Bryony blinked rapidly, trying to clear her brain. It was one of those rainy, gloomy days that plagued London, and the light in the room was so murky she had no idea what time of day it was. She lay very still, trying to assess her surroundings.
Her head ached abominably. She tried to move, but for some reason she’d been tied down, and the pain that shot through her arm was almost as bad as her headache. That’s right, someone had shot her. Or so Kilmartyn had insisted.
Though she couldn’t quite remember when she’d seen him. Had he been there when she’d been brought back? And who had found her? Perhaps she’d made it as far as Berkeley Square, collapsing at the servants’ entrance in a dead faint. It was all a blur. But she could hear his caustic voice, telling her to lie still.
Had he been in the room last night? She turned her head automatically, and the pain slammed through it. They’d given her laudanum again to help the pain. She hated the stuff—it always made her ill the next day, dull and foggy, with a thundering pain in her head, and the only cure was fresh air. She tugged at her arm, letting out an unbidden cry of pain as it held.
She could see him in that chair, stretched out lazily. But that was ridiculous. Why in the world would he be in her room in the middle of the night? Well, there was one obvious reason, but with a gunshot wound she was hardly a good candidate for bed sport. Perhaps he thought that once she was tethered she wouldn’t be able to fight him off.
No, that wasn’t Kilmartyn. He would never resort to force—careful seduction was more his style. Had he been the one to shoot her? No. If he’d wanted her dead he’d had time enough to finish her, alone in the room with her. Instead he’d curled up around her, held her like she was a precious, delicate creature. Like she mattered to him.
Which was, of course, impossible. At the very best he was involved in his wife’s disappearance, and her own father hadn’t trusted him. At worst, he was a murderer twice over—his wife and her father. And why should he stop at two?
Why in heaven’s name hadn’t she simply gotten on the train and disappeared? What had made her come back here, to a house of secrets and lies? But she knew the answer to that, fool that she was. Whether she trusted him or not, she came back for Kilmartyn. She couldn’t leave him, not yet.
Rufus walked through the burned-out ruins of the Russell house on Curzon Street, the devastation calming his tumultuous thoughts as night fell on the city. He’d failed again. No, it hadn’t been his fault—he didn’t make mistakes. But that whore had managed, by sheer luck, to get away from him with only a bullet in her arm. Just a few inches to the left and she would have been dead, no longer a problem.
But then, perhaps things had worked out for the best. Having informants in the household served him better than he imagined. He’d merely expected them to keep track of the housekeeper’s movements; he’d never hoped for the added information. Collins had spied her searching Kilmartyn’s office, rifling through his papers. Had she been selling information rather than baubles when she disappeared among the warrens of the moneylenders? Had Kilmartyn already been destroyed?
No. Kilmartyn was barely aware of his existence—they’d met once or twice on social occasions. He would have no idea that Rufus was behind the satisfying destruction of Eustace Russell and everything that was dear to him, including his reputation, his house in London, his daughters. He would have no idea that own his wife had helped him, and therefore had to be silenced. And that he was about to become the perfect scapegoat for the entire affair.
Except Russell’s daughters were going to be more of a problem than he’d thought. Poverty and disgrace should have been enough, but he shouldn’t have counted on it. Collins had searched the woman’s room thoroughly and come up with the most interesting information. The woman who’d inserted herself into Kilmartyn’s household was none other than Russell’s eldest daughter, Bryony, doing her own form of investigating.
Stupid bitch. If she’d just known her place and kept it she wouldn’t have had to die. Kilmartyn was going down for embezzlement and the murders of Russell and his own wife. Bryony Russell’s questions would have an answer. Her quest for revenge, if that was what it was, would be satisfied, and he could have left her alone.
Not now. She’d seen him, twice. She’d been through Kilmartyn’s papers—she’d know when proof showed up that it hadn’t been there before. There were so many reasons to silence her, and yet she’d avoided his attempts twice now, something that infuriated him.
He took a deep breath, calming himself. He was a man of certain strong passions, and he didn’t dare give in to them until this was accomplished. He only had a few stray details to clean up, and then it would all be done. Three of those details were Eustace Russell’s daughters. Because if the eldest had started on this crusade there was little doubt the other two knew about it.
He should have recognized her immediately—he had to admit to that mistake. He’d known that the eldest of Russell’s daughters was hideous, scarred, and so unsightly that she hid herself from society. The woman he ran into so unfortunately in Kilmartyn’s hallway was pretty enough, the scarring faded and barely noticeable. If he’d put two and two together he could have strangled her then and there. It would have been a risk, but one worth taking.
Now life had become a great deal more complicated.
Returning to the ruined house on Curzon Street always soothed him, reminded him of all he’d accomplished. He’d not only taken Renwick back, the house his father had lost in a stupid wager to that ignorant merchant, he’d destroyed their other home as well. It was a shame only servants had been in residence to perish in the fire, but he was a man who could deal with challenges.
