The cook eyed her doubtfully, and Bryony couldn’t blame her. She’d lied, and lies were hard to forgive. After a moment Mrs. Harkins gave a slight nod, not a full acceptance, but it was at least a crack in her armor. “Emma will be with you shortly. And his lordship will be back soon—he’s already been gone longer than he expected. I know he’ll want to see you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harkins,” she said meekly.
“And I’ll have her bring you tea, and some of those little cakes you like,” she said, unbending a little further. “You must be hungry, and a little solid food won’t do you any harm.” Mrs. Harkins looked at her for a long, considering moment, and then she nodded. “You’ll do,” she said obscurely.
She was gone before Bryony could ask her what she meant. She waited until the footsteps died away, and then, holding on to the window sill, she pulled herself to her feet, standing for a moment as she pulled her strength back in. She’d told Mrs. Harkins nothing but the truth—she healed quickly, and despite the pain in her arm and the emptiness in her stomach she felt almost normal.
And the panic in her heart. What were they asking him at Scotland Yard? What had he told them? She needed to go outside and see if those bloody clothes were gone, she needed to check the rooms and make certain everything looked normal.
It took her a ridiculously long amount of time to traverse the hall and make it up the narrow servants’ stairs. Her clothes were where she’d left them when she’d begun her ridiculous attempt at flight. What would have happened if she hadn’t turned back? Would she have been safe? Or was the man who shot her following her even back then? Would he have tried to shove her in front of a train? Was he responsible for her tumble in front of the carriage?
But Adrian had been there. He had made her say his name last night, over and over again, rewarding her in deliciously sinful ways each time she said it aloud. Adrian. He was always there, to rescue her, perhaps. Or to pretend he was doing so if there was an inconvenient witness. Was he a murderer, a liar? Was she a blind fool?
She brought the clothes down with her, trying to move a little faster. The last thing she wanted to do was depend on Emma for help. Emma, who’d been her friend as well. She could manage on her own.
She washed thoroughly, wishing she could manage a bath on her own. Her hair was a mess, and all she could do was try to wind the unruly mass in a coil at the base of her neck and pin it there, hoping it would stay. She was just finishing, buttoning the front buttons of the ugly dress, when the door to the large bathing room opened, and she looked up, relief and welcome overshadowing her doubt, expecting Adrian to walk in, to kiss her, to quiet her fears and doubts.
But it wasn’t Adrian. She looked up, into the charming, handsome face of Rufus Brown, Lady Kilmartyn’s cousin, and she quickly yanked her bodice together, outraged. “I beg your pardon, sir…” her stiff voice trailed off as she got a clear look at him.
He lounged against the door, a smile on his face, a small pistol held negligently in one hand. “Oh, don’t mind me, Miss Russell. You may continue getting dressed before we leave. Indeed, I do think you’d be better off with shoes, because I’m certainly not going to be heroic like Kilmartyn and sweep you into my arms. But then, I have different plans for you than Kilmartyn did.”
She slowly finished fastening the row of tiny buttons, trying to force her mind past the shock that left her frozen. Should she scream? Would the staff hear her in time, or would she be calling them to rush up and face a bullet?
“Did you shoot me?” she said finally, once her voice came back to her.
“I would think that would be a reasonable assumption since I’m now holding a gun on you. I’m usually a much better shot, but you were moving at such a determined pace it was hard to draw a bead on you. Most unladylike, I must say. You were practically running back to the arms of your lover.”
“He wasn’t my lover.”
“Not then, perhaps. But he is now. This house practically vibrates with sex.” He gestured with the gun. “Go ahead with the stockings and garters. I have to admit that lovely young women and their limbs hold no interest for me at the moment. I have more important things on my mind.”
Being missish was a waste of time when she was looking into the barrel of a gun. “I can’t put my stockings and shoes on with only one working hand,” she said flatly.
“Then barefoot it is. Get up.”
She hesitated. “Was I wrong then? You weren’t having an affair with your cousin?”
He laughed. “Cecily? That tedious tramp isn’t related to me, thank God. And yes, I fucked her. It was the only way to ensure her cooperation and get into the workings of the shipping company. And it kept her quiet long enough, but I really hate to perform on cue.”
“You killed her.”
He sighed dramatically. “Must we have a full recitation of my crimes while we’re sitting here? If you think Kilmartyn is going to return and rescue you if you stall long enough I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
She stared up at him, at his handsome, slightly impatient face, so normal, so charming, so deadly. “Who are you, really? What do you want?” There was no disguising the thread of fear in her usually strong voice.
“I’ll be more than happy to entertain you with the scope of my genius once we get to where we’re going. The only problem with this brilliant endeavor of mine is that there’s no one else to appreciate its complexity.”
“But you’ll tell me?”
“Of course, my dear. You’re going to die. What could be the harm?”
She’d thought that clawing in her stomach was hunger. It was fear, cold and stark. “And after you kill me?”
“Why, then, you’ll be dead.”
“And Kilmartyn?”
