Never Kiss a Rake (17 page)

Her father had never kept a mistress, even after her mother’s death. But then, her father had been too obsessed with making money to be distracted by carnality, and thank God for that. She truly didn’t want to even consider her father having those kinds of needs.

Of course there was always the off-chance Kilmartyn might return in the middle of the night. If he had a late-night card game, or if he preferred not to spend the night in a bed of pleasure but only a few hours then he might come back to torment her.

Perhaps he’d leave her alone, once his… his beastly cravings were satisfied. Her main source of knowledge on such things came from her sisters, and she suspected their information was somewhat incomplete, given that they’d received it from their school friends. But it only made sense that if one… itched, then one would be more likely to torment the people around one. Once scratched, peace of mind should settle down, and the Earl of Kilmartyn would no longer seek to torment her. He wouldn’t look at her with those unfathomable dark green eyes, as green as a forest after rain. She’d be invisible to him, as all good servants should be.

She could only hope so, she told herself, sitting at the desk in her little office by the deserted kitchen, going over her accounts. Mr. Peach had arrived promptly, measurements taken, orders prepared. He didn’t say a word about the extra fabric Kilmartyn had decreed, and she kept silent as well. No doubt Mr. Peach understood how uneven an aristocrat’s attention might be. He would forget all about his absurd suggestion. Particularly after having spent the night in the arms of a courtesan.

And why did she keep thinking about that? It was none of her business, except as it affected the running of the household, and Bertie was used to sleeping in a chair in the front foyer. So why did the very thought of Kilmartyn’s elegant hands, sliding over smooth, bare skin, make her edgy and anxious and ready to explode?

She shook her head, disgusted with herself. She knew the disastrous truth, and she had never been one to avoid such things. She’d developed a… weakness for him, after a mere three days in his presence. Not exactly a
tendre
—he was much too complicated a man to inspire such a sweet emotion. It was more like a schoolgirl crush, though she was as far removed from the schoolroom as she could be. There was nothing to be ashamed of. He was a very beautiful man—that mane of hair, the high cheekbones and smiling mouth, and dark, dark green eyes. And she liked his height, the way she felt walking beside him, glancing up at him, feeling both threatened and protected at the same time.

He was the first man she’d ever been close enough to flirt with. At least, that appeared to be what he was trying to do, though she was giving him no encouragement. She would have felt the same for that man she’d come across in the upstairs hallway—Mr. Brown? She would have felt that way for Bertie, a well-set-up young man, or the muscular butcher, or any of her father’s business acquaintances and cronies she’d seen from a distance over the years.

It was simply her misfortune to have been thrown together with one of God’s own creatures. He looked like a fallen angel, all raffish charm and seraphic good looks. And she was understandably vulnerable.

Not that he was going to know it. He might suspect, but in no way was she going to give any hint that she found him to be other than an employer, an aristocrat so far above her touch that they may as well be separate species.

And she’d tell him that, if she ever got the chance. Not that she would—he was a master of innuendo, not of plain talk, and it was so desperately hard to fight innuendo.

But if he’d spent a night making love that should improve the situation. When he eventually returned he’d be in better spirits, and when he
looked at her he’d see a scarred, plain housekeeper and nothing more. To quote her beloved Shakespeare, “it was a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

Of course it was.

Searching the study was out of the question tonight—it was too near the front hall and Bertie. She could try the bedroom again—he’d interrupted her before she could finish, and she was desperate to find what the slim volume beneath his mattress held. Proof of a conspiracy of theft and murder? Or something harmless? She could risk it. If Kilmartyn returned home and saw a light up there he might reasonably assume it was Collins, not his errant housekeeper.

Though his last words earlier in the day had been disturbing. Why had he suggested she was playing a role, and needed to be believable? Was he simply trying to find ways to disturb her? He might suspect she was a gentlewoman down on her luck—there was no crime in that. In fact, perhaps she should embellish a bit of history to Mr. Collins in hopes that he’d pass it on. She could be the impoverished third daughter of a baronet or something, forced to earn her own way after her father’s untimely death. Or the widow of a missionary who’d been cast off by her well-to-do family for the mésalliance. Anything would do, as long as he believed it and it quieted his suspicions.

