Never Kiss a Rake (8 page)

The countess was reclining in state in the sitting room Bryony had first been taken to when she arrived there, following the dutiful Emma. It was on the second floor, and her first impression was heat and cloying perfume. It took all her strength not to cough.

Mademoiselle Hortense, the countess’s haughty maid, barred her way, her thin body rigid. “Her ladyship has not asked for you,” she said in her heavily accented English.

“Oh, never mind, Hortense,” Lady Kilmartyn’s airy voice floated to the door. “I may as well see her. Come in, Mrs. Greaves. How can I help you?”

Cecily, Lady Kilmartyn, looked as beautiful as ever. Today the dark curtains were pulled back, and Bryony could see her quite clearly. It was little wonder Kilmartyn had fallen in love with her.

Cecily was staring at her with cool disdain, though she was keeping her gaze carefully focused on Bryony’s right ear, the furthest part of her face from the scars that marred her, and suddenly Bryony thought of her mother. Her mother had managed to never look at her directly once she’d recovered.

She took a deep breath and managed a pleasant smile. “I’ve brought the menus for the week. Mrs. Harkins did an excellent job of planning, but we need your approval, and it would help to know if we’re to expect any guests in the next fortnight.”

“I fail to see why that’s any of your concern.”

“We want the household to be ready if you do have guests. So you can take pride in your surroundings.”

Cecily Bruton’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about my surroundings. You think you have me fooled, Mrs. Greaves, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know why you’re here.”

Sudden tension ripped through Bryony. How could the woman know? Was Kilmartyn the true villain, and his wife his accomplice? And was her disguise so poor that it took less than a day to penetrate it? She kept her face impassive, saying nothing.

“You’re here for my husband, aren’t you?” Lady Kilmartyn said accusingly.

Well, in fact, that was the truth, though certainly not in the way Cecily Bruton meant it. “I’m here to serve you, my lady.” The words burned her tongue, but her tone was just the right side of servile.

Lady Kilmartyn had shifted her gaze to Bryony’s shoulder. “Women love my husband,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard Bryony’s words. “He’s irresistible, and I’m afraid servants have always been fair game for the master of the house. If you haven’t come to seduce my husband then you’d be far better off leaving. Today. We can do very well without a housekeeper, and you’ll be generously compensated.”

“Your ladyship mistakes the matter,” Bryony said. “His lordship has no interest in me, or, in fact, any of the staff. I came here looking for nothing but a job, and trust me, I am eminently qualified to handle your household.”

“I don’t like you.” The words were flat, unequivocal, and Bryony wanted nothing more than to return the sentiment.

“I’m sorry, your ladyship. I’ll do my best to keep out of your way. If you would just sign the papers approving the menus then I’ll leave you…”

Lady Kilmartyn took the papers in her thin, bejeweled hand, and slowly, methodically ripped them in two. She dropped them on the floor and then looked Bryony full in the face, wincing dramatically as she took in the scars. “I do believe these menus are unacceptable. Make up new ones. And I want you to do it, not Mrs. Harkins. I recognize her semiliterate scrawl. In fact, Mrs. Greaves, I want you to make up complete menus for the next three weeks, so I have something to choose from. Assuming, of course, you stay that long.”

Bryony didn’t blink. This woman was her enemy, and she had no idea why. She did, however, have enough sense not to react. “Of course, Lady Kilmartyn.”

“You’re not wanted here,” the woman added in a low, scathing voice. “The sooner you realize it the better.”

The animosity was bewildering, and Bryony broke the cardinal rule of servitude. She asked a question. “Why do you dislike me, Lady Kilmartyn?”

The woman was momentarily taken aback. “Because my husband likes you. He never would have interfered if he wasn’t attracted to you. He wants to bring his affairs into my house and I won’t have it.”

“Lady Kilmartyn, have you taken a close look at me?” Bryony knew she had, of course, but she seemed to have forgotten one essential fact. “Why would any gentleman, in particular a gentleman who could presumably have anyone he wanted, be interested in the likes of me? You’re worried for nothing.” It was too familiar of her, but she was at a loss.