“Still worrying about your lover, are you? You shouldn’t. As I said, he’ll be in custody when you’re killed, providing him with a perfect alibi. You really should have stayed wherever you were, Miss Russell, and not gone poking into your father’s death. I had arranged everything so carefully, and then there you come, upsetting everything.”
Of course! Why hadn’t she realized it sooner? “You… arranged it?” she demanded in a raw voice. “You killed my father?”
“Not now, Miss Russell,” he said impatiently. “I’ll answer your questions when we get there. In the meantime, you’re throwing me off schedule.”
“Should I say I’m sorry?” She didn’t bother to hide her hatred or her bitterness.
“Indeed you should. Stand up, Miss Russell. I don’t want Kilmartyn to change his mind. Men can get foolishly sentimental once they’ve bedded someone, and I don’t want him thinking there’s any way he could have his cake and eat it too.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why, that’s he my confederate, my partner in crime. He killed his wife on my orders, and he was supposed to kill you, but instead he allowed a bit of lust to get in the way. I think it’ll be much easier on him if we’re simply gone if he happens to be released. You want that, don’t you?”
“I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. He couldn’t have lied to her, made love just days after slaughtering his wife.
“Women are such fools—they’ll believe anything a man tells them. It would have been far better for you if you’d simply gotten on that train—yes, I was watching you then. I could have taken care of this business neatly and quickly, but instead you go running back to him. I imagine he finds it almost as tiresome as I do, though he did have the advantage of your pussy. Which must be quite remarkable, to keep him so enchanted. I never could understand why men got so entranced with feminine parts—there must be some magic spell on yours.”
She hid her expression. What the hell was he talking about? Magic body parts? At least it settled the question of whether she’d foolishly returned to face her own demise. He had been ready to kill her on the train. Coming back hadn’t made any difference.
“Why don’t we wait until Kilmartyn returns?” she said in a r
easonable voice. “If he’s your confederate then he should have some say in the matter.” Was it possible that she’d be wrong, that her blind faith had, in fact, been blind? Could Adrian look at her and sentence her to death? Would he be the one to kill her?
“You surely don’t think I’d listen to what he has to say? To be more accurate, he’s not my partner in crime, he’s my minion, and he’ll do what I say. There’s too much money involved for him to be sentimental.”
A spark of hope suddenly appeared in the bleak, empty landscape of the future. Adrian was nobody’s minion, especially not this smiling, prancing lunatic. She tried to think of something, anything to distract him, slow him down. Scotland Yard couldn’t keep a peer of the realm, even a lowly Irish one, without just cause, and he would come straight back to her, she knew he would.
Wouldn’t he?
“Time to go, Miss Russell,” Rufus Brown said cheerfully.
“And if I refuse?”
He moved with such grace she didn’t realize what was coming until he slammed the gun against her wounded arm, slapping a hand across her mouth to muffle her scream of pain.
Everything went black for a moment, and she was afraid she was going to vomit from the pain. His hand was smothering her, but she stayed very still, and after a moment he stepped back. “I trust you understand me,” he said in his light, charming voice.
“Absolutely,” she said grimly, trying to catch her breath.
“Then get up.”
“Give me a minute.”
“Get up.”
She rose. She’d overestimated her strength, or maybe it was simply the aftereffect of the blow against her recent wound. It was bleeding again—she could feel the blood beginning to run down her arm, and she let it drop, painful as it was. If she could leave a trail of blood Adrian would come after her. He would save her.
Or he would kill her.
She swayed slightly, then stiffened her back. “May I ask where we’re going?”
“Certainly, my dear. You’re going home.”
“To Renwick?” she said, astonished.
She didn’t even see the blow coming, his hand holding the gun, slamming it across her face, knocking her against the wall, and it was sheer force of will that kept her standing. That, and the small chair she clung to. Pretty Mr. Brown was ugly now, red and blotched with rage, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Renwick isn’t yours. It’s never been yours, your father stole it!”
He was mad, she reminded herself dazedly. He was making no sense at all. “What does Renwick have to do with anything?”
His laugh was just slightly off. “That proves what a fool you are. Renwick is everything. That’s what this is all about.”
He was making no sense, and she didn’t want to give him another excuse to hit her. She wasn’t quite certain how much more she could stand. “Then where are you taking me?” she asked in what she hoped was a soothing voice.
He calmed himself, and while his smile was strained, it was an attempt at his usual insouciance. “To Curzon Street. To the burned-out ruin of your old house.”
“But… but there’s nothing there,” she protested.
“Oh, that’s not true. Lady Kilmartyn and her obstructive maid are there. And that’s where I intend to leave you. It’s an excellent spot, and eventually it will be demolished and be covered over completely. Maybe a hundred years from now someone will find your bones and little scraps of your clothing and wonder who you were, but that’s the best you can hope for.”
She would vomit, she absolutely would. “And Kilmartyn? What happens to him?”
“I told you, he’s my confederate. He gets to live out his life mourning his missing wife, who will be seen in Paris and Vienna once I make the proper arrangements, and he’ll enjoy his share of your father’s money. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You want the man you love to be happy.”
She looked at him, calmly, steadily. “I’ll see you in hell.”
