Never Kiss a Rake (21 page)

She blinked at his flowery words. Too flowery. Unease trickled down her spine and then danced up again, making her throat tighten beneath the stiff, choking collar. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“Oh, my dear,” he said softly. “I’m afraid I’m not very kind at all.”

For some reason that phrase sounded blatantly sexual, and she remembered the vial she had found.

As she remembered the leather folio beneath the mattress. Mr. Peach’s men would be dismantling the place in a few hours, and she needed a chance to get her hands on whatever lay there, assuming he hadn’t removed it, but there was no reason for him to think last night was anything other than a search for something to help her sleep. He’d be much more likely to consider it an approach on her part, but she’d disabused him of that notion, at least for now. He could have no idea how he affected her.

“If your lordship will excuse me, I have a great deal to do. Are you certain you want the yellow chamber? It’s quite small.”

“Yes, but the bed is big, and I’m a tall man. And I certainly want room for a companion. Or two.”

She wasn’t about to rise to
that
bait. “Certainly, my lord. And I’m sure Collins will let Mrs. Harkins know if she needs to provide an extra breakfast tray. Or two.” Her tone was dulcet.

“Oh, they don’t stay till morning. I fuck women, I don’t sleep with them.”

She stiffened. “I’m afraid I find that word offensive, my lord. I’m not used to language of that sort.”

He smiled at her. “Well, I could say I bugger them, but that’s not true. Usually,” he added blithely.

All right,
she conceded. Bantering words with him was a waste of time—he was far too good at saying things to startle her and she had no experience talking to men.

“Shocked you, didn’t I, my very dear Miss Greaves? Do you even know the meaning of the bad words you occasionally spout when you’re caught unawares? I’d suggest you ask someone.”

She gave him the same steely gaze she used to subdue her sisters. “If you’re finished with me, my lord, I have to oversee the maids, have them move your belongings to the yellow room. Mr. Peach and his men should be arriving shortly.”

“I’m not finished with you by a long shot, my pet. But if you want to go make my bed, feel perfectly free.”

She gave him a glacial nod and moved to pick up the breakfast tray. It wasn’t her place to do such menial labor, but then, she’d done far worse in the few days she’d been in residence. Unfortunately she had nothing to show for her great subterfuge but cracked, blistered hands, a spotless house, an inexplicable ache in her heart with no proof at all of the man’s guilt or innocence. She was going to need to work harder.

She leaned across the desk and caught the handles of the heavy silver tray, about to lift it when his hands gripped her wrists, stopping her. He lifted her hands, and though she tried to yank them away he was holding her tight.

She was used to wearing gloves. Last night had been a strange, dreamlike interlude, one she could pretend hadn’t happened. For some reason the broad daylight on her poor hands made everything more intimate, his skin
on hers. “What in God’s name have you been doing to your hands?” he demanded.

“Cleaning your house.”

“That’s the maids’ work.”

“It is. But when I first arrived we didn’t have enough staff, and the place was a disaster. We had to make a start on it.”

He’d turned her hand over, his thumbs rubbing the soft spot in her palms, and he said another foul word. “You need to do something about them.”

“I will. It’s the housekeeper’s place to see to the care of minor wounds and such. When I get a chance I’ll use some salve and wear gloves if your lordship doesn’t mind.”

“His lordship doesn’t mind.” The indolent master had returned, releasing her hands and leaning back in his chair. “Go and do it now. Unless you’d rather I take care of you.”

“No, my lord.” She started to pick the tray up again but he brushed her away. “Yes, my lord.”

“Send someone else in. Send the new boy so I can take a look at him. It would be a good idea if I knew just who had free run of my household.”

Like that handsome man outside the ballroom, Bryony thought, and almost opened her mouth to say something. But then, he was clearly there as an intimate guest of Lady Kilmartyn, and it would hardly be politic to mention him.

“Yes, my lord. Do you know when we may expect the return of your wife?”

He shrugged, completely unabashed, as if he hadn’t had her in his bed last night, hadn’t been kissing her so thoroughly she doubted her mouth would ever forget the feel and taste of it.

“I have no idea. If she stays true to form she won’t return for weeks. No need to bother with cleaning up in there. Save your hands.”

She was getting to the point where she didn’t believe a word he said. The unpleasant Lady Kilmartyn could return anytime now. If she was to get a chance to search her rooms that chance would be now.

“Of course, my lord,” she murmured. She was getting so very good at lying.

Kilmartyn sat where he was, staring at the closed door to his study, considering matters. Things were becoming a bit clearer, but for every answer two more questions sprung up.

Such as, why had one of Russell’s daughters infiltrated his household?

It had come to him in a moment, when he’d randomly mentioned sisters, and then everything had fallen into place. The reason her eyes looked so familiar. Not the shape of them, but the deep blue color that he’d only seen in one other person. Eustace Russell was a far cry from the pretty woman who was trying so hard to look plain—it was little wonder he hadn’t recognized the eyes he was used to seeing in a heavy, aging face. But once he had made the connection he was shocked it had taken so long.

His little spy had nothing to do with his own secrets—she would have no reason to be interested in the fact that he’d supported a doomed and dangerous cause, something that could get him arrested and possibly even hanged for treason.

But Eustace Russell was another matter entirely. Her father had committed a crime and been caught at it, and died trying to escape the country. He was disgraced, his entire estate confiscated by the crown, and at the time Kilmartyn hadn’t remembered his three daughters, much less felt a moment’s concern for their well-being. His own solicitor had assured him the girls were well cared for by their late mother’s estate, and they had no need of money earned the old-fashioned way, by hard work.

