“Certainly, Mr. Lawson,” she agreed. He was a kindly man, slightly patronizing, but with a good heart.
“Just today the perfect man to serve as valet to his lordship arrived on our doorstep like a gift from heaven. I do think you should consider him.”
“It would be extremely shortsighted to ignore a gift from heaven, Mr. Lawson,” Bryony said, reaching for her cup of tea. “Tell me about him.”
The Earl of Kilmartyn never liked coming home. He always rose early, no matter how much he’d imbibed the night before, and he was out of the house before his loving wife could arise. He’d spent the early morning at the stables, watching the horses being put through their paces in light of the upcoming derby. Then his club provided a quiet place to read the paper and pick at the excellent food offered, and in the afternoon he played cards at Ridgely, the latest in a line of popular houses that offered both gambling and available women. He ignored the women, left the table nine hundred pounds to the good, and decided to walk home. The longer it took him the better—he had a great deal to think about. His brand-new live-in spy wouldn’t have time to be a problem—the house was in too much disarray. He could always go out, but he wasn’t in the mood for loud voices and bright lights; he wasn’t interested in willing women and inventive sex. He was in the mood to play games.
He climbed the front steps, two at a time, and was astonished to see it open before he had to apply his cane. Mrs. Greaves had already improved things.
A strange man stood there, dressed in the sober black of an upper servant, his head lowered as he ushered Adrian in. “Your lordship,” the man said smoothly, and automatically Adrian handed him his gloves and hat. “I hope you had a most pleasant day.”
“And just who the hell are you?” Kilmartyn demanded irritably. He never liked surprises—they were usually unpleasant.
The man reacted with perfect calm. “I am Smyth, my lord. Your new factotum.”
Kilmartyn raised an eyebrow. “And what is a factotum, may I ask?”
“It is Mrs. Greaves’s term. I am here to oversee the male servants, act as butler and majordomo, sommelier, dogsbody, and, I’m afraid, your valet. Mrs. Greaves thought you might not object too strongly.”
Kilmartyn looked at him. “I distinctly told Mrs. Greaves I do not want a valet.”
“And indeed, sir, I understand that most thoroughly. Don’t think of me as a valet, think of me as… as an assistant. I have already put your clothes in decent order, and I’ve arranged things to be just a bit more useful. I hope I’ve done so to your satisfaction.” His voice was the flat, expressionless tone of a good servant, his eyes were lowered, but something was different about Mr. Smyth, and Kilmartyn couldn’t pinpoint it. Jesus, had she brought another spy in?
“We’ll see,” he grumbled. “I won’t want you hovering around, scrubbing my back while I’m in the tub or watching me put my underwear on.”
“Indeed not, sir. I am here to make your life more comfortable, not more difficult.”
Kilmartyn heard it then, just the faintest echo in the man’s voice. He had a good ear, though, and could pick an accent from a handful of words. “You’re Irish. County Sligo,” he said suddenly. “And your name’s not Smyth.”
That broke through the automaton’s demeanor. His head jerked up, looking at Kilmartyn in surprise. “Collins, my lord. From Ballymote.”
“And was it my housekeeper’s suggestion that you change your name?”
“No, my lord.”
The man wasn’t about to offer more unless Kilmartyn prodded him. He prodded. “Then explain why you don’t use your own name like an honest man.”
“I am an honest man!” he said, a trifle too sharply for a servant. “My lord,” he added a moment later. “The great households of London have no particular fondness for Irish servants. I’m more likely to get work if I’m assumed to be English.”
Kilmartyn’s laugh was without amusement. “While you’re with us you’ll be Collins,” he said. “Not that I expect you to be here long. My wife has a habit of driving servants away.”
“My lord, if may speak frankly, I need this job. It will take a great deal to drive me off.”
Kilmartyn tilted his head to survey him, just as his new housekeeper bustled into the entrance hall. She looked ruffled, her hair escaping those braids again, her pale cheeks flushed. In fact, she looked delectable, proving to Kilmartyn that perhaps the games he had in mind might be a bit too dangerous. For both of them.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said hastily, her proper accent slipping out. “I meant to introduce you to Mr. Smyth.”
“Collins,” Kilmartyn corrected. “We use our real names in this household.” He wanted to laugh at the notion. He doubted his housekeeper was using the name she was born with.
“Yes, well, Collins, then. I know you said you didn’t wish to hire a valet, but Mr. Collins seemed too well qualified on every level, and I required help. You did say I was free to hire whatever staff I deemed necessary.”
“And I did say no valet.”
“You may use Mr. Collins as much or as little as you require, my lord,” she said smoothly, so smoothly he knew that Collins’s real name had come as no surprise. In fact, he had little doubt the devious creature had hired him deliberately, knowing that a second-rate Irish lord would find a second-rate Irish servant more palatable. He had the pleasant suspicion that Mrs. Greaves was going to prove a formidable opponent.
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.