Velvet Night (Author's Cut Edition) Read online

  “What’s this, Kenna?” Rhys demanded, rising to his feet and brushing off his coat. “Another scrape?” He stopped his haphazard grooming and grinned genially at Yvonne, noticing her for the first time. “And who are you?” He swept her a courtly bow as grand as either girl had ever seen, picking up his hat in a single motion and holding it to his heart. “Dare I hope my most recent brush with Kenna has not addled my brain? I’m not imagining you, am I?”

  Yvonne blushed beautifully, avoiding Rhys’s mischievous eyes as she looked first to Kenna then to Nicholas for help.

  Kenna snorted at Rhys’s banter. “This is our new sister, which you would know well enough if you had not been on the Continent at the time of Papa’s wedding. Yvonne, do not be taken in by this rascal’s addresses. His name is Rhys Canning and he has been Nick’s friend since—well, since forever. He is an abominable tease and up to every trick and I think he is something of a rake, though I am not certain what that is. I suspect it has something to do with lightskirts and gambling.”

  “Kenna!” Two voices, Nick’s and Yvonne’s, rose in alarm at this unseemly announcement. Rhys then clapped his hand over Kenna’s mouth and held it, and her, while he serenely addressed Nicholas.

  “Perhaps we should escort the young lady and this bit of baggage back to their rooms.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Nick replied, giving Kenna a look that would have turned her to stone had she been aware of it. He held out his arm to Yvonne. “This way, m’dear.”

  Only when they were safely in Kenna’s bedchamber did Rhys remove his hand and his hold. “Here we are, Miss Scapegrace.”

  Kenna flounced over to her bed and sat on it so hard the snowy white canopy billowed. She crossed her arms in front of her and thrust out her lower lip. “That was very ill-mannered, Rhys Canning! It is common knowledge you are a rake and I shouldn’t think you’d mind if I said so. You do know actresses, don’t you?”

  “Several,” Rhys said dryly, “but none so skilled as you. I vow I shall ring a maid to dust your lower lip if you insist on pouting in that manner.”

  Kenna drew in her lip and gave Rhys a saucy smile. “Didn’t I say you were up to every trick?”

  “Just so.” He turned a wing chair away from the fireplace and seated himself, leaning back comfortably and crossing his Hessians at the ankle. He waited, imperturbably calm, while Yvonne and Nicholas took seats near him on the divan. “Now suppose you tell us what is toward?”

  Kenna fidgeted, staring at the apple green walls of her room and wondering if she were on trial. She plucked a bit of the coverlet between her fingers and twisted it.

  “I can wait all evening if necessary.”

  Kenna knew he could. Unlike Nicholas, who was rhythmically tapping his foot on the carpet, Rhys was infinitely patient. Taking a deep breath, Kenna plunged into her explanation. “Yvonne and I are not allowed to attend the masquerade. Even for a few minutes,” she added earnestly. “It is my fault completely, for I persuaded Yvonne to abandon our fishing outing and explore the tower room. It would have come to naught if we hadn’t had the misfortune of being locked in. The door blew shut and the key was in the door—on the wrong side—and—well, that story can wait. But it was a good adventure, Rhys. Only it reminded Yvonne of the Bastille. Did you know she was born in Paris? One can’t know from her accent because she’s spent so much time in England.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing her speak at all.” A ghost of a smile lifted Rhys’s full mouth. “But Yvonne’s command of the language is hardly the issue, is it?”

  “I only mention it because it was easy for me to forget that Yvonne and her mother fled the Terror in France. I wouldn’t have insisted we go to the tower if I had really thought on it. I am sorry, Yvonne. You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course I believe you,” Yvonne said softly, a delicate pink coming to her cheeks. “You are the most kind-hearted—”

  “Oh, but I’m not! I have just come to the realization that I am astonishingly selfish!” Kenna missed Rhys nearly choking in surprise and Nicholas swallowing his laughter. “I practically had to drag you to the stairs tonight to watch the party and I never gave a thought that you might hate the consequence.” She turned to Rhys. “Yvonne says she will simply expire if she has to spend more time in the schoolroom. For myself I do not mind but it is unconscionable to cause her to suffer.”

