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

The girls hadn’t made the bed, knowing it was going to be dismantled, and she looked at the tangled sheets. Remembering them twisted around his naked body.

“Oh, God,” she whispered out loud, though whether it was a curse or a prayer she had no idea. Gritting her teeth, she touched the soft, wrinkled sheets, then slid her hands beneath the mattress.

For a moment she thought it was gone. She could have sworn it was closer to the foot of the bed, but instead it was toward the head. It didn’t matter—when her fingers finally touched it she drew it out with a sigh of relief.

It didn’t look particularly prepossessing. It was simply an oversize, leather-bound book, with no title on the cover and an unexpected lock holding it closed. She was about to fiddle with it when she heard Mr. Collins’s voice nearby, and she quickly yanked the sheets off the bed, wrapping them around the book a moment before he walked in the door.

He didn’t seem to find it odd that she was kneeling by Kilmartyn’s bed. “We’re ready to move the furniture if you wish, Mrs. Greaves.”

She rose, still clutching her treasure beneath the heap of sheets. They smelled like him. Not in a bad way—the scent was a combination of skin and spice and leather, and she belatedly thought of the bedside table and its odd contents.

“That’s excellent, Mr. Collins,” she replied. “Do this room first, since it’s the most important, and then go on to the adjoining one. Do you think there’s room for all the furniture in the room across the hall?” She sounded so calm and smooth she wanted to crow in triumph.

“Everything but the armoire,” he replied, looking at the bundle of sheets she was clasping to her bosom. “May I assist you with the laundry, Mrs. Greaves? That’s hardly your responsibility.”

She resisted the impulse to grasp it more tightly and shriek no. She simply shook her head. “No, thank you. There are a few tears that need mending and I thought it would be something soothing to keep me busy after supper.”

“Tears?” Collins echoed, shocked. “In Irish linen sheets?”

She managed not to choke. “Not in the sheets themselves,” she amended. “In the embroidered crest.”

“Not to question your judgment, Mrs. Greaves, but surely that should be given to a professional needlewoman?”

She smiled tightly. “Normally, but I happen to have a particular gift for needlework, and I find it soothing. When I’m done no one will even be able to see that there was fraying.” Mainly because the sheets were in excellent shape, she added silently.

Mr. Collins swallowed the dodgy excuse. “Shall I have someone carry them up to your room, then?”

“No need. I’ll be back in just a moment.” Before he could ask any more questions she was out the door and racing up the narrow staircase to the servants’ quarters. She didn’t dare take time to look at the journal, she simply dumped everything under her bed and went back down. There’d be time enough to deal with it later on.

She went directly to Lady Kilmartyn’s apartment. The hallway was deserted, which came as no surprise. The entire second story was the domain of the countess, and apart from a cursory inspection, one that fell short of the countess’s bedroom, Bryony had kept her distance. In fact, she felt uneasy walking down the hallway, past the tightly closed doors. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that hidden eyes were watching her, which was ridiculous. Lady Kilmartyn had disappeared, probably with her handsome cousin, and was unlikely to return for weeks. She might as well take the time to acquaint herself with the one part of the house she’d previously been denied before setting the maids to work on it.

Not that she expected Kilmartyn would have hidden anything incriminating in the vicinity of his wife. It was clear he despised the woman he married, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. If there was any way Lady Kilmartyn could betray her husband she would have already done it.

Still, there was such a thing as hiding in plain sight. While this would be the last place she would expect to find something incriminating, she couldn’t afford to be careless. She turned the highly polished brass doorknob and stepped into the bedroom.

She was immediately seized by a fit of sneezing. The room was very dark, the heavy curtains pulled against the daylight, the stench of clashing perfumes hanging heavy in the air. Closing the door behind her, she started toward the windows, then caught herself as she immediately tripped over something on the floor. She took another step, then caught herself again, finally making it to the curtains by dint of shuffling her legs so that nothing else could threaten to send her tumbling to her knees.

