Never Kiss a Rake (19 page)

As well as the name of the man who’d hired her.

He suspected it was one of Cecily’s many lovers. Not that he should complain—he’d hardly been monogamous. He had no illusions that his wife really wanted him—it was simply that she couldn’t have him that made her wild.

He set the small bottle of oil on the table. He was going to introduce Miss Bryony Greaves to the Oriental pleasures provided by the balm. He was going to talk her into everything and anything he wanted. And she would be quite willing by the time he got through with her. She was half-willing already, and he’d barely kissed her.

She’d discovered the leather-bound volume of erotic engravings beneath the mattress—she’d probably come back for that later. He had to ensure that the best one was there. He had several masterpieces down in the library, more collector’s items than pleasure enhancers, but for a young woman who seemed to know very little about the process it could cover a lot of ground.

He was hard as a rock, and he lazily considered bringing himself off, thinking of her, then changed his mind. He liked the edge frustration brought him. By the time he finally sank into her he was going to be voracious. And so, by God, was she.

He was right,
Bryony thought miserably. She was wet between the legs, and the knowledge horrified her. The sky was growing light by the time
she’d finished scouring her body with the cold water, scrubbing her teeth to wipe away the distracting taste of him, and she knew sleep was out of the question. She dressed, groaning as she put her shoes on. Once she found out who had destroyed her father she was going to spend a week in bed, being waited on, and she was going to be even more considerate of whoever did the waiting. She would plead with someone to rub her feet, her back, her calves, and she would never think of Kilmartyn again, unless it was to see him hang for his crimes.

The longer she stayed here the less sure she was. He didn’t seem to have the soul of a murderer. But how would she know—she’d never met any murderers in her life.

Even so, there was definitely something going on here, something secret, even something evil, and she couldn’t leave until she discovered exactly what it was, until she was certain it had nothing to do with her father’s destruction. Whether it was Kilmartyn himself, or his spoiled wife, she had no idea, and she was too tired to think about it. All she had to do was get through the day and she would sleep like the dead that night. And she wouldn’t go after that leather-bound volume beneath his mattress until she was absolutely certain he was out of the house. Which had better be soon. The longer she stayed here the more trouble she was in. If she had stayed in his bed one moment longer she would have stayed there all night.

She had to hope that Captain Thomas Morgan was a troll.

T
HE KITCHEN WAS SPOTLESS
when Bryony managed to drag herself down there at the shockingly late hour of six-thirty. There were fresh cinnamon rolls baking—she could smell them, and there was only one tray set out. At least they had no idea that Kilmartyn had returned in the middle of the night. They wouldn’t know what she’d been doing in his bedroom. In his bed.

“You poor lass,” Mrs. Harkins greeted her familiarly. “You look so tired. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Greaves,” she added, remembering the hierarchy that seemed to matter so much.

She managed a weary smile. “I didn’t sleep well, I must confess.”

“Well, you just go on into your office and I’ll bring you a nice strong pot of tea and the cinnamon buns when they’re done. That’ll put some heart into you. We won’t need to see the master for a few hours yet.”

“See the master?” she echoed faintly. She glanced back at the single tray. “Has he returned?”

“Some time in the night, apparently. And her ladyship has up and left on one of her long rounds of visits, taking that snooty French maid with her. You never know what’s going to happen in this household, and that’s
the Lord’s truth. Her ladyship’s rooms are in a shamble, with no word to the staff.”

“How do you know she’s gone on a visit?”

Mrs. Harkins shrugged. “What else would she be doing? She goes off every now and then, usually after there’s some row with the master. He keeps his distance from her but sometimes… well, her ladyship is the sort who looks for trouble. If you’ll pardon my saying so.”

“And was there a row with the master?” Bryony knew she shouldn’t ask such an intimate question, but she couldn’t help it.

“Bertie says he might have heard some to-do, but he doesn’t remember much.” Mrs. Harkins made a disgusted noise. “It’s not like that boy. He slept like the dead, he did. Didn’t wake when his lordship practically tripped over his feet, and he never saw Lady Kilmartyn and her maid when they left. Doesn’t know if she went before or after his lordship returned.”

“Does it matter?”

For a moment Mrs. Harkins looked uncomfortable, and a strange sense of dread began to coil in Bryony’s stomach. “Happen it might. The two of them don’t do too well together, you know. And her room was in such a mess.” She shifted her impressive weight. “I just don’t understand why Bertie didn’t wake up.”

“He’s been working very hard, Mrs. Harkins,” Collins said from the doorway. “It’s no wonder he fell asleep. We shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

Mrs. Harkins managed to sniff in disagreement while she cast Collins a covert glance. “Young Bertie’s a light sleeper, and always has been. He’s been in the household for ten years now, starting out as the boy who brought the coal in, and he’s always been someone who could be counted on.”

Mr. Collins moved farther into the room. “Everyone makes mistakes, my dear Mrs. Harkins.”

The cook’s face flushed becomingly. “Aye,” she said. “No need to go over it. In the meantime, though, I’m that worried about her ladyship. Her room looked like a storm hit it.”