  “So you came to this conclusion and decided to return to your room before you were discovered,” Nicholas said. “That was very wise of you.”

  Kenna looked uncomfortable.

  “I think there is more to this,” said Rhys. “Isn’t that so, Kenna?”

  “Well, yes, there is,” Kenna admitted somewhat reluctantly. “I began to think how much this masque meant to Yvonne. She won’t have her season for another year or two and this is a great event, an opportunity. And I took it away from her. So of course I thought I could make things right again.”

  “Of course,” Rhys and Nick said together, identical inflections in their voices.

  Kenna ignored them. “It came to me that Yvonne is everything angelic. She is beautiful, don’t you think? Everyone remarks on her nose,” she added as if it explained everything.

  At that moment acute embarrassment prevented them from seeing any part of Yvonne’s face as she had buried it in her hands.

  Rhys raised one dark eyebrow. “Whereas remarks on your nose make some mention of other people’s business.”

  Kenna was unperturbed. “Exactly. So it came to me that she must not miss her chance to attend this evening’s masque. You will help, won’t you? It’s not as if we shall ever be found out. It’s a masque after all. I know I can find some sort of costume and her face will be hidden.”

  “Even the nose?” Nick asked, giving Yvonne a fond hug as she remained hidden behind her hands.

  “Especially the nose,” Kenna answered with assurance. “Will you help?”

  Nick shrugged and looked at Rhys. “What do you think? Has a year on the Continent jaded you or are you up to Kenna’s intrigues?”

  Rhys studied the toes of his polished Hessians for a long moment while Kenna held her breath and Yvonne dared to peep between her fingers. At length, an enigmatic smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He scanned Kenna’s expectant features slowly and when he responded his voice held a touch of something very young. “I never tire of Kenna’s intrigues.”

  Kenna laughed brightly and bounded from her bed, throwing her arms about Rhys’s neck. The wing chair teetered uneasily under the force of her enthusiasm but Rhys managed to keep it righted and returned the affectionate embrace. “It is so good to have you home again!”

  As soon as she said the words Kenna wished she could have taken them back. She lifted her head in time to catch the flash of pain that paled Rhys’s strong features.

  “It’s all right, sprite,” Rhys said softly. “This has always been my home.”

  That was true enough, Kenna thought, but it didn’t make it right. Rhys had relatives, but no family. He had a home, but no homeland. And the glimpse of aloneness that Kenna had surprised in his eyes reminded her that it still had the power to cause terrible hurt. Rhys’s father was Roland Canning, a shipping magnate of no small influence and greater wealth in America, and though Kenna had never met him, indeed, had no desire to meet him, she knew from Rhys that he was regarded well by Boston society. Mr. Canning was a political noteworthy in his own country and had once served as ambassador to England. Kenna had learned from listening to her father speak that Roland Canning was raising his son to follow his lead and Kenna found nothing objectionable about a father’s desire to see his son successful. But the powerful Mr. Canning had two sons and Rhys was not the one oft remembered and adored.

  Roland Canning could forgive his heir anything and his younger son nothing, beginning with the death of his beloved wife at Rhys’s birth. So it was that while Richard was raised in America under the doting eye of his father, Rhys was sent to his
maternal great-grandmother’s stately home in England. The duchess of Pelham made no secret she had no patience and little affection for a lad she considered too brash and rebellious, too thoroughly American for her tastes, and promptly discharged Rhys to boarding school. Her duty done, she forgot all about him, and her man of affairs saw to Rhys’s allowance and needs. Kenna had overheard her father once say that it must have been a relief for the headmaster when Nicholas had befriended Rhys at school. Until that time it fell on the poor fellow’s shoulders to find excuses to keep Rhys in school during the holidays. Once Rhys became Nick’s fast friend they were into so many scrapes the man no longer needed excuses, he had reasons. But Nick, ever the finder of stray pups and blessed with a quick mind that usually relieved him of all responsibility for their care, managed to bring himself and Rhys to Dunnelly Manor one Christmas ten years ago. It then fell to Kenna and her father to make it a home for him.

