Miss Greaves? Miss Grieves! Now that he thought about it everything was incredibly obvious, and he was tempted to go after her and demand what the hell she was doing. What she wanted from him.
Because he knew what he wanted from her.
That was another matter entirely, one he needed to put out of his mind until he found out why she was here. He couldn’t afford to think with his cock right now. That could come later.
The first thing he needed to check was the status of the daughters’ finances. He trusted his solicitor completely, but there had been a great deal to sort through at the time, what with Russell’s supposed absconding with such a huge amount of investors’ money, and the welfare of the criminal’s offspring had hardly been of monumental importance. It was possible they didn’t have enough money to support themselves, and with the cloud over Eustace Russell’s name the girls would be hard put to make decent marriages. But no matter how destitute they might actually be, there was no reason for them to do manual labor.
Now one of them had landed in his lap. He had an unfortunate tendency to remember almost everything people said to him, and he instantly remembered Russell’s talk of his three daughters. He’d even had miniatures of two of them on his desk. With the third he’d had only a silhouette.
He shook his head in disbelief. Was her family blind? Had they been the ones to turn her into a pariah, or had she chosen that way herself? He knew enough about her strength of will to guess that it had been mostly her choice.
The pseudonymous Mrs. Greaves was Bryony. She’d given her name as Bryony Greaves, and it was an easy jump. If she was going to take as obvious a last name as Greaves then she probably wouldn’t go far from her given name, no matter how unusual it was. People who were pretending to be someone other than who they were—and he had far too much experience in that regard—would be wise to stay as close to their given name as possible. And Miss Bryony Russell was a very wise young woman.
He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. This was even better than he expected. She could have only one reason to be in his household. She must believe her father innocent, and she was looking either for a scapegoat or the missing fortune, or both.
He himself had little doubt that Russell had done it. The evidence had been clear—there had been no other possible conclusion. Then again, perhaps that evidence had been just a little too clear. He’d known Russell since he’d first come to England, had considered the man a mentor as well as a business partner. Not that Russell was a particularly warm man. In fact, he was gruff and practical and rigidly honest…
Kilmartyn slammed his hand down on the desk with a muttered oath, and the dishes jumped. God, he’d been a fool! Russell had always been so scrupulous about matters of business—insisting on refunds if he considered there had been an error on the part of his employees, despite his concern for his stockholders. He never would have stolen money and tried to run away with it, abandoning his daughters, nor destroyed the company he was so proud of, the company that bore his name. His coach had gone over the cliffs near Devonport, his daughters left behind in Somerset to fend for themselves. The one weakness Russell had had was for his children. He would never have abandoned them.
Rising, he paced toward the window, pushing the curtain aside to stare out at the damp spring day. This changed everything. No wonder they hadn’t found a trace of the fortune that had gone missing. Russell had never had it. Though why he’d been heading toward Devonport was anybody’s guess. Unless he was going after Captain Thomas Morgan.
Morgan was a reprobate, and it took one to know one. He’d lived hard for his thirty-some years, including a stint as a privateer down in the Indian Ocean. His ethics and morals had always been highly questionable, but he’d been a damned good captain, and up until a week before Russell had died he’d commanded the best ship in the fleet.
Kilmartyn had had very little to do with the day-to-day running of the business—he sat on the board of directors and Russell would consult him about the financial end of things. Kilmartyn had an exceptional mind for business, a fact that had always amused him. Since he’d come to London he’d made ridiculous amounts of money, and even after sending the bulk back to the estate in Ireland he still managed to live in luxury. So much that he hadn’t paid proper attention when the Fenians had come to him for help, calling on his Irish blood. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again, if he managed to survive the first one.
He hadn’t known that Russell had sent orders to remove Morgan from his command at the last minute, beaching him like a fish. Or, remembering Morgan, a shark. That came out in the inquest, but Morgan had insisted he had no idea why.
If Russell had been heading toward Morgan then the man must be involved, or at least Russell had had very good reason to believe so.
Had his little spy deduced that? Apparently not, since she was busy snooping around his house and not Morgan’s. Of course, he had the advantage of knowing he had nothing to do with the huge mess, whereas Bryony Russell thought he might be a murderer.
He turned back, smiling faintly. If he were a good man he would call her into the library, tell her he’d seen through her charade, and explain to her why Morgan was the logical culprit.
But then, he wasn’t a good man, he knew that. He was a liar, a cheat, a shallow, conscienceless cad.
He was also a very handsome man; his mirror, his horrible wife, and the female half of society made that very clear. He could have just about anyone he wanted, with little or no effort. But for some damned reason he wanted Bryony Russell, thorns and all.
Maybe it was simply the challenge she offered, the sheer delight of playing her ridiculous game, confounding her even more. In the end, when he was ready to let her go, he’d tell her the truth. And then she could run off to Devonport and see if Thomas Morgan was in need of a housekeeper. And if that thought bothered him he’d soon get over it.
