Never Kiss a Rake (11 page)

She’d been a fool to think this was going to be easy. She had expected he’d be gone, that she’d be able to search his office and any other place that might hold critical information while she directed the servants to work in other areas of the house, but so far she’d been run ragged, and he’d been home, when he should have been off somewhere. She’d also imagined she’d be invisible, as a good servant should be. But the Earl of Kilmartyn insisted on looking at her, at
her
, not her scars, and his attention was most unsettling. It caused her stomach to flip around in a ridiculous manner, it caused an odd, not unpleasant cramping sensation lower down. It even made her… chest area… feel sensitive. If she didn’t know better she would say he was trying to seduce her. Not that she had any experience with seduction, but she’d read a lot.

It was his form of amusement, she thought, pushing away from the door and starting down the servants’ staircase. But she could deal with it. Still, if there was anything she could do to speed up her investigations it would be a good thing. Once she was assured of his innocence she would simply decamp in the night. The Kilmartyns would once more be left without a housekeeper, but they’d muddled through before.

She wasn’t quite certain what she’d do if she found proof of his guilt. There was something wrong here, she had no doubt of it, but for some reason she didn’t want to think this beautiful, unexpected man had had anything to do with her father’s disgrace. Could he really be a cold-blooded murderer and embezzler? She was a fool not to consider such a thing, considering her father’s hasty note to himself.

She couldn’t afford to ignore it, and she couldn’t afford to assume Kilmartyn was innocent. There were secrets in this house, dark secrets; she could practically breathe them in. Whether they had to do with her father or something else, she didn’t dare leave until she knew the truth.

Even if the truth wasn’t what she wanted to believe.

B
RYONY WOKE EARLY
, after a nearly sleepless night. For some reason she kept thinking of the Earl of Kilmartyn, the heat in his eyes when he looked at her, and it made her skin feel uncomfortably warm. She would rise and throw open the window, letting in the cool night air, and then grow chilly, and rise to close it again. When she dreamed the images were confused and disturbing, sensual dreams of touching and tasting, so that when she finally awoke the sheets were twisted about her and she was covered with a film of sweat.

Fortunately she’d already requested that a bath be prepared for her, and she’d heard Bertie clumping up and down the stairs, hauling the tins of water. Poor man, and his day had only begun, but he was good-natured and hard-working. As the senior servant, Bryony would be the first to enjoy the bath, and the maids would have to make do in her water, but with such hard toil, so much dust, and the craziness of her disordered dreams, she would have carried the water herself if necessary.

The bath improved her mood exponentially. She braided her wet hair in tight plaits and fastened it in a bun at the back of her neck. She put on her second dress, the one that clung to her curves a little more closely and bared too much of her throat, but she covered it up with a capacious apron
and hoped for the best. She was going to have to institute regular bath nights for everyone, and see if she could hire a laundry maid rather than have those duties devolve onto the housemaids, or even worse, their overworked housekeeper. More and more often small, forgotten tasks had come to her attention, with no one to attend to them but herself. In the two days she’d been in residence she’d laundered and even mangled linens; she’d polished silver that Bertie and the new footman, Jacob, hadn’t gotten around to; she had laid fires, emptied ashes, dusted bookshelves, washed windows, and peeled potatoes when the other servants were already busy; and while a part of her found the hard work and her ability to do it and do it well curiously satisfying, it was a far cry from what she’d imagined she’d be doing as a housekeeper. Her back ached, her hands were rough and red, and her legs were a mass of bruises from bumping into things, but she felt a certain buoyancy from the healthy weariness that covered her. More people should engage in physical work, she thought, and then was momentarily ashamed of herself. Most people had no choice in the matter. But truly, the idle rich didn’t know what they were missing.

Their father had always tried to imbue a strong work ethic in his children, and he’d been far too successful with his eldest daughter, as well as a complete failure with his youngest. Sophie never stirred herself if she could help it.

But at least her father’s puritanical views about work had served Bryony well in the long run.

“His lordship’s already up and about,” Mrs. Harkins greeted her. “That, or he went out late and hasn’t returned home. When Mr. Collins went in with his breakfast he’d already left.”

Bryony frowned. “That’s odd. He made no mention of plans to go out.”

“What did he say to you when you brought him his tray?”

He had said a great deal, but nothing she was prepared to share with Mrs. Harkins. “Oh, this and that,” she said in an abstracted voice. “I did notice the library was very untidy. Perhaps I’ll work on that while the maids concentrate on hauling out the third-floor bedrooms. They seem nothing more than a repository for old furniture and bric-a-brac.” She
hesitated. If she was going to discover papers of some sort, wouldn’t she be more likely to find them tucked into a drawer in an unused room, rather than the obvious place, his office? “On second thought, I think they should work on windows on such a fine day. Windows and laundry. I’ve sent a note to Mr. Lawson, telling him we need at least one laundry maid and another footman to wait at table.”

“I’m able to wait at table,” Mr. Collins volunteered from his seat to her right, putting down the newspaper he’d been engrossed in. An Irish newspaper, in fact, when Bryony didn’t realize they printed them in England.

“Thank you, Mr. Collins, but I don’t think that will be necessary. You’re already stretched too thin as it is. If we need you in an emergency we will call on you, but in the meantime it isn’t your place.” Servants were incredibly mindful and jealous of their status, Bryony had discovered, much more so than in society. Any democratic ideas she’d tried to institute at Renwick and the town house had been quickly rebuffed.

