Kenna shrugged, unwilling to discuss Victorine’s escape from France with a stranger, let alone one dressed in a ridiculous crimson leotard and blood red cape. Besides, this man was not so well informed. Kenna could have told him that Yvonne had never been in any real danger, having been secreted out of terror-ridden Paris when she was a child. It was Victorine’s refusal to accompany her daughter to England, to the home of distant relatives of the Comte Dussault, that had nearly cost Victorine her life. She followed her husband and her parents to prison when the nobility was jailed and almost followed them in death. The devil was correct in one thing: it was a miracle that Victorine had been able to escape. While Yvonne had been cocooned in England for the better part of her life, Victorine had known hunger and cold, foul living conditions and the constant threat of death until two years ago. The safety and tranquility, the unhurried pattern of country life at Dunnelly’s coastal shore was still new to Victorine, and Kenna, sensing her mother’s reserve, never broached the subject of her imprisonment or her escape.
“One has to wonder how she feels about our victory at Trafalgar,” the devil said idly. “It’s hard to grasp what these émigrés think when they hear Napoleon has been so soundly defeated.”
Kenna felt herself bristle. Three weeks earlier the battle of Trafalgar and Admiral Nelson’s death had thrown the nation into a state of celebration and mourning in one stunning blow. Victorine had no reason to feel any differently. Napoleon’s rise to power had not saved her husband or her parents. She relished his defeat as much as any Englishman, perhaps more. Kenna could not believe this man questioned her mother’s allegiance, yet she was at a loss as to how to respond.
“As you say, sir,” she murmured huskily. “If you’ll excuse me.” Giving Satan no choice, Kenna brushed by him and moved to a less crowded part of the room. She scanned the dancers again and those guests on the edge of floor, sighing with relief when she found Yvonne taking refreshment with a man wearing a forest green domino. The hood, cape, and mask hid his identity from Kenna but he appeared harmless enough and Yvonne was smiling up at him, patently enjoying his company. Deciding it would be cruel to take her away, especially since Rhys and Nick were nowhere to be found, Kenna thought it best to wait elsewhere.
The gallery afforded the most comfortable place to hide and it was one of Kenna’s favorite rooms at Dunnelly. Lined with massive tapestries depicting medieval myths and commissioned oil paintings of Dunne ancestors, the gallery was imbued with fantasy and history. Kenna rubbed her hands together briskly as she nudged the massive door shut behind her. Obviously no one had thought the guests would find this room because the sculpted white marble fireplace was stone cold. She poked at the ashes for a few minutes, before shrugging philosophically and settling for a lap robe that had been carefully folded over the back of one of the chairs.
The gallery was nearly fifty feet long and the furniture had been arranged in three distinct settings. When a fire was laid Kenna always sat in the middle section, closest to the hearth. Realizing she was going to be chilled no matter where she sat, she chose the end of the room furthest from the door and huddled on the settee beneath the rug. Checking the time, she promised to give Yvonne thirty more minutes at the masque before venturing back to the ballroom. Perhaps by then Rhys and Nick would remember that Yvonne could not stay past midnight when the masks were traditionally removed.
“It was very bad of them to say they would take care of Yvonne, then disappear,” she muttered softly. “I won’t forgive them easily for this.” Ten minutes ticked by, an eternity to Kenna as she was hard pressed to keep her eyes open. She slid lower on the settee and yawned sleepily. Comfortably aware that no exploring guest was likely to surprise her, hidden as she was by the rounded back of the sofa, Kenna closed her eyes.
She had no idea of how much time had passed when frantic, whispering voices brought her awake. Disoriented, Kenna nearly forgot where she was and only just managed to stop herself from sitting straight up and revealing her presence. She knew it was wicked to maintain silence when the intruders thought they were alone, but she told herself since she couldn’t really hear what they were saying it wasn’t as if she were truly an eavesdropper.
The conversation, which she now discerned was between a man and a woman, was conducted in tones rife with urgency and showed no signs of being over quickly. Biting her lip, Kenna worried about the time and wished the man and woman gone. Because she could not see the mantel clock from where she lay Kenna decided there was nothing for it but to take a peek above the settee’s back. She removed her hat and held it to her breast then carefully lifted her head, stealing a look toward the fireplace. At the same moment, the gallery fell silent.
Thinking she had been seen, Kenna held her breath and cast a cautious, guilty glance toward the far end of the room. In the blink of an eye a myriad of emotion assailed her. Relief that the lovers had not seen her, caught as they were in an embrace that allowed for no intrusion upon their senses, was replaced by rage when Victorine stood on tiptoe to reach Rhys’s mouth with her own.
