He could have caught up with him. Despite his generally indolent air he could be as fast as any street rat, something that would have shocked his titled friends. But he let him go. Time enough to deal with him later. He had Collins to deal with, Collins who would undoubtedly know more, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Bryony blinked rapidly, trying to clear her brain. It was one of those rainy, gloomy days that plagued London, and the light in the room was so murky she had no idea what time of day it was. She lay very still, trying to assess her surroundings.
Her head ached abominably. She tried to move, but for some reason she’d been tied down, and the pain that shot through her arm was almost as bad as her headache. That’s right, someone had shot her. Or so Kilmartyn had insisted.
Though she couldn’t quite remember when she’d seen him. Had he been there when she’d been brought back? And who had found her? Perhaps she’d made it as far as Berkeley Square, collapsing at the servants’ entrance in a dead faint. It was all a blur. But she could hear his caustic voice, telling her to lie still.
Had he been in the room last night? She turned her head automatically, and the pain slammed through it. They’d given her laudanum again to help the pain. She hated the stuff—it always made her ill the next day, dull and foggy, with a thundering pain in her head, and the only cure was fresh air. She tugged at her arm, letting out an unbidden cry of pain as it held.
She could see him in that chair, stretched out lazily. But that was ridiculous. Why in the world would he be in her room in the middle of the night? Well, there was one obvious reason, but with a gunshot wound she was hardly a good candidate for bed sport. Perhaps he thought that once she was tethered she wouldn’t be able to fight him off.
No, that wasn’t Kilmartyn. He would never resort to force—careful seduction was more his style. Had he been the one to shoot her? No. If he’d wanted her dead he’d had time enough to finish her, alone in the room with her. Instead he’d curled up around her, held her like she was a precious, delicate creature. Like she mattered to him.
Which was, of course, impossible. At the very best he was involved in his wife’s disappearance, and her own father hadn’t trusted him. At worst, he was a murderer twice over—his wife and her father. And why should he stop at two?
Why in heaven’s name hadn’t she simply gotten on the train and disappeared? What had made her come back here, to a house of secrets and lies? But she knew the answer to that, fool that she was. Whether she trusted him or not, she came back for Kilmartyn. She couldn’t leave him, not yet.
Rufus walked through the burned-out ruins of the Russell house on Curzon Street, the devastation calming his tumultuous thoughts as night fell on the city. He’d failed again. No, it hadn’t been his fault—he didn’t make mistakes. But that whore had managed, by sheer luck, to get away from him with only a bullet in her arm. Just a few inches to the left and she would have been dead, no longer a problem.
But then, perhaps things had worked out for the best. Having informants in the household served him better than he imagined. He’d merely expected them to keep track of the housekeeper’s movements; he’d never hoped for the added information. Collins had spied her searching Kilmartyn’s office, rifling through his papers. Had she been selling information rather than baubles when she disappeared among the warrens of the moneylenders? Had Kilmartyn already been destroyed?
No. Kilmartyn was barely aware of his existence—they’d met once or twice on social occasions. He would have no idea that Rufus was behind the satisfying destruction of Eustace Russell and everything that was dear to him, including his reputation, his house in London, his daughters. He would have no idea that own his wife had helped him, and therefore had to be silenced. And that he was about to become the perfect scapegoat for the entire affair.
Except Russell’s daughters were going to be more of a problem than he’d thought. Poverty and disgrace should have been enough, but he shouldn’t have counted on it. Collins had searched the woman’s room thoroughly and come up with the most interesting information. The woman who’d inserted herself into Kilmartyn’s household was none other than Russell’s eldest daughter, Bryony, doing her own form of investigating.
Stupid bitch. If she’d just known her place and kept it she wouldn’t have had to die. Kilmartyn was going down for embezzlement and the murders of Russell and his own wife. Bryony Russell’s questions would have an answer. Her quest for revenge, if that was what it was, would be satisfied, and he could have left her alone.
Not now. She’d seen him, twice. She’d been through Kilmartyn’s papers—she’d know when proof showed up that it hadn’t been there before. There were so many reasons to silence her, and yet she’d avoided his attempts twice now, something that infuriated him.
He took a deep breath, calming himself. He was a man of certain strong passions, and he didn’t dare give in to them until this was accomplished. He only had a few stray details to clean up, and then it would all be done. Three of those details were Eustace Russell’s daughters. Because if the eldest had started on this crusade there was little doubt the other two knew about it.
He should have recognized her immediately—he had to admit to that mistake. He’d known that the eldest of Russell’s daughters was hideous, scarred, and so unsightly that she hid herself from society. The woman he ran into so unfortunately in Kilmartyn’s hallway was pretty enough, the scarring faded and barely noticeable. If he’d put two and two together he could have strangled her then and there. It would have been a risk, but one worth taking.
Now life had become a great deal more complicated.
Returning to the ruined house on Curzon Street always soothed him, reminded him of all he’d accomplished. He’d not only taken Renwick back, the house his father had lost in a stupid wager to that ignorant merchant, he’d destroyed their other home as well. It was a shame only servants had been in residence to perish in the fire, but he was a man who could deal with challenges.
The front half of the house had collapsed after the fire had been put out—the back still stood, with the remnants of a roof and walls and even doors. Some of the floors remained, others were gaping holes. It was a good place to lose a body. Sooner or later the rest of the house would fall in, someone would buy the land, clear it, and build anew. Over the bodies of Cecily and her officious French maid, and possibly Miss Bryony Russell. He hadn’t had time to find out where the other two sisters were, but there was no hurry. He didn’t like to be rushed. He took things one at a time, and right now he was focused on murdering that interfering bitch before she could cause any more trouble.
Too bad his informants balked at the idea of murder and even his most devious threats couldn’t move them. The Irishman could have put poison in with the laudanum they were doubtless using, but he flat out refused. He was feeling guilty for informing on her—never a good sign. Never trust a man with a conscience.
As for the boy, he was no more than a courier. He still had possibilities, and he could be a pretty thing when he was properly washed. No, the boy still had uses. The Irishman would have to be disposed of as well.
Life was such a trial. So many loose ends to tie up, just when he thought he was finished. It was a good thing he’d discovered he found a certain pleasure in snuffing out a life. A godlike thrill. He’d never hunted when he was young—a fox or a bird seemed a pitiful enough victim. But people were much more of a challenge, and in truth, he never liked things to be too easy.
He pushed through the charred back door, using his handkerchief to keep his black clothes from getting sooty. The front half of the gardens had been destroyed by the heat of the fire, but toward the back daffodils were blooming, and the mews were intact. He would bring her in this way, though the front stairs remained as well, and in somewhat sturdier condition. Because, in fact, poison was too good for her. She’d been too much of a cock-up, and he was going to take his time with her and enjoy himself. Practice his artistry.
Because he had the other two sisters to deal with, and he wanted to give them his very best work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS RAINING when Kilmartyn returned to his upended household that night. His housekeeper was in bed with a gunshot wound, his valet was tied up in one of the bedrooms, the cook was sulking, the
footmen looked at him warily, the boy was gone. There was no change in the maids’ demeanor—they’d always been half-terrified of him.
Not to mention that his wife was missing and Scotland Yard was watching the house. Somewhere along the way things had taken a bad turn, and he didn’t know how to change things back.
Not that he wanted to fix everything. Finding the blood-soaked clothes had been a shock to his system, but he couldn’t truly grieve for his wife. She’d hated him, used him, cuckolded him, and blackmailed him, and he’d been trapped, tied to her through the almost unbreakable bonds of marriage.