Was it feminine nature, to claim wherever one lived as home? Was it normal to cleave to the new household, dismissing the old? Or was there something else about this place that drew her? Not just the mysteries, the questions, the unproven hints of violence. Why did this suddenly feel as if this was where she belonged?
She knew the answer, of course. Knew it, and refused to think about or dissect it. Adrian Bruton, fourth Earl of Kilmartyn, degenerate, sensualist, rake, and reprobate, had as powerful an attraction for her as the wicked drawings beneath her bed. No matter what crimes she thought him capable of, she was still drawn to him in a way no Christian woman ought to be. And as she let sleep claim her, her drifting mind saw herself on her knees in front of him, the taste and size of him in her mouth, the delight on her face with her half-closed eyes.
It had been a hell of a day, Adrian thought as he stumbled through the darkened hallways of his town house. There was no one waiting up for him this time—little wonder, since his footman had been sound asleep when he’d come in the night before.
Of course, that hadn’t been an accident. Bertie wasn’t the brightest of lads but he was usually reliable. He expected someone had drugged the boy.
He hadn’t even thought more about it, heading up to bed until he’d woken up with the delightful surprise of Bryony rummaging underneath his mattress. Hadn’t thought of anything at all until he’d been sitting at his desk, thinking of his housekeeper, Russell’s daughter, and he’d finally decided he’d had enough of his blackmailing harridan of a wife.
If he was going to be tried for treason so be it. He’d be gone before they put him in the dock—he had enough money to disappear. He had little reason to trust the British government, and he’d done his best to find peaceful ways to change the current iron control of Ireland since the debacle of the first Fenian Outrage. If he had to leave he would, and never look back.
But he was damned if he was going to spend one more day married to a woman who paraded her lovers in front of him and toyed with him when she grew bored. Those damnably few moments with the sweetly delectable Bryony in his bed had done something to him. Changed him in some immutable way.
He hadn’t thought the world could get much darker, but it had. It was pure luck that he’d found the blood-soaked clothes, his clothes, before his unwanted but acceptable valet did. He had little doubt that violence had been done in his house, and that his despised wife was dead. And someone was trying to make certain he was the one who’d be blamed for it.
He’d had no idea he had such a powerful enemy. Or maybe it was simply Cecily who had enemies, and whoever had killed her needed a scapegoat.
He should feel grief. Feel something. But instead he simply felt dazed, empty of everything, even relief. The only thing he could concentrate on was trying to figure out who was his enemy? Who would want Cecily dead? Who would want him dead as well, because surely he’d hang for it if they convicted him. Being a lord would do nothing to help him.
He was nobody’s scapegoat. The clothes were hidden at the back of his cupboard, where even the inquisitive Collins wouldn’t find them, and he’d deal with them later.
Cecily’s rooms, at first glance, had looked normal, despite the stench of spilled perfume. And then he recognized the coppery tang of spilled blood beneath the thick, flowery scent, and on closer inspection he’d seen signs of a struggle. Someone had cleaned up after whatever violence had been done to her, though he couldn’t imagine whom.
Yes, he could. Bryony could have done it, though he wasn’t certain why she’d bother. If she’d called the police it wouldn’t take long before she’d be exposed, but if she truly believed he was responsible for her father’s death he would have thought that would be exactly what she wanted.
And yet everything had been wiped clean. He was half-tempted to find his way back into those rooms, see if he could discover any sign left behind of what had happened, but something stopped him. If he was going anywhere he was going up to the servants’ quarters to see what the proper Miss Russell thought of his erotic engravings, and he couldn’t do that. Not given who she was. She was now officially off-limits.
Or was she? She’d destroyed her reputation by moving into his household. If word got out she’d never marry, never be able to hold her head up. But she’d said she had no intention of marrying, and she’d never been in society before—she would hardly start now, after her father’s disgrace. So who would know or care if he partook of such a tempting morsel?
She’d know. Bryony, for all her stern behavior, had a fragile heart beneath everything. She’d deny it as strongly as she’d deny who she was, but he knew women. He could scarcely seduce and then discard her like a demimondaine.
And he’d know. He didn’t have much of a conscience left, but what remained seemed to belong to Bryony.
He reached his temporary bedroom in the darkness, not bothering with the gaslight or even a candle. Collins was nowhere around, thank God. He stripped off his cravat and coat, undid his waistcoat and dropped it on the floor. He was bone-tired, and he didn’t want to think about blood or death or sex or anything pleasant or unpleasant. He just wanted to sleep.
He heard the footsteps, and cursed his damnably acute hearing. Someone was descending the servants’ stairs, too near his room, and he recognized the sound. Bryony Russell was heading downstairs, and there was the excellent chance he’d catch her just as she was rummaging through his desk.
That would be more than interesting. With a sigh he rose from his bed and moved into the darkened hallway.
The crash had woken her up. At least, she thought it was a crash—in the suddenness of her nighttime awakening she couldn’t be sure it was anything more than a bad dream. She heard it again, a muffled noise, and she sat up, reaching for her wrapper. It hadn’t come from directly beneath the servants’ floor, which should rule out Kilmartyn trying to find his drunken way to his new bedroom.
