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

Which were now effectively broken, assuming they ever found her body. As it was, he couldn’t be sure she was dead, though given the amount of blood it was a reasonable supposition. Not that it should matter—he would never make the mistake of marrying again. He could stay the husband of a missing woman for the rest of his life—he didn’t give a damn if they found her body.

Unless, of course, it led to her murderer and the author of all this disaster, including Russell’s downfall. All the evidence pointed directly at himself, and Kilmartyn knew that was no accident. Someone was doing their best to paint him as a thief, a murderer, a man who’d betray a friend and mentor. He needed to find out exactly who that man was.

Unfortunately the duplicitous Collins knew almost nothing about the man who’d hired him. Not a name or direction, and he’d met the man in darkened alleys, so there was no way he could describe him. Collins had been surprisingly forthcoming, and Kilmartyn, tempted though he was to turn him over to the police, had simply left him trussed in a back room until he decided what to do. Collins clearly had had no idea that his mysterious employer had meant to harm anyone—he was just supposed to keep track of things and send Jem to report back. His family in Ireland were among the starving, the desperate, and he’d taken the money for them. Kilmartyn hadn’t doubted him. If he didn’t know his own holdings and tenants were being well provided for there was no accounting for what deals with the devil he might make, in order to provide for them.

He could understand that kind of deal—he still bore the weight of his own responsibility in the deaths of so many in the Fenian bombing. Was he any less guilty than Collins?

He couldn’t discover anything at the club, despite his very delicate questions. His fellow club members knew his wife was missing under mysterious circumstances, knew he’d been taken to Scotland Yard for questioning, but such matters were too ill-bred to discuss, so instead he held murmured conversations about the derby and the Russell debacle that had set off the one-day financial panic, causing two banks to fail.

And he’d come away with exactly nothing. Barely even a scrap of information about the daughters, though his friend Barlow had remembered the lies about the poor, half-mad, invalided eldest daughter, and there was something about a broken engagement for the middle child.

Russell had been his friend, his confidant, and he’d done nothing for his children, Kilmartyn thought, tossing back his glass of whiskey. Nothing except plan on seducing the eldest. The poor, half-mad invalid who was the strongest female he’d ever known, who drove him wild with inappropriate lust. The one he had to keep his damned hands off.

Then again, why should he? He was no damned saint, nor had he ever pretended to be one. He’d let her go, twice now, when he’d wanted nothing more than to shove inside her and lose himself.

But in truth, what was the worst that could happen? She had no father, no protector to call him to accounts. He could hardly be forced into a marriage if he compromised her—to the world he was still a married man, not a widower. He could take her, enjoy her, part ways with a sufficient financial gift, as he did with all the other women.

Except that he couldn’t do that to her. He wasn’t sure why or how, but he… cared about her. He could be the worst possible bastard, but something stopped him from being that callous, and the thought disturbed him. Was he growing soft? Becoming kind?

Of course not. He’d developed an odd sort of attachment for the girl, that was all. It had nothing to do with kindness, it was his own comfort. He simply preferred her safe and happy, and he intended to see to it. He would send her off, as soon as she was well enough to travel, and make certain she and her sisters were provided for.

A sudden spike of fear went through him—what if she’d caught a fever after all? Things like that could happen—a patient could be recovering nicely when they were brought low by an infection, and they could die quickly. Very quickly.

He took the steps two at a time, his heart racing. It was too dark, too quiet. Had they called in the doctor? The undertaker?

He saw the form of one of the maids, sound asleep outside Bryony’s door when he reached the top of the stairs, and he felt a cautious relief sweep through him, calming him down. He started toward her, and she woke, jumping to her feet and bobbing a curtsy.

“Beg pardon, your lordship, but I was just—”

“Shhh,” he cautioned her. “How is she?”

“Fretful. Doesn’t like being sick, doesn’t like taking the laudanum, but her color’s good and she ate something. But she’s not happy.”

He didn’t let his relief show on his face. “Very good. You can go to bed, Emma, is it?”

“Yes, sir. But Mrs. Harkins said I was to stay in case she needed something.”

“Do you take your orders from Mrs. Harkins or me, Emma?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but Mrs. Harkins.”

“And who gives Mrs. Harkins her orders?” he said, controlling his frustration.

“You do, my lord.”

“Then do as I say.”

She hesitated, then bobbed another curtsy. He didn’t bother to wait until she was gone; he simply opened the door and went inside.

Bryony was awake. She lay in the bed, her eyes dark with pain, watching him warily as he closed the door behind him.

The first thing he did was pour her a glass of the barley water, bringing it to her. He sat down on the bed, and she tried to scoot away from him, but she was still strapped to the board and immobile.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was thin and weak, but her eyes flashed.

“Still full of fight, I see,” he said pleasantly. “I came to see how you were doing.”

“Recovering.” The word was flat.