Never Kiss a Rake (31 page)

The entire day, as she dealt with strangers and friends—and she considered the staff at Kilmartyn’s house to be friends—as she walked on the crowded streets and in and out of shops, no one had stared at her scarred face. No one had even looked twice, and not once had she been aware of it. The young man at Mr. Peach’s emporium had even flirted with her, and she’d tentatively flirted back, without once ducking her head.

She reached her gloved hand to touch her cheek in wonder. Life and death and falling in… developing an inappropriate passion for someone tended to put things in perspective, and her scarred face was of small importance in the larger scheme of things. It was an astonishing thing to consider.

By the time she found the moneylender she was feeling an odd combination of elation and tearing grief. She wasn’t going to examine the latter—there was no reason for her to regret leaving Kilmartyn and every reason to count her escape a fortunate thing. Exchanging the pearls for money proved surprisingly easy, and though the amount she received was pitiful it was enough to buy a train ticket to Devonport and purchase a few of the necessities she’d left behind. She wasn’t sure how she was going to talk
herself into Captain Morgan’s household, but she wasn’t going to think about it. She was famished, and the train didn’t leave until the evening, so she found a small café near the train station and ordered a cup of tea and sandwiches.

She sat alone, her head bent, sipping at the strong tea, and told herself she was certainly not going to cry in public. That could wait until later, perhaps when she was on the train. She needed to distract herself from the memory of his green eyes, watching her, the unexpected sensation of his touch on her skin, his long, elegant hands, his mouth, on hers…

She dug into her purse, pulling out the crumpled scrap of paper. This was what she needed to concentrate on, not foolish maunderings. She stared at the familiar words, looking for answers that eluded her.

Don’t trust any of them. Someone’s stealing money, and it looks like Kilmartyn’s in league with them, no matter what excuses he makes. Don’t trust Morgan either. Never trust a pirate. Something’s going on, and I’ll get to the bottom of it, or

Had it been a message to someone, a scrap of a letter, or simply a note to himself? She had viewed it as holy writ, words from beyond the grave, and she’d done everything she could to find proof of Kilmartyn’s involvement. If she’d hired a professional then perhaps he might have found proof, but he wouldn’t have been able to get inside the very household of the man, search his desk, his drawers, beneath his mattress. She still couldn’t rid herself of the notion that there was more to his involvement than she could find, but she couldn’t do anything more. With the police breathing down his neck any guilt over her father’s death would be likely to come to light. Maybe she should simply join her sisters at Nanny Gruen’s and wait a bit, see what happened. She’d already bought her ticket to the coast, but she could cash it in for a train to Somerset. She needed time to think, to force some reason into her stubborn brain when it came to Kilmartyn. He was more than likely a murderer, and there was no reason in the world why she kept coming up with excuses, reasons to trust him.

Except that she did, she realized, putting down the sandwich uneaten. No matter what he said or did, deep inside her heart cried out for him, and her heart had never been foolish. She wouldn’t, couldn’t feel this way about a ruthless murderer.

Had the police released him? Were they wondering where she was? It stayed light quite late these days, but she checked her watch and found it was almost dinnertime. In an hour her train would leave. In an hour her absence would be noticed and commented on. In an hour she could make her way back to the house on Berkeley Square with acceptable excuses.

She would be putting herself in every kind of danger. If he were a madman, a charming killer, and he suspected who she was he would kill her as well. If he were simply Kilmartyn he would take her, sooner or later, because he wanted her, and because, God help her, she couldn’t resist him. Didn’t want to. She was so awash with confused emotions that she was afraid to examine, afraid of what she might find. That it was more than infatuation, more than impulse, but something stronger, deeper, something that wasn’t going to break, to shatter, even when he put her away from him, as he’d inevitably do.

When she stopped long enough to think about it she knew the wanting ran through him as deeply as it ran through her. It wouldn’t take mild inebriation to get her back into his bed. All he had to do was hold out his hand and say her name in his deep, warm voice, look at her with that single-minded intensity, and she’d be lost.

Rampant insanity had never been a family affliction; she must be the first to suffer from it. She paid her chit and rose, gathering her packages around her, and started the long walk back to Berkeley Square.

She was being extremely tiresome,
Rufus thought from his stance across the street from the little tea shop. He’d been following her all day, and she’d gone from shop to shop, always staying in full view of people, and there’d been no
way to get closer. Shoving her under the wheels of a carriage had seemed too haphazard, and his previous failure had irritated him, so this time he was leaving nothing to chance. He had a loaded pistol and a long, thin knife that apparently had once belonged to an Italian assassin. He could use either, or his bare hands. No matter what, the job would be done, and the observant Mrs. Greaves would never make it back to Berkeley Square.

