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

He stared at her in what might almost be amazement. “That’s what you remember? Nothing more?”

That pain in her head was growing worse, and her entire body was going into an uproar. Her breasts felt odd, sensitive against the plain cotton chemise, and there was a clenching feeling down low, and this man…

No! “I had very disturbing dreams, my…” she let the words trail off. She didn’t want to give him any excuse to touch her.

“I expect you did,” he said obscurely. “Very well, we’ll get back to that later. I have another question for you. Who cleaned my wife’s rooms yesterday?”

That one was easier but just as disturbing. “I did,” she said with deceptive calm, when she wasn’t feeling very calm at all. “I thought it might be politic for me to take care of the mess, rather than have gossiping maids to do it.”

“And did you happen to notice anything peculiar?”

“You mean apart from the ripped curtains and torn-up bedding and smashed scent bottles? No, my lord.” She used the term defiantly.

“Not even a large, peculiar stain beneath the window? Difficult to remove?”

She could still see it, smell it, the blood that had pooled beneath the window and she’d scrubbed and scrubbed. Why was he asking her? If he knew about it then he must have had something to do with it. Had he? Had he hurt his wife? But no, he couldn’t have. She cleared her throat. “If I did, my lord, I’m certain I did my best to clean it up. Stains like that are difficult to remove but I believe I did a fair job.”

“Why?”

She tried to look unconcerned, raising her eyebrows. “Because it’s my job, my lord.” There was a certain pleasure in annoying him when he couldn’t make good on his threats. “I would be interested in learning what caused that stain, and whether there’s any reason to worry about someone’s health.” Why was he asking her these questions? He could have no more killed his wife than she could, she was certain of it. But a tiny, niggling doubt teased at her.

“I imagine you would,” he said, a grim tone in his voice. “But that’s something else you’d be better off forgetting. In fact, I think I’m going to have to send you away.”

Her blood ran cold. “You’re dismissing me, my—” She stopped short of using the word. Annoying him probably hadn’t been the smartest move. “I do promise I won’t touch your cognac again, and I’ll be—”

“I like you when you’re half-tipsy on my cognac,” he said. “And I didn’t say I was firing you, I said I needed to send you away. Just until things get sorted out.”

“Things? I don’t understand.” She was truly bewildered. “How can I be a housekeeper here and not be on the premises? It’s impossible.”

“You know as well as I that you’re not a housekeeper,” he snapped. “I’ve put up with it, because it amused me, but now that—” He stopped as he heard the front doorbell peal, and an odd expression crossed his face. They waited, in silence, listening to the muffled footsteps of the well-trained servant who answered the summons, listening to the quiet conversation and the heavy thud of official-sounding footsteps as they approached the library.

The rap on the door was loud enough to make Bryony startle, and she spilled some of the hot tea on her dress as she jumped to her feet. Kilmartyn stayed where he was.

“Yes?”

The door stayed shut, but Collins’s imperturbable voice came from the other side. “My lord, there are some gentlemen here who wish to speak with you.”

“I’m busy.”

“I’m afraid this can’t wait—” There was the sound of a mild scuffle, and then the door opened, revealing two very officious, very menacing gentlemen of the constabulary.

If the elegant room awed them they didn’t show it. The smaller one stepped forward, a pugnacious expression on his face. “Are you Adrian Bruton?”

She’d never seen Kilmartyn display such hauteur. He could have frozen water in the hot July sun. “Yes, I’m Kilmartyn. Lord Kilmartyn.”

The chilly emphasis on the title didn’t faze the officer. “We’ve orders to bring you down to Scotland Yard. There’ve been questions about the disappearance of your wife.”

“My wife is in the country visiting friends.”

&n

bsp; “Not according to a report laid against you.”

“By whom?” He still hadn’t risen, and he had one leg crossed over the other, perfectly at ease.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” the first man said, but unfortunately the second one spoke up at the same time.

“Anonymous, my lord.”