Never Kiss a Rake (29 page)

B
RYONY STAYED EXACTLY
as she was, the cup of tea balanced carefully on her knee, because her hand was still trembling. She summoned up a reasonable facsimile of her immutable housekeeper expression, keeping her eyes politely lowered.

“Look at me.”

His peremptory tone made her lift her head, and she didn’t bother to disguise the flash of annoyance. “Yes, my lord?”

“We have a problem that needs to be addressed.” He took the seat opposite her, but left his tea on the table. He paused, looking at her strangely. “Exactly how much of last night do you remember?”

Hell’s bells,
she thought.
How bad could it have been?
“I don’t believe I understand you, my lord. What do you mean?”

“If you call me ‘my lord’ one more time I’m going to…” He appeared to think about it for a moment. “I’m going to do something that you probably won’t like at all. So stop it and answer my question.”

He must know she’d gotten into his cognac, she thought. But surely he wasn’t hypocrite enough to fire her over one misdemeanor. “I heard someone crashing around and I went to investigate. I discovered it was you, so I continued on to the kitchen where I admit I helped myself to a bit of
your cognac. And then I went back to bed. I do realize that was a grave act of misconduct, and I do promise that it won’t happen again. The aftereffects are very unpleasant.”

He stared at her in what might almost be amazement. “That’s what you remember? Nothing more?”

That pain in her head was growing worse, and her entire body was going into an uproar. Her breasts felt odd, sensitive against the plain cotton chemise, and there was a clenching feeling down low, and this man…

No!
“I had very disturbing dreams, my…” she let the words trail off. She didn’t want to give him any excuse to touch her.

“I expect you did,” he said obscurely. “Very well, we’ll get back to that later. I have another question for you. Who cleaned my wife’s rooms yesterday?”

That one was easier but just as disturbing. “I did,” she said with deceptive calm, when she wasn’t feeling very calm at all. “I thought it might be politic for me to take care of the mess, rather than have gossiping maids to do it.”

“And did you happen to notice anything peculiar?”

“You mean apart from the ripped curtains and torn-up bedding and smashed scent bottles? No, my lord.” She used the term defiantly.

“Not even a large, peculiar stain beneath the window? Difficult to remove?”

She could still see it, smell it, the blood that had pooled beneath the window and she’d scrubbed and scrubbed. Why was he asking her? If he knew about it then he must have had something to do with it. Had he? Had he hurt his wife? But no, he couldn’t have. She cleared her throat. “If I did, my lord, I’m certain I did my best to clean it up. Stains like that are difficult to remove but I believe I did a fair job.”

“Why?”

She tried to look unconcerned, raising her eyebrows. “Because it’s my job, my lord.” There was a certain pleasure in annoying him when he couldn’t make good on his threats. “I would be interested in learning what caused that stain, and whether there’s any reason to worry about someone’s health.” Why was he asking her these questions? He could have no more
killed his wife than she could, she was certain of it. But a tiny, niggling doubt teased at her.

“I imagine you would,” he said, a grim tone in his voice. “But that’s something else you’d be better off forgetting. In fact, I think I’m going to have to send you away.”

Her blood ran cold. “You’re dismissing me, my—” She stopped short of using the word. Annoying him probably hadn’t been the smartest move. “I do promise I won’t touch your cognac again, and I’ll be—”

“I like you when you’re half-tipsy on my cognac,” he said. “And I didn’t say I was firing you, I said I needed to send you away. Just until things get sorted out.”

“Things? I don’t understand.” She was truly bewildered. “How can I be a housekeeper here and not be on the premises? It’s impossible.”

“You know as well as I that you’re not a housekeeper,” he snapped. “I’ve put up with it, because it amused me, but now that—” He stopped as he heard the front doorbell peal, and an odd expression crossed his face. They waited, in silence, listening to the muffled footsteps of the well-trained servant who answered the summons, listening to the quiet conversation and the heavy thud of official-sounding footsteps as they approached the library.

The rap on the door was loud enough to make Bryony startle, and she spilled some of the hot tea on her dress as she jumped to her feet. Kilmartyn stayed where he was.

