Never Kiss a Rake (7 page)

Now if only his wife would fall off some convenient cliff.

H
E YAWNED
. I
T WAS EARLY
, far too early to be awake, but Cecily, Countess of Kilmartyn, was at heart a ridiculously provincial woman, despite her aristocratic heritage, and she always wanted him out of the house before the world was up and about. The man calling himself Rufus Brown pulled on his clothes lazily, refusing to be hurried. She looked deliciously sated, as she ought to, and she rolled over to admire him as he dressed. He was an inventive man, and he knew how to keep her enthralled. Obsessed, even.

“I fail to understand, my darling,” he said as he sat down on the bed to finish dressing, “why you’re even interested in what your husband thinks? He couldn’t care less whether I spent the entire day in your bed, or fucked you on the steps of Saint Paul’s. It would be one thing if you were prey to the softer emotions, but you and I both know that neither of us are capable of something as maudlin as love. So why do you make such a fuss about the man?”

She looked at him from her dark, sharp eyes. “I despise losing anything I consider my own. Including my husband. Oh, in terms of power I have him where I want him, where any woman should have her husband, firmly under my heel. One misstep and I could crush him, and he knows
it, and hates me for it. Which is something I quite enjoy. What I can’t bear is his ability to ignore me.”

“No man could possibly ignore you, my sweet.” Rufus took his cue promptly, wondering how quickly he could escape. “He’s simply pretending he’s indifferent, filling his time with women of no consequence. Have you seen him maintain a mistress for more than a few months? Your husband seems more interested in variety than constancy. And that, my darling, is because he still fancies you.” It was an absurd lie, but Cecily was neither remarkably bright nor terribly observant, and she took it as her due.

“It’s not that I mind his affairs,” she confided, leaning back and letting her eyes run over him. He knew she would want him to come back to bed with her after talking, thinking about her unattainable husband, but he really couldn’t afford the time. She was a venal woman, though, and he had to tread carefully. A house of cards could collapse with one strong puff of wind.

“No?” he questioned politely, using Cecily’s silver shoehorn to put his own footwear on.

“After all, there is no one in London whose sheer physical beauty can possibly compare to mine, and I don’t mind if he settles for less. It’s just that woman…”

Rufus was getting bored, but then, Cecily had always bored him. She was simply a beautiful, annoying means to an end. “What woman?” he said wearily.

“The new housekeeper. She’s a tall, skinny, washed-out creature with a hideous face! He hired her deliberately. It was an affront, a deliberate one, to insist the creature join my household. And he’s insisting on dealing with her, telling me the strain is too much for me.”

She was sounding positively disgruntled, and he controlled his urge to laugh. She must have backed herself into that mess with her protestations of exhaustion and pain. Considering their active night he could testify that the only exhaustion Cecily, Countess of Kilmartyn, suffered was from a surfeit of fucking.

But his job was to placate her. “Kilmartyn is doing it to annoy you, darling. How could he possibly prefer her to you? It sounds as if she’s perfectly ghastly. Of course, the pathetic woman is undoubtedly grateful for any attention Kilmartyn might toss her way, but he would hardly lower his standards to sleep with her when he can have anyone in London.”

“He can’t have me,” Cecily said promptly, which he knew was an outright lie. “Whether he beds her or not, I want her gone. She got rid of my favorite footman.”

“Ah, yes, the esteemed Alfred.”

“I won’t have it, Rufus! The woman would fall into his bed in a welter of gratitude, and do anything he required of her. Anything! He’s only doing it to spite me.”

“Are you hatching evil plans, my love?” Rufus murmured as he buttoned his waistcoat.

She smiled up at him demurely. “Always.”

He made himself smile back. “I’m here to help you, my love. Is there something you need taken care of? A throat to slit, a reputation to ruin? You know I’m your man.”

“Get rid of my housekeeper.”

Rufus glanced at himself in one of Cecily’s many mirrors. He had trained the most adorable curl to fall to the middle of his forehead, and he arranged it carefully before turning back to her. “Fire the woman.”

“I can’t. I didn’t hire her—Adrian did.”

“How did you let that happen? You’ve always held the running of the household, haven’t you?”

Cecily looked sullen. “No longer. He hired the wretched woman over my objections, and I know he’s planning on seducing her, just to spite me.”

Rufus allowed himself a small smile. “That’s not very wise, considering the trouble you’ve had maintaining a housekeeper. Trifling with the servants leads to nothing but trouble. Besides, I thought you told me she was hideous?”

Cecily sniffed. “Not exactly hideous. One side of her face has pox scars, which I find most distressing. You know what a sensitive creature I
am—I need to be surrounded by beauty. Ugliness makes me melancholy.” She gave him a doleful look. “Unfortunately my wretched husband is an insensitive brute. He had the temerity to tell me she was pretty!”

Rufus laughed. “Darling Cecily, we’re all insensitive brutes when it comes to pussy. We take what’s available.”

Cecily sat up, affronted. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not you, my pet. You make your lovers work for it.” He gave her his most charming smile. “The greater the challenge, the greater the reward, and you are magnificent.”