He hadn’t even bothered to revisit Russell’s peculiar accusation, ascribing it to an attempt to divert suspicion from his own nefarious activities. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Why was Russell’s daughter here? He was almost positive she was the eldest, the one he’d never met. Supposedly a childhood illness had left her weak. Obviously a lie, to cover up the fact that she had a few trifling scars from a bout with smallpox. It was hard to believe that was the reason she’d been hidden away, but he could think of no other.

He might be mistaken, but he didn’t think so. Russell had not been a pretty man, but those uncommon blue eyes were a giveaway. And their
mother had been an acclaimed beauty, which explained where Miss Greaves had gotten her looks.

Miss Greaves? Miss Grieves!
Now that he thought about it everything was incredibly obvious, and he was tempted to go after her and demand what the hell she was doing. What she wanted from him.

Because he knew what he wanted from her.

That was another matter entirely, one he needed to put out of his mind until he found out why she was here. He couldn’t afford to think with his cock right now. That could come later.

The first thing he needed to check was the status of the daughters’ finances. He trusted his solicitor completely, but there had been a great deal to sort through at the time, what with Russell’s supposed absconding with such a huge amount of investors’ money, and the welfare of the criminal’s offspring had hardly been of monumental importance. It was possible they didn’t have enough money to support themselves, and with the cloud over Eustace Russell’s name the girls would be hard put to make decent marriages. But no matter how destitute they might actually be, there was no reason for them to do manual labor.

Now one of them had landed in his lap. He had an unfortunate tendency to remember almost everything people said to him, and he instantly remembered Russell’s talk of his three daughters. He’d even had miniatures of two of them on his desk. With the third he’d had only a silhouette.

He shook his head in disbelief. Was her family blind? Had they been the ones to turn her into a pariah, or had she chosen that way herself? He knew enough about her strength of will to guess that it had been mostly her choice.

The pseudonymous Mrs. Greaves was Bryony. She’d given her name as Bryony Greaves, and it was an easy jump. If she was going to take as obvious a last name as Greaves then she probably wouldn’t go far from her given name, no matter how unusual it was. People who were pretending to be someone other than who they were—and he had far too much experience in that regard—would be wise to stay as close to their given name as possible. And Miss Bryony Russell was a very wise young woman.

He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. This was even better than he expected. She could have only one reason to be in his household. She must believe her father innocent, and she was looking either for a scapegoat or the missing fortune, or both.

He himself had little doubt that Russell had done it. The evidence had been clear—there had been no other possible conclusion. Then again, perhaps that evidence had been just a little too clear. He’d known Russell since he’d first come to England, had considered the man a mentor as well as a business partner. Not that Russell was a particularly warm man. In fact, he was gruff and practical and rigidly honest…

Kilmartyn slammed his hand down on the desk with a muttered oath, and the dishes jumped. God, he’d been a fool! Russell had always been so scrupulous about matters of business—insisting on refunds if he considered there had been an error on the part of his employees, despite his concern for his stockholders. He never would have stolen money and tried to run away with it, abandoning his daughters, nor destroyed the company he was so proud of, the company that bore his name. His coach had gone over the cliffs near Devonport, his daughters left behind in Somerset to fend for themselves. The one weakness Russell had had was for his children. He would never have abandoned them.

Rising, he paced toward the window, pushing the curtain aside to stare out at the damp spring day. This changed everything. No wonder they hadn’t found a trace of the fortune that had gone missing. Russell had never had it. Though why he’d been heading toward Devonport was anybody’s guess. Unless he was going after Captain Thomas Morgan.

Morgan was a reprobate, and it took one to know one. He’d lived hard for his thirty-some years, including a stint as a privateer down in the Indian Ocean. His ethics and morals had always been highly questionable, but he’d been a damned good captain, and up until a week before Russell had died he’d commanded the best ship in the fleet.

Kilmartyn had had very little to do with the day-to-day running of the business—he sat on the board of directors and Russell would consult him about the financial end of things. Kilmartyn had an exceptional mind for business, a fact that had always amused him. Since he’d come to
London he’d made ridiculous amounts of money, and even after sending the bulk back to the estate in Ireland he still managed to live in luxury. So much that he hadn’t paid proper attention when the Fenians had come to him for help, calling on his Irish blood. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again, if he managed to survive the first one.

He hadn’t known that Russell had sent orders to remove Morgan from his command at the last minute, beaching him like a fish. Or, remembering Morgan, a shark. That came out in the inquest, but Morgan had insisted he had no idea why.

If Russell had been heading toward Morgan then the man must be involved, or at least Russell had had very good reason to believe so.

Had his little spy deduced that? Apparently not, since she was busy snooping around his house and not Morgan’s. Of course, he had the advantage of knowing he had nothing to do with the huge mess, whereas Bryony Russell thought he might be a murderer.

He turned back, smiling faintly. If he were a good man he would call her into the library, tell her he’d seen through her charade, and explain to her why Morgan was the logical culprit.

But then, he wasn’t a good man, he knew that. He was a liar, a cheat, a shallow, conscienceless cad.

He was also a very handsome man; his mirror, his horrible wife, and the female half of society made that very clear. He could have just about anyone he wanted, with little or no effort. But for some damned reason he wanted Bryony Russell, thorns and all.

Maybe it was simply the challenge she offered, the sheer delight of playing her ridiculous game, confounding her even more. In the end, when he was ready to let her go, he’d tell her the truth. And then she could run off to Devonport and see if Thomas Morgan was in need of a housekeeper. And if that thought bothered him he’d soon get over it.