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.”