  It was an easy enough matter for each of them. Lord Dunne had a fondness for all children. He loved their enthusiasm and courage and noise, above all, their laughter. It had been his wish, as well as his wife’s, to have a dozen in his home and until Catherine’s untimely death it had seemed possible. It was a doubly cruel blow that Lady Cathy had been carrying their third child when a carriage accident ended her life. Dunnelly Manor was still in mourning for her ladyship when Nicholas brought Rhys Canning home, but Lord Dunne made him welcome, ready to take Rhys under his wing as if he had been his own. He never mentioned that on that first acquaintance Rhys’s solemn gray eyes were so like his Cathy’s that it ached for him to look at the child.

  Kenna was only three when Rhys first visited Dunnelly and she had no inhibitions about crawling onto his lap when he was introduced to her in the nursery. Rhys was eleven at the time and had no experience with persistent, curious, and adoring urchins. He held her rather awkwardly and took much good-natured teasing from Nick that he had made a conquest, but Lord Dunne saw it was more likely Rhys had been conquered by his flame-haired daughter. Had they but known it, when Kenna startled Rhys with an affectionate, if somewhat wet, kiss on his cheek they were witness to the first spontaneous smile that had lighted Rhys’s face in years. From that moment on Nick and Rhys were rarely seen about Dunnelly Manor without Kenna in tow. If Nick chafed a bit at having his sister dog their every footstep, he never voiced his objections. If Rhys didn’t mind having her in his pocket, he reasoned, then why should he?

  Kenna glanced over at her brother and smiled at the path of her thoughts. Poor Nicky and Rhys! At some point over the years they had become her keepers and her champions, ready to assist her in any piece of work and take the consequences upon their own heads. She knew of no one else, save perhaps her father, who would have taken the assignment without a costly bribe.

  Kenna gave Rhys a brief hug and straightened, smoothing her well-worn dressing gown. “You don’t have to worry that I’ll land you in the suds this time,” she said earnestly. “No one ever has to know that Yvonne was at the masque.”

  Rhys grimaced at Nick. “I felt better about this thing until she mentioned not landing us in the suds,” he said wryly. “Have you noticed events rarely go as she plans them?”

  “Rarely?” Nick asked. “I should think it’s never. Do you remember—”

  Kenna stamped her foot, “If you are going to recount ancient history I am going to ask you both to leave. Faith! Yvonne would think me a hapless wretch if I let you two go on.”

  “She is not very discerning if she hasn’t discovered that on her own,” Nick said. “She can’t have forgotten the tower incident so soon.”

  Yvonne came out from behind her hands and nudged Nick’s ribs gently. “Kenna, I know you mean well. You always do, but I’m not certain this is such a good idea. If I were found out Mama would be most distressed and your father would feel obliged to punish us.”

  Kenna waved her hand airily. “You are defeated before we begin, Yvonne! I tell you, there is no one who will know save the four of us. Nick and Rhys would never give you away. You do want to go to the masque, don’t you?”

  “Above all else, but—”

  Kenna clapped her hands together as if all was settled. Nick leaned his head close to Yvonne’s and confided, “In time you will learn to state your objections first. Kenna has little patience to hear them out once you’ve admitted a desire for her outcome.”

  “Would she have listened?” Yvonne asked as Nick helped her to her feet.

  “Probably not. But at least you have voiced the folly of the venture one more time.” Nick patted her hand. “Don’t give it another thought. Rhys and I won’t. Damnable waste of gray matter. It’ll be a great lark, you’ll see. Kenna’s schemes always are.”

  Kenna was fairly dancing with excitement. She urged Rhys out of his chair and pushed him in the direction of the door. “We’ll go to the attic. There’s bound to be something suitable in one of the trunks. None of you are going to be the least sorry! Yvonne will be radiant.”

  And in less than one hour she was. They all agreed upon it. If anything, Kenna thought Yvonne very nearly blossomed when flanked by her two swarthy and disreputable escorts. Her rose satin gown had once belonged to Lord Dunne’s grandmother and though its wide panniers and off the shoulder neckline made it sadly out of fashion, it was perfect for a masquerade. It recalled another time when Dunnelly Manor had been host to gay parties and was equal to this occasion. The same trunk had yielded matching slippers and splendid lace petticoats, but the only wig they could find had been home for a family of moths for decades. Undaunted, Kenna had arranged most of Yvonne’s splendid hair high on her head. Three thick sausage curls dangled elegantly at the nape of her neck and every strand was dusted liberally with white powder and sprinkled with glitter. Kenna had no beauty patch but she improvised by painting a tiny black mark on one of Yvonne’s high cheekbones and the half mask that Nick found set it off beautifully in addition to hiding most of Yvonne’s nose. Her bare throat was adorned with a string of matched pearls that now belonged to Kenna but had been Lady Catherine’s. Yvonne fretted a bit over the pearls, but when no one else thought Lord Dunne would recognize the necklace, she let the matter drop.

