Bryony stifled her gasp of shock. No wonder he mistook her for a beauty. He was close-sighted!
He must have heard her anyway, for he looked up, directly at her as she stood in the sunlight that was pouring in the library windows, her face in full view. He looked at her, seeing her absolutely clearly, and then pulled off the glasses.
“Wretched things,” he said casually. “I only need them when I have to read very small writing. You’d oblige me, Mrs. Harkins, if in the future you wrote your menus in a broader hand.”
“Of course, my lord,” Mrs. Harkins said, sounding agonized, and Bryony was immediately protective, her anger overriding her reticence.
“Mrs. Harkins went to a great deal to provide the most glorious menus for the week,” she said sharply. “If you like I’ll read them to you.” She’d said it to shame him, but the moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.
“An excellent idea,” he said, handing her the sheet of paper. “Mrs. Harkins, why don’t you leave us and Mrs. Greaves can report on my comments.”
Ooooh, no! “Of course Mrs. Harkins should stay,” she said quickly. “Much better to get your decisions and comments directly, rather than have me repeating them. That way there can be no miscommunication.”
He raised an eyebrow. “But isn’t that your job, my dear Mrs. Greaves? To pass on my orders to the other servants? Do you feel you’re not up to it?”
Good God, was he looking for a reason to fire her? Not that she could blame him—a housekeeper who searched the master’s bedroom in the middle of the night was hardly the thing, and in retrospect the specious excuse of laudanum only made things worse. He had every reason to dismiss her. Not to mention the embarrassing situation—he’d kissed his ugly housekeeper, covered her in his bed, pushing her down into the mattress. He’d… used his tongue. Touched her, more intimately than anyone else ever had. In daylight the very thought horrified her, and it most likely embarrassed him. Chances were he would want to get rid of her as quickly and efficiently as possible. She couldn’t let that happen.
Before she could answer Mrs. Harkins spoke up. “Mrs. Greaves does an excellent job, my lord. She’s already got the new maids trained to the needs of the household and they’re working beautifully, she found us Mr. Collins and the new footman, and she’s going to rid the house of rats. If you don’t mind me being so bold, sir.”
His dark green eyes swept over her figure in the bright sunlight, and nothing was hidden. “Rid the house of rats, is she? That would be quite a formidable feat.”
Did he consider himself a rat? Or was he referring to his wife’s lovers, like the gentleman she found prowling the halls yesterday? “The new boy, Jem, has an excellent dog that should take care of the rats. I’m planning on securing a cat or two to look after the mice.”
There was just the faintest quirk of a smile on his mouth, and she remembered those lips, brushing against her face, her skin, her mouth, and she suddenly grew hot. “Ah,” he murmured. “The rats and the mice. Large, wicked rats and quiet, shy little mice. I expect the rats will win any battle between the two.”
She was no fool. He was comparing her to a quiet mouse, while he was the wicked rat. But she was no meek and gentle mouse, and she wasn’t going to play his game. “There won’t be any battle—the dog and the cats will take care of them.”
He sighed. “Yes, it’s always the larger outside forces that ruin many a rat’s well-thought-out plan. Read me the menus, would you, Mrs. Greaves? And Mrs. Harkins, if you wish to stay you most certainly may do so.”
Mrs. Harkins looked at her helplessly, but Bryony gave her a faint nod. She needed her presence, even if she didn’t want sweet Pauline Harkins caught in the middle of whatever odd game they were playing. And it wasn’t rat and mouse, it was cat and mouse. Though she wondered why Kilmartyn equated himself with a rat, one of the vilest creatures on earth.
Bryony picked up the paper and began to read the menus in a clear voice, growing hungrier as each menu was read and then elaborated upon by the cook. She’d stuffed herself that morning, and yet Mrs. Harkins’s creations were making her ravenous. In fact, it seemed as if all her appetites had been awakened. Things tasted better, music sounded sweeter, the sky was a brighter blue. And the man in front of her was more devastating than she’d ever found anyone before.
