She was sounding positively disgruntled, and he controlled his urge to laugh. She must have backed herself into that mess with her protestations of exhaustion and pain. Considering their active night he could testify that the only exhaustion Cecily, Countess of Kilmartyn, suffered was from a surfeit of fucking.
But his job was to placate her. “Kilmartyn is doing it to annoy you, darling. How could he possibly prefer her to you? It sounds as if she’s perfectly ghastly. Of course, the pathetic woman is undoubtedly grateful for any attention Kilmartyn might toss her way, but he would hardly lower his standards to sleep with her when he can have anyone in London.”
“He can’t have me,” Cecily said promptly, which he knew was an outright lie. “Whether he beds her or not, I want her gone. She got rid of my favorite footman.”
“Ah, yes, the esteemed Alfred.”
“I won’t have it, Rufus! The woman would fall into his bed in a welter of gratitude, and do anything he required of her. Anything! He’s only doing it to spite me.”
“Are you hatching evil plans, my love?” Rufus murmured as he buttoned his waistcoat.
She smiled up at him demurely. “Always.”
He made himself smile back. “I’m here to help you, my love. Is there something you need taken care of? A throat to slit, a reputation to ruin? You know I’m your man.”
“Get rid of my housekeeper.”
Rufus glanced at himself in one of Cecily’s many mirrors. He had trained the most adorable curl to fall to the middle of his forehead, and he arranged it carefully before turning back to her. “Fire the woman.”
“I can’t. I didn’t hire her—Adrian did.”
“How did you let that happen? You’ve always held the running of the household, haven’t you?”
Cecily looked sullen. “No longer. He hired the wretched woman over my objections, and I know he’s planning on seducing her, just to spite me.”
Rufus allowed himself a small smile. “That’s not very wise, considering the trouble you’ve had maintaining a housekeeper. Trifling with the servants leads to nothing but trouble. Besides, I thought you told me she was hideous?”
Cecily sniffed. “Not exactly hideous. One side of her face has pox scars, which I find most distressing. You know what a sensitive creature I am—I need to be surrounded by beauty. Ugliness makes me melancholy.” She gave him a doleful look. “Unfortunately my wretched husband is an insensitive brute. He had the temerity to tell me she was pretty!”
Rufus laughed. “Darling Cecily, we’re all insensitive brutes when it comes to pussy. We take what’s available.”
Cecily sat up, affronted. “I beg your pardon?”
“Not you, my pet. You make your lovers work for it.” He gave her his most charming smile. “The greater the challenge, the greater the reward, and you are magnificent.”
“You redeem yourself, Rufus, but just barely,” she purred, a faint hint of menace in her voice. “I want you to get rid of the housekeeper for me.”
“And how do you propose I do that? Shall I simply strangle her and dump her in the Thames?”
Cecily laughed uneasily. She had no idea what he was capable of, and he preferred to keep it that way. “Of course not.”
“Will she be hiring new staff?” he asked, doing his best to sound only randomly interested.
She shrugged. “I suppose so. We need more footmen, and Mademoiselle told me that the maid told her that the woman thinks she can hire a valet for him. As if my husband would be gentleman enough to use the services of a valet. He’s bog-Irish and always will be, and I was a fool to marry him.”
“Bog-Irish or not, he’s got a gift for making great pots of money, darling. Yes, I know, money isn’t everything but it does solve a multitude of problems. And pays for all that lovely jewelry you like to adorn yourself with.” He leaned down and pinched her willful little chin. “Leave it to me, my precious. I’ll take care of things.”
Bryony woke early, the gray sunlight coming in her newly cleaned windows, and she groaned. The tiny space under the eaves wasn’t that bad, considering the state of the household. The bed was small and narrow but there was a comfortable chair, a desk, a washstand with decent china. The cupboard held her two cheap mourning gowns as well as one dress she’d managed to hold on to when they had left the house they’d grown up in.
There was even a rug beneath her feet, a rug she’d had to hold out one of the windows and shake fiercely. And the windows were wonderful, now that they were clean, letting in a view of the rooftops of Mayfair. She was like a bird, she thought, perching high overhead, looking down on everything.
The bed had seen better days, but it wasn’t any worse than their previous accommodations. That made her think of her sisters, and for a moment she felt such longing, such worry. They would be fine, of course. Nanny Gruen would look after them, and sooner or later some nice young man would show up and fall in love with Maddy. A rich young man would be perfect—he could see to Sophie as well—but if she had to choose she’d prefer kindness.
Not that her sisters would be amenable to her choosing their husbands. They were both strong-minded, though Sophie was more interested in playing prospective suitors one against the other. In her first season she’d evinced not the slightest interest in any of the young men flocking around her.
Maddy was different, more sober, sensible beneath her pretty exterior. Tarkington had been on the verge of offering when the news of their father’s disgrace came, and he’d beat a hasty retreat. So had everybody else. No one had any interest in associating with the impoverished daughters of a dead thief who’d almost brought the financial structure of a nation to a standstill.
Of course, it could simply be a matter of the very strict rules governing mourning periods. In six months’ time, with their fortune restored and their father’s name cleared, the girls could begin to emerge from the shroud propriety demanded of them. Within a year they could reenter society and even entertain offers, though some might frown at the haste.