Kenna’s stomach gave a violent turn and she brought up her hand to stem the harsh gasp that was caught in her throat. She was not witness to an affectionate kiss between acquaintances, but a lover’s kiss, and she wished she were too young to know the difference. Victorine’s small hands were buried in Rhys’s dark hair and his long fingers were running the length of her spine. Had the couple been any other two people, Kenna would have watched unabashedly, perhaps even finding an answer as to how the kiss was accomplished without bumping noses. But this display of infidelity shocked her so that she closed her eyes tightly and forgot all about noses. Falling back on the settee, Kenna buried her face in her hands, weeping without sound until the gallery door was opened and closed and she knew herself to be alone again.
Sniffing loudly, Kenna wiped her nose on her sleeve and sat up. How could Victorine betray her father so vilely? How could Rhys? If she hadn’t seen their tryst she could not have been convinced they were capable of such a thing. Even now she wondered if her eyes had somehow deceived her. Admittedly she was tired; mayhap it was a horrible dream. But it wasn’t, a tiny voice told her. You weren’t dreaming. Victorine was kissing Rhys and Rhys was returning it measure for measure. Though she did not understand its nature, Kenna recognized a hurt beyond the pain she felt for her father.
Jamming her hat on her head, Kenna threw off the lap robe and rose on shaky feet. Uncertain of where she wanted to go or what she intended to do, Kenna knew only that she had to leave the gallery. She glanced at the clock and saw it was ten minutes past midnight. Rhys and Victorine had left in time to be part of the unmasking and if Yvonne had not thought to take safety in her bedchamber by now, it was too late to help her.
Practically running from the gallery, Kenna did not spare another thought for anyone but herself. She strode right by the ballroom without a glance in the direction of the laughter and music. None of it sounded as bright and engaging as it had a mere hour ago. She pushed past Henderson without acknowledging his inquiry about her cape or her coach and walked outside. She kept walking, past the curricles and barouches lining the driveway, past the carefully clipped boxwood hedges, past the colored lanterns strung along the main gate. As if in a trance, Kenna saw all of it and remembered little.
Once, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at Dunnelly Manor. As if liquid, more than fifty lighted windows, shimmered and danced before her eyes, yet she knew it was her vision causing the face of her home to blur alarmingly. Icy air swept up from the Channel, tore at her thin coat and stung her eyes, reminding Kenna she was ill-prepared to spend much time out in the cold, no matter how numb she had been to the elements when she first stepped out of doors. Cursing under her breath, Kenna turned away and changed her direction. She was not ready to return to the house but neither was she prepared to walk forever without a plan.
Retracing part of her path, Kenna circled around the manor and went directly to the summerhouse. Some of Kenna’s clearest childhood memories were of playing there, pretending she was the grand lady of the pristine white cottage. The gardener’s son tended the roses on the lattice for her and the head groom’s young nephew kept her pony by the apple tree which was designated as the stable. And when the three of them tired of the play, which was not long because Kenna found it dull to be in the house with her dolls, they explored the slippery trail of rocks that led from the summerhouse’s back door to the narrow beach nearly a hundred feet below.
For hours they played at being smugglers or pirates, hiding among the jagged boulders and searching out treasure in the deep caves that dotted this section of the beach. They carried on one entire summer in such a manner, blithely unaware of the danger of their game until Lord Dunne surprised them by waiting in one of the caves. Kenna would have liked to discover how her father was able to get there without passing them or why his feet and clothes, unlike theirs, were suspiciously dry. She never had a chance to voice her question, since she was hauled without explanation onto her father’s lap and spanked soundly right in front of the gardener’s son and the head groom’s nephew. Pride made her remain silent while the slaps echoed eerily around the cavern’s damp walls. After it was over she was hugged within an inch of her life and carried out of the cave. Her two playmates, much subdued by the sharp look in Lord Dunne’s eyes, followed at ten paces. As far as Kenna knew it was the last time any of them had ventured on the rocky coast.
Fully expecting the summerhouse to be locked, Kenna automatically reached for the key that was always kept lying atop the door frame. In spite of her height it was still a stretch and when she gave a little hop to get it she was surprised to see the door swing open of its own accord. Curious now and not a little wary, she forgot the key and walked inside.
Kenna did not require a light to find her way around the house. There were only two rooms: one for sitting and one for sleeping. Neither were extravagantly appointed and Kenna knew the location of every stick of furniture. Even before she bumped into the walnut table Kenna knew someone had been using the summerhouse. The furniture that should have been shrouded in muslin covers for the winter season was uncovered. There was a hint of perfume in the air and none of the mustiness that Kenna would have taken for granted.