“It all sounds divine, Mrs. Harkins,” Kilmartyn said in a soft voice. “Clearly I’ll have to have supper at home more often.”
And that was all she needed, Bryony thought miserably. She should never help Mrs. Harkins with her menus again.
“Very good, my lord,” the cook said, beaming as she sketched a faint curtsy.
“Then we’d best get to the rest of our duties,” Bryony said briskly. “Do you have any idea when her ladyship is expected to return home?”
If he was surprised to hear of his wife’s departure he didn’t show it. “I neither know nor care. Nothing would please me more than if she’d simply fall off the face of the earth, never to be seen or heard from again.”
The flat, cold tone of his voice shocked her, as much as the belief that he meant every word. He clearly despised the woman he married.
“Then we’ll simply make certain her room is put back in proper order for her eventual return,” she said evenly. “Come along, Mrs. Harkins.” She moved fast, hurrying the woman along, and she’d almost made it to the door when Kilmartyn spoke up. “Not so fast, my dear Mrs. Greaves. We have yet to discuss the household.”
She wanted to gnash her teeth, but she’d forgotten she had actual news to impart. She could have always handled it in a note to his wretched lordship, but status would dictate that any disclosures should be made in person. She came forward to stand in front of his desk obediently, as Mrs. Harkins gently closed the door behind her. Kilmartyn’s expression didn’t change. He still had that polite, faintly disinterested look on his face, identical to the one he showed to Mrs. Harkins. That, at least, was a relief. Wasn’t it?
“I did have news for you, my lord,” she said, before he could start with a list of her deficiencies. “Mr. Peach will start work on your bedroom today, and promises he should be finished by Saturday. I will need to make arrangements for an alternative bedroom for you, and I wondered if you have a preference.”
He was shuffling papers absently, like any employer forced to deal with the humdrum matters of everyday life. “Yours,” he said.
It took her a moment to grasp the import of his words, but he continued on quite smoothly. “I expect you’d probably raise a fuss, so I’ll make do with the violent-yellow chamber at the end of the hallway.” He raised his eyes to meet hers, and his expression was absolutely serene.
Bryony took a breath. “You, my lord, are absolutely outrageous.”
He smiled then, an innocent, almost angelic smile that went well with his beautiful face. “Hadn’t you realized that, my dear Miss Greaves? My very dear Miss Greaves?”
There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that she told herself was hunger. But hunger for what? For the attention and flirtation of a beautiful man? This was very bad. This was very bad indeed.
If he could be businesslike despite their odd banter then so could she. She cleared her throat unnecessarily. “The household is slowly becoming ordered. The new maids are working out extremely well. Jem, the kitchen boy, is lively and energetic and occasionally respectful, and you know that Mr. Collins has been a gift from the gods.”
“A gift from you, Miss Greaves. Do you consider yourself a goddess?” He leaned back in his chair, putting his fingertips together in a motion that simply called attention to the beauty of his hands. “Let me see, which would you be?”
“Hestia,” she said promptly. At least this was a safe topic of conversation. “Goddess of hearth and home.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re much more interesting than that. You’re more like Diana, the chaste huntress. Then again, what are you hunting?”
That managed to unse
ttle her further. How in the world could he guess that she was looking for something? “I would hardly qualify as a goddess, my lord.” She didn’t bother to gesture to her face—it was there to see quite plainly in the bright sunlight.
For some reason he didn’t seem horrified by it. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice it at all. “You might qualify as Ariadne, for all the clever webs you’re trying to spin. Or you might be Persephone, trapped with an ogre like me.”
“You’re hardly an ogre, my lord, and I’m not trapped. I can leave anytime I choose.”
“Can you?” He sounded doubtful, and that troubled her even more. “I think the closest you could come is Demeter, worried about her lost children. But you’re too young to have children, and besides, you’re a virgin. It must be your… sisters you’re worried about. Brothers would be on their own, but sisters usually require someone to look after them, and I presume your parents are dead.”
