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

irs after he’d walked away from her, because she’d woken up in her own bed, dressed in her other nightgown. But where was the torn one? It had been very expensive, once upon a time, one of the few things she’d been allowed when the creditors had taken everything, including most of their lace-trimmed underthings, and anything could be mended. Indeed, it had been an older piece, the fabric soft with age, but she’d loved it, and she wasn’t leaving it behind.

It was nowhere in her room. She already knew it couldn’t be in the kitchen—Mrs. Harkins would have said something. There was one more place it could be.

As a housekeeper she wore no hoops, only the stiffness of her crinoline keeping her skirts away from her body, but there was still enough room to tuck a few of her belongings into the pockets Maddy had cleverly sewn into it. She tossed a few more things in her shawl and then twisted it into a tie. It wasn’t large enough to cause notice, and even if it did she doubted anyone would say anything. They were probably too busy discussing the fascinating happenstance of their lord and master being dragged off by the police.

She started down the narrow servants’ staircase, stopping on the third floor to emerge from the baize door in the hallway. She froze. He was there again, like a recurring ghost, except he was very real.

“Mrs. Greaves,” said Mr. Brown with a pleased smile. “How lovely to see you again! I hadn’t expected you’d still be here.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BRYONY WAS INSTANTLY WARY. He was Lady Kilmartyn’s cousin, and presumed lover, so why was he here in Kilmartyn’s house when the woman was gone, unless he knew more about her disappearance and the blood that had covered the floor? No—he struck her as someone far too precise to ever soil his hands with blood. She was imagining monsters everywhere, when the only monster had probably been a huge rat. Or so she kept wanting to believe.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brown.” The perfect housekeeper mien was in full force. “Why would I be anywhere else?”

“Well, the Kilmartyn housekeepers seldom stay for very long. I imagine Adrian’s advances aren’t always welcome.”

The words stung, and she could feel heat flame her cheeks. He was telling her she was only one in a long line of easy women, but in the end she hadn’t passed muster. Had she truly expected anything else? “May I help you, Mr. Brown? I imagine you know that Lady Kilmartyn is in the country, visiting friends. Indeed, I assumed you were with her.” She could sting back as well, and she was beyond caring about proper deference.

“Now why would you think that?” he countered. “In truth, Cecily’s disappearance came as a great shock to me, since she was promised to spend an afternoon at the regatta with me yesterday. I was most disturbed. But I presume Kilmartyn knows where she is.”

“He hasn’t mentioned it.”

Brown looked at her for a long, contemplative moment. “You may trust me, Mrs. Greaves. I know we are not well acquainted, but I promise you I can prove a steady friend if you find yourself in need.”

He looked so handsome, so earnest, so winning, with that elegant curl centered on his high forehead. Just the sort of man she had always dreamed of when she’d been younger. So why wasn’t she melting with longing for him? Why didn’t she trust him?

“You’re very kind, sir. I cannot imagine being in such a circumstance, but I will remember your generous offer. And indeed, how may I assist you?”

“In no way, Mrs. Greaves. I was merely here in search of my cousin, but I found nothing. Unless you know anything about her sudden departure? Did she leave a note in her room, perhaps?”

She shook her head. It surprised her how easy it was to lie nowadays. The falsehoods rolled off her tongue. “I’m afraid she left no note, but as we both know the Kilmartyns do not share the warmest of relationships. I gather Lady Kilmartyn is prone to spur-of-the-moment departures. I’m certain she’ll be in touch with you when she wishes to.”

In truth she was certain of no such thing. If the countess was still alive, and please God she must be, then she had some reason for keeping her presence a secret from everyone, including her lover.

Mr. Brown inclined his handsome head. “I’m certain you are right. But if you hear anything, perhaps you might let me know.” He held out an engraved calling card.

She didn’t want to take it, but she had no choice. She tucked it inside the apron she still wore and gave him a brittle smile. “Perhaps I can show you out? Lord Kilmartyn is out for the afternoon, as I imagine you know, or you’d hardly be wandering the corridors.”

His smile was both abashed and winning. “I confess I’ve been watching, and I did see that bastard leaving with two very unpleasant gentlemen.”

“You don’t care for Lord Kilmartyn?”

“How could I? Not when I consider the brutality he’s shown my cousin over the years. She stays secluded so that no one can see the bruising, but I’m afraid that sooner or later he might—” He stopped, as if he’d said too much.

It was an excellent performance. Bryony wasn’t sure how she recognized it as such. A great many men beat their wives—it was their legal right to do so. But Kilmartyn, for all his supposed wickedness, didn’t strike her as a man who’d hit someone smaller and weaker. “I don’t expect his lordship to be gone that long, so if you wish to leave without being seen I’d suggest you go now,” she said, trying to sound encouraging rather than annoyed. He was keeping her from escaping, and she couldn’t afford to run into Kilmartyn again. Not with the memory of last night between them.

He took her unwilling hand and pressed it. “You’re very good, Mrs. Greaves. I won’t forget your kindness.”

She watched him disappear down the hallway, staying motionless for a long time after he’d left. She’d hardly been kind—the man was a charming snake, and she was much more likely to believe he knew more about Lady Kilmartyn’s disappearance than Kilmartyn did.

The warning she’d given him held for herself as well. She needed to fetch her cape and leave this place. She simply had one more thing to check.

His temporary rooms were spotless. She searched under the mattress, half afraid she’d come up with another salacious volume of drawings, but there was nothing there. The drawers and cabinets were all devoid of anything interesting, including her torn nightdress, and she’d begun to believe it had probably gone out with the dustbin when she noticed the cupboard door was ajar. She opened it, peering inside. The tiny room was filled with an array of day and evening wear, boots and day shoes and evening slippers, and she stared at them for a moment. They smelled like Kilmartyn. Wool and leather and something else indefinable, and she could remember the taste of his mouth on hers. For a moment she closed her eyes and buried her face against one coat, breathing it in, letting the longing suffuse her. And then she pulled back, about ready to close the door when she noticed the faint splash of white at the very end of the space, almost out of sight. It could only be her nightdress, and she knelt down, reaching for it and drawing it out. And then dropping it with a muffled cry of horror. Her torn nightdress was there. So were the blood-soaked clothes of a man, and there could be only one who would wear them. Only one man tall enough and with arms long enough to fill the sleeves of the shirt.

She sat back on her heels, shivering in horror. Stupid, stupid man! What had he done? She glanced around her, finding nothing, and as a last resort she grabbed the thin silk dressing gown that lay across the bed, waiting for his return, and bundled the clothes inside. She didn’t stop to consider why, she simply acted on impulse, adding her own torn nightdress to the bundle.

She could hardly waltz through the kitchen carrying such a load—someone would be bound to ask, so she moved to the window that overlooked the back garden, opened it and let the parcel drop, watching with relief as it disappeared into a blossoming lilac bush. She went back to the cupboard, trying to get a good look at the floor, but if the blood had stained through she couldn’t see it, and with luck neither could Scotland Yard. He was safe, at least for now. She’d done everything she could for him. The rest was up to him.