“Yes?”

The door stayed shut, but Collins’s imperturbable voice came from the other side. “My lord, there are some gentlemen here who wish to speak with you.”

“I’m busy.”

“I’m afraid this can’t wait—” There was the sound of a mild scuffle, and then the door opened, revealing two very officious, very menacing gentlemen of the constabulary.

If the elegant room awed them they didn’t show it. The smaller one stepped forward, a pugnacious expression on his face. “Are you Adrian Bruton?”

She’d never seen Kilmartyn display such hauteur. He could have frozen water in the hot July sun. “Yes, I’m Kilmartyn. Lord Kilmartyn.”

The chilly emphasis on the title didn’t faze the officer. “We’ve orders to bring you down to Scotland Yard. There’ve been questions about the disappearance of your wife.”

“My wife is in the country visiting friends.”

“Not according to a report laid against you.”

“By whom?” He still hadn’t risen, and he had one leg crossed over the other, perfectly at ease.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” the first man said, but unfortunately the second one spoke up at the same time.

“Anonymous, my lord.”

The first man glared at his partner before turning back to Kilmartyn. “That’s neither here nor there, my lord. Questions have been raised and you’ll need to come with us.”

“In fact, I don’t,” Kilmartyn said lazily. “Your superiors should have come to me, discussed the matter in civil tones in the privacy of my home. However, I’m always in favor of cooperating with the local police services, so I’d be more than happy to accompany you. Mrs. Greaves, I’m afraid we’ll have to put off our discussion until later. It shouldn’t take long to resolve this, and then we’ll make arrangements for your journey when I get back.”

She kept her face impassive. What journey? What was happening? Did they really think he’d done anything to hurt his wife? Despite everything she knew he couldn’t have. He simply couldn’t.

He rose, taking his time, as Collins hurried into the room, a jacket and cravat over one arm, a hat and walking stick in his hand. Kilmartyn dressed in a leisurely fashion, and Bryony didn’t move. She ought to excuse herself, but she couldn’t move. Would he ever return to this house?

He pulled on his gloves and tucked the walking stick under his arm. “I believe I’m ready, gentlemen. Mrs. Greaves, tell Mrs. Harkins I should be back in time for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” the first man grumbled.

Kilmartyn raised an eyebrow. “I would.” He turned, about to head for the door, when at the last minute he leaned down toward her, close enough to whisper words only she could hear.

“By the way, Bryony. You taste delicious.”

And then he was gone, and she was alone.

The room spun, and she collapsed back in the chair, holding her head, shock and rage and shame sweeping through her in continuous waves as her memory came back full force. She was still sitting there when Collins peered back in the room, took one look at the expression on her face, and quickly shut the door.

She had no idea how long she sat, conflicting emotions running through her. Fury that he’d touched her. Shame that she’d let him. And the most disturbing reaction of all. Anger that he’d stopped.

The details were still fuzzy, but she could remember the feelings, her body tight and hot with longing. She could remember the explosion of pleasure he brought forth in her, she could remember the clawing craving for more that he’d inexplicably denied her. And that craving still threaded through her body, which was the most infuriating part of the entire, disturbing recollection.

She pushed herself up, trying to focus on her rage and not the strange desires whirling inside her. She hoped Scotland Yard hanged the bastard before she had to see him again. She finally had access to his library, and she’d find proof today, no matter what. Once she did she’d leave this house and never have to see him again. Maybe her instincts were all wrong. He could have killed her father and then murdered his own wife, and if so he deserved the coals of hell heaped upon his beautiful head.

She stopped herself. No, he didn’t murder his wife. No matter how much he disturbed her, annoyed her, she couldn’t believe he’d done such a thing. It was neither in his nature nor a reasonable assumption given the other occurrences that night. Her other moment of stupid weakness. There had to be some other explanation.

Not that she cared, she reminded herself. No, she was going to leave the house in Berkeley Square and never return. As long as he hadn’t been
complicit in her father’s death she could then forget all about him, and the shocking things he’d done to her, the shocking way he’d made her feel.

