Never Kiss a Rake (3 page)

She’d seen her sisters off less than an hour ago, and it had taken the brisk walk from the staging house to Berkeley Square to put the ramrod back into her spine, to let the tears dry. She had a mission, and she was never one to shirk a responsibility. It was time to start her new life.

Opening the iron gate, she started down the alleyway beside the large stone house. How did people know which alleyway belonged to which house, she wondered. There was no plaque to signify. She would simply have to hope this would lead her to the servants’ entrance of the earl’s town house.

For once her luck held. She descended the narrow steps and rapped firmly on the door.

No one came. Did servants and delivery persons simply enter a kitchen unannounced? Or need she wait for someone to open to her?

She rapped again, tapping her foot. A moment later the door opened, revealing a young woman in a maid’s uniform, her hair awry, her eyes running over Bryony’s form with thinly veiled contempt. “Yes?” she said impatiently. The woman was pretty enough, though the sullen turn of her mouth rather spoiled the effect. Her apron and cap were gone, and she looked as if she’d just left her bed. “What do you want?” she demanded of Bryony. “We don’t allow no Reformers in this household.”

Bryony drew herself up straight. Best to start as she meant to go on. “I am Mrs. Greaves,” she said calmly. She’d chosen the false name with a certain amount of irony. “I have an appointment with Lady Kilmartyn. Please tell her I await her pleasure.” And without another word she moved past the woman, making her way into the overwarm basement kitchen.

It was a shambles. Dirty dishes littered the table where a footman sat, sprawling, his long legs stuck out, his neckcloth awry. There was a stain on his livery, and he looked at her for a moment, his practiced eye raking her body, moving up to her face and then dismissing her as unworthy. “Who’s this, then, Ruby?” he demanded.

Ruby didn’t have time to answer before an older, cheerful-looking woman scurried into the kitchen, her plump figure and stained apron attesting to her role. “Beg pardon, miss,” she said hurriedly, wiping her hands on the grubby apron. “I’m Mrs. Harkins, the cook. You must be here about the new position.”

At least this one was polite, though something would have to be done about the general cleanliness of both the kitchen and Mrs. Harkins’s aprons. Bryony nodded graciously, a housekeeper-gracious, not a lady of
the manor–gracious. “I’m Mrs. Greaves,” she said composedly. “I hope I’m not too early.” In fact, she hoped no such thing. She’d wanted a chance to get the lay of the land before she had her interview. Clearly her work here would be cut out for her.

“Don’t you worry about it, Mrs. Greaves,” the cook said. “You have a seat and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea while Alfred goes to inform her ladyship that you’re here.” She turned to the indolent footman. “Get your lumpen arse off that chair, Alfred, and do your duty.”

Alfred was unimpressed. He rose with slow insolence, reaching up to straighten his neckcloth. It still wasn’t right, but apparently it was good enough for this household. He strolled out of the room; slow enough to make it clear he was going because he wanted to, not because Mrs. Harkins had ordered him.

“And you, Ruby! Don’t you go be leaving Emma with all the upstairs work. Get a move on.”

“Emma can handle it,” Ruby said rudely.

“If she can then there’s no need for you on staff, now is there?” Mrs. Harkins replied.

A moment later Ruby was gone, and Mrs. Harkins put a cup of very strong tea in front of Bryony, sighing. “You can see we’re at sixes and sevens here, Mrs. Greaves. I do my best, but I’m not cut out for managing a household this size, and that’s the truth of it.”

Bryony put sugar and milk into the inky tea, then managed to take a sip without shuddering. She sincerely hoped Mrs. Harkins’s cooking was better than her tea. “It’s a difficult task if you’ve been thrust into the midst of it,” she said. “Particularly if things have gotten lax.” She resisted the temptation to glance at the littered table.

But Mrs. Harkins recognized her own failings. “We need more staff,” she said with a gusty sigh. “Ruby and Emma are the upstairs maids, but Emma doubles as my helper, and the two footmen, Alfred and Bertie, aren’t worth spit, though at least Bertie tries. Mademoiselle Hortense’s only task is to take care of Lady Kilmartyn, but Bertie occasionally doubles as his lordship’s valet when his lordship lets him, and the boy who hauls the coal and such ran off weeks ago.”

A household this size should have four upstairs maids, a scullery maid, and a kitchen maid. Two footmen might suffice, but a butler would do better at overseeing them, and the idea that a gentleman of Lord Kilmartyn’s stature didn’t have a dedicated valet was a surprise indeed. “If they hire me I’ll do my best to get things sorted out,” she said pleasantly, not disguising the iron determination in her voice.

“They’ll hire you, mark my words,” Mrs. Harkins said. “Lord Kilmartyn doesn’t concern himself with household matters, but things have come to such a pass that he’s put his foot down. It just remains to be seen if you’ll stay the course. This b’aint an easy job.”

There was a trace of Yorkshire in Mrs. Harkins’s comfortable voice, reminding Bryony of cool summers and dark hills and laughter. But the house in Yorkshire was gone, along with everything else. “I’m not in the habit of quitting,” she said coolly.

At that moment Alfred sauntered back in. “Her ladyship will see you now,” he said, dropping back down at the table.

“You could see to the silver, young man,” Mrs. Harkins said sternly. “It hasn’t been polished in weeks.”

“Nobody notices,” he said lazily, reaching past Bryony to pour himself a cup of tea.

“Aren’t you going to escort Mrs. Greaves to her ladyship?”