“Yes, Mrs. Greaves. And what would you have me do today? I made significant progress sorting through his lordship’s clothes, pulling out that which needed to be laundered or mended.”

“Don’t worry none about the mending, Mr. Collins,” Bertie said cheerfully. “The gentry don’t like mended clothes—they just throw them out and have new freshly made. We usually share the old stuff amongst ourselves, though somes of us resell ’em.”

It was a common enough practice, one of the few advantages of the serving class. “And you do the same with Lady Kilmartyn’s?”

Mrs. Harkins laughed. “Lord love you, we wouldn’t dare. None of us could hardly wear them, and her ladyship worries that some of her more distinctive dresses might be recognizable if someone buys it from a rag merchant. She has that mademoiselle destroy everything she’s finished with.”

“Destroys them?” Bryony echoed, aghast. “All her expensive wardrobe?”

“Seems to me you could at least take some of the trim off, reuse that,” Mrs. Harkins said with a sniff.

“It must be very extravagant,” Bryony said tentatively, fishing for information.

“Indeed it is. Not that money’s an object. His lordship’s rich as Croesus, and Lady Kilmartyn lives to spend it.”

“No one has unlimited money,” Bryony said.

Mrs. Harkins shrugged. “Well, he just inherited ownership of the ship-building business he started with some cit. Things seem to happen like that—money just falls in his lap. I don’t think Lady Kilmartyn needs to worry.”

“If she did, I doubt she’d be here,” Emma said from her spot across the table, draining her cup of tea.

“Don’t let Mademoiselle hear you say that,” Mrs. Harkins warned her. “You know she carries tales, and you’d be out on your arse in a moment’s notice.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Bryony said. “The hiring and the firing of the staff has been left up to me, with his lordship having the final word.” Unbidden the memory of his objection to the term “your lordship” came back to her, and she could feel her face heat. “Though I will agree we need to treat our employers with the respect they are due.”

“I was, Mrs. Greaves,” Emma said with a wry grin.

Bryony had to cough to hide her answering smile. Clearly Lady Kilmartyn may have managed to fool most of society, but the members of her household weren’t as easily hoodwinked.

“Windows today,” she announced, ignoring the faint groan from Emma and her new assistants, Grace and Allie. “I haven’t had a chance to check his lordship’s room, to see if anything needs replacing. You say he left early today?”

“He did,” Mr. Collins affirmed. “Her ladyship has gone out as well. Would you like me to accompany you, Mrs. Greaves?”

“No need,” she said airily. “I merely want to check the curtains, upholstery, and such. I’ve only had a brief glimpse of it on my first tour of the house, and I’m responsible for it.” Not to mention a darkened glance when she helped him into bed two nights ago. In fact, she was responsible for
everything, a curse and a blessing. No one would ever question why she should ferret around in the earl’s bedroom.

If Lady Kilmartyn was out she probably ought to start with her rooms, but she really didn’t wish to. And it made sense that if there was some sort of proof to be hidden it was far more likely in Kilmartyn’s rooms than those of his despised wife.

She waited until the staff had started on their daily tasks before climbing the servants’ stairs again to the third floor where Kilmartyn slept. She was slowly getting used to her many trips up and down the narrow flights, and when she came out into the third-floor corridor this time she wasn’t out of breath.

A good thing, since the first thing she saw was a perfect stranger in the middle of the hall, standing at the door to the ballroom, looking for all the world as if he belonged there.

Maybe he did. The morning sunlight came directly in from the windows to the east, illuminating his elegant figure, and she dropped into her customary bow automatically as he strode toward her, entirely at home.

“You must be the estimable Mrs. Greaves,” he purred, his voice soft and seductive. “My cousin has told me a great deal about you, but she failed to mention how pretty you are.”

Bryony’s pleasant smile didn’t falter, and she didn’t automatically touch her face, much as she was tempted to. “I may assume Lady Kilmartyn is your cousin, is she not? Then the reason she failed to mention my purported beauty is because she considers me…” She wanted to say “a hag from hell” but that would hardly be appropriate. “… unaesthetic,” she said.

He tipped his head to one side, eyeing her, and then he smiled, a winsome, lovely smile. “I expect she was jealous. My cousin is exquisite, one of the great beauties of England, and yet she can’t keep from feeling threatened whenever another pretty woman enters her world.”

Hardly pretty, Bryony wanted to say, but she was silent. One didn’t correct the employers or their friends.

He took a step closer, and the sun glinted off his chestnut hair, and his brown eyes were merry. “Yes, I know, you think I’m flattering you, but you’re being tolerant of the silly man. I’m Brown, you know. Rufus Brown.”

“Indeed, sir,” she answered politely. “Is there some way I may assist you?”

He took another step toward her, but she held her ground, surveying him calmly. He really was quite handsome—beauty must run in Lady Kilmartyn’s family. He had a dark curl that rested on the center of his forehead, a seemingly artless foible that she suspected was well honed. He was also doing his best to charm her, but she’d been up against the best. Against the Earl of Kilmartyn, in fact, and she’d managed to resist him. Mr. Brown was child’s play compared to him.

He cocked his head, that lovely smile playing around his lips, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I suspect you are going to be a difficult conquest, Mrs. Greaves.”