Never Kiss a Rake (38 page)

“Creative?”

He grinned at her, a wicked, carefree grin that caught her heart and broke it at the same time. Because he could never be hers. “I can be extremely creative, my love. You’ll be impressed.”

And she was.

His darling Bryony lay half curled around her bad arm, a delicious, sleeping bundle of femininity, but even he couldn’t get it up a fourth time in that many hours, though his cock was doing its best. He left her in an exhausted little heap and bathed and dressed. At the last minute he remembered Collins, sitting in the storeroom, tethered, and he grinned. He’d better let the bastard out or he’d wet himself.

Apparently Collins was more adept than he’d thought, or his miniature confederate had come back and untied him. There was no sign of him in the room, the bonds lying loose on the chair, and Kilmartyn cursed beneath his breath. He had more questions to ask the man, but once released he was going to disappear into the vast populace of London, never to be seen again.

Bryony’s arm seemed to be in good shape despite their exertions—there was no sign of fresh blood, but he decided he’d better rewrap it anyway, once she woke. He was starving, though as far as he knew all his servants had decamped along with Collins. Maybe they were all in the pay of the mysterious mastermind. No, that was hardly likely—Mrs. Harkins had been in residence for more than ten years, and the head footman, Bertie, had been there almost as long.

He didn’t bother ringing for anyone. He descended the winding servants’ staircase, pushing open the door to the basement kitchen, and watched with amusement as everyone froze.

Mrs. Harkins was at the stove, which made sense, and whatever she was cooking smelled delicious. The rest of the staff had been sitting around the table, including, to his astonishment, Collins, though there was no sign of the boy, and they all leapt up as if he were the grim reaper himself.

“I see you decided to stay with us, Collins,” he said, his voice laconic. “Who untied you?”

“I did,” Mrs. Harkins announced, once meaty hand on her hip. “Everyone makes mistakes. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

“Well, we certainly know I’m not without sin,” he said easily enough. “Any sign of the boy? Or Scotland Yard? Or my missing wife?”

“No, sir,” Collins said, the perfect manservant once more.

He made no comment. “Mrs. Harkins, I’m starving. Please send a massive breakfast for two up to my room in about an hour, and in the meantime I’ll take coffee and pastry in my library.”

“For two, sir?” Collins questioned.

“Don’t be disingenuous, Collins. Nothing happens in this household that you aren’t all aware of, and you know Miss Russell spent the night in my bed.”

Mrs. Harkins’s look of deep disapproval changed to confusion. “Miss Russell? Where is Mrs. Greaves?”

“Same person, I’m afraid. Our housekeeper hasn’t been completely honest with us. Which makes her fit right in with the rest of you.”

Mrs. Harkins cleared her throat with awful menace, but he wasn’t interested in placating anyone. “In the meantime, everyone keep away from the third floor,” he continued. “She needs her sleep.”

“My lord…” Mrs. Harkins began, and then she trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

“Yes, Mrs. Harkins?” he said wearily.

“Would you be so good as to tell us what’s going on?”

Normally he would have put them in their place, but he’d never really been a man to stand upon ceremony, and he was the one who’d invaded their sanctuary. Besides, it would be easier to protect Bryony if they had an idea of the danger she was in.

“Miss Russell is the daughter of my business associate, Eustace Russell—” he began, but Mrs. Harkins interrupted him.

“That terrible man,” she said. “Do you know how many people lost their money when the banks failed…”

“I suspect Russell had nothing to do with it. Whoever was behind it murdered him, and seems to think his daughter should be his next victim. Right, Collins?”

Collins shifted his weight uneasily. “I was told to watch her, and send word when she was going out, nothing more. I didn’t figure it was my business, as long as he paid me enough money to send back home.”

“You have a wife and children back there, Collins?”

“No, my lord. I’ve never married.” The man couldn’t help but cast a longing look at Mrs. Harkins’s sturdy figure, and Kilmartyn could practically see her preen.

“Any more questions?” he said acidly. “Or may I retire to my library? And will my servants answer the bell when I summon them?”

“Yes, sir,” Bertie said nervously. “Begging your pardon, your lordship, but it wasn’t my idea to—”

“Bertie,” Collins said in a warning voice, and the young man flushed.

“Never mind, Bertie. Just behave from now on so I don’t have to turf you out. Miss Russell wouldn’t like it.” He gave Mrs. Harkins a speaking look. “Coffee and pastry. I’m…” He froze as he heard the heavy pounding on the front door, and sudden dread washed through him. He knew exactly who would make such an indelicate racket on his front door—he should stay where he was and force the men to use the servants’ entrance.

He sighed. “I believe that might be Scotland Yard again. Perhaps they have word of Lady Kilmartyn. Mrs. Harkins, I’m afraid I’m going to have to make do with a cup of your tea and a slice of your excellent bread. And let Miss Russell sleep another two hours. I expect I’ll be back by then.”

Bertie looked doubtful. “You want I should just ignore it, my lord?”

Kilmartyn gave him a faint smile. “Tempting as that thought is, I’m afraid the gentleman of the Yard are notoriously tenacious. They won’t go away, so I may as well face them. Take them to the library and tell them I’ll be right there.”