“You redeem yourself, Rufus, but just barely,” she purred, a faint hint of menace in her voice. “I want you to get rid of the housekeeper for me.”

“And how do you propose I do that? Shall I simply strangle her and dump her in the Thames?”

Cecily laughed uneasily. She had no idea what he was capable of, and he preferred to keep it that way. “Of course not.”

“Will she be hiring new staff?” he asked, doing his best to sound only randomly interested.

She shrugged. “I suppose so. We need more footmen, and Mademoiselle told me that the maid told her that the woman thinks she can hire a valet for him. As if my husband would be gentleman enough to use the services of a valet. He’s bog-Irish and always will be, and I was a fool to marry him.”

“Bog-Irish or not, he’s got a gift for making great pots of money, darling. Yes, I know, money isn’t everything but it does solve a multitude of problems. And pays for all that lovely jewelry you like to adorn yourself with.” He leaned down and pinched her willful little chin. “Leave it to me, my precious. I’ll take care of things.”

Bryony woke early, the gray sunlight coming in her newly cleaned windows, and she groaned. The tiny space under the eaves wasn’t that bad, considering the state of the household. The bed was small and narrow but
there was a comfortable chair, a desk, a washstand with decent china. The cupboard held her two cheap mourning gowns as well as one dress she’d managed to hold on to when they had left the house they’d grown up in.

There was even a rug beneath her feet, a rug she’d had to hold out one of the windows and shake fiercely. And the windows were wonderful, now that they were clean, letting in a view of the rooftops of Mayfair. She was like a bird, she thought, perching high overhead, looking down on everything.

The bed had seen better days, but it wasn’t any worse than their previous accommodations. That made her think of her sisters, and for a moment she felt such longing, such worry. They would be fine, of course. Nanny Gruen would look after them, and sooner or later some nice young man would show up and fall in love with Maddy. A rich young man would be perfect—he could see to Sophie as well—but if she had to choose she’d prefer kindness.

Not that her sisters would be amenable to her choosing their husbands. They were both strong-minded, though Sophie was more interested in playing prospective suitors one against the other. In her first season she’d evinced not the slightest interest in any of the young men flocking around her.

Maddy was different, more sober, sensible beneath her pretty exterior. Tarkington had been on the verge of offering when the news of their father’s disgrace came, and he’d beat a hasty retreat. So had everybody else. No one had any interest in associating with the impoverished daughters of a dead thief who’d almost brought the financial structure of a nation to a standstill.

Of course, it could simply be a matter of the very strict rules governing mourning periods. In six months’ time, with their fortune restored and their father’s name cleared, the girls could begin to emerge from the shroud propriety demanded of them. Within a year they could reenter society and even entertain offers, though some might frown at the haste.

She needed her sisters taken care of. She needed not to lie awake in this narrow, uncomfortable bed and worry about them, as she worried about so many things.

It would be about five in the morning, she guessed. Something had woken her—voices, perhaps, though she couldn’t imagine who else might be awake at such an ungodly hour. She might as well get up. Perhaps when this household was better ordered she could sleep in one slothful hour later, but right now she had work to do. The sooner she got this household running properly the sooner she could start concentrating on finding out the truth about her employer. He was hiding something, she just knew it. But was it something evil, or simply the normal secrets that seem to creep into one’s life?

The kitchen was a bustle of activity, and the wide table was spotless. Mrs. Harkins was in the midst of kneading dough, and she looked up when Bryony came in.

“I sent a message to one of the girls who used to work here,” she said. “Begging your pardon for being so forward, but since Becky knows this kitchen and my work habits, and she was in need of a job I thought…”

“Very resourceful, Mrs. Harkins,” she said in a soothing voice, glancing over at the wide copper sink where a young woman was scrubbing pots. “I’m sure you’re the best judge of your own kitchen.”

The cook beamed at her, clearly pleased her own area of power wasn’t threatened. Bryony continued. “Would you like me to present the menus to Lady Kilmartyn or would you prefer to do it?”

Mrs. Harkins looked skeptical. “Her ladyship usually just waves me away when I try. She says the thought of all that food makes her ill.” There was no disguising the hurt in Mrs. Harkins’s voice. “I’ve been taking it to the master the last few weeks. At least he looks at it, and I know I’m not going to lose my place for ordering venison from Scotland and oranges from Spain.”

“You won’t lose your place—this household is lucky to have you,” Bryony said firmly. “Let’s start with her ladyship. When does she usually wake?”

“She’s already had her first tray. We bring her hot cocoa first, then follow it with a breakfast tray that she never touches. Emma was just about to carry it up.”

“Then I’ll go with her,” Bryony said decisively.

Facing the haughty countess was not high on her list of preferred duties but anything was preferable to the fascinating earl. She doubted she could look at him without remembering the forbidden feel of his skin beneath her hand, his mouth beneath hers. What kind of madness had filled her last night? One would have thought she was the one who was drunk, not Kilmartyn.