He was getting hideously close to the truth. He was a clever man, and he could put clues together. If she wasn’t careful he’d guess who she was before the month was up. She couldn’t let that happen.
“My parents are dead, and I have neither sisters nor brothers. I was an only child.”
“Then who are the people you send your salary to?”
“I beg your pardon?”
His smile was catlike, no longer the dispassionate employer. “You told my wife you were still in service because the money your previous employer left you went to your family. What family?”
Bugger. The forbidden word danced in her head, and she wanted to groan. She should have been more careful.
But she rallied quickly. “My uncle, my great-aunt, and an unending series of young cousins all rely on my help,” she replied. “I can give you their direction if you doubt me.” She flung the last at him, a dangerous offer.
“Oh, there’s no need, my darling Miss Greaves. I know as much as I need to know about your personal life.”
It felt like a slap in the face. Of course the personal life of a servant was of no interest. Even the family life of a courtesan would be unimportant. “Certainly, my lord,” she said, trying to sound meek and almost succeeding. “Did you have any questions? About the household,” she added hurriedly.
“None at all. You manage things quite beautifully, Miss Greaves. I don’t know how we shall manage without you.”
She froze. “I wasn’t aware you were about to face such an eventuality. Have I somehow failed to give satisfaction?”
Something about her commonplace phrase amused him. “You have been admirable, my dear Miss Greaves. So admirable, in fact, that I doubt you’ll wish to stay with us for long. But our household will delight in your presence for as long as you care to grace us.”
She blinked at his flowery words. Too flowery. Unease trickled down her spine and then danced up again, making her throat tighten beneath the stiff, choking collar. “You are too kind, my lord.”
“Oh, my dear,” he said softly. “I’m afraid I’m not very kind at all.”
For some reason that phrase sounded blatantly sexual, and she remembered the vial she had found.
As she remembered the leather folio beneath the mattress. Mr. Peach’s men would be dismantling the place in a few hours, and she needed a chance to get her hands on whatever lay there, assuming he hadn’t removed it, but there was no reason for him to think last night was anything other than a search for something to help her sleep. He’d be much more likely to consider it an approach on her part, but she’d disabused him of that notion, at least for now. He could have no idea how he affected her.
“If your lordship will excuse me, I have a great deal to do. Are you certain you want the yellow chamber? It’s quite small.”
“Yes, but the bed is big, and I’m a tall man. And I certainly want room for a companion. Or two.”
She wasn’t about to rise to that bait. “Certainly, my lord. And I’m sure Collins will let Mrs. Harkins know if she needs to provide an extra breakfast tray. Or two.” Her tone was dulcet.
“Oh, they don’t stay till morning. I fuck women, I don’t sleep with them.”
She stiffened. “I’m afraid I find that word offensive, my lord. I’m not used to language of that sort.”
He smiled at her. “Well, I could say I bugger them, but that’s not true. Usually,” he added blithely.
All right, she conceded. Bantering words with him was a waste of time—he was far too good at saying things to startle her and she had no experience talking to men.
“Shocked you, didn’t I, my very dear Miss Greaves? Do you even know the meaning of the bad words you occasionally spout when you’re caught unawares? I’d suggest you ask someone.”
She gave him the same steely gaze she used to subdue her sisters. “If you’re finished with me, my lord, I have to oversee the maids, have them move your belongings to the yellow room. Mr. Peach and his men should be arriving shortly.”
“I’m not finished with you by a long shot, my pet. But if you want to go make my bed, feel perfectly free.”
She gave him a glacial nod and moved to pick up the breakfast tray. It wasn’t her place to do such menial labor, but then, she’d done far worse in the few days she’d been in residence. Unfortunately she had nothing to show for her great subterfuge but cracked, blistered hands, a spotless house, an inexplicable ache in her heart with no proof at all of the man’s guilt or innocence. She was going to need to work harder.