“My lord…” Mrs. Harkins paused, and then steeled herself. “Is her ladyship dead?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Harkins,” he said absently. “One can only hope.”

B
RYONY MOVED CAREFULLY
, looking at her arm. It was heavily bandaged, but to her amazement there was no fresh blood, despite their exertions, and the pain was almost… bearable.

She managed to sit up on her own, though she hissed in pain, biting her lip. A lip that felt swollen, sensitive, reminding her of things she needed to put out of her head.

Cradling her arm, she looked around her. It was hard to decide which hurt worse—her head or her arm. Most people had thought it was strength of character that had enabled her to get through a broken leg and a case of fever without resorting to laudanum, but they hadn’t understood the vicious effect it had on her.

She waited until the dizziness passed, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Everything about her felt slightly abraded, her breasts, between her legs. And wicked girl that she was, she liked it. She managed to find his discarded robe and pull it around her, and by the time Mrs. Harkins pushed open the door she was sitting in a chair by the open window, breathing in the rain-drenched air.

“My goodness, Miss Russell, what are you doing out of bed!” she cried in a voice just a trace too loud for Bryony’s aching head.

She winced. “Getting some fresh air.”

“Well, you get right back in bed, young lady,” the cook said sternly. “His lordship said I was to let you sleep, but I was thinking you might be hungry. I’ve got some beef broth, and another dose of laudanum might do you some good.”

Did Mrs. Harkins know how she’d spent her night? Of course she did. She was in Kilmartyn’s bedroom, now decorated in a deep blue that supposedly matched her eyes, wearing nothing but his robe. Bryony started to shake her head and then thought better of it. “His Lordship has no idea how quickly I heal,” she said. “I have every intention of getting dressed, and I’m starving. No beef broth, and definitely no laudanum.” To prove her point she rose, able to hide the slight unsteadiness of her legs. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me where my clothes are?”

“Not the ones you wore when you were shot,” Mrs. Harkins said, not in the least bit cowed. “You’re going to need new sleeves on that one. And don’t be thinking of getting those clothes yourself. I’ll send Emma,” she added with a sniff. “Otherwise you’ll be back in bed in a trice, wishing you hadn’t been so stubborn. And let’s just hope you don’t take a fever and die from getting up too soon. Then you’d be sorry.”

“At that point I’m not certain I’d notice,” she said in a practical voice.

“Oh, his lordship would notice all right. He said I was to bring you breakfast, and he’d be back in an hour or two. Personally I think they might hold him a bit longer this time, but—”

“Hold him?’’ she echoed, filled with sudden panic. “Where is Lord Kilmartyn?”

“Why, Scotland Yard came and got him again,” Mrs. Harkins said. “Didn’t I tell you? Though why they’re making such a fuss of it I’ll never know. That Lady Kilmartyn goes off whenever she pleases, never leaving so much as a word for the staff or her husband. Why they think she’d been murdered is beyond me.”

Maybe because they know about the destruction I hid, the bloody clothes I threw away,
she thought guiltily.
It couldn’t be Kilmartyn—he
couldn’t make love to me like that, kiss me, days after slaughtering his wife. He’d have to be some kind of monster.

Then again, making love to her was a sure way of sealing her lethal case of infatuation, so that she’d never say anything. Making love… no, he’d called it fucking… was more enjoyable than killing. At least, to some people. Why would he want someone like her, why…

She stopped. Foolish, hurtful thoughts. Why was it that she was the one who was so cruel to herself? No one else, save perhaps her mother, long ago, had ever made her feel ugly. And last night, this morning, Kilmartyn had made her feel… radiant.

“Emma will bring your clothes, and she’ll assist you in bathing and dressing, though she has little training as a lady’s maid.” Mrs. Harkins’s bearing was stiff, affronted, and too late she realized how she’d addressed her. Miss Russell.

“Mrs. Harkins,” she said tentatively, “I’m so sorry I lied to you.”

“That’s neither here nor there, miss. We’re here to serve, whatever you might need.” There was no change in her affronted dignity.

“I need your friendship.”

Mrs. Harkins unbent, just the tiniest bit. “Quality and staff aren’t friends, miss.”

“They are if they want to be. We’ve worked side by side. We scrubbed pots, I peeled carrots and potatoes for you, I drank tea at your table.” That wasn’t all she’d done at her table, but she wasn’t about to tell the woman about that.

The cook eyed her doubtfully, and Bryony couldn’t blame her. She’d lied, and lies were hard to forgive. After a moment Mrs. Harkins gave a slight nod, not a full acceptance, but it was at least a crack in her armor. “Emma will be with you shortly. And his lordship will be back soon—he’s already been gone longer than he expected. I know he’ll want to see you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Harkins,” she said meekly.

“And I’ll have her bring you tea, and some of those little cakes you like,” she said, unbending a little further. “You must be hungry, and a little solid food won’t do you any harm.” Mrs. Harkins looked at her for a long, considering moment, and then she nodded. “You’ll do,” she said obscurely.