She slipped from the covers, her bare feet silent on the plain wood floor. She ought to go wake up one of the men. She moved to the cupboard and reached for her apron, and then pulled her hand back. She didn’t have her keys, and the door between the attics that housed the male and female servants was stoutly locked. There was no way she could rouse any of the men.
She could see a light coming from the gap under her door, and she froze. Whoever was approaching was silent, ominously so, and for a moment she was tempted to try to shove the wardrobe in front of the door to keep out whatever monster lurked there. And then she stiffened her back. There was no way she was going to cower in her room, leaving the other women to the mercy of whoever was roaming the house. She pulled open the door before she could think better of it, and both she and Emma shrieked in unison.
“Hush!” Bryony said firmly, as if she hadn’t been equally loud. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Mrs. Greaves, we heard the most dreadful noise coming from downstairs, and we thought you ought to know about it.”
“I heard it,” she said dryly. “It was probably nothing, but I think we’d best investigate, don’t you?”
Emma’s pale face looked aghast. “Oh, no, missus! I’m right terrified. I can’t go down there.”
Bryony stifled a sigh of irritation. “There’s nothing to hurt you, Emma. It was most likely his lordship returning home.”
“Most likely,” Emma said with alacrity. “And if it’s anyone else they’re hardly likely to want to bother the servants, even if they could find the back staircase. I’ll just go and tell the other girls not to worry about it.” She had already started to back down the hallway, leaving Bryony alone and in the dark.
“Wait a moment,” she said. “At least give me your lamp. I intend to investigate.”
Emma offered no token protest, simply handing the lamp to Bryony. “You be careful, missus.”
I’d be a great deal more careful if I had someone to watch my back, my girl, Bryony thought, irritation almost managing to wipe out her nervousness. “There’s ab
solutely nothing to worry about,” she said in the voice that had always convinced her younger sisters she was afraid of nothing. “But in the meantime you lock your door and stay in your room until morning. I don’t want to be running into you in the dark again and frightening the life out of me.”
“Yes, miss.” Emma bobbed a curtsy, and before Bryony could think of another way to make her stay the girl had disappeared into the darkness, followed by the closing of the door and the scrape of a lock.
Idiot, Bryony chided herself. Emma was a servant; she was her mistress, or at least as close as you could get. She could have simply ordered the girl to go with her.
Except she understood very well why the girl was so nervous. And she had no intention of ordering anyone to do something that she herself wasn’t willing to do.
Squaring her shoulders, she shut the door to her room behind her before starting down the narrow hallway, resisting the strong impulse to follow Emma’s lead and dive back into the safety of her bed. Emma was right—the servants’ staircase was hidden behind a series of baize doors, and no casual visitor to the house would easily discover it. She would make her way carefully down into the basement kitchen and equip herself with one of Mrs. Harkins’s stout butcher knives. She was also possessed of a most impressive scream, one that could rouse the entire household and scare away all but the most determined villain. If things got really bad she could hurl the lamp at him, but since that might end up with the house going up in flames, just as their house on Curzon Street had, that would be only as a last resort.
She could be as silent as she could be loud, and she barely made a sound as she crept down the endless flights of stairs to the kitchen, stopping on each landing to listen for any telltale noise. The house was quiet once more, and she wondered whether that crashing noise had been next door, or out in the streets. After all, she slept with her windows ajar, no matter how chill the spring weather, and she could have easily heard the sound of dustbins crashing over, or an amorous catfight.
She paused on the second floor, about to move on, when she heard a muffled curse, and she froze, suddenly terrified. The curse came again, and she sank back against the wall in relief, recognizing Kilmartyn’s deep voice. He’d come home after all, and he was probably so drunk he didn’t realize he wasn’t on the third floor but the second. If she were truly a good Christian she would rescue him, lead him to his bedroom, and dump him on his bed as she had the first night she’d been here. And she was going to do no such thing.
If she had any sense at all she’d go right back upstairs and lock herself in her bedroom. But apparently she was both a heathen and a dullard, because she was going to continue down to the ground floor kitchen and find that butcher knife before she did another thing. Bad things had happened in this house, very bad things, and she wasn’t going to make the mistake of going about without some sort of protection.
The kitchen was still warm from the banked stove, and she set the lamp down on the big wooden table, looking around her. The night was still and quiet but her nerves were raw, and there was no way she was going to fall back asleep anytime soon. She reached a hand out to the stove, but it would take far too much time to start a fire hot enough to boil water for tea. Picking up the lamp, she headed into the butler’s pantry. The heavy silver tray lay where Mr. Collins had left it, the cut glass decanter and delicate, globe-shaped glasses waiting. She picked up the heavy tray and carried it back into the kitchen, leaving the lamp in the other room, a pool of light spreading into the room.
Drinking the master’s brandy was an offense punishable by instant dismissal and even a charge of stealing, but there were times when the rules simply didn’t matter. She sat down at the table, poured herself half a glass of the amber-colored liquid and tossed it back as she’d seen her father do with whiskey.