“You think he could have anyone he wants? Because he’s so handsome, so charming, so wickedly appealing? I knew you wanted him—I could see it in your eyes the moment you looked at him.” The woman’s voice was rising, moving toward hysteria, and the maid rushed over, flashing a furious glance at Bryony.

“Now, now, my lady, don’t let that one disturb you,” she murmured soothingly. “She will be gone soon enough, and you will have nothing to worry about.”

Bryony desperately wanted to point out she had nothing to worry about now, but Hortense glared at her, and she decided retreat was her best course. “If your ladyship will excuse me…” she began.

But Cecily Bruton’s voice rose to a scream. “Get out, get out, get out,” she shrieked, as Hortense put her skinny arms around her and began to soothe her in French.

Bryony decamped.

She made her way back to the kitchen, slowly enough, giving herself time to consider the unpleasant interview. Clearly she was going to have to deal with Kilmartyn after all.

Mrs. Harkins looked up hopefully when Bryony returned to the kitchen, but one look at her face and her empty hands told her what she needed to know. She sighed. “Should have gone to the master first,” she said.

“I had decided as much myself,” she said composedly, ignoring her apprehension. “When did he last approve the menus?”

“Not for weeks, Mrs. Greaves. Bertie will take his tray up and he can tell you when his lordship might be ready to see you.”

“It won’t be for a while,” Bryony said caustically. “And I have errands to do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He was quite the worse for drink last night. He barely made it into his rooms. Tell me, is that a common occurrence in this household?”

“Not common, but not unheard of,” Mrs. Harkins said carefully, clearly not wanting to malign her employer, and Bryony immediately realized her mistake. She should never have mentioned it, never have questioned, but tact had never been her strong point.

“Of course,” she said, dismissing it. “That’s not unusual. It was an impertinent question, but I need to visit the employment agency to find us new help and I planned to hire a valet for his lordship today as well. If he was frequently… indisposed that could alter my choice.”

Everyone turned to look at her in astonishment. Bertie was busy shining shoes, Emma gathering a mop and bucket, but the sudden silence was broken only by the sound of Becky, soldiering on at the sink.

“His lordship doesn’t wish to have a valet,” Mrs. Harkins said finally. “He refuses.”

“Which is why I will have to be extremely resourceful in hiring one,” Bryony said, unperturbed. “In the meantime, follow the menu you had planned. I’ll deal with his lordship later.”

She didn’t hesitate any longer. After her unpleasant interview with Lady Kilmartyn she found she was in desperate need of fresh air, and there were servants to be hired. She wrapped her cloak around her and stepped out into the cool morning air to make her way to the employment agency.

Bryony had mastered the circuitous paths surrounding Berkeley Square and their old home on Curzon Street, and she arrived at Lawson’s Agency for Domestics in a good amount of time. They greeted her arrival with appropriate delight, plying her with tea and small cakes.

“I have a most startling suggestion, Mrs. Greaves,” Mr. Lawson himself said when she finished listing her requirements. “I beg you will hear me out.”

“Certainly, Mr. Lawson,” she agreed. He was a kindly man, slightly patronizing, but with a good heart.

“Just today the perfect man to serve as valet to his lordship arrived on our doorstep like a gift from heaven. I do think you should consider him.”

“It would be extremely shortsighted to ignore a gift from heaven, Mr. Lawson,” Bryony said, reaching for her cup of tea. “Tell me about him.”

The Earl of Kilmartyn never liked coming home. He always rose early, no matter how much he’d imbibed the night before, and he was out of the house before his loving wife could arise. He’d spent the early morning at the stables, watching the horses being put through their paces in light of the upcoming derby. Then his club provided a quiet place to read the paper and pick at the excellent food offered, and in the afternoon he played cards at Ridgely, the latest in a line of popular houses that offered both gambling and available women. He ignored the women, left the table nine hundred pounds to the good, and decided to walk home. The longer it took him the better—he had a great deal to think about. His brand-new live-in spy wouldn’t have time to be a problem—the house was in too much disarray. He could always go out, but he wasn’t in the mood for loud voices and bright lights; he wasn’t interested in willing women and inventive sex. He was in the mood to play games.

