Never Kiss a Rake (30 page)

As a housekeeper she wore no hoops, only the stiffness of her crinoline keeping her skirts away from her body, but there was still enough room to tuck a few of her belongings into the pockets Maddy had cleverly sewn into it. She tossed a few more things in her shawl and then twisted it into a tie. It wasn’t large enough to cause notice, and even if it did she doubted anyone would say anything. They were probably too busy discussing the fascinating happenstance of their lord and master being dragged off by the police.

She started down the narrow servants’ staircase, stopping on the third floor to emerge from the baize door in the hallway. She froze.
He
was there again, like a recurring ghost, except he was very real.

“Mrs. Greaves,” said Mr. Brown with a pleased smile. “How lovely to see you again! I hadn’t expected you’d still be here.”

B
RYONY WAS INSTANTLY WARY
. He was Lady Kilmartyn’s cousin, and presumed lover, so why was he here in Kilmartyn’s house when the woman was gone, unless he knew more about her disappearance and the blood that had covered the floor? No—he struck her as someone far too precise to ever soil his hands with blood. She was imagining monsters everywhere, when the only monster had probably been a huge rat. Or so she kept wanting to believe.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brown.” The perfect housekeeper mien was in full force. “Why would I be anywhere else?”

“Well, the Kilmartyn housekeepers seldom stay for very long. I imagine Adrian’s advances aren’t always welcome.”

The words stung, and she could feel heat flame her cheeks. He was telling her she was only one in a long line of easy women, but in the end she hadn’t passed muster. Had she truly expected anything else? “May I help you, Mr. Brown? I imagine you know that Lady Kilmartyn is in the country, visiting friends. Indeed, I assumed you were with her.” She could sting back as well, and she was beyond caring about proper deference.

“Now why would you think that?” he countered. “In truth, Cecily’s disappearance came as a great shock to me, since she was promised to spend
an afternoon at the regatta with me yesterday. I was most disturbed. But I presume Kilmartyn knows where she is.”

“He hasn’t mentioned it.”

Brown looked at her for a long, contemplative moment. “You may trust me, Mrs. Greaves. I know we are not well acquainted, but I promise you I can prove a steady friend if you find yourself in need.”

He looked so handsome, so earnest, so winning, with that elegant curl centered on his high forehead. Just the sort of man she had always dreamed of when she’d been younger. So why wasn’t she melting with longing for him? Why didn’t she trust him?

“You’re very kind, sir. I cannot imagine being in such a circumstance, but I will remember your generous offer. And indeed, how may
I
assist
you
?”

“In no way, Mrs. Greaves. I was merely here in search of my cousin, but I found nothing. Unless you know anything about her sudden departure? Did she leave a note in her room, perhaps?”

She shook her head. It surprised her how easy it was to lie nowadays. The falsehoods rolled off her tongue. “I’m afraid she left no note, but as we both know the Kilmartyns do not share the warmest of relationships. I gather Lady Kilmartyn is prone to spur-of-the-moment departures. I’m certain she’ll be in touch with you when she wishes to.”

In truth she was certain of no such thing. If the countess was still alive, and please God she must be, then she had some reason for keeping her presence a secret from everyone, including her lover.

Mr. Brown inclined his handsome head. “I’m certain you are right. But if you hear anything, perhaps you might let me know.” He held out an engraved calling card.

She didn’t want to take it, but she had no choice. She tucked it inside the apron she still wore and gave him a brittle smile. “Perhaps I can show you out? Lord Kilmartyn is out for the afternoon, as I imagine you know, or you’d hardly be wandering the corridors.”

His smile was both abashed and winning. “I confess I’ve been watching, and I did see that bastard leaving with two very unpleasant gentlemen.”

“You don’t care for Lord Kilmartyn?”

“How could I? Not when I consider the brutality he’s shown my cousin over the years. She stays secluded so that no one can see the bruising, but I’m afraid that sooner or later he might—” He stopped, as if he’d said too much.

It was an excellent performance. Bryony wasn’t sure how she recognized it as such. A great many men beat their wives—it was their legal right to do so. But Kilmartyn, for all his supposed wickedness, didn’t strike her as a man who’d hit someone smaller and weaker. “I don’t expect his lordship to be gone that long, so if you wish to leave without being seen I’d suggest you go now,” she said, trying to sound encouraging rather than annoyed. He was keeping
her
from escaping, and she couldn’t afford to run into Kilmartyn again. Not with the memory of last night between them.

He took her unwilling hand and pressed it. “You’re very good, Mrs. Greaves. I won’t forget your kindness.”

She watched him disappear down the hallway, staying motionless for a long time after he’d left. She’d hardly been kind—the man was a charming snake, and she was much more likely to believe he knew more about Lady Kilmartyn’s disappearance than Kilmartyn did.

The warning she’d given him held for herself as well. She needed to fetch her cape and leave this place. She simply had one more thing to check.

