Never Kiss a Rake (5 page)

She took a deep sip of the wonderful tea. She was right where she needed to be, with her sisters safely stowed in the countryside while Bryony did her investigating.

And so she was—starting with the Earl of Kilmartyn. He was the majority stockholder of Russell Shipping. The embezzlement scheme had left his share of the company oddly untouched, and the ensuing bank panic hadn’t affected him.

Her father’s lawyer had been no help in looking into things—he’d known he wouldn’t be paid, and he’d been brutally clear with what little information he had. Her father was a criminal who had stolen everything and left them destitute.

Not that Bryony could ever believe it. Her new employer was the logical villain. He was her father’s partner—who better than he to embezzle
the fortune that Eustace Russell had spent his life amassing? A house on Berkeley Square cost a great deal to maintain, and the jewels around Lady Kilmartyn’s slender throat were impressive indeed.

Was he really capable of such a heinous act? To be sure, he was reputed to have the morals of an alley cat when it came to affairs of the heart—that much gossip had been simple enough to acquire. He also had an extraordinary gift for making the right investments, amassing a fortune so impressive it made society overlook his Irish heritage.

Bryony leaned back in her chair. There was a tiny office just off the kitchen, and her predecessor had left it in a shambles. She had cleaned it herself, had even found a comfortable chair in a storeroom that would definitely need clearing out. The material that covered it was ripped, but it didn’t take her more than a few moments to mend it with invisible stitches. Her feet hurt, her shoulders ached, her hands were raw. Given the wretched state of the household, even the housekeeper had to do her part, and the office had needed a thorough scrub.

She could only hope most days wouldn’t be so tiring. Housekeepers kept long hours, but they weren’t usually responsible for the rough work. Things were so disastrous in Kilmartyn’s house that today it was necessary, and perhaps tomorrow as well, until she managed to hire more help. But hard work never did a soul harm, and it kept her mind off things. Such as the darkness in Kilmartyn’s eyes, the lines of dissipation around his mouth and forehead.

Dissipation, or guilt gnawing at him?

“Mrs. Greaves?” Emma appeared in the open doorway, looking nervous. “Lord Kilmartyn’s asking for you.”

The tea immediately curdled in Bryony’s stomach. “For heaven’s sake, why?” she said, and then could have cursed herself. That wasn’t a proper housekeeper’s response. She quickly recovered. “Wouldn’t you know, just when I’ve gotten my feet up,” she said with a small laugh. She rose. She looked like a mess—her hair had come loose, her ugly worsted dress was wrinkled and spotted, she’d managed to roll up the sleeves and unfasten the neck. She needed to put herself in order, but she could hardly be caught primping. “Could you tell him I’ll be there momentarily? I can hardly
present myself to my employer in this state.” She unfastened the apron she’d found and placed it on the desk.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Greaves, but he said you was to come immediately. He’s in the music room on the third floor and he says it can’t wait.”

This time she stifled her instinctive curse. Five blasted flights of stairs, from basement, ground floor, first floor through the third, when her feet were killing her. At least she’d been able to keep her own shoes and underclothes when they’d been brought back to London, though the soft, expensive leather was hardly made for such rough treatment. “Then I shall go,” she said calmly, rolling down her sleeves.

She had time enough to work on her toilette as she trudged up the servants’ stairs. There were no railings to help her—most servants were carrying things when they moved between floors—so she went slowly, refastening her sleeves at her wrist, fighting with her open neckline. The button there was missing, but the tiny bit of throat exposed was hardly noticeable. At least she was blessed in one matter—employers never really looked at servants. They were part of the furniture, existing solely to make the master’s life effortless.

She was out of breath by the time she reached the third floor. She moved swiftly through the back corridors into the dimly lit hallway. The double doors to the music room were closed, and for a moment she wondered whether Emma had been mistaken. Bryony would have given anything to simply walk up one more flight to her attic bedroom and curl up.

She stiffened her back. She was a Russell, she reminded herself. She was on a mission, and her father’s reputation and her sisters’ futures depended on her. She strode forward and knocked quietly on the door.

T
HE
E
ARL OF
K
ILMARTYN
knew he was getting drunk. Not as drunk as he could be, and he hadn’t indulged in absinthe for almost a week now. The Irish whiskey worked almost as well, though he wasn’t sure if the headache was worse than the aftereffects of the green fairy. He stretched out on a sofa, glass in one hand, waiting for his mysterious new housekeeper to come in and lie to him.

Other men might be annoyed. He was perversely pleased. After all, everyone lied; it was only to be expected. And he was damnably bored with life right now. Having a gently bred young woman wait on him was a novelty not to be missed.

She looked familiar, but he couldn’t imagine where he would have seen her before. Granted, the scattering of pox scars on one side of her face should have made her memorable, but he couldn’t place her. It was something about her eyes, perhaps. The dark, almost indigo eyes she tried to make cool and detached. Maybe she was a wandering lunatic, bringing danger into his household.

Wouldn’t that be delightful?
he thought with cynical amusement.
One could only hope.

He heard the quiet knock. Most servants scratched at the door, not wanting to intrude on their masters’ lives more than necessary. They were supposed to be like fairies, managing everything while they were unseen, invisible. It was simply unfortunate that he always noticed things.

