“We have an appointme
nt, Miss Greaves. You share my dinner, and we trade obscure curses. I’d be hard-pressed to find anything that could possibly compare. On a purely intellectual level, that is.”
“Bugger,” said Bryony, and walked away from him down the street.
She could feel his eyes follow her all the way to the house.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RUFUS DIDN’T ENJOY MAKING MISTAKES. In truth, it put him in a perfectly foul mood, and once he’d decided to finish the interfering Mrs. Greaves he wanted it done with. It had been simple enough to brush past her at just the right moment, to give her a shove that should have sent her flailing beneath the murderous hooves of one of those reckless carriage drivers. He hadn’t realized that he wasn’t the only one following her.
It was careless of him, when he was usually the most precise of men. He hadn’t even noticed Kilmartyn behind him, close to him, moving in to whisk her out of harm’s way.
It could have been quite disastrous, if the streets weren’t so busy, if Kilmartyn had recognized him and started to become suspicious. He was a very clever man, Kilmartyn was, though it pained Rufus to admit it. Not nearly as smart as Rufus himself, but then, who was? Fortunately Kilmartyn had only the faintest idea who he was, and had no hint that Rufus was one of many who enjoyed the countess’s favors.
However, it didn’t do to underestimate his opponents. The housekeeper was negligible—she simply had the misfortune to see his face, and for that she was doomed. And she’d be easy to deal with, as long as he made sure no knights in tarnished armor like Kilmartyn were there to rescue her and then take her away with him.
He didn’t bother to follow—he could tell by the way they looked at each other, the way Kilmartyn kept hold of her that there was something between the two. They weren’t lovers yet—he could recognize the difference in the way people moved with each other, the hidden touches, the looks. No, these two were antagonists of the best sort, wanting to rip each other’s clothes off and hating each other at the same time.
It would keep the two of them completely occupied for a good while. Once Kilmartyn had shagged her he’d lose interest, but as long as the hunt was on he’d be fully distracted.
Rufus wondered whether he ought to head back to Berkeley Square and inform the delightful Cecily of what he’d observed. She would explode with rage, and he rather liked her when she exploded. But no, he had other things to do, things to arrange, and he needed to be careful. That information could wait.
He would walk to his rooms, change, and go out to dinner as if he hadn’t a care in the world. And in truth, he didn’t. All would fall into place as it was supposed to. He could take his time, stroll by the burned-out shell of a house on Curzon Street, and remind himself of all that he had wrought. This was only a minor setback, one he was sure would be taken care of in time. He would get rid of the too-observant Mrs. Greaves, as well as clinging, venal Cecily. He could do the rest on his own.
Kilmartyn didn’t end up returning for dinner that night, for which Bryony could only be grateful, she assured herself. The new staff were settling in. Mr. Collins was proving invaluable in overseeing them, and Mrs. Harkins’s culinary genius was beginning to approach French levels. Normally staff ate early, before the quality, but given how little the masters of the household enjoyed Mrs. Harkins’s food, Bryony came up with the notion that the staff should have a substantial tea and then supper later on. That way they could enjoy at least a taste of the fruits of Mrs. Harkins’s labor, and the cook wouldn’t be cast into the slough of despair.
As the day wore on spirits grew lighter, and there was laughter at the table as the staff devoured coq au vin, fresh Dover sole, and the most delicate trifle imaginable. And then, eventually, Bryony was alone, the house shut down for the night, though Bertie would doze by the front door in case his lordship decided to return. According to Bertie on nights like these his lordship usually ended up spending the night in the arms of a courtesan, one of several who enjoyed his favors.
Her father had never kept a mistress, even after her mother’s death. But then, her father had been too obsessed with making money to be distracted by carnality, and thank God for that. She truly didn’t want to even consider her father having those kinds of needs.
Of course there was always the off-chance Kilmartyn might return in the middle of the night. If he had a late-night card game, or if he preferred not to spend the night in a bed of pleasure but only a few hours then he might come back to torment her.
Perhaps he’d leave her alone, once his… his beastly cravings were satisfied. Her main source of knowledge on such things came from her sisters, and she suspected their information was somewhat incomplete, given that they’d received it from their school friends. But it only made sense that if one… itched, then one would be more likely to torment the people around one. Once scratched, peace of mind should settle down, and the Earl of Kilmartyn would no longer seek to torment her. He wouldn’t look at her with those unfathomable dark green eyes, as green as a forest after rain. She’d be invisible to him, as all good servants should be.
She could only hope so, she told herself, sitting at the desk in her little office by the deserted kitchen, going over her accounts. Mr. Peach had arrived promptly, measurements taken, orders prepared. He didn’t say a word about the extra fabric Kilmartyn had decreed, and she kept silent as well. No doubt Mr. Peach understood how uneven an aristocrat’s attention might be. He would forget all about his absurd suggestion. Particularly after having spent the night in the arms of a courtesan.
And why did she keep thinking about that? It was none of her business, except as it affected the running of the household, and Bertie was used to sleeping in a chair in the front foyer. So why did the very thought of Kilmartyn’s elegant hands, sliding over smooth, bare skin, make her edgy and anxious and ready to explode?
She shook her head, disgusted with herself. She knew the disastrous truth, and she had never been one to avoid such things. She’d developed a… weakness for him, after a mere three days in his presence. Not exactly a tendre—he was much too complicated a man to inspire such a sweet emotion. It was more like a schoolgirl crush, though she was as far removed from the schoolroom as she could be. There was nothing to be ashamed of. He was a very beautiful man—that mane of hair, the high cheekbones and smiling mouth, and dark, dark green eyes. And she liked his height, the way she felt walking beside him, glancing up at him, feeling both threatened and protected at the same time.
He was the first man she’d ever been close enough to flirt with. At least, that appeared to be what he was trying to do, though she was giving him no encouragement. She would have felt the same for that man she’d come across in the upstairs hallway—Mr. Brown? She would have felt that way for Bertie, a well-set-up young man, or the muscular butcher, or any of her father’s business acquaintances and cronies she’d seen from a distance over the years.
It was simply her misfortune to have been thrown together with one of God’s own creatures. He looked like a fallen angel, all raffish charm and seraphic good looks. And she was understandably vulnerable.
Not that he was going to know it. He might suspect, but in no way was she going to give any hint that she found him to be other than an employer, an aristocrat so far above her touch that they may as well be separate species.
And she’d tell him that, if she ever got the chance. Not that she would—he was a master of innuendo, not of plain talk, and it was so desperately hard to fight innuendo.
But if he’d spent a night making love that should improve the situation. When he eventually returned he’d be in better spirits, and when he looked at her he’d see a scarred, plain housekeeper and nothing more. To quote her beloved Shakespeare, “it was a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
Of course it was.
Searching the study was out of the question tonight—it was too near the front hall and Bertie. She could try the bedroom again—he’d interrupted her before she could finish, and she was desperate to f
ind what the slim volume beneath his mattress held. Proof of a conspiracy of theft and murder? Or something harmless? She could risk it. If Kilmartyn returned home and saw a light up there he might reasonably assume it was Collins, not his errant housekeeper.
Though his last words earlier in the day had been disturbing. Why had he suggested she was playing a role, and needed to be believable? Was he simply trying to find ways to disturb her? He might suspect she was a gentlewoman down on her luck—there was no crime in that. In fact, perhaps she should embellish a bit of history to Mr. Collins in hopes that he’d pass it on. She could be the impoverished third daughter of a baronet or something, forced to earn her own way after her father’s untimely death. Or the widow of a missionary who’d been cast off by her well-to-do family for the mésalliance. Anything would do, as long as he believed it and it quieted his suspicions.