RUFUS GRIFFITHS SETTLED HIMSELF very carefully into the overstuffed chair in his rooms on George Street, his new manservant assisting him. He missed Collins—the Irishman had known his little ways, and been smart enough to be afraid of him. But he was a lost cause, along with the Earl of Kilmartyn, at least for now. Collins was back in London with his beloved cook and that filthy but very pretty little street urchin, and as far as he was concerned the man he’d known as Rufus Brown was dead.
Collins should have known better. Never trust that anyone was truly dead unless you see the body yourself, but Collins hadn’t had the chance. For a short while Rufus had considered sending for him—he’d proven useful, after all, reporting on the happenings in the Kilmartyn household. And while Rufus had temporarily given up on ensnaring Kilmartyn and the Russell chit he’d married, sooner or later they’d have to return home, and Rufus could take his time finishing what he started.
But in the meantime he had better things to do. Eustace Russell had had not one but three daughters, and the second one was pretending to be a maid, ferreting around in the house of Russell’s favorite captain. He couldn’t imagine there’d be anything to find—Morgan would have no idea what was behind Eustace Russell’s disgrace and death. No matter how hard the middle daughter searched, she wouldn’t find anything. Too bad he couldn’t arrange things so that she did, but it felt like too much effort. He despised the captain, with his arrogance and his gypsy blood, but he had to concentrate on the matter at hand. The daughters were the problem, and they needed to be dealt with.
For a while he’d considered not even bothering. After all, the middle one was safe on the coast, away from London and Somerset, busy chasing villains who didn’t exist. But he was annoyed that Bryony Russell and Kilmartyn had temporarily gotten the better of him, annoyed that he’d almost been crushed by the collapse of the burnt remains of the Russell house on Curzon Street and yet Kilmartyn and his doxy had emerged unscathed.
He’d been so certain success had been at his fingertips that he’d gotten cocky. Kilmartyn and the Russell bitch were supposed to die in the burnt-out hulk, but instead the back stairs had collapsed beneath him, and the two of them had escaped, out of his reach.
There was always the chance that even from France, or wherever they’d gone off to, they’d be able to get a letter to the sisters, warning them. Ah, but what could the new Lady Kilmartyn say? She didn’t know his name, she didn’t even know what he really looked like. If she saw him in the streets today she wouldn’t recognize him, with his jet-black hair and elegant beard and side-whiskers, not to mention his recent frailty. He’d embraced it, rather enjoying his languishing air, but he’d learned to take nothing for granted. As long as the middle one… Sophia? Madeleine? That was it! As long as Madeleine Russell was on her own she could run into something unexpected. And it would make everything so much neater if that unexpected something was his humble self.
It wasn’t that he particularly enjoyed killing, he mused, taking a sip of the cognac his man handed him before Parsons knelt to remove his shoes. But he was a tidy man, dedicatedly so, and he despised the idea of loose ends. Loose ends could unravel, destroying the carefully woven plans of even the smartest men, and Rufus counted himself in that group. In truth, it annoyed him to do things out of order, but in the end he’d been forced to let go of his overwhelming need for perfection. It mattered not who died first—Lady Kilmartyn, Madeleine, or pretty little Sophia. What mattered was getting rid of them, the only possible claimants to everything he’d ever wanted.
If he’d underestimated their importance initially, it hadn’t taken him long to adjust his plans accordingly.
“Parsons,” he said lazily, “is there a storm coming?”
“So I’ve been told, sir.”
“I gather Captain Morgan enjoys the challenge of riding out a storm.”
“So I’ve heard, sir.” Parsons was an excellent gatherer of information, and while news of the captain was sparse, there’d been enough to be useful.
“I think he should be encouraged to take his boat out into the bad weather.”
“Which boat, sir? He has several, not to mention the steamships.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about his ability to control one of Russell’s steamships, as long he has a full complement of sailors. He has smaller boats of his own, does he not?”
“Yes, sir. A skiff and a smaller boat.”
“I think the skiff would be his most obvious choice. I trust you can arrange things? You’re a man of experience and discretion.”
“I can take care of the boat, sir. No one will notice.”
That was the lovely thing about hiring a certain class of criminals. Not the thugs—they were boring. But the smarter ones, who’d almost gotten away with it. They came from prison with rage and imagination at full boil, and he knew just how to use them.
“Very good,” he purred. “We’ll ensure he takes the boat out. It would be lovely if he’d take his new housemaid with him, but they’d most likely argue the entire time. I do not see a happy wedding in their future, Parsons.”
“Assuming I understand you correctly, sir, I don’t see any future at all for the captain.”
Rufus smiled benevolently. “We are in accord,” he murmured. “Now why don’t you fetch me another glass of brandy before you remove my trousers?”
Maddy woke early the next morning, even before Mrs. Crozier’s shrill bellow could tear her from her well-earned rest. Though come to think of it, Mrs. Crozier probably couldn’t shriek through the house if the owner was in residence. The housekeeping standards here might be appallingly lax but she doubted Captain Morgan would tolerate Mrs. Crozier’s screeching voice.
Which meant that the captain was still here. Of course he was—he’d only just returned from London. Sooner or later she was going to have to face him, unless she could somehow manage to keep one step ahead of him.
She wouldn’t have thought she’d sleep at all, given what had happened last night. The fiery, almost undeniable arousal of lying beneath him, the heartbreaking gentleness when he’d cupped her face with his rough, calloused hands. Why had he taunted her and then let her go? He didn’t believe she was a maid, he’d found her asleep in his bed, and yet he’d said nothing about dismissing her. But his eyes, as they’d looked into hers last night, were disturbing, drawing her to him. She had expected them to haunt her.
Instead she’d slept like the dead, thank God, and after six hours she was able to drag her aching body out of bed and head for the ewer of water she’d brought up yesterday. It was cool, and she splashed her face with it, then stripped off her shift and proceed
ed to wash herself so thoroughly her skin hurt. There was so much dirt in this life; she felt she’d never get clean enough. Odd, when spending your days cleaning things ended up with all the dirt on you. She looked over at the dull brown day dress that was her only uniform—the navy blue dress she’d arrived in was ripped from her encounter with the sailors, and stained, though she hadn’t yet figured out how to wash it properly and how to get Mrs. Crozier to give her the time to do so. The brown was at least wearable, though probably filled with dust, and she carried it over to the back window, pushing open the casement and leaning out, shaking it fiercely in early morning air. Dust flew, and she shook it again, over and over until nothing more came out of it. The air smelled fresh and clean, and she had the suddenly brilliant idea of hanging it outside during the night. The night air would freshen it, make it almost feel clean.
Or clammy with dew. Maybe not such a brilliant idea after all. She began to gather the bulky garment into her arms, pulling it back through the window when she stopped, feeling eyes on her. She looked down, into the weedy garden, and her momentary shock was just enough. She lost hold of her gown, and it went sailing downward, three stories down, to land in the garden at the very feet of the captain.
Oh, God, as if things weren’t bad enough! She was leaning out the window wearing nothing but her shift, which was damp from her morning ablutions, her hair loose around her shoulders, and he’d been watching her, not saying a word. He probably thought she’d tossed her dress at him on purpose. Why wouldn’t he, when he’d found her curled up on his bed the night before, like a midnight snack?
She knew her face was scarlet with mortification, and she drew back, slamming the casement window behind her. Why was it that she lost her composure around that man? She was no missish creature and never had been. She’d had men dancing attendance on her during her seasons in London, and she’d never been flustered around any of them. Not even Jasper Tarkington, the man she thought she’d loved, had been able to unsettle her like one glance from the captain’s dark eyes.