Rhys had to breathe deeply to calm himself and slow the thudding of his heart. For a few seconds it was all he could hear. Later he could make out the argument seemed to be about details. The Englishman wanted more of them and the Frenchy was merely repeating he had no more to give. Rhys realized he had missed the important beginning of the conversation. He caught the words “finance” and “benefactors.” He felt sure he had not mistaken the meaning. Someone in England, supported with the money of others, was going to help Napoleon leave Elba and regain France, perhaps all of the Continent.
It seemed too improbable to be true, too evil an undertaking to have any foundation in reality, yet Napoleon’s reign and conquest seemed equally incredible. Rhys listened intently for another ten minutes while money exchanged hands and his patience wore thin. Just when he thought he would hear nothing more of any import, the Englishman asked when he could expect to hear of their success. The Frenchy replied,“Sept semaines”Seven weeks! Rhys ticked them off on his fingers. The Frenchman expected Napoleon to be free sometime during the first week of March.
The time line was everything to Rhys. Seven weeks was long enough for the Foreign Office to formulate some measure to stop the escape, perhaps even long enough for him to put names to the characters in the international drama he had uncovered.
To be certain the men did not return to discuss anything of import, Rhys waited a few minutes after he heard the last sound in the cave before he retraced his steps to the south wing bedroom. Rhys took a minute at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, then slipped off his boots. He had been cautious thus far and was not about to track dirt across the bedchamber floor. Once Rhys was in his own room he immediately went to the window to see if he could catch sight of the night walker heading toward the stables. As he suspected would be the case, the man had already disappeared. Rhys reflected that if he had taken this assignment more seriously he would not have entered the passageway unarmed. Confrontation with the traitor was useless without a weapon and even then it was a risky proposition. If he were killed, and Rhys was not so naive as to dismiss the possibility, then there would be no one to relate the information to the Foreign Office.
Rhys was a long time falling to sleep but with Powell’s help he woke early. “Close those blasted drapes, man!” Rhys muttered, burying his head in his pillow.
Powell felt vindicated for Rhys’s rude behavior the night before but he did nothing about the drapes. “I thought you’d want to go riding with Lady Kenna,” he said innocently.
Rhys sat up and threw the pillow to one side. “Has she gone yet?”
“Just. I saw her leave as I was coming up from breakfast.”
Rhys’s desire was to ride with Kenna, but last night’s events meant there were new considerations to deal with. It was imperative that he speak to Nicholas first and it would be better if Kenna did not get wind of the conversation until he was prepared to share it with her. He glanced over at Powell who was examining the three buckets of water which had never been used. The bewilderment on his craggy face was priceless. Rhys rose from the bed, dragging a sheet with him and put an arm around the man who had been as valuable as his right arm during the years of fighting on the Peninsula. First things first, he thought. “You would not believe the night I had,” he said, and began his explanation.
Powell was leaving Dunnelly Manor for London by the time Rhys sat down to breakfast with Nicholas. His valet’s absence would go unremarked, indeed, it was unlikely anyone would really note it. It was a far safer course for Powell to relate the plot than for Rhys to make excuses and leave Dunnelly himself. Rhys had every confidence in his valet who had proved on many occasions he was a soldier first, a servant second.
Rhys flicked Nicholas’s newspaper to get his attention. “Have you finished with the scandal sheet?”
Nick laughed good-naturedly as he lowered the paper and made a production of folding it. He put it to one side and picked up his cup of coffee. “You’re a nuisance, Rhys. More trouble than a wife, I’d wager. At least I’d have her trained not to bother me while I’m reading.”
“Then it’s no mystery why you’ve never married,” Rhys said dryly. “I don’t know many women who will lend themselves to training.”
“Then you haven’t known the right women. I can introduce you to several who would be most accommodating for a few baubles.”
