I can have a private room prepared so the other gentlemen will not be disturbed and you may use Diana at your leisure.”
“Very well,” he said sulkily, glancing at Kenna again. “She’s very tall, isn’t she?”
The madam knew that young Tremont was sensitive about his height, or rather the lack of it. She trod very carefully. “I thought it would please you to master one such as she. Your skill is well known.”
Tremont’s chest puffed a little. “Yes. It will please me. The goddess of the hunt presents a certain challenge.”
Mrs. Miller nodded eagerly. “Then I can expect you in three days?”
“So long?” he pouted.
“Only if you want to hear her scream,” she reminded him.
He wet his lips and ceased tapping the quirt. “Very well. In three days.” Tremont gave Kenna one last look before he exited the room.
Mrs. Miller paused before she closed the door. “Three days, Diana. You’ll be sorry you ever crossed me.”
Polly Dawn Rose fingered her water glass thoughtfully as she looked at the pinched and unsmiling faces of the eight women seated at her dining table. “Ladies,” she said, tapping a spoon against her china plate. “Whatever is wrong? From the sad looks surrounding me I could well suspect someone was getting married.” The attempt at teasing brought only a glimmer of response. She put down the spoon. “I insist you tell me what these long faces are about. We open our doors in but two hours and our clients pay well enough for our gaiety and not a halfpenny for our troubles.” Polly turned to the young woman on her left. “Sheila. You begin.”
“It’s about the new girl at Mrs. Miller’s.”
Polly sighed. “Her again. I thought it was settled. There is nothing I can do for her. Nor any of you,” she added pointedly.
“You did ask,” Sheila answered, pushing away her plate.
Polly watched as the other girls did the same, mutinous expressions on their faces. “Really, ladies. What is it you think we can do?”
At that moment the kitchen assistant set down a dish of hot peas in front of Polly. Hard. Some of the peas bounced out of the dish and rolled across the white table cloth. There were a few snickers along the table but they ceased as the young girl spoke up somewhat defiantly. “We think we can get her out of there, Miss Rose. Same as you helped me.”
“It is hardly the same thing at all,” Polly answere
d, striving for calm. “You were brought here for purchase. She, on the other hand, was not. I help those I can but helping this girl is something else again.”
At the far end of the table Loreta spoke up, tossing back her long black mane of hair. “I talked with Katie in the park this afternoon. Diana, that’s what Mrs. Miller’s named this girl, is going to be Lord Tremont’s property tonight! You know what will happen to her, Polly.!”
“I’ve heard she’s been drugged since she got there,” Sheila added. “Even those witches at Betty’s have some compassion for her. They say she won’t survive Tremont. Betty’s made him wait three days to have her. He’ll be savage by the time he’s alone with Diana.”
Polly’s hands twisted in her lap. She knew Tremont’s requirements, having nursed two girls who felt the sting and slash of his crop when she was still working at Mrs. Miller’s. She had counted herself among the fortunate that he never found her to his tastes. He was a young pup then, bent on proving that he was someone to be reckoned with. And because he had not matured one whit, he was barred from Polly’s door. “Betty’s girls may be compassionate, but are they willing to help? Have any of them lifted a finger to get Diana out of that house?” Silence greeted her and several heads dropped to study the pattern in the white linen tablecloth. “As I thought. What, then, can we do?”
“We thought…perhaps…Mr. Canning would help,” one of them ventured meekly.
Polly would not even consider it. “He has had enough laid at his door these past weeks. I cannot ask him. The woman who was murdered, Lady Kenna Dunne, was a close friend.” A murmur of shock greeted her announcement.
“We didn’t know,” Sheila said softly.
Polly patted Sheila’s hand. “I know you didn’t. And this latest business with Napoleon. Well, you can imagine how he’s taken it. Fighting so long on the Peninsula, and for what?” She pushed away from the table and stood up, tossing her napkin on her plate. “If it’s help you want to offer Diana then we must come upon a plan ourselves.”