At one point as he followed the tedious bitch around town he wondered whether she had any plans to return to her employer. A housekeeper would have no need of a moneylender unless she’d been filching baubles from her employer, and a smart woman—Mrs. Greaves struck him as unfortunately far too intelligent—wouldn’t risk returning after robbing someone like Kilmartyn. When her next stop was the train station he was certain she planned to make a run for it, and he considered the possibility of simply letting her go.

If she disappeared she’d hardly be likely to return to tell the police about the strange gentleman wandering the halls of Kilmartyn’s town house. If she did, she’d have to explain why she’d left, and they didn’t treat thieves kindly.

In the end he decided that unfortunately Mrs. Greaves couldn’t be trusted. Despite her current thieving activities she had the look of a boringly honorable woman, someone with a conscience, God help him, and she might very well throw herself on the altar of truth. Besides, he’d noticed her reaction when he mentioned Kilmartyn. She was besotted with the man.

No, he would board the train, follow her to her carriage, lean over to greet her with surprise, and slip the thin knife into her heart. It would be instantaneous—he’d gotten quite good with it, and had the position and timing down perfectly. No one would even notice.

She really was the most annoying woman. Just when he thought everything was settled she rose from her seat, gathered her parcels, and Rufus was ready to strangle, stab, and shoot her immediately. He wanted to be in his club, reading a freshly ironed newspaper and drinking a cup of tea. Instead he’d spent the day in parts of London he never wanted to see again, hiding behind stalls of smelly fish as he stalked the blasted woman.

While he had a personal abhorrence for physical imperfections, he had to admit that the plain housekeeper was far prettier than he had supposed the first time he saw her. When she smiled her entire face lit up, and she definitely had very fine eyes. Too bad the scarring marred her so dreadfully. In truth, he’d be doing her a favor. It must be painful to be imperfect.

She seemed to have no idea she was being followed, lost in her own thoughts. He hadn’t thought this particular move out, trusting that he’d know what to do when the spirit moved him, and indeed, the gods answered his request.

The streets of London in this thirty-second year of Queen Victoria’s reign had undergone a transformation. All sorts of new areas were being reclaimed from the squalid human rats who had lived there, and Mayfair was no longer the only place to live.

“The useful thing about that, Rufus,” he muttered beneath his breath, “is that the rats still border the better areas. And she’ll have to come close to one to get home.”

He’d wait till then. But he was getting more and more irritated with the entire situation. So irritated, in fact, that when the tall, spare figure of Mrs. Greaves crossed a dark group of streets on her way to Grosvenor Square he looked around him, saw no one, pulled out the gun, and shot her.

B
RYONY FELT SOMETHING LIKE
a bee rush past her and slam into the wall. Very odd—it was too early for bees, and whatever creature it was it had flown alarmingly fast. She moved to the wall to examine the hole. It looked as if some kind of pellet were lodged there. She shrugged, turning around, when she felt something knock against her arm.

But there was no one there. For a moment she had the strange, fanciful feeling that the ghost of her father was throwing rocks at her, trying to get her attention. More likely a neighborhood boy playing pranks, but this wasn’t the best bit of street to be walking through, and she sped up, moving into the brighter lights of the street up ahead. Her arm was curiously numb, and for some reason she was feeling a bit light-headed. Thank goodness she was at the edge of Berkeley Square, and the house loomed up in the gathering darkness, looking oddly welcoming. She shouldn’t be going back, of course. The place was starting to feel like home—a natural enough reaction when she was taking care of it. But those were dangerous thoughts.

She paused a moment to catch her breath, leaning against a lamppost. Her arm was beginning to hurt quite dreadfully, and she needed to get home and put a cool compress on it. She closed her eyes for a moment,
and when she opened them again she saw dark spots dancing in front of her.

For some odd reason she didn’t know if she could make it that far. She’d had a decent tea, there was no reason for her to feel dizzy, but when she pushed away from the lamppost she swayed before she managed to take a step.
One at a time,
she thought dazedly, but why did her arm feel numb?

She felt someone coming up behind her, moving fast, and a trickle of unease ran down her spine. Had someone actually hurt her while she’d walked by that dark alley? Were they coming after her to finish the job?

But that was ridiculous, theatrical, she must simply have a cramp in her arm, she’d done too much…

She couldn’t do much more. This time there was no lamppost to hold on to for support, and she swayed, afraid she was going to fall to the sidewalk when he came up behind her, catching her, holding her while she looked up at him through blurry eyes. It was the devil himself, Kilmartyn, and he looked furious, terrifying. Had he been the one? Had she doomed herself by going home? Was he going to finish what he started?

There was only one thing to do. “Oh, bugger,” she said weakly, letting the darkness close in.