The front half of the house had collapsed after the fire had been put out—the back still stood, with the remnants of a roof and walls and even doors. Some of the floors remained, others were gaping holes. It was a good place to lose a body. Sooner or later the rest of the house would fall in, someone would buy the land, clear it, and build anew. Over the bodies of Cecily and her officious French maid, and possibly Miss Bryony Russell. He hadn’t had time to find out where the other two sisters were, but there was no hurry. He didn’t like to be rushed. He took things one at a time, and right now he was focused on murdering that interfering bitch before she could cause any more trouble.
Too bad his informants balked at the idea of murder and even his most devious threats couldn’t move them. The Irishman could have put poison in with the laudanum they were doubtless using, but he flat out refused. He was feeling guilty for informing on her—never a good sign. Never trust a man with a conscience.
As for the boy, he was no more than a courier. He still had possibilities, and he could be a pretty thing when he was properly washed. No, the boy still had uses. The Irishman would have to be disposed of as well.
Life was such a trial. So many loose ends to tie up, just when he thought he was finished. It was a good thing he’d discovered he found a certain pleasure in snuffing out a life. A godlike thrill. He’d never hunted when he was young—a fox or a bird seemed a pitiful enough victim. But people were much more of a challenge, and in truth, he never liked things to be too easy.
He pushed through the charred back door, using his handkerchief to keep his black clothes from getting sooty. The front half of the gardens had been destroyed by the heat of the fire, but toward the back daffodils were blooming, and the mews were intact. He would bring her in this way, though the front stairs remained as well, and in somewhat sturdier condition. Because, in fact, poison was too good for her. She’d been too much of a cock-up, and he was going to take his time with her and enjoy himself. Practice his artistry.
Because he had the other two sisters to deal with, and he wanted to give them his very best work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS RAINING when Kilmartyn returned to his upended household that night. His housekeeper was in bed with a gunshot wound, his valet was tied up in one of the bedrooms, the cook was sulking, the
footmen looked at him warily, the boy was gone. There was no change in the maids’ demeanor—they’d always been half-terrified of him.
Not to mention that his wife was missing and Scotland Yard was watching the house. Somewhere along the way things had taken a bad turn, and he didn’t know how to change things back.
Not that he wanted to fix everything. Finding the blood-soaked clothes had been a shock to his system, but he couldn’t truly grieve for his wife. She’d hated him, used him, cuckolded him, and blackmailed him, and he’d been trapped, tied to her through the almost unbreakable bonds of marriage.
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.
He strolled over to the chair, pulling it close. “I’m enchanted to hear it. Are you ready to talk?”
“About what?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“About what happened.”
A deep color suffused her too pale skin, and belatedly he realized she was thinking about those moments on the kitchen table, not being shot. Interesting priorities. “When you were shot,” he clarified, allowing himself a faint smile, which clearly failed to endear himself to her.
Only a little of the color began to fade. “I don’t remember. I didn’t even realize I’d been shot. I was walking just past Stratton Street and I felt something knock against my arm. I turned to look, but there was no one around, so I kept walking. Until I felt too weak to go any farther.”
He nodded. “That’s when I found you.”
Her eyes flashed open in clear distress. “You found me? I thought I’d made it as far as the servants’ entrance.”
“I’m afraid not. You were about to collapse on the street, right at the edge of the square, when I caught up with you.”
“You were following me?” Her thin voice was slightly stronger.
It should have amused him, her clear lack of trust, but he was having trouble finding anything amusing nowadays.
“Not with a gun, Miss Russell. I do my hunting in the countryside.” He waited to see if she’d react to her true name, but she didn’t notice. “In the meantime, can I get you something?”
“There’s nothing you can get me,” she said, and he recognized the slight grogginess in her voice from the effects of the laudanum. Clearly someone had managed to get some in her, probably in the barley water he’d
given her.
“Try me.”
She was too groggy to appreciate his double entendre. “I want my arm freed from this damnable board. I don’t like being trussed up. I want a bath—my hair is caked with blood, and I want people to stop giving me laudanum. It gives me a headache. Most of all, I want this to have never happened.”
He surveyed her calmly. “I can’t do anything about the last—even I can’t turn time around, but I expect I can manage the rest.”
Her eyes were drifting closed. “Just let me sleep,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
He allowed himself the odd pleasure of watching her. She did look terrible—her hair had dried blood in it, her skin was parchment white with a blue tinge to her eyelids, the smallpox scars were turned toward him, and he surveyed her dispassionately. Why had she allowed such a minor imperfection to control her life? The Bryony Russell he knew was no fainting violet, content to hide away from life. She was a fighter.
And yet she’d done just that.
There were still a great many mysteries to unravel about his little spy. He only hoped he’d have the time to do so before he did what he had to do, the absurdly decent thing, and send her away.
Someone had given her laudanum again, and she wanted to scream. Her head was pounding, her body aching, and something was tugging at her arm. She opened her eyes and turned her head, only to see Kilmartyn there, untying the knots that kept her strapped to the board and to the bed.
She was so relieved she didn’t say anything, simply watched him as he went about the business with surprising efficiency. And then she remembered she didn’t trust him.
“What are you doing?” she croaked.
“Following your orders.”