It took her more than three hours, going through every drawer, sifting through the books, the papers, the files, and she found absolutely nothing. No telltale note, no sign of a recent influx of money, no mysterious correspondence, no hidden compartment behind the paintings. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find. Surely if a man had stolen a massive sum of money and blamed it on another man there’d be some trace of it.

But there was nothing. She sank down in the chair behind his desk, and then jumped up again. It was a leather chair, and the seat had conformed to Kilmartyn’s admittedly shapely backside. Not that she should be thinking of such things, particularly after last night. She should be disgusted, and she was. But she still couldn’t banish that note of almost wistful longing.

How could wistfulness and rampant lust abide in the same soul? Apparently it could in hers. She sank back down in the chair and let herself relish the feel of the worn leather around her. It was almost like a phantom embrace, the chair that had conformed to him now holding her body.

She was being a moonstruck idiot. It was a good thing she was done here, or she might make an even bigger fool of herself. There was nowhere else she could search, nothing more to gain, and everything to lose if she stayed here one more day. She had no doubt the police wouldn’t keep Kilmartyn—in truth, she was surprised he wasn’t home yet.

She needed to get out of here. There was only one problem. She had no money, at least, not enough to get to Devonport and somehow insert herself into the doubtless ramshackle household of Captain Thomas Morgan, the former pirate.

There was the household cash, of course, under her lock and key, but if she took that she’d be a thief just as she suspected Kilmartyn of being. She’d have to figure out some other way of getting out of here, some way to get money. Selling herself on the streets would get her nowhere, she thought with dark humor, when a sensualist like Kilmartyn didn’t even want her for free.

There were her grandmother’s pearls. She could probably sell them for enough money to pay for a train ticket to Devonport. It broke her heart, but if it rescued her from the danger Kilmartyn presented then her beloved grandmother would approve and it would be money well spent.

Because if she stayed, and Kilmartyn changed his mind, she’d end up in his bed with or without the benefit of cognac. There was no use denying it, she was a fool for the man, a total, witless ninny. He saw her as a plaything, and she was so besotted with him she was willing to be just that, willing to do anything if he’d kiss her again. Much as she hated being a coward, her only choice was to run.

She’d get over it. After all, he was the first man she’d ever spent much time with, and he had the misfortune to be beautiful. Though admittedly the delicately handsome face of Lady Kilmartyn’s cousin Rufus had left her entirely unmoved, and the footmen’s excellent physiques held no interest. No, it was Kilmartyn, with his wicked humor and his sly, teasing ways, his mouth, his eyes…

And she needed to get out of there before she saw him again. Because even if he’d changed his mind last night and decided she wasn’t worth the trouble, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t change it again, if he was bored and drunk and randy.

She checked the small watch pinned to her black-clad bosom. It had been more than four hours, the midday meal already past, and she hadn’t eaten anything since last night. Up until now the very idea of food had made her gag, but the influence of the night before had passed off enough for her to realize she was hungry.

First things first. She would fetch the pearls, and anything else she could carry, and make some excuse to leave the house, never to return. She hurried up to her room, searching through her meager belongings.

Where was her other nightdress? And then memory came back, of him ripping it in half and gazing down at her, not with boredom but fierce need, and she felt herself grow hot with her own kind of longing once again.

But in the end he’d changed his mind. He hadn’t wanted her. The details of that rejection were hazy, but the truth was plain. She wasn’t worth his time or even his random lust.

What had she done with the torn nightgown? She assumed she’d somehow made her way back upstairs after he’d walked away from her, because she’d woken up in her own bed, dressed in her other nightgown. But where was the torn one? It had been very expensive, once upon a time, one of the few things she’d been allowed when the creditors had taken everything, including most of their lace-trimmed underthings, and anything could be mended. Indeed, it had been an older piece, the fabric soft with age, but she’d loved it, and she wasn’t leaving it behind.

It was nowhere in her room. She already knew it couldn’t be in the kitchen—Mrs. Harkins would have said something. There was one more place it could be.