She leaned across the desk and caught the handles of the heavy silver tray, about to lift it when his hands gripped her wrists, stopping her. He lifted her hands, and though she tried to yank them away he was holding her tight.
She was used to wearing gloves. Last night had been a strange, dreamlike interlude, one she could pretend hadn’t happened. For some reason the broad daylight on her poor hands made everything more intimate, his skin on hers. “What in God’s name have you been doing to your hands?” he demanded.
“Cleaning your house.”
“That’s the maids’ work.”
“It is. But when I first arrived we didn’t have enough staff, and the place was a disaster. We had to make a start on it.”
He’d turned her hand over, his thumbs rubbing the soft spot in her palms, and he said another foul word. “You need to do something about them.”
“I will. It’s the housekeeper’s place to see to the care of minor wounds and such. When I get a chance I’ll use some salve and wear gloves if your lordship doesn’t mind.”
“His lordship doesn’t mind.” The indolent master had returned, releasing her hands and leaning back in his chair. “Go and do it now. Unless you’d rather I take care of you.”
“No, my lord.” She started to pick the tray up again but he brushed her away. “Yes, my lord.”
“Send someone else in. Send the new boy so I can take a look at him. It would be a good idea if I knew just who had free run of my household.”
Like that handsome man outside the ballroom, Bryony thought, and almost opened her mouth to say something. But then, he was clearly there as an intimate guest of Lady Kilmartyn, and it would hardly be politic to mention him.
“Yes, my lord. Do you know when we may expect the return of your wife?”
He shrugged, completely unabashed, as if he hadn’t had her in his bed last night, hadn’t been kissing her so thoroughly she doubted her mouth would ever forget the feel and taste of it.
“I have no idea. If she stays true to form she won’t return for weeks. No need to bother with cleaning up in there. Save your hands.”
She was getting to the point where she didn’t believe a word he said. The unpleasant Lady Kilmartyn could return anytime now. If she was to get a chance to search her rooms that chance would be now.
“Of course, my lord,” she murmured. She was getting so very good at lying.
Kilmartyn sat where he was, staring at the closed door to his study, considering matters. Things were becoming a bit clearer, but for every a
nswer two more questions sprung up.
Such as, why had one of Russell’s daughters infiltrated his household?
It had come to him in a moment, when he’d randomly mentioned sisters, and then everything had fallen into place. The reason her eyes looked so familiar. Not the shape of them, but the deep blue color that he’d only seen in one other person. Eustace Russell was a far cry from the pretty woman who was trying so hard to look plain—it was little wonder he hadn’t recognized the eyes he was used to seeing in a heavy, aging face. But once he had made the connection he was shocked it had taken so long.
His little spy had nothing to do with his own secrets—she would have no reason to be interested in the fact that he’d supported a doomed and dangerous cause, something that could get him arrested and possibly even hanged for treason.
But Eustace Russell was another matter entirely. Her father had committed a crime and been caught at it, and died trying to escape the country. He was disgraced, his entire estate confiscated by the crown, and at the time Kilmartyn hadn’t remembered his three daughters, much less felt a moment’s concern for their well-being. His own solicitor had assured him the girls were well cared for by their late mother’s estate, and they had no need of money earned the old-fashioned way, by hard work.
He hadn’t even bothered to revisit Russell’s peculiar accusation, ascribing it to an attempt to divert suspicion from his own nefarious activities. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Why was Russell’s daughter here? He was almost positive she was the eldest, the one he’d never met. Supposedly a childhood illness had left her weak. Obviously a lie, to cover up the fact that she had a few trifling scars from a bout with smallpox. It was hard to believe that was the reason she’d been hidden away, but he could think of no other.
He might be mistaken, but he didn’t think so. Russell had not been a pretty man, but those uncommon blue eyes were a giveaway. And their mother had been an acclaimed beauty, which explained where Miss Greaves had gotten her looks.