Or maybe she was paying it too much attention. Kilmartyn was a man who liked to push, to disturb. At least, he did in her case. It was probably no more than mischief and boredom. It meant nothing.

She closed the account book. Mr. Peach had been prepared to charge Kilmartyn a fortune for his services, but Bryony had simply fixed him with her calm, cool stare and he ended up taking twenty-five percent off the total. The only uncomfortable part was when he handed her an envelope full of money, her kickback. She’d shoved it back at him in horror. In truth, tips and bribes were the one part of servitude that she couldn’t abide. People had seldom made that mistake when she’d served as housekeeper for her father and if they did they’d quickly learned the error of their ways. Even if it made her role more believable there was no way she was going to
take a handful of greasy bills from Mr. Peach, no matter how much her sisters might need it.

She rose, stretching. It had been a desperately long day, well after midnight, and the next day would start far too early. At least she could sleep until the sinfully late hour of six a.m.—the servants had mastered the breakfast rituals, and only Lady Kilmartyn would require a morning tray. The woman had only left her rooms once since Bryony had moved in, something Bryony attributed to either a monumental case of sulks or the fact that her handsome cousin kept her well occupied. Either way, it was none of her concern. As long as the staff responded to the mistress’s needs in a timely fashion Bryony didn’t need to waste her time thinking about her. In fact, she ought to have told everyone to sleep in, but they were just growing accustomed to the new discipline, and if there was only one breakfast tray to prepare there were a thousand more things to clean.

She passed the storeroom, glancing in longingly. It had usually served as the housekeeper’s bedroom, but in the intervening years it had simply been turned into a repository for cast-off chairs. The thought of climbing those endless flights of stairs made her want to weep.

She could manage it for a month. She’d promised her sisters it would be no more than that, and she never broke her promises, at least not to the people most important to her. If she didn’t find any proof of his guilt or innocence within the month she would move on to Captain Morgan, disappear from London like a wraith.

Right now she was so tired she thought if she stopped to rest on the narrow stairs she’d probably go to sleep on her feet. She finally made it back to her room, kicking off her shoes, stripping off her clothes, and washing thoroughly in the now-tepid water. Her head ached, and she unfastened her braids, letting her hair hang down her back as she pulled on her cotton nightdress.

It had been a mistake to bring it, as well as her undergarments. They were remnants of her past life, silk and the softest linen, decorated in the finest lace. She’d told Emma, who worked on the laundry with the new girls, that they’d been gifts from her old mistress. But they reminded her
of the life that was gone forever, the loss of her father, the loss of safety for her sisters.

She climbed into bed. She ought to rebraid her hair, but she simply didn’t have the energy. She needed to sleep, now, immediately. She’d deal with tangled hair in the morning.

Two hours later she was still staring wide-eyed into the shadows, ready to weep with frustration. The full moon coming in her attic window was beautiful; it was also fiendishly bright. She was going to have to find something to tack up, to blot out the light that shone directly into her eyes. She’d even tried getting up and dragging her narrow iron bed out of the direct path, but that didn’t help.

When she heard the clock chime three she pushed up, sitting on the side of the bed. It was chilly now, the bright warmth of the sun having worn off, and she shivered as she reached for her knitted black shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders. Warm milk was a well-known cure for sleeplessness. In order to get warm milk she’d have to climb down five flights of stairs and somehow get a fire started in Mrs. Harkin’s massive cookstove, hope to God there was milk in the larder, and then hope the home remedy was a cure.