At least Cecily had decided to disappear without a trace. She had a habit of doing so, ever since the first time, when he’d gone into a panic, afraid she’d thrown herself in the river. Nowadays he couldn’t care less. For the time being he didn’t have to worry about her and what kind of trouble she might be stirring up for him, a small blessing. He didn’t have to deal with her threats or her tantrums. She was gone and she could stay that way.
He’d much rather concentrate on Miss Bryony Russell. Bryony. First off, it would behoove him to find out where the other two sisters were, and what their financial situation really was. Then, and only then would he start in on the cuckoo in his nest.
There was only one problem with all this. Seducing well-born virgins was universally frowned upon by society. It was just lucky he didn’t give a tinker’s damn about society. Because he meant to have her, and he was getting tired of waiting. Last night he’d had a taste, and that taste lingered in his senses, driving him mad. He would have her, and soon.
The question was, would he ever be ready to let her go?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN THE END, Bryony had no choice in the matter. Much as she wanted to inspect Lady Kilmartyn’s apartment, Mr. Peach and his crew were arriving after lunch to begin work on Kilmartyn’s room, and she needed to get his belongings out of there. More important, she needed to get the leather book from beneath the mattress.
It had been easier than she expected. Mr. Collins was an excellent taskmaster, and he kept the men busy making room for the new furniture. She could hear the girls chattering away cheerfully from down the hall, and there were no eyes to watch her as she stepped back into his bedchamber once more.
She was perfectly composed looking out the tall windows, glancing at the pretty rug, the door to the empty dressing room. It wasn’t until she looked down at the unmade bed that her body felt suffused with heat.
She needed fresh air, she thought, making no move to go to the window. She simply stood and stared at the bed. Your heart is pounding, your pulses are racing, and your nipples are hard. I’m willing to bet my swe
et little virgin is wet. His soft, seductive words echoed in her mind, as she felt her body responding to the memory of those moments in the bed with him, the fierce surge of pleasure at the touch of his hand between her legs.
She gave herself an impatient shake. She was no young debutante to be all atremble over a man. She was simply… unused to such attentions. It was no wonder it had upset her. But she was strong-willed, and she would deal with it.
The girls hadn’t made the bed, knowing it was going to be dismantled, and she looked at the tangled sheets. Remembering them twisted around his naked body.
“Oh, God,” she whispered out loud, though whether it was a curse or a prayer she had no idea. Gritting her teeth, she touched the soft, wrinkled sheets, then slid her hands beneath the mattress.
For a moment she thought it was gone. She could have sworn it was closer to the foot of the bed, but instead it was toward the head. It didn’t matter—when her fingers finally touched it she drew it out with a sigh of relief.
It didn’t look particularly prepossessing. It was simply an oversize, leather-bound book, with no title on the cover and an unexpected lock holding it closed. She was about to fiddle with it when she heard Mr. Collins’s voice nearby, and she quickly yanked the sheets off the bed, wrapping them around the book a moment before he walked in the door.
He didn’t seem to find it odd that she was kneeling by Kilmartyn’s bed. “We’re ready to move the furniture if you wish, Mrs. Greaves.”
She rose, still clutching her treasure beneath the heap of sheets. They smelled like him. Not in a bad way—the scent was a combination of skin and spice and leather, and she belatedly thought of the bedside table and its odd contents.
“That’s excellent, Mr. Collins,” she replied. “Do this room first, since it’s the most important, and then go on to the adjoining one. Do you think there’s room for all the furniture in the room across the hall?” She sounded so calm and smooth she wanted to crow in triumph.
“Everything but the armoire,” he replied, looking at the bundle of sheets she was clasping to her bosom. “May I assist you with the laundry, Mrs. Greaves? That’s hardly your responsibility.”
She resisted the impulse to grasp it more tightly and shriek no. She simply shook her head. “No, thank you. There are a few tears that need mending and I thought it would be something soothing to keep me busy after supper.”
“Tears?” Collins echoed, shocked. “In Irish linen sheets?”
She managed not to choke. “Not in the sheets themselves,” she amended. “In the embroidered crest.”
“Not to question your judgment, Mrs. Greaves, but surely that should be given to a professional needlewoman?”
She smiled tightly. “Normally, but I happen to have a particular gift for needlework, and I find it soothing. When I’m done no one will even be able to see that there was fraying.” Mainly because the sheets were in excellent shape, she added silently.
Mr. Collins swallowed the dodgy excuse. “Shall I have someone carry them up to your room, then?”
“No need. I’ll be back in just a moment.” Before he could ask any more questions she was out the door and racing up the narrow staircase to the servants’ quarters. She didn’t dare take time to look at the journal, she simply dumped everything under her bed and went back down. There’d be time enough to deal with it later on.
She went directly to Lady Kilmartyn’s apartment. The hallway was deserted, which came as no surprise. The entire second story was the domain of the countess, and apart from a cursory inspection, one that fell short of the countess’s bedroom, Bryony had kept her distance. In fact, she felt uneasy walking down the hallway, past the tightly closed doors. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that hidden eyes were watching her, which was ridiculous. Lady Kilmartyn had disappeared, probably with her handsome cousin, and was unlikely to return for weeks. She might as well take the time to acquaint herself with the one part of the house she’d previously been denied before setting the maids to work on it.