He climbed the front steps, two at a time, and was astonished to see it open before he had to apply his cane. Mrs. Greaves had already improved things.

A strange man stood there, dressed in the sober black of an upper servant, his head lowered as he ushered Adrian in. “Your lordship,” the man said smoothly, and automatically Adrian handed him his gloves and hat. “I hope you had a most pleasant day.”

“And just who the hell are you?” Kilmartyn demanded irritably. He never liked surprises—they were usually unpleasant.

The man reacted with perfect calm. “I am Smyth, my lord. Your new factotum.”

Kilmartyn raised an eyebrow. “And what is a factotum, may I ask?”

“It is Mrs. Greaves’s term. I am here to oversee the male servants, act as butler and majordomo, sommelier, dogsbody, and, I’m afraid, your valet. Mrs. Greaves thought you might not object too strongly.”

Kilmartyn looked at him. “I distinctly told Mrs. Greaves I do not want a valet.”

“And indeed, sir, I understand that most thoroughly. Don’t think of me as a valet, think of me as… as an assistant. I have already put your clothes in decent order, and I’ve arranged things to be just a bit more useful. I hope I’ve done so to your satisfaction.” His voice was the flat, expressionless tone of a good servant, his eyes were lowered, but something was different about Mr. Smyth, and Kilmartyn couldn’t pinpoint it. Jesus, had she brought another spy in?

“We’ll see,” he grumbled. “I won’t want you hovering around, scrubbing my back while I’m in the tub or watching me put my underwear on.”

“Indeed not, sir. I am here to make your life more comfortable, not more difficult.”

Kilmartyn heard it then, just the faintest echo in the man’s voice. He had a good ear, though, and could pick an accent from a handful of words. “You’re Irish. County Sligo,” he said suddenly. “And your name’s not Smyth.”

That broke through the automaton’s demeanor. His head jerked up, looking at Kilmartyn in surprise. “Collins, my lord. From Ballymote.”

“And was it my housekeeper’s suggestion that you change your name?”

“No, my lord.”

The man wasn’t about to offer more unless Kilmartyn prodded him. He prodded. “Then explain why you don’t use your own name like an honest man.”

“I am an honest man!” he said, a trifle too sharply for a servant. “My lord,” he added a moment later. “The great households of London have no
particular fondness for Irish servants. I’m more likely to get work if I’m assumed to be English.”

Kilmartyn’s laugh was without amusement. “While you’re with us you’ll be Collins,” he said. “Not that I expect you to be here long. My wife has a habit of driving servants away.”

“My lord, if may speak frankly, I need this job. It will take a great deal to drive me off.”

Kilmartyn tilted his head to survey him, just as his new housekeeper bustled into the entrance hall. She looked ruffled, her hair escaping those braids again, her pale cheeks flushed. In fact, she looked delectable, proving to Kilmartyn that perhaps the games he had in mind might be a bit too dangerous. For both of them.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said hastily, her proper accent slipping out. “I meant to introduce you to Mr. Smyth.”

“Collins,” Kilmartyn corrected. “We use our real names in this household.” He wanted to laugh at the notion. He doubted his housekeeper was using the name she was born with.

“Yes, well, Collins, then. I know you said you didn’t wish to hire a valet, but Mr. Collins seemed too well qualified on every level, and I required help. You did say I was free to hire whatever staff I deemed necessary.”

“And I did say no valet.”

“You may use Mr. Collins as much or as little as you require, my lord,” she said smoothly, so smoothly he knew that Collins’s real name had come as no surprise. In fact, he had little doubt the devious creature had hired him deliberately, knowing that a second-rate Irish lord would find a second-rate Irish servant more palatable. He had the pleasant suspicion that Mrs. Greaves was going to prove a formidable opponent.