She closed her eyes again with a weary groan. She couldn’t do it, any more than she could lie back and fall asleep. All she could think about was the slender book in Kilmartyn’s bedroom. It haunted her. If she just dared to creep down the one flight of stairs and fetch it then she’d be able to sleep. Her entire future might very well rest with that book, whatever it was. It would contain proof, she was sure of it. Proof of his guilt or his innocence was the question, and she told herself she didn’t care. She simply had to find out, before this… this weakness of hers got entirely out of hand.

It would be perfectly safe. The earl was out for the night—if he returned unexpectedly Bertie would make enough noise to alert her. She was a fool to miss this chance.

Her entire body ached. She was slowly, slowly getting used to the unaccustomed physical work the disaster of a house demanded, and if she wanted things done to her satisfaction then she had no choice but to demonstrate. Her wrists stung, her back ached, her legs throbbed, and her head
hurt from all the unanswered questions. She couldn’t do much about the other issues, but she could find out the truth that had so far eluded her. And once she did, she could be gone from this house in an hour or less, never having to see Kilmartyn again.

The shawl she’d draped over her nightdress left her decently covered if she happened to run into another servant. The moon was setting, plunging everything into darkness, and she lit the candle beside her bed. There was no way she was going to light the gaslights for her clandestine adventure.

It would be harmless enough. If anyone caught her she would simply say she was in search of laudanum to help her sleep. She despised the stuff—she’d been forced to drink it when she’d been so ill with smallpox, and she’d vowed never to touch it again. She’d seen how it affected people.

People could be dangerously fond of their laudanum, she knew from bitter experience. Her mother was one who had a great affection for it, and when she misplaced it she reacted with all the sweetness of a demented virago. Her employers might not appreciate that their new housekeeper was rummaging in search of drugs. Lady Kilmartyn would do anything she could to get rid of her, and this would give her the perfect excuse.

That was better than the truth, however, and as a transgression it was relatively minor. And that was only if she was caught.

Pausing by the stairs, she looked down the three landings to the foyer below. She could see Bertie’s feet where he slept, proof that Kilmartyn had found another bed to spend the night in. And she was very glad of it, she assured herself as she headed down the darkened hallway to his bedroom.

She blew out the candle and opened the door, slipping inside and leaning back against it. Her heart was thudding, which was ridiculous. There was no one to see her, no one to guess at her nighttime activities. She was safe.

It took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. She could see the outline of furniture in the shadows—the huge old bed, the chair, the small table. She could either relight the candle or go by sense of feel, which was going to make it impossible to read the ledger or whatever it was. She could always take the thing away with her and return it at first light. If Kilmartyn was spending the night in riotous licentiousness he was
hardly likely to drag himself out of bed at a decent hour. While of course she had no firsthand knowledge of sexual congress she imagined it could be quite exhausting. Not that Kilmartyn, with his sleek, almost catlike grace, seemed overly energetic. He’d be more likely to provide stamina, which should have seemed rather unpleasant. It didn’t.

She moved into the center of the room, carefully avoiding the chair that was out of place. She bumped into the small bedside table, and cursed beneath her breath as she steadied it. Her fumbling hands found the drawers, and she pulled one open, reaching inside. Her fingers closed around a small glass vial. Laudanum, no doubt, her excuse for her nighttime ramblings if anyone should catch her. She breathed a sigh of relief, pulling it out and tucking it in her pocket, and then turned to the huge dark cavern of the bed.

She sank to her knees on the floor beside it, pushing up the disordered covers, sliding her questing hands under the mattress. And then it hit her—the covers were disordered, when she herself had made the bed. Her fingers found the journal just as hands clamped around her wrists, pulling them free, and she felt herself hauled through the air to land on a hard, male body. A moment later she was beneath him, and he was very heavy, pressing her down into the bed. She opened her mouth to scream.

“I wouldn’t make a sound if I were you, my dear Miss Greaves.” His voice was a soft, dangerous purr in the darkness. “You wouldn’t want the other servants to find out what you were doing in the middle of the night. Not if you want to maintain discipline.”

For a moment she was completely frozen in horror as her brain rushed to remember her excuse. “I was looking for laudanum,” she said in not much more than a whisper.