“Ah, but you’ll be there first, my dear. Move.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THEY WEREN’T GOING to let him go. Kilmartyn paced the luxurious office he’d been shepherded to, a nod to his title and position, but there was a guard outside and no easy escape in sight. Every now and then another of Scotland Yard’s detectives came in to talk to him, to ask him the same damned questions, but as far as he could tell they had not one new scrap of evidence. Someone was feeding them accusations, but there didn’t seem to be a thing to back them up.
It was growing later—if he could judge by the color of the sky it was getting close to early evening, which meant he’d been gone for at least six hours. Six hours in this stuffy office, being offered tea and biscuits, with the most deferential of inquiries, but no one was letting him out. Which meant Bryony was home alone.
There was nothing to worry about. The servants were there—Collins was so awash with guilt he would protect her with his own life, and he could count on Mrs. Harkins to scare off any but the most hardened villain. But whoever he was, he’d killed two women and had tried to kill a third, which didn’t argue for a gentle soul.
And he hadn’t the faintest idea who could be behind it all.
When Russell had first come to him, accusing him of falsifying shipments and tampering with the books the only thing that had kept him from decking the blustering old man was his age. The trail of larceny apparently led straight to his door, and he was never sure whether he’d convinced Russell of his innocence or not.
The hell with it. It was Russell’s problem, not his, and he was damned if he was going to be accused like a common thief. He’d thought differently when Russell turned up dead two days later, supposedly on the run with his ill-gotten gains. Kilmartyn could have believed it, if those ill-gotten gains hadn’t managed to disappear along the way. The whole thing was too convenient.
He’d been an idiot. It had taken him long enough to guess who his little in-house spy actually was, when he should have known right off. Should have offered to help her, not gotten her shot and then seduced her. She’d be safe in his house; she had to be.
He didn’t know if he could wait much longer. Uniformed officers had been coming in and out at regular intervals, asking him if he wanted anything, polite and unhelpful, and by the time the shadows were growing longer he started watching them a bit more closely, waiting till someone his approximate size and build appeared. It was a long wait. He was taller than average, and while he was built along spare lines he had a fair amount of muscle. He couldn’t just grab any spindleshanks who happened to walk in.
By the time a suitable offering arrived he’d been ready to throw a chair through the window just to get out of there. The uniformed officer backed in, kicking the door shut, carrying another inevitable tray of tea and biscuits. Kilmartyn had to piss like a racehorse. If he ever got out of here he was never touching a drop of tea again.
“Sorry for the delay, your lordship,” his sacrificial offering said in a genial cockney accent as he set the tray on the desk, conveniently turning his back on Kilmartyn. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. Detective Inspector Pierson is conferring with his superiors, and he—”
The police officer dropped like a stone beneath Kilmartyn’s blow. He moved fast, dragging him out of sight of the window and stripping off his jacket and trousers. He didn’t dare waste the time in re-dressing him—it wouldn’t do any good, and he needed to get home. They would come after him again, and they’d view this as another sign of guilt, and he didn’t give a rat’s arse. He needed to get home.
The hat was a little large, but he tilted it on the back of his head, and backed out of the door while carrying on an imaginary conversation with the trussed-up man in the faded red combinations.
“You just enjoy your tea, yer lordship,” he said, using a strong cockney accent. “They’ll come ter get you before long.” And keeping his head down, he walked straight out of the main office at Scotland Yard, with no one giving him a second glance.
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It was growing dark, and a storm was brewing. Bryony surveyed the darkening sky, felt the wind pull at her loosely coiled hair, tugging at it. She was walking barefoot through the streets of London, arm in arm with the man who was going to kill her. She could feel the muzzle of the little gun against her ribs, and she had no doubt he’d do just as he promised and shoot her in full view of the public. He had every certainty that he could simply run away before anyone realized what had happened, and whether he could or not didn’t matter. What mattered was his belief in his invincibility.
The house on Curzon Street looked even more derelict than it had the one time she’d driven by it. The houses on either side had suffered significant damage, and they were abandoned as well—there was no chance of anyone hearing her if she had a chance to scream for help.
She could only hope her Hansel and Gretel–like trail of blood might lead Adrian to them. The blood dripping down her arm had stopped, but there’d been a broken jar at the side of the road, and she’d deliberately stepped on it with her bare foot, not changing her expression as she felt it slice into her. It was her only chance. Unless, of course, Brown wasn’t lying, and Adrian was part and parcel of the whole thing.
“Hurry up, dear,” Mr. Brown said in fond accents. “I do believe we’re due for a storm.”
She sped up, forcing herself to walk normally despite the bloody footprints she was leaving. She didn’t want anything to call her kidnapper’s attention to them—he’d drag her onto the grass to hide any bloody trail.
It was already too late. He was pulling her down the narrow passageway between houses, and the smell of burned wood and damp assailed her nostrils. People had died in this fire. Three servants in their household, and a child in one of the adjoining households. This man had already killed many times over. Nothing would keep him from doing it again.
“Don’t you have a conscience?” she said in a lower, bitter voice.