Never Kiss a Rake (Scandal at the House of Russell 1)

She really was the most annoying woman. Just when he thought everything was settled she rose from her seat, gathered her parcels, and Rufus was ready to strangle, stab, and shoot her immediately. He wanted to be in his club, reading a freshly ironed newspaper and drinking a cup of tea. Instead he’d spent the day in parts of London he never wanted to see again, hiding behind stalls of smelly fish as he stalked the blasted woman.

While he had a personal abhorrence for physical imperfections, he had to admit that the plain housekeeper was far prettier than he had supposed the first time he saw her. When she smiled her entire face lit up, and she definitely had very fine eyes. Too bad the scarring marred her so dreadfully. In truth, he’d be doing her a favor. It must be painful to be imperfect.

She seemed to have no idea she was being followed, lost in her own thoughts. He hadn’t thought this particular move out, trusting that he’d know what to do when the spirit moved him, and indeed, the gods answered his request.

The streets of London in this thirty-second year of Queen Victoria’s reign had undergone a transformation. All sorts of new areas were being reclaimed from the squalid human rats who had lived there, and Mayfair was no longer the only place to live.

“The useful thing about that, Rufus,” he muttered beneath his breath, “is that the rats still border the better areas. And she’ll have to come close to one to get home.”

He’d wait till then. But he was getting more and more irritated with the entire situation. So irritated, in fact, that when the tall, spare figure of Mrs. Greaves crossed a dark group of streets on her way to Grosvenor Square he looked around him, saw no one, pulled out the gun, and shot her.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BRYONY FELT SOMETHING LIKE a bee rush past her and slam into the wall. Very odd—it was too early for bees, and whatever creature it was it had flown alarmingly fast. She moved to the wall to examine the hole. It looked as if some kind of pellet were lodged there. She shrugged, turning around, when she felt something knock against her arm.

But there was no one there. For a moment she had the strange, fanciful feeling that the ghost of her father was throwing rocks at her, trying to get her attention. More likely a neighborhood boy playing pranks, but this wasn’t the best bit of street to be walking through, and she sped up, moving into the brighter lights of the street up ahead. Her arm was curiously numb, and for some reason she was feeling a bit light-headed. Thank goodness she was at the edge of Berkeley Square, and the house loomed up in the gathering darkness, looking oddly welcoming. She shouldn’t be going back, of course. The place was starting to feel like home—a natural enough reaction when she was taking care of it. But those were dangerous thoughts.

She paused a moment to catch her breath, leaning against a lamppost. Her arm was beginning to hurt quite dreadfully, and she needed to get home and put a cool compress on it. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again she saw dark spots dancing in front of her.

For some odd reason she didn’t know if she could make it that far. She’d had a decent tea, there was no reason for her to feel dizzy, but when she pushed away from the lamppost she swayed before she managed to take a step. One at a time, she thought dazedly, but why did her arm feel numb?

She felt someone coming up behind her, moving fast, and a trickle of unease ran down her spine. Had someone actually hurt her while she’d walked by that dark alley? Were they coming after her to finish the job?

But that was ridiculous, theatrical, she must simply have a cramp in her arm, she’d done too much…

She couldn’t do much more. This time there was no lamppost to hold on to for support, and she swayed, afraid she was going to fall to the sidewalk when he came up behind her, catching her, holding her while she looked up at him through blurry eyes. It was the devil himself, Kilmartyn, and he looked furious, terrifying. Had he been the one? Had she doomed herself by going home? Was he going to finish what he started?

There was only one thing to do. “Oh, bugger,” she said weakly, letting the darkness close in.

Kilmartyn felt her body go limp, and he hauled her up into his arms. Bystanders had been watching her erratic pace surreptitiously, doing not one damned thing about it, but now that he’d finally managed to reach her they were all solicitude. He was well known in the square, and even if they disapproved of him they knew the kind of power a man of his wealth could wield. It was all he could do to answer them civilly as he strode the rest of the way to his house, taking the front steps two at a time. She was too light, he thought. She needed to eat more.

Collins was already on the front portico, reaching for her, a horrified expression on his face, but Kilmartyn had no plans to give her up. “Get the doctor,” he said roughly, starting up the stairs.

It wasn’t until he reached the first floor that he realized he had no idea where to put her. Without thinking he bounded up the flights to the third floor, but his damned rooms were still in disarray; the room he’d chosen near the servants stairs was too small.

After three tries he found a bedroom that hadn’t been affected by the renovations, and he kicked it open. He’d expected cobwebs and dust, but the estimable Mrs. Greaves had made her mark, and the room was spotless in the waning daylight. He set her down carefully on the bed and pulled off her hat, tossing it to the floor. Her face was paler than usual, with an almost bluish tinge. He reached to unfasten the cape-like thing she wore, and then he looked at his hands.

His gloves were stained red with blood, and he swore, ripping them off. Too much blood. By that time the cook had appeared, accompanied by the three maids, Mr. Collins, and the boy… what was his name? Jem? The women looked worried. The men looked… guilty? No, that made no sense.

“What’s happened, my lord?” the cook demanded in not very subservient tones. “How did she take ill?”

“She’s been hurt,” he said roughly, beginning to unfasten the buttons of her dress when Mrs. Harkins, that was her name, skillfully and effectively moved her sturdy form between his housekeeper and him. “We’ll get her undressed, my lord,” she said in a firm tone. “It wouldn’t do for you to be present until we got her fixed proper-like.”

All he could think of was preparing a corpse for burial. All proper-like, cold, and bluish like his mother had been, and he wanted to hit someone, to scream, to beat against the walls.

“You should leave, sir,” Collins said quietly. “Come with me and I’ll get you a brandy.”

Damn, and he needed one. His stained hands were shaking, by God, and she looked as if she were going to die. “I’ll wait in the hall,” he said tersely. “And I’ll take some tea.” At least that wouldn’t dull his reaction time. He had to make certain she would be all right. He had to.

“Tea, sir?” Collins looked surprised. He was looking almost as shaken as Kilmartyn felt, and for a moment a primitive, jealous streak washed through him. Had Collins been courting her? Because if he had, he was going out of the house tonight.

On what pretext? he reminded himself. But then, an earl didn’t need a pretext, now did he?

He was about to go searching for someplace to sit when one of the footmen appeared, carrying a heavy club chair as if it weighed as much as a loaf of bread. He set it quietly outside the door, then greeted Kilmartyn with a bow. “Is there anything more I can get your lordship? Would you like me to bring you some wine?”

Why the hell was everyone trying to push liquor on him? Probably because that was his usual response to everything. He managed a civil tone. “No, thank you. Collins is bringing me some tea.”

He sat. He waited. He drummed his bloody fingers on the arm of the chair. The new footman appeared again, without the doctor but with a bowl of water and a towel, offering it to him.