Feeling as if she had been delivered another blow to her midsection, Kenna forced herself to examine the sleeping chamber, knowing what she would find but unable to prevent having her suspicions confirmed. The scent in here was heavier, perfumed yet somehow headier than Victorine’s familiar fragrance, Kenna’s hand trembled as she ran it along the bed, knowing her worst fears were real ones when she found it unmade. At least they had not been together recently, she thought bitterly, for the sheets were cool to the touch.
Kenna could not leave the bedchamber quickly enough. Careless of injury to herself from the rearranged furniture, she ran to the back door of the summerhouse and threw it open. She managed to descend three steps of the sharp incline before tearing off her scarf and heaving the contents of her dinner on the rocks. When she was done she sat down on the stairs, head between her knees, and waited for the sick weakness to pass. By slow degrees she became aware of how cold it was. The sharp sea air stung her exposed face like so many nettles and dissolved on her clothes until she felt as if she were wearing a damp blanket. Although she felt the cold she made no move to return to the relative warmth of the summerhouse.
I shall die of exposure here, she decided, and they’ll know what I’ve discovered and they’ll be sorry they ever played my family such a trick. For all of thirty seconds it seemed like a splendid plan until the ridiculousness of her notion set Kenna laughing. That her laughter was sad and a trifle hysterical she failed to notice.
Kenna’s laughter eventually turned to tiny dry hiccups and she smothered them by wrapping the woolly scarf about her face and throat. Waiting for them to pass, her mind curiously vacant of all thought, Kenna focused her blank attention on the rhythmic wash of waves below. White crests of water broke ever nearer to the wall of rocks as high tide approached. In a few hours the beach would disappear and the caves would fill and by morning the strip of land would be swept clean.
When her hiccups were gone, Kenna started to rise. Just then a beacon of light in the distance caught her eye. It disappeared almost immediately and Kenna wondered if she had imagined it. But just as she turned to go the flash of light came again and a moment later it was joined by another. Curious now, she sat down and waited to see if the twin beacons would be extinguished. They were—only to be lighted again less than a minute later.
Kenna knew full well that light, unhindered by rocky terrains and the curve of the earth, could be seen from great distances over water. It occurred to her that perhaps the light originated from France’s northern coast. Then after reflecting upon the nature of the light and its signaling effect, Kenna decided she was witnessing the work of smugglers. It was by far the more exciting explanation.
There didn’t seem to have been a time when she was unaware of the smuggling that went on up and down the Channel. For many years Kenna thought it was a profession just like any other. Some men were farmers, statesmen, landowners, merchants, and some were smugglers. About the same time that she began to understand that smuggling was illegal, she also understood that her father turned his head from it. While he did not condone smuggling he was sympathetic to the plight of the men involved in it. In Parliament Lord Dunne fought the high tariffs and restrictions on trade that made smuggling a dangerous necessity for some men as well as a lucrative operation.
But Kenna knew her father’s sympathies did not extend to permitting smugglers to use his property for a distribution point. That is why she questioned her own eyesight when the beacon of light over the water was answered by a swinging lantern on the beach not a hundred feet from where she sat. Though she strained her eyes she could make out neither the ship in the Channel nor the man signaling from the shore. She thought it deuced clever of the smugglers to choose the night of the masque to visit Dunnelly. If she hadn’t caught sight of them they might have finished their business with no one the wiser. With characteristic lack of caution, Kenna concluded this havey-cavey affair bore investigating.
Kenna’s descent to the beach was slow. She took each of the narrow steps on her bottom, keeping a careful watch on the flickering lantern and the spots of light over the water. Clambering among the slippery rocks required all her concentration and she narrowly missed the lantern disappearing into the mouth of the cave she had explored as a child. The lights in the Channel had also vanished and though Kenna paused in her climbing to watch the water, they did not reappear. Supposing an end to the signaling meant the smugglers would soon come ashore, Kenna scrambled for better position at the entrance to the cave. She waited there, as patiently as she was able given the circumstances, worrying her lower lip and squeezing her cold hands into fists. Just when it seemed nothing would come of her vigil she heard the slapping of oars in the water. A few minutes later two dark figures dragged a rowboat onto the beach and secured it out of reach of the encroaching tide. Kenna expected them to unload their boat and carry their goods into the cave, but they went into the opening in the rocks empty-handed.
When they did not return with help for their cargo Kenna slipped from her hiding place and went to the boat. She did not know what to think when she found the boat empty save for its oars. What sort of smugglers didn’t transport so much as a dram of French wine or a bolt of French linen?
Curious for an answer to this new mystery, Kenna approached the cave. From deep within she heard voices. Venturing inside, she kept her back against the slick walls as if to become invisible. Crediting herself with a certain amount of stealth, she crept closer to the origin of the voices, raised now in argument. The thought of overhearing a disagreement among the smugglers, a falling out between thieves, made her giddy with fear and excitement.