She immediately began coughing and choking, her throat on fire as she struggled to regain her breath. Only to have it frightened out of her again, as a firm hand slapped her in the middle of her back.
“Now that’s a truly criminal way to treat my best cognac, Miss Greaves,” came Kilmartyn’s smooth, not at all drunken voice.
“Bugger,” said Bryony.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHE IMMEDIATELY TRIED TO rise, but he put his hand on her shoulder, holding her back down in the chair, and she decided to stay where she was, simply because she had no choice.
“That’s better,” he murmured as he sensed her acquiescence, and he moved around into the shadowy kitchen, pulling a chair out with one foot and dropping down into it with perfect ease.
She couldn’t read his expression in the shadows, and she sat there, flushed from her coughing fit, cursing her stupidity. The filtered light gave the ordinary room an intimate air. She was sitting there in her nightdress and shawl and bare feet; he was beside her in shirtsleeves, the buttons undone to leave an expanse of golden skin open. She’d touched that warm, sleek skin the first night she’d been here, when he’d been sleeping. She’d felt it press down on her the night before, crushing her breasts, and for some awful reason she felt those small, previously ignored breasts become almost unbearably sensitive against the soft fabric of her nightdress. And then she remembered the book, and she knew her face flamed. Fortunately the dark that hid his expression also shielded her own.
“Now what has brought my inestimable housekeeper down to the kitchen in the middle of the night in desperate search of my cognac?” he murmured. “Trouble sleeping again?”
He would bring that up, she thought, trying to summon indignation to fight the curling heat in her body. She used her best housekeeperly voice, but she was having a hard time getting the accent right. “I thought I heard a noise, and I came down to investigate it.”
“Alone? I don’t think that was a very wise idea.” His voice was light, but there was a hard note beneath it.
“The door is kept locked between the rooms that house the male and female servants, and I left the keys downstairs. In fact, I was coming down to get them so I could summon assistance.”
“And none of the female servants could at least accompany you?” Again that note of steel beneath his soft, charming voice.
If she told him Emma had refused he might very well fire the girl, even though he’d given her final say over the staff. She lied. “I didn’t want to frighten them. And besides, by the time I reached the second floor I heard your voice and realized you’d come home unexpectedly and there was nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry about? You flatter me, Miss Greaves.”
Again that twist in her stomach, an odd, clenching feeling that wasn’t particularly unpleasant, just disturbing. She needed to pull herself together, and fast. “I do apologize for taking some of your brandy, my lord, but as you know I have difficulty sleeping and I decided to continue on down to the kitchen to brew myself a soothing cup of tea. Unfortunately the stove wasn’t hot enough, and I gave in to temptation. I realize it was unpardonable, but—”
“Oh, I rather like the idea of you giving into temptation. And that isn’t brandy, it’s the finest French cognac. Haven’t you ever had any before?”
“A lady doesn’t drink hard spirits,” she said stiffly.
He simply smiled at her. “But you’re not a lady, my very dear Miss Greaves, you’re a housekeeper. Or had you forgotten?”
“Of course not, my lord,” she shot back, mentally cursing herself. She wasn’t going to give in to this strange lassitude that was spreading over her. She had a job to do and she would do it. “I was merely using the term ‘lady’ to apply to any properly brought-up female, whether she comes from the aristocracy or the serving class.”
“And you were a properly brought-up young female? Tell me about it.”
She watched, hypnotized, while he reached out for her brandy snifter and poured a scant inch of the fiery liquid into it, then poured the same into the other glass. She stared at his hands, beautiful hands, with long fingers. He had a heavy signet ring on one ha
nd, and it gleamed dully in the diffused lamplight, and for a moment she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
It took her a moment to remember she’d already worked this out, committed it to memory as well as her forged letters of recommendation. “My father was a shopkeeper, my lord. My mother had been in service before she married and I was their only child. After my parents died it seemed only natural that I follow in my mother’s footsteps.”
“I see,” he murmured, lifting the glass to the light to admire the color. “And you come from the north, do you not? Occasionally I hear a bit of Yorkshire in your voice.”
It should have been more than occasionally, but she accepted that. “Yes, my lord.”
“I told you to stop calling me ‘my lord.’” His tone was almost lazy.
“And what do you expect me to call you?” she replied with some asperity.
“Use your imagination. Pay attention, my sweet. I’m about to give you a lesson in the proper way to drink cognac.”
“I’m hardly likely to partake of it again.”
“Oh, you never know when you might be tempted to sneak down and pilfer the good stuff again,” he said lightly. “Of course I can always ask Collins to put it under lock and key from my tippling housekeeper, but that would be unkind. I’m more than willing to share.”
“I don’t—”
“Pick up the glass, Miss Greaves,” he said, and she did so.
“That’s right,” he continued in a softer, almost seductive tone. “Now, you cradle the globe in your hand, sliding your fingers around the stem of the glass. That way your body heat warms the liquid, just slightly, bringing it to the same temperature as your body.”