The early promise of a bright day had faded, but even the fitful sunlight illuminated such a shambles that even though she’d been warned Bryony was shocked. It looked as if there’d been a boxing match held in the midst of the elegant rooms. Furniture was upended, the bed was torn apart, feathers floated in the air, presumably from a pillow having been ripped apart. She could see the glitter of broken glass on the floor, smashed perfume bottles, no doubt, and one of the curtains was ripped halfway off the curtain rod. She stared around her in dismay. How could all this destruction have occurred without anyone hearing anything? Surely Kilmartyn, being only one story above, would have been disturbed by some of the clamor? Though perhaps it had happened before he returned home last night.

It would take the girls several days to bring this place back into order, but in the meantime she could get a start on things. Anything to keep her mind occupied until she could sneak away and search through that ledger with its ancient leather binding.

Of course Lady Kilmartyn’s rooms held nothing as useful as a broom. Bryony waded into the midst of it all, uncertain where to begin, when she looked at the bed. The counterpane was ripped and clawed by some sharp instrument, possibly a knife, but the sheet half on, half off the mattress looked to be in one piece, though she suspected that was the source of some of the rancid perfume. She yanked it off the bed, hearing the glass crunch beneath her shoes, and stretched it out on the floor. Another Irish linen, with a fine, tight weave, it would hold things admirably, and heaven knew if the stink of the perfume could ever be removed. It was probably beyond salvage.

She tossed broken bits of perfume bottles, shards of mirrors, smashed bits of furniture into the center of the sheet, catching up stained, discarded dresses, torn books, all manner of detritus. The dressing table was littered with spilled powder and hairpins, and she dusted it off, setting the pieces of broken jewelry on the marble surface. She had no idea whether Lady Kilmartyn had a similar destructive policy toward her jewelry as well as her clothing, but there was no way a thrifty soul like Bryony Russell could countenance tossing out three links of a diamond-studded bracelet or a single emerald earring with a broken clasp. She worked steadily, moving around the room in a counterclockwise motion. When the sheet was filled she tied the corners together and dragged it out into the hall, then went back in and ripped down the torn curtain, starting a new pile in the center of it. Dust motes danced in the air, and Bryony had the suspicion that these rooms hadn’t had a thorough cleaning in a shockingly long time, given the amount of dust she was unsettling. Her ladyship wouldn’t recognize the place when she finally returned, a fact that should have filled Bryony with trepidation. Lady Kilmartyn wasn’t the type to view any major change to her comfort with equanimity, and she’d take any excuse she could find to dismiss Bryony.

However, there was the very real possibility that Bryony would be long gone before Kilmartyn’s wife returned, and she would never have to see the wretched woman again.

Her back was beginni

ng to ache and her enthusiasm for hard work flag when she finally reached the corner under the far window that overlooked the small formal garden between the house and the mews. At first she thought the dark patch on the floor was simply a shadow. Moving between the window and the patch made no change in its irregular shape, and on impulse she leaned down and touched it. Her fingers came away wet, sticky, and she yanked her hand back, rubbing it against her now-filthy white apron, leaving streaks behind. The maids were going to have to give the entire room a solid scrubbing, and whatever had spilled onto the floor had spread into the Aubusson carpet, probably ruining it.

She brought her fingers to her nose, sniffing at it, and the smell was oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place it. There was a metallic tang to it, almost like that of copper, but she could think of nothing that would fit that description.

Yanking off her apron, she dropped to her knees beside the puddled stain and began trying to soak it up. In moments the grubby cotton was soaked, and the stuff seemed to ooze out of the carpet. She rose and moved to the window to stare at the stain, holding it up to the light.

She let out horrified cry, dropping it to the floor as she fell back from the vile thing. In the clear light of day it could be one thing and one thing only. Blood.

The knock on the door shocked her, and she whirled around, just as Emma poked her head inside the room. “Do you want some help, Mrs. Greaves? Mrs. Harkins said things are a rare mess.”