“In a moment,” he said, not making any attempt to move.

Bryony rose. “I’m ready to go now.”

He looked up at her with perfect indifference. “Are you, now?”

“Yes, I am,” she said, her voice like steel. “Get up.”

He rose, much to his own surprise, she expected. She had the voice of command, one he would be used to. She had been dealing with servants her entire life, with fairness and compassion, and despite the laxness of the household Alfred instinctively responded to it.

“All right,” he said, still sounding sullen. “I suppose the sooner I take you the sooner I can have a peaceful cup of tea.”

It was going to be the last peaceful cup of tea he had for a long time, Bryony thought, as she followed him up the narrow servants’ staircase. For the first time in months she felt a faint glimmer in the darkness of her soul.
At last she was on her way to discovering what lay behind that strange note her father had left, a note that had turned grief and shame to fury and resolution. Finally she had something she could do.

The room she was ushered into was dimly lit, the curtains pulled against the bright sunlight, and for a moment she blinked, peering into the shadows. A faint voice drifted toward her, soft and gentle. “Please come in, Mrs. Greaves. You’ll have to excuse the dim light—I am afflicted with the migraine and sunlight positively cripples me.”

Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, and she could see Lady Kilmartyn now, draped across a chaise longue, an icon of frail beauty. Bryony moved toward her, stopped and gave a dignified bow. She’d considered it long and hard, and she and her sisters had decided that a curtsy was too demeaning for an august housekeeper. “Your ladyship,” she said in a quiet voice. She was intimately acquainted with migraines—her mother had suffered from them, and Maddy had inherited the dreadful tendency. Loud voices were almost as bad as sunlight. “Would you prefer I come back later?”

Heavens, she hoped not. She had counted on this working out so completely that she had informed their landlord they would no longer have need of the shabby rooms that had housed them for the last six weeks.

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Greaves, but there is no assurance that I will feel any better tomorrow. Please sit.”

Should she, or shouldn’t she? When she had asked a servant or housekeeper to sit her in presence they usually did, but she had always been a comfortable mistress. On instinct she took the seat Lady Kilmartyn waved her toward, keeping her back straight, her knees together, and her lips pursed.

Cecily, Countess of Kilmartyn, was one of the most acclaimed beauties in England. The daughter of a minor baronet, she’d reigned over her first season, and if people were astonished she’d married an Irish earl when she could have set her sights higher they had only to consider that the earl was Adrian Bruton and they understood. They were a beautiful couple, moving through their world on a cloud of adoration, and even Bryony understood the perfection of the match. Lady Kilmartyn had
smooth, delicate skin, luminous dark eyes, a small, willful chin, and a mass of dark hair that was dressed in loose curls around her beautiful face, and she surveyed Bryony with a critical eye.

“Your references are impeccable, Mrs. Greaves,” she said finally. “Perhaps you might tell me about your last position and why you left?”

Bryony had been prepared for this. Of course her references were magnificent—she’d written them herself, and she’d worked up a complicated history that would convince anyone. “I was working in Italy with the late Lady Margrave,” she said, keeping her voice soft and servile. “She kept a large household, and I oversaw both the Italian and English servants, while maintaining order and the serenity she required as she suffered through her fatal illness. Needless to say I returned to England upon her death and immediately sought a new position.”

“And didn’t Lady Margrave reward such devotion? I would think she would be generous enough to see you didn’t have to work for quite a bit.”

Bryony had anticipated this. “Lady Margrave was indeed very generous. Unfortunately I have family in Dorset who depend on my assistance.”

Lady Kilmartyn frowned. “I hope they don’t make too many demands upon your time, Mrs. Greaves. I would expect you to be here.”

“My responsibility to them is only financial,” she said smoothly.

Lady Kilmartyn was watching her closely, and she suddenly sat up, peering at her in the darkness. “You know, I’m not sure but that an older woman might be more suitable,” she said suddenly. “You seem too young to be able to run a household.”

“I assure you, Lady Kilmartyn, that I am more than capable of ordering a full staff of servants and seeing to the smooth running of your home.” Bryony struggled to keep her voice calm as panic filled her. What had she said to change Lady Kilmartyn’s mind?

“Take off your bonnet and move into the light, if you please,” Lady Kilmartyn said, her voice sharp.

Bryony didn’t dare hesitate. She rose, pulling off her bonnet to expose the tightly braided hair, then moved toward the pool of light that escaped one dark curtain.

“What’s wrong with your face?” the woman demanded.

For a moment Bryony considered not responding to her rude question. Then again, if one was a servant then there was no such thing as rude behavior from an employer. “Smallpox, your ladyship. I had it when I was quite young.”

Lady Kilmartyn considered her for a long moment. “No,” she said abruptly. “Your face distresses me. I don’t like to be surrounded by ugly things.”

Ugly things. The words should have stung, but Bryony had heard them before. From her mother. From her own mouth as she stared into a mirror.

She stood frozen. She could hardly change her face, and begging would do no good. She nodded, temporarily accepting defeat, when there was a sudden shaft of light into the room, and Lady Kilmartyn let out a cry of pain that was as beautiful as she was.

“Close that door!” she demanded. “You know how much the light hurts me.”

“Indeed I do, my love,” came a smooth, elegant voice. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to override you.”

L
IGHT FLOODED THE SALON
, and Bryony almost clapped her hat back on her head, but something stopped her. If she was going to work here he would see her face soon enough, and there was no chance in the world he would recognize her. Few people even knew there were three Russell daughters.