It must be part of his bloody Irish heritage. Another thing to thank an absent God for. He was far too fanciful—what other grown man would even remember the notion of fairies?

“Come,” he said.

She slipped inside the room, the proper shadow of a servant. She looked different, though. Her hair was coming loose from its rigid arrangement of braids, curling slightly around her face. She was rumpled, and tired, and he knew he should feel guilty. She shouldn’t have worked herself into exhaustion in his household.

Then again, for some distant reason she had sought this out. He intended to find out why.

“Lord Kilmartyn?” she said, polite and professional, not like a damned spy at all.

He didn’t bother to sit up. “What color is your hair?”

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked you what color your hair was.”

She frowned at him. “Is that why you sent for me, sir? It could hardly matter.”

A little saucy for a housekeeper,
he thought with approval.
This could be fun
. “Does it matter why the master of the house sends for you?” he said loftily. “I wasn’t aware I needed to justify my request.”

She flushed. “Of course not. I beg your pardon, Lord Kilmartyn.”

“Pardon is granted. What color is your hair?”

“Brown,” she said flatly.

“Not it’s not. I distinctly see some lighter shades in there, now that it’s coming loose from that damnable arrangement you showed up in.”

She put a nervous hand to her hair, trying to smooth the escaping tendrils back. It was a lost cause—they had a mind of their own. “Sir, if I might be so bold, I have had a long and tiring day. Your household is in dismal condition, and I’ve barely put a dent in it.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “You’re right; this place is abominable. If you’re tired then sit. It’s just you and me. No one to spy on us. We can do anything we please, break any rules we want to.”

She jerked, clearly unsettled. Was it the word “spy” or his very mild suggestion of bad behavior? “I believe I will stand, sir.”

Such dignity! She was playing her part very well, and it was a part. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew it, but nothing could shake his conviction. He smiled at her lazily. She could play the housekeeper, he could play the drunk. He could hold his liquor far too well, but she wouldn’t know that. “I must admit, Mrs. Greaves, that I have, in fact, forgotten why I sent for you,” he confessed, deliberately adding a faint slur to his voice. The Irish was more noticeable as well—it came out when he was drinking. “But you might oblige me by fetching me another bottle of this lovely stuff.”

She started, realization dawning on her. “You’re drunk.”

“That should be, ‘you’re drunk, my lord,’” he said reprovingly. “Or, ‘you’re drunk, Kilmartyn’ if you wish to be familiar. Or ‘you’re drunk, Adrian’ if you want to be more than familiar. And indeed I am,” he lied. “Very drunk. These things come up from behind and surprise you, and since I’m already almost entirely castaway I may as well finish the job.”

She stared at him for a long moment. She had very fine eyes as well, though he probably shouldn’t mention them. She moved across the room, picked up one of the small bamboo-style chairs, and sat in front of him. He smiled at her with deliberately boozy benevolence. He could see her shoes, and very fine shoes they were indeed. Not the shoes of a housekeeper.

“I believe, Lord Kilmartyn, that you’d be better served by going to bed. You’re going to feel miserable in the morning as it is.”

He laughed. “My dear Mrs. Greaves, I’m well acquainted with the bloody aftereffects of a night of debauchery. I barely notice it anymore.”

There was an odd expression in those dark blue eyes of hers. Presumably contempt, though he could fancy it looked like something else. She was most likely some sort of spy, he told himself, though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine who would have sent her. His worst enemy already had proof of all his secrets. And he was married to her.

“So tell me, Mrs. Greaves,” he said with an attempt to sound businesslike, “you started the day in my appalling household and found it dreadfully understaffed with a complement of six servants. By the end of the day we have only four. How is that progress?”

He was expecting faint color to blossom in her pale cheeks, but he’d underestimated her sangfroid. “The two servants I dismissed were unproductive and having a most unfortunate effect on the atmosphere.”

“And whom did you sack, Mrs. Greaves? I hope not that pretty, buxom creature who always gives me such welcoming glances?”

“Ruby? Yes, she was the first to go,” she said, and he could hear faint disgust in her voice. “Alfred, your very handsome footman, was the other. Unless he was the one giving you welcoming glances.”

Damn, she was saucy!
“Not my style, Mrs. Greaves. My wife, however, might be upset.”

That startled her. So, she hadn’t yet realized that the beautiful Lady Kilmartyn was a libidinous harpy. It would be a happy surprise.

“I’m afraid that in my household the servants aren’t available to their employers for sexual trysts,” she continued primly.

“Are you included in that edict, Mrs. Greaves?”

For a moment she didn’t understand his meaning. And then she did color, just slightly, and he counted it a triumph. She was playing her part so well, so rigidly in control that he was determined to break her.

He smiled at her. She was pretty and she didn’t know it, which was always an enchanting combination. He pulled his attention back to the topic at hand, not giving her a chance to answer his purposefully outrageous question. “So, do you think you have a chance in hell of putting this wretched household in order?”

She wasn’t used to cursing, he noticed by the faint flicker in her eyes. So she’d had a sheltered upbringing. That made the whole farce even more intriguing.

“Of course,” she said calmly. “I am used to running far larger households. For a house this size I would expect no less than four footmen, a boy for lugging things, at least three parlor maids, perhaps more, a maid for the mistress, a scullery maid, and a valet for the master.”