“No, thank you. If you recall, I’m merely the younger son. I don’t have trifles to squander.” It was not precisely true because Rhys had a very adequate allowance from his father and great-grandmother and a fashionable townhouse in London, but it amused him to play at having empty pockets because he knew it goaded the duchess and in turn, his father. The Duchess of Pelham, well into her nineties, had become Roland Canning’s eyes and ears once Rhys finished at Oxford. She wrote dutifully to Boston once a month detailing Rhys’s scrapes and bemoaning his lack of convention and demeanor. At Rhys’s request she used her influence to secure him a commission with Wellington’s troops. That Rhys distinguished himself in battle mollified her only a little. Rhys knew the tenor of her correspondence because she once summoned him to an audience at Pelham and read her latest letter before she sent if off. Rhys had placed a smacking kiss on her wrinkled cheek and taken his leave while the bewildered, sputtering duchess threw up her hands in despair. He did nothing to correct the impression that he used his allowance to honor gambling debts he had accrued the quarter before, though in truth he won more often that he lost. Rhys decided his father should take some comfort in thinking his younger son had turned out no better than he ever thought he would. Above all, Roland Canning liked being in the right of things and Rhys felt a certain perverse pleasure in not disappointing his father.
“Hah!” Nicholas scoffed. “Then the rumors I hear about you and that actress—what’s her name?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
Nick snapped his fingers. “Miss Polly Dawn Rose! Quaint name, that. A chorine from the country, no doubt. Are you saying you haven’t set her up in her own house?”
“It never ceases to surprise me how you hear these things at Dunnelly,” Rhys said, neither confirming or denying the bit of gossip. His business arrangement with P.D. Rose was a private matter and he intended to keep it that way. “Enough of this prattle about my affairs, or the lack of them. I am concerned about your sister at the moment.”
Nick sat up straighter in his chair and gave Rhys his full attention. “What about Kenna?”
“That havey-cavey business yesterday, for one thing, and her attitude toward me for another.” Rhys buttered a slice of toast. “Have you talked with her about Tom Allen?”
Nick nodded. “I managed to catch her as she was going out the door. It wasn’t a satisfactory conversation but I think she heard my displeasure well enough. She’s taking Old Tom’s death to heart and blaming herself. Nothing’s to be served by that and I’m afraid it will complicate matters with McNulty and that other fellow.”
“Wilver.”
“Yes. She told me twice this morning that it could have been her in the trap, or shot, and of course it could have been, but the way she said it made me think she believed it wasmeantto be her. I don’t like that at all. Furthermore, I don’t know what I make of it nor do I have any idea what the authorities will think. God forbid Kenna should hear the truth about her riding accident. She would not be able to sleep for a month of Sundays.”
“Riding accident?” Rhys asked, a note of caution in his voice.
“What? Oh, yes. You couldn’t know, could you? She fell from her horse some six months ago, I believe. Nothing noteworthy about that. All riders take a spill now and again. But the head groom brought a girth strap to me that had been maliciously sawed through. I dismissed the man who saddled Pyramid for her that morning though he vowed he knew nothing about it. I’ve forbidden Adams to talk to Kenna about it. I won’t have her upset by that affair.” He waved a hand in front of Rhys when he saw his friend was about to protest his decision. “No. I did the correct thing. That accident occurred shortly after one of Kenna’s worst nightmares and I was not going to risk a string of them. As it happens, she went without another until two nights ago. That’s the longest period ever. There is no telling what will happen now that her imagination is in full swing again.”
“I think you’ll agree it is not a matter of her imagination any longer, Nick. She has the right to be worried. I believe someone is trying to harm her. You can’t protect her if you can’t at least admit the possibility.”
Nick put a hand to his forehead and massaged it, closing his eyes briefly. “I can’t believe someone would want to hurt Kenna,” he said after a moment. “Why? She’s never done anything but get up to mischief. And Father’s death changed that.”
Rhys thought of Kenna crouching in his copper tub and nearly smiled. If he had caused her to “get up to mischief” then he counted his visit as a success of sorts. She had become far too retiring and genteel since Lord Dunne died, “I have a theory,” Rhys said quietly.
“Then share it. Don’t keep it to yourself.”