“I’m sure there’s no reason to be troubled about it,” Collins said smoothly, “but if you’d like I can go tidy it up a bit before anyone takes
notice. We shouldn’t want her ladyship’s room looking like a pigsty, and my duties at present are very light.”

Bryony frowned, shaking her head. “Certainly not, Mr. Collins. That’s hardly in your purview. One of the maids can tidy it, but there’s no particular hurry if, as it appears, her ladyship has departed for a lengthy visit. How long does she usually stay away, Mrs. Harkins?”

“Two weeks at the very least. Sometimes a month or more, with no word to the master or anyone.”

“Then clearly we can get our usual daily duties taken care of first before we set her ladyship’s rooms to right.” At Mrs. Harkins’s doubtful look she continued, “I’ll go and check on it, see if it requires more than a simple tidying. If it’s that bad Emma can take the two new maids and they’ll get through it in no time.”

“You can’t go now, Mrs. Greaves. His lordship has left word. He wants to go over the menus with us.” Mrs. Harkins looked pleased at the prospect of someone finally caring about her culinary genius.

“But why? He never has before.” Realizing how she sounded, she quickly softened her voice to hide her sudden panic. “And he doesn’t need me for that. You present him with the menus while I see to Lady Kilmartyn’s rooms.”

Mrs. Harkins shrugged her shoulders. “I could always tell him you’re busy, but the master isn’t someone to be denied when he wants something.”

Bryony felt a tension in her stomach at Mrs. Harkins’s artless words, and it had nothing to do with household duties. Those moments in his bed, his hand between her legs, were emblazoned in her mind. She managed a tight smile. In fact, seeing him in Mrs. Harkins’s company would most likely be easier. He couldn’t very well refer to her midnight ramblings in front of the cook.

Could he?

And why hadn’t she noticed that Lady Kilmartyn had made an unexpected departure sometime during the night? It sounded like a Restoration comedy—the three of them wandering the halls, with no one bumping into each other. She’d heard nothing when she’d lain in Kilmartyn’s bed, but then, hearing was the sense least involved with those few minutes. She
could remember the feel of his warm body, pressing her down, the taste of his mouth on hers, his tongue. His hand, touching her so intimately, and the shockingly powerful reactions that touch had provoked. So odd, and yet so… interesting. The smell of his skin, his sheets, the scent of soap and some citrusy herb and just Kilmartyn. She could see him, the intensity in his eyes as he bent over her. It was little wonder she’d heard nothing. Lady Kilmartyn could have been murdered on the floor beneath her and she wouldn’t have even noticed.

And that was an odd thought. Why would the idea of murder even enter her mind? Well, not so odd after all, considering that her own father had been murdered.

It was after eleven o’clock when the summons finally came. She’d consumed an entire pot of strong tea, not to mention three sugary cinnamon rolls in an effort to keep awake. She’d found herself dozing over her books twice, and she’d cursed the Earl of Kilmartyn every spare minute. She couldn’t stop thinking of him. She’d been a fool to assume he was sleeping elsewhere, and she’d been far too eager to get her hands on that ledger. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She wasn’t going anywhere near his bedroom until she’d actually seen him leave the house.

Collins returned to the kitchen and set the heavy silver tray on Mrs. Harkins’s spotless table. “He’s in a rare mood this morning,” he announced. “He’s wanting to see you in the library, Mrs. Harkins.” He turned as Bryony entered the room. “And he said as how you were to see him afterwards.”

Bryony managed a tight smile. “Very thoughtful of his lordship, but we may as well make his life easier and both see him now,” she announced. “I have too many things to do to sit around and wait upon his pleasure.”

Everyone turned to stare at her in shock, even Becky. “But that’s what we do, Mrs. Greaves,” one of the new maids said finally. “It’s our job.”

Bryony controlled her instinctive snarl, plastering a pleasant smile on her face. “Indeed. But another part of my job is seeing to his wife’s rooms before she makes a sudden return and finds everything in disarray. There’s no need to argue about it. If his lordship is ready for us now then we may as well go.”

Collins frowned. “Mrs. Greaves, he particularly asked—”

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Collins. If his lordship has any objections I’ll make certain he knows it was my decision. And what, precisely, did you mean by ‘a rare mood’?” Not very housekeeperly of her. Instead of asking she should have chastised Collins for commenting on his employer, but after last night she was too wary to walk in on him unprepared.

“Hard to explain, Mrs. Greaves. Like a man about to embark on a load of trouble and excited to do so. I’ve seen that look on gamblers when they’re about to risk everything. Perhaps his lordship has got some wager at one of his clubs?”

“It’s a possibility,” she said glumly. She had a very good idea of the trouble he was wanting to get into, and that trouble was his new housekeeper. A good look at her in broad daylight should put him off. She’d skinned her hair back, wetting it so it clung to her scalp, though she could feel little tendrils beginning to escape. She’d worn the uglier of her two dresses, buttoning it up tight to her throat, and the black apron she wore made things even worse. She wished she’d gone ahead and found clear eyeglasses to complete her initial appearance, but she’d thought her scars would scare off anybody.