His temporary rooms were spotless. She searched under the mattress, half afraid she’d come up with another salacious volume of drawings, but there was nothing there. The drawers and cabinets were all devoid of anything interesting, including her torn nightdress, and she’d begun to believe it had probably gone out with the dustbin when she noticed the cupboard door was ajar. She opened it, peering inside. The tiny room was filled with an array of day and evening wear, boots and day shoes and evening slippers, and she stared at them for a moment. They smelled like Kilmartyn. Wool and leather and something else indefinable, and she could remember the taste of his mouth on hers. For a moment she closed her eyes and buried her face against one coat, breathing it in, letting the longing suffuse her. And then she pulled back, about ready to close the door when she noticed
the faint splash of white at the very end of the space, almost out of sight. It could only be her nightdress, and she knelt down, reaching for it and drawing it out. And then dropping it with a muffled cry of horror. Her torn nightdress was there. So were the blood-soaked clothes of a man, and there could be only one who would wear them. Only one man tall enough and with arms long enough to fill the sleeves of the shirt.

She sat back on her heels, shivering in horror.
Stupid, stupid man! What had he done?
She glanced around her, finding nothing, and as a last resort she grabbed the thin silk dressing gown that lay across the bed, waiting for his return, and bundled the clothes inside. She didn’t stop to consider why, she simply acted on impulse, adding her own torn nightdress to the bundle.

She could hardly waltz through the kitchen carrying such a load—someone would be bound to ask, so she moved to the window that overlooked the back garden, opened it and let the parcel drop, watching with relief as it disappeared into a blossoming lilac bush. She went back to the cupboard, trying to get a good look at the floor, but if the blood had stained through she couldn’t see it, and with luck neither could Scotland Yard. He was safe, at least for now. She’d done everything she could for him. The rest was up to him.

The kitchen seemed warm and cozy when Bryony stepped inside. She pulled her half cape from the hook by the door and tied her reticule around her wrist. “I’m going out,” she said, sounding brisk. “I thought I’d look for those spices you were missing, Mrs. Harkins, and see if I could order new uniforms for the household. The ones we have are getting shabby. I’m certain his lordship will return soon, and in the meantime we need to continue as we mean to go on.”

“Very wise,” said Mr. Collins, never taking his eyes from Mrs. Harkins’s sturdy figure while he rubbed at the silver candlestick, slowly, almost sensually, and Bryony paused for a moment.

Oh, my
, she thought. Surely love wasn’t blooming in her very kitchen? If the butler fell in love with the cook then it brought a certain stability to the household. Mrs. Harkins had almost managed to run the household—with Mr. Collins’s help she’d be easily able to do so, with Bryony gone.

The thought should have cheered her as she moved on. Kilmartyn would be fine, Lady Kilmartyn would reappear sooner or later, and no one would miss her. It was time to go home.

Except she had no home, apart from refuge with their old nanny, who was already supporting Maddy and Sophie. She could only hope they hadn’t been too much of a burden. She’d sent them a note, assuring them all was well, but they could scarcely write back. Nanny Gruen would take good care of them—at least she could count on that much. Right now all she had to worry about was Kilmartyn, and what had happened to his wife. She was a fool to ignore the obvious, a fool to try to protect him. If he truly was responsible for the death of his wife then her meager efforts wouldn’t save him for long.

Either he’d left the bed he’d briefly shared with her and gone and brutally murdered his wife or someone was trying to make it look as if he had. And if he were truly guilty she should never have tried to cover it up.

She would leave the bloody clothes where they lay, hidden beneath the lilac bush. If the police had any real cause to suspect him they would come and search the place. She would leave the rest up to fate.

The day was crisp and overcast, and she forced herself to walk easily, moving through Mayfair at a brisk clip. If she stopped to think about what she was leaving she would weep, so she simply squared her shoulders and strode onward, her head clearing in the cool spring air. There was an odd prickling sensation in the middle of her shoulders, as if someone was watching her, following her. While her first instinct was to head straight to the moneylenders, she forced herself to move as if she were simply out on a housekeeper’s errands.

She dealt with the markets quite handily, finding Mrs. Harkins’s missing herbs, arranging for a delivery of fresh fish and poultry. City living was very different from country living. At Renwick, the eggs and dairy and most of the meat were produced on the estate. One only had to plan. Here
in the city arrangements must be made, and the Kilmartyn household’s arrangements had been extremely haphazard. The deliveries were hit-or-miss, the quality unreliable, forcing Mrs. Harkins to be extremely creative.

She could take care of this—it was one thing she could do before she disappeared into the night. She knew the best suppliers, having dealt with them via the steward of her father’s household on the few times she came to town. She had already dismissed the current vendors—no more improperly aged beef or chicken with a bad odor to it. No more curdled milk or rancid butter or wheat with bugs in it. She would leave his house well ordered.

She’d finished her needless errands, including a visit to Mr. Peach to get the assurance that the rooms would be finished by the next morning, and she was moving toward the shadier area where the moneylenders plied their trade when the most extraordinary thought struck her, so shocking that she stopped where she was on the sidewalk, forcing a large gentleman to move around her, tipping his hat politely as he went.