Not that she expected Kilmartyn would have hidden anything incriminating in the vicinity of his wife. It was clear he despised the woman he married, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. If there was any way Lady Kilmartyn could betray her husband she would have already done it.
Still, there was such a thing as hiding in plain sight. While this would be the last place she would expect to find something incriminating, she couldn’t afford to be careless. She turned the highly polished brass doorknob and stepped into the bedroom.
She was immediately seized by a fit of sneezing. The room was very dark, the heavy curtains pulled against the daylight, the stench of clashing perfumes hanging heavy in the air. Closing the door behind her, she started toward the windows, then caught herself as she immediately tripped over something on the floor. She took another step, then caught herself again, finally making it to the curtains by dint of shuffling her legs so that nothing else could threaten to send her tumbling to her knees.
The early promise of a bright day had faded, but even the fitful sunlight illuminated such a shambles that even though she’d been warned Bryony was shocked. It looked as if there’d been a boxing match held in the midst of the elegant rooms. Furniture was upended, the bed was torn apart, feathers floated in the air, presumably from a pillow having been ripped apart. She could see the glitter of broken glass on the floor, smashed perfume bottles, no doubt, and one of the curtains was ripped halfway off the curtain rod. She stared around her in dismay. How could all this destruction have occurred without anyone hearing anything? Surely Kilmartyn, being only one story above, would have been disturbed by some of the clamor? Though perhaps it had happened before he returned home last night.
It would take the girls several days to bring this place back into order, but in the meantime she could get a start on things. Anything to keep her mind occupied until she could sneak away and search through that ledger with its ancient leather binding.
Of course Lady Kilmartyn’s rooms held nothing as useful as a broom. Bryony waded into the midst of it all, uncertain where to begin, when she looked at the bed. The counterpane was ripped and clawed by some sharp instrument, possibly a knife, but the sheet half on, half off the mattress looked to be in one piece, though she suspected that was the source of some of the rancid perfume. She yanked it off the bed, hearing the glass crunch beneath her shoes, and stretched it out on the floor. Another Irish linen, with a fine, tight weave, it would hold things admirably, and heaven knew if the stink of the perfume could ever be removed. It was probably beyond salvage.
She tossed broken bits of perfume bottles, shards of mirrors, smashed bits of furniture into the center of the sheet, catching up stained, discarded dresses, torn books, all manner of detritus. The dressing table was littered with spilled powder and hairpins, and she dusted it off, setting the pieces of broken jewelry on the marble surface. She had no idea whether Lady Kilmartyn had a similar destructive policy toward her jewelry as well as her clothing, but there was no way a thrifty soul like Bryony Russell could countenance tossing out three links of a diamond-studded bracelet or a single emerald earring with a broken clasp. She worked steadily, moving around the room in a counterclockwise motion. When the sheet was filled she tied the corners together and dragged it out into the hall, then went back in and ripped down the torn curtain, starting a new pile in the center of it. Dust motes danced in the air, and Bryony had the suspicion that these rooms hadn’t had a thorough cleaning in a shockingly long time, given the amount of dust she was unsettling. Her ladyship wouldn’t recognize the place when she finally returned, a fact that should have filled Bryony with trepidation. Lady Kilmartyn wasn’t the type to view any major change to her comfort with equanimity, and she’d take any excuse she could find to dismiss Bryony.
However, there was the very real possibility that Bryony would be long gone before Kilmartyn’s wife returned, and she would never have to see the wretched woman again.
Her back was beginni
ng to ache and her enthusiasm for hard work flag when she finally reached the corner under the far window that overlooked the small formal garden between the house and the mews. At first she thought the dark patch on the floor was simply a shadow. Moving between the window and the patch made no change in its irregular shape, and on impulse she leaned down and touched it. Her fingers came away wet, sticky, and she yanked her hand back, rubbing it against her now-filthy white apron, leaving streaks behind. The maids were going to have to give the entire room a solid scrubbing, and whatever had spilled onto the floor had spread into the Aubusson carpet, probably ruining it.
She brought her fingers to her nose, sniffing at it, and the smell was oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place it. There was a metallic tang to it, almost like that of copper, but she could think of nothing that would fit that description.
Yanking off her apron, she dropped to her knees beside the puddled stain and began trying to soak it up. In moments the grubby cotton was soaked, and the stuff seemed to ooze out of the carpet. She rose and moved to the window to stare at the stain, holding it up to the light.
She let out horrified cry, dropping it to the floor as she fell back from the vile thing. In the clear light of day it could be one thing and one thing only. Blood.
The knock on the door shocked her, and she whirled around, just as Emma poked her head inside the room. “Do you want some help, Mrs. Greaves? Mrs. Harkins said things are a rare mess.”
Bryony had shoved her hands behind her back, acting on pure instinct, and she could only hope the shadows in the room hid what was likely her greenish pallor. “No need,” she managed to say in a relatively brisk tone. “I’ll finish up in here by myself.”
“Are you certain, Mrs. Greaves? Because I could—”