“Actually it was Alexis Cloud that made me rethink the matter. Or rather her costume. I kept asking myself if I could have recognized her if Tanner hadn’t pointed her out or if I hadn’t known how she would be dressed. And the answer was no, I could not. I wondered if the same thing was not also true the night of your father’s ball. Who did I really see in the garden with Victorine? Nick, or somebody wearing a similar guise? You must come to your own conclusions about the gallery. I don’t doubt you saw a devil. But was that devil Nicholas?”
Could she really accuse her brother on the basis of a chin and the shape of his mouth she thought…“No, I cannot be sure.”
“It seems to me that we should talk to Madeline, Etienne, and Michael. The opportunity may never present itself again. If I show them the guest list they may remember what some of the people were wearing. Perhaps, like the four shepherdesses, there was more than one devil afoot that night.”
“What of Victorine, Rhys? Have I mistaken her, too?”
“I don’t know.” He kissed her temple as she lay back. “But don’t think about it now. Let’s get some sleep.” Though Kenna did so quickly it was a long time before Rhys took his own advice. Something still troubled him and it was made all the more agonizing because he could not name its source.
Rhys and Kenna went riding on Sunday, racing their new mounts over the fields with carefree abandon. Kenna pronounced her bay mare nearly the equal of Pyramid while Rhys continued to withhold judgment on his horse. By some mutual agreement which neither expressed aloud, they did not speak of Kenna’s dream at any time.
On Monday several letters addressed to Rhys arrived at the office. It was the first mail Rhys had received from any of the packet ships leaving London. Kenna recognized the handwriting on two of them as Nick’s and Victorine’s. The third letter still carried a faint fragrance that Kenna immediately associated with the time she spent in the Flower House. The letter could only be from Polly Rose. She was tempted to open the letters, hungry as she was for news from home, but she controlled her excitement and took them to Rhys at the building site. He opened them immediately while Kenna read over his shoulder.
Polly’s letter was amusing, full of anecdotes about the girls and the latest bit of mischief they had perpetrated on Mrs. Miller’s establishment. Kenna sniggered at Polly’s wicked sense of humor but pretended shock when Rhys looked at her consideringly.
Victorine had news of Yvonne—she was expecting another child—and of Nick—he was spending a great deal of time in London of late—and she hinted delicately that he had acquired a mistress. She wished Rhys well and hoped he would write soon with news of how he was faring in Boston.
Nick’s missive was the most sobering. He confirmed the reports they had heard that Napoleon was gathering troops and was expected to make his first strike in Belgium. He wrote poignantly of how much he still missed Kenna and how little time he spent at Dunnelly because she was no longer there. “I cannot help but think,” he wrote, “that had I forced her to marry you her death could have been avoided. Victorine says I blame myself unnecessarily but I cannot change what I think. Perhaps in time…Victorine is herself in no position to cast stones. She has not been well since Kenna’s death. Even when I am in residence she takes to her room most of the day. Doctor Tipping assures me there is nothing physically wrong with her but her melancholia saps her strength. I fear that time itself will not be enough to heal her.” The remainder of the letter was brighter in tone, yet Kenna and Rhys shared a common guilt when it was put aside.
“Cannot we write to him, Rhys?” pleaded Kenna. “Listen to what he says of Victorine! She is ill because of me. If she dies it would be as if we had murdered her. What can the harm be? I am with you now, thousands of miles away from Dunnelly, and very safe. Please let them know I am safe.”
Rhys did not even hesitate in his answer. He gathered the letters and put them in his vest pocket. “No,” he said and walked away before Kenna could realize she had the power to make him change his mind.
Kenna returned to the warehouse and wept bitter tears in the privacy of the office. When she was unable to cry any longer and the ache in her head became unbearable she left word with Mr. Grant that she was going home. On the way there she decided what she was going to do.
It did not take her long to find the guest list among Rhys’s papers. Stuffing it in her reticule, she informed Alcott that she was going to the Cloud’s home, then eschewed the offer of a driver and took the carriage out herself.
The accident happened while she was crossing the common. A horse and rider coming hellbent from the opposite direction veered too close to the carriage causing Kenna to pull the reins sharply to one side. Startled, her horse reared, tipping the carriage dangerously. Before the buggy could right itself it hit a rut in the rough path and twisted as the axle broke. Kenna hadn’t the time to shout as she was hurtled from her seat. She gasped for air, weakly trying to raise her head as people who saw the accident came running. The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was the distant, retreating figures of the horse and rider who had caused the mishap.
Someone in the crowd recognized her and set off to get Rhys at the wharf. By the time he arrived, Kenna had already recovered her wits and was resting her head on a blanket someone had found in the carriage. Her smile was meant to reassure Rhys as he knelt beside her. It fell a little short of the mark.
“Nothing’s broken,” she said. “Oh—except the carriage axle.”
“I don’t give a damn about the carriage. What about you?”
“I’m fine.” She clutched her reticule to her stomach.
“Really. No one would let me move until you came, but I can get up now. I’m just a bit shaken, but otherwise fine.”
Rhys ran his hands over her quickly but thoroughly, judging for himself that she was all right. He told her to lie still while he spoke to the people around them, gathering some information about the accident. It was an unsatisfactory inquiry. No one had clearly seen the rider whose recklessness had caused the accident; their attention had been diverted by Kenna’s efforts to keep the carriage under control. Rhys thanked them for their assistance and asked them to let him know if they remembered anything that would help him identify the rider. To a man they apologized for the rider’s inconsiderate, incautious behavior as if it reflected badly upon themselves in particular and Boston in general.
When the crowd had dispersed Rhys unhitched the horse from the wrecked carriage and tethered it to the reins of his own mount. “Can you ride, Kenna?”
“Yes.” She sat up slightly, propping herself on her elbows.
Rhys grimaced. “I suppose I should have asked you that before I sent everybody away.” He scooped her up into his arms. “I find I am not so level-headed when you are involved. Are you certain you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and helped her onto his horse then took his place behind her. Immediately upon returning home he carried her to their bedchamber. In spite of her protests to the contrary Kenna was glad of his attention. She could not deny the trembling in her legs.
It was not until she was resting comfortably in bed that Rhys began questioning her. He learned nothing from Kenna that he had not learned from those who had offered their assistance.
“It could have happened to anyone,” she said when he continued to glower.
“It didn’t. It happened to you. Why did you have to set off in such a rush for Alex’s?”
Kenna did not bother to defend herself. What good would come of telling him that she was not rushing anywhere? “I was angry with you and I wanted to show the Lescauts and Deveraux the guest list. I want answers, Rhys. I cannot be happy here while my family is miserable because they think I’m dead. If the Lescauts can tell us something then we deserve to know.”