  “You look like a princess,” Kenna exclaimed happily, well pleased with her work. “Rhys. Nicky. You will keep an eye on her, won’t you? I shouldn’t want her accosted by some rake.”

  “Other than Rhys,” Nick said, reaching around Yvonne to give his friend a good-natured poke.

  “Especially Rhys. Or you, Nicholas. I vow I have heard Father remark that you are the true libertine and Rhys is but a foil for your games.” Kenna frowned, puzzled briefly by the odd exchange of glances between her brother and Rhys. She told herself she had imagined Nick’s guilty start and Rhys’s quickly veiled warning. It was difficult to discern their meaning when their faces were nearly covered by their black masks and shadowed by their hats. “Yvonne, you shan’t have a moment’s worry with these highwaymen to guard you,” she said, shrugging off the moment’s unease. “They make most excellent brigands, don’t you think?”

  Yvonne nodded happily and held out her hands to Kenna. “Thank you for this, dear Kenna! I don’t know how I will repay you.”

  “Just remember everything. I’ll be waiting up and I want to hear it all.”

  “Won’t you watch from the stairs?”

  Kenna shook her head and saw Rhys’s eyes grow skeptical beneath his mask. She wrinkled her unremarkable nose at him. “No. I think it best if I simply stay in my room.”

  “I hardly know if such wisdom becomes you, sprite, but I shall think on it,” Rhys said, winking broadly at Nick. Before Kenna could object to the odious nickname, he ushered Nick and Yvonne into the hall. Their animated laughter nearly silenced the door slamming behind them.

  “Horrid man!” Kenna announced to her empty bedchamber as she leaned against the door. “He should have stayed on the Continent. He and Napoleon deserve one another.” But a moment later, when she was stoking the fire i
n her hearth, Kenna was smiling. It truly was lovely to have Rhys at Dunnelly again.

  Kenna fully expected Yvonne to return within the hour so she seated herself by the hearth and read while she waited. The History of Tom Jones was not precisely the sort of book Lord Dunne relished his daughter reading, which is why he had placed it on one of the library shelves at exactly eye level. Knowing Kenna as he did, he correctly assumed she would be interested in literature that was out of her reach, surmising it to be forbidden. But Kenna, finding the reading on the upper shelves to be rather dull stuff, though terribly edifying, eventually saw through her father’s game and began to take books from the shelf that she could reach. These books were also terribly edifying but the nature of the information had changed.

  It did not take her long to become immersed in Tom Jones’s misadventures and when she glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel she was surprised to see more than an hour and a half had passed. Curiosity ate at her insides for another ten minutes while she tried to imagine what Yvonne was doing. Was she dancing with Nicholas? Or had her brother passed her along to some other young buck? Kenna chided herself for thinking ill of Nick but it could not change the truth. He and Rhys, for all that they looked alike, were not so similar under the skin. Nick was irrepressible and on occasion irresponsible. Rhys was so—she searched for the right word—wise. Kenna had the feeling that Rhys, whether he joined a scatter-brained escapade or initiated one, was always watchful, naturally cautious. She admitted that Rhys invariably made her feel protected, no matter what the consequences. No doubt he was with Yvonne and she would come to no harm in his care. That thought satisfied Kenna for another five minutes, then she could not tolerate the not knowing another second.

  Coming to a decision, Kenna tossed aside her book. She rummaged through her mahogany chiffonier, pulling out the drawers and never quite pushing them back in when she didn’t find what she wanted. A waterfall of lingerie covered the front of the chiffonier by the time Kenna found the clothing that would transform her. In a matter of minutes, she was no longer a young lady, but a rogue every bit the equal of the two highwaymen who had preceded her to the masquerade.