Never Kiss a Rake (9 page)

And she
was
looking pretty today. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were rosy, and she really did have a tempting mouth, a cupid’s bow on top with a full lower lip he wanted to nip at. He wanted to see what kind of shape her body was beneath those dark, baggy clothes. Not that he should. He never had sex with courtesans or servants. He wanted to be sure his women were willing, not forced to his bed by financial considerations. But
for the mysterious Mrs. Greaves he might allow an exception to his personal rule.

“You’re a very clever woman, Mrs. Greaves,” he said in a silky voice.

She wasn’t foolish enough to take that as a compliment. She maintained her starchy demeanor, one at odds with her rumpled appearance. She’d been working too hard on his house again, he thought. “I hope I provide good service, my lord.”

His smile widened, and he wondered if she recognized the wickedness in it. “Oh, you will, Mrs. Greaves.”

She did. She stiffened even more, then relaxed, as if she thought she’d misread his intention. Foolish girl.

And she was a girl. Even if her years on earth were close to thirty there was a certain innocence about her. Mrs. Greaves was no widow. She was a virgin. And he liked unsettling her. He hadn’t made up his mind whether he’d do anything about his odd, powerful attraction to her. Bedding servants was bad enough; bedding a spy could be disastrous.

But there was that lovely mouth.

Not now, unfortunately. “I’ll be in my library,” he said abruptly. “I have work to do.”

“Very good, my lord,” Collins said. “Will you be going out later?”

He glanced at his housekeeper. Bryony. That was too uncommon a name to take—it was more than likely her own. Just as Greaves most certainly wasn’t. “Nothing for now. In fact, the two of you can go off and leave me alone.” He sounded bad-tempered and he didn’t care. For some reason the woman irritated him. Fascinated him. Aroused him. And he had to decide just what he was going to do about it.

She didn’t blink. She wasn’t a servant, but she was a damned good actress. That might be why he found her slightly familiar. He must have seen her onstage at some point. For some reason he’d assumed she was here on her own volition, but now he realized the unlikelihood of that. Women were seldom bent on spying, his wife being the exception. Mrs. Greaves must have been hired by someone to infiltrate his household. He wondered if those scars were even real.

But who could have hired her? He was outspoken in his views about independence for Ireland, and those views were very unpopular, particularly since the latest outrage caused by the Fenian rebels. More than thirty people had died in the explosion at Clerkenwell Jail, and a hundred were injured, and the call for redress had been immediate and fierce. If the police had caught any of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the group behind the bombing, the rebels would have been torn apart by the angry mob.

But there was no one to heap the blame on. No one knew it had been his money that had financed that plot, a plot he’d been told would be a peaceful distraction to get their leader out of jail. It didn’t matter that they’d lied to him—he wasn’t born yesterday. His money had paid for a bomb that killed people. It was on his head.

And his secret. Only Cecily knew, and she used her knowledge like a whip to keep him in line. He had no idea what would happen if he were found out. Whether he’d be up for charges in the House of Lords or treated like a common criminal. Barrett, the man who’d set the bomb, had been publicly hanged last year. Who was to say he wouldn’t follow? He had no seat in Parliament, those being relegated to only the oldest of the Irish peerages, but he had friends who could vote, wastrel friends who could be influenced, political friends who were sympathetic. But not if they found out he had been involved in the Fenian Outrage.

There were any number of politicians with opposing views who might be looking for ways to discredit him. They wouldn’t find any cause in his household. He’d severed all connection with the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and there should be no trace of his generous donation. Nowadays he kept his excesses in full view, and while they were notorious, he was no worse than many of the less upright members of society, simply less discreet. Being a lord, even an Irish one, excused any amount of misbehavior, be it gaming, sexual indulgences, or a surfeit of alcohol.

There was no way in hell they could find out the one thing that would discredit him entirely. Cecily was the keeper of that secret, and if it were out it would be worthless to her. The value was in the holding of it, and she would protect it with her cold, black heart.

Mrs. Greaves had vanished into the cavernous hallway without a word, and he knew a moment’s regret. Collins remained, still holding his gloves and hat. Kilmartyn glared at him. “Go away,” he snapped.

“As you wish, my lord,” Collins murmured.

Kilmartyn stared down the hallway where Bryony Greaves had disappeared. After a moment he headed for his library, trying to ignore temptation for the very first time in his life.

N
OW DIDN
’
T THAT SABOTAGE
all her plans, Bryony thought as she headed back down to the kitchens. She’d been busy every single moment since she’d risen at that ungodly hour—once she’d returned from the employment agency she’d assisted with the cleaning, with the intention of taking sole responsibility for Kilmartyn’s study and whatever papers might be there, but Emily had insisted on helping her, and all her efforts to dislodge the girl had been fruitless. So instead she’d spent hours scrubbing fireplace bricks and polishing doorknobs, cleaning windows and shaking out rugs. She hadn’t wasted time looking for a bathing room, but tonight she had no choice. She was filthy.

She’d hoped to make it back to the study when they’d finished cleaning for the day, but the new employees arrived, and Mr. Lawson’s suggestion had been brilliant. Hiring an Irishman to serve Lord Kilmartyn was positively inspired, and Mr. Lawson had assured her how rare it was to have found a qualified candidate. His arrival at the agency that very day had been most opportune, and Bryony could only agree.

The others, a new footman and two new maids, were exceptionally well chosen. Interviewing them, getting them settled, and instructing them in their duties had taken the rest of the day, and she had devoutly
hoped that she could slip away during dinner, having been told that the earl never returned home until the small hours of the morning.

Apparently they’d been wrong. Now he was ensconced in the library, the most logical place for her to find any evidence of wrongdoing, and there was no way she could search the place.

Belowstairs they had already eaten their supper. Becky was scrubbing dishes while Mrs. Harkins sat by the stove with a disheartened expression.

“What’s wrong?” Bryony asked, shoving her disordered hair away from her face.

“Not a thing, Mrs. Greaves. At least, nothing I’m not used to. I made
truite meunière
, followed by the most succulent of lamb chops, some fresh spring potatoes with mint and parsley, a baked turnip with watercress glacé, and they won’t eat.” Her torture of the French made Bryony hide her smile. “Her ladyship says she requires nothing but toast and tea, and his lordship—”

“His lordship says he is not to be disturbed,” Collins spoke from behind her.

Mrs. Harkin’s face crumpled. “It’s a waste of my time and genius! It fair to breaks my heart, working so hard over a meal only to have it tossed back in my face.”

There was an awkward silence in the kitchen. They all knew that the vagaries of their employers were sacred and that life was unfair, and there was no comfort to offer the poor woman.

The hell there wasn’t
, Bryony thought. “Mrs. Harkins, please make up a tray.”

The woman brightened slightly. “Would you be wishing to try this, Mrs. Greaves? If I’d known the quality weren’t going to be eating I could have fed it to the staff, but everyone’s eaten a full meal.”

“Thanks to your most excellent cooking I’m sure that the staffis as full as I am. No, I’m bringing it to his lordship.”

“If he’s in a mood he might throw something at you,” Emma said, worry in her voice. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“I can duck.”

“Allow me carry it for you, Mrs. Greaves,” Collins said. “I expect it’ll be right heavy.” The Irish was coming out now, and Mrs. Harkins was eying him with fascination.

Bryony hesitated, then nodded. “You may carry it to the door for me, but I’ll be the one to bring it in. He’s less likely to chuck something at me than you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think his lordship is not a good master,” Emma continued earnestly. “You’ll never see him raging like the countess. Sometimes, though, he’s… er… not well when he’s home.”

“Three sheets to the wind, you mean,” Mrs. Harkins snapped, her annoyance with her lord and master overcoming her natural discretion.

“I’d still rather face him in a towering black mood than her ladyship,” Emma said stoutly.

Mrs. Harkins peered at her. “Why, lass, do you have a weakness for his lordship? That’s a very bad idea, that is, and I’d be more worried except that I know Ruby never got anywhere with him, and she just about threw herself naked at his feet to try to get his attention. He doesn’t trifle with those beneath him. So you just get any such foolish notions out of your head. There’s nothing that will lead to disaster surer than thinking you’re in love with the quality.”

Emma had flushed a beet red. “I know my place, Mrs. Harkins.”

“See that you remember it,” the cook said gravely.

Bryony decided it was time to intervene, ignoring the odd pang that had struck her. In truth, it was her place to warn Emma, not the cook’s, but she hadn’t wanted to get involved in any kind of discussion about the Earl of Kilmartyn.

“I think Emma understands your concern, Mrs. Harkins,” she said gently. “And I believe she’s wise enough to know what’s proper in a good servant. She has you for an example.”

They both looked gratified rather than offended, and Bryony breathed a silent sigh of relief. While she’d dealt with staff issues, their own housekeeper had handled tricky situations like this one, so Bryony simply had to rely on her instincts. Then again, she’d had plenty of practice with her argumentative sisters.

The heavy silver covers were set on the tray, and Collins picked it up. “If the sight of such a magnificent meal makes his lordship violent then I vote we put him on a diet of bread and water.”

Mrs. Harkins blushed prettily at the compliment. “Happen he might prefer it.”

“Never, my dear Mrs. Harkins,” he said, and the lady practically beamed.

They moved through the hallways at a calm, decorous pace. At one point Collins spoke. “Should I have brought a bottle of wine, Mrs. Greaves?”

“He drinks too much already,” she said tartly.

A moment’s silence. “Is there anything else you should acquaint me with concerning his lordship?”

Bryony sighed. Discretion was one thing; necessary knowledge was another. “I imagine you’ll have to help him to bed, though as yet I don’t know how often. There have been a number of comments that have led me to believe this is a fairly common occurrence. As you’ve doubtless noticed, the earl and the countess do not share a room, or even a floor. You have yet to meet her ladyship, but I suggest you be wary.”

“Is she truly the tartar they suggest she is?”

Bryony instinctively shrugged, then froze as she remembered that a proper housekeeper is not likely to shrug, or to have such conversations with her underlings. Fortunately Collins was concentrating on his passage through the halls without knocking over any of the delicately balanced silver cutlery and he hadn’t noticed.

Bryony considered her words. “I’ve dealt with her ladyship twice, and I would call her high-strung, perhaps. She doesn’t like me much, but I don’t think she’d have anything against you.”

He nodded. “So I am to assume his lordship and his wife do not get along?”

Bryony thought about it. “He was nothing but charming toward her, even as he overruled her when she was not entirely enthusiastic about taking me on. He did threaten to move out if she didn’t capitulate, but that was simply a joke. I can’t imagine a man turning his back on her.” For some
reason she found that thought intensely depressing. She should be used to it by now.