She needed her sisters taken care of. She needed not to lie awake in this narrow, uncomfortable bed and worry about them, as she worried about so many things.
It would be about five in the morning, she guessed. Something had woken her—voices, perhaps, though she couldn’t imagine who else might be awake at such an ungodly hour. She might as well get up. Perhaps when this household was better ordered she could sleep in one slothful hour later, but right now she had work to do. The sooner she got this household running properly the sooner she could start concentrating on finding out the truth about her employer. He was hiding something, she just knew it. But was it something evil, or simply the normal secrets that seem to creep into one’s life?
The kitchen was a bustle of activity, and the wide table was spotless. Mrs. Harkins was in the midst of kneading dough, and she looked up when Bryony came in.
“I sent a message to one of the girls who used to work here,” she said. “Begging your pardon for being so forward, but since Becky knows this kitchen and my work habits, and she was in need of a job I thought…”
“Very resourceful, Mrs. Harkins,” she said in a soothing voice, glancing over at the wide copper sink where a young woman was scrubbing pots. “I’m sure you’re the best judge of your own kitchen.”
The cook beamed at her, clearly pleased her own area of power wasn’t threatened. Bryony continued. “Would you like me to present the menus to Lady Kilmartyn or would you prefer to do it?”
Mrs. Harkins looked skeptical. “Her ladyship usually just waves me away when I try. She says the thought of all that food makes her ill.” There was no disguising the hurt in Mrs. Harkins’s voice. “I’ve been taking it to the master the last few weeks. At least he looks at it, and I know I’m not going to lose my place for ordering venison from Scotland and oranges from Spain.”
“You won’t lose your place—this household is lucky to have you,” Bryony said firmly. “Let’s start with her ladyship. When does she usually wa
ke?”
“She’s already had her first tray. We bring her hot cocoa first, then follow it with a breakfast tray that she never touches. Emma was just about to carry it up.”
“Then I’ll go with her,” Bryony said decisively.
Facing the haughty countess was not high on her list of preferred duties but anything was preferable to the fascinating earl. She doubted she could look at him without remembering the forbidden feel of his skin beneath her hand, his mouth beneath hers. What kind of madness had filled her last night? One would have thought she was the one who was drunk, not Kilmartyn.
The countess was reclining in state in the sitting room Bryony had first been taken to when she arrived there, following the dutiful Emma. It was on the second floor, and her first impression was heat and cloying perfume. It took all her strength not to cough.
Mademoiselle Hortense, the countess’s haughty maid, barred her way, her thin body rigid. “Her ladyship has not asked for you,” she said in her heavily accented English.
“Oh, never mind, Hortense,” Lady Kilmartyn’s airy voice floated to the door. “I may as well see her. Come in, Mrs. Greaves. How can I help you?”
Cecily, Lady Kilmartyn, looked as beautiful as ever. Today the dark curtains were pulled back, and Bryony could see her quite clearly. It was little wonder Kilmartyn had fallen in love with her.
Cecily was staring at her with cool disdain, though she was keeping her gaze carefully focused on Bryony’s right ear, the furthest part of her face from the scars that marred her, and suddenly Bryony thought of her mother. Her mother had managed to never look at her directly once she’d recovered.
She took a deep breath and managed a pleasant smile. “I’ve brought the menus for the week. Mrs. Harkins did an excellent job of planning, but we need your approval, and it would help to know if we’re to expect any guests in the next fortnight.”
“I fail to see why that’s any of your concern.”
“We want the household to be ready if you do have guests. So you can take pride in your surroundings.”
Cecily Bruton’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about my surroundings. You think you have me fooled, Mrs. Greaves, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know why you’re here.”
Sudden tension ripped through Bryony. How could the woman know? Was Kilmartyn the true villain, and his wife his accomplice? And was her disguise so poor that it took less than a day to penetrate it? She kept her face impassive, saying nothing.
“You’re here for my husband, aren’t you?” Lady Kilmartyn said accusingly.
Well, in fact, that was the truth, though certainly not in the way Cecily Bruton meant it. “I’m here to serve you, my lady.” The words burned her tongue, but her tone was just the right side of servile.
Lady Kilmartyn had shifted her gaze to Bryony’s shoulder. “Women love my husband,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard Bryony’s words. “He’s irresistible, and I’m afraid servants have always been fair game for the master of the house. If you haven’t come to seduce my husband then you’d be far better off leaving. Today. We can do very well without a housekeeper, and you’ll be generously compensated.”
“Your ladyship mistakes the matter,” Bryony said. “His lordship has no interest in me, or, in fact, any of the staff. I came here looking for nothing but a job, and trust me, I am eminently qualified to handle your household.”
“I don’t like you.” The words were flat, unequivocal, and Bryony wanted nothing more than to return the sentiment.
“I’m sorry, your ladyship. I’ll do my best to keep out of your way. If you would just sign the papers approving the menus then I’ll leave you…”
Lady Kilmartyn took the papers in her thin, bejeweled hand, and slowly, methodically ripped them in two. She dropped them on the floor and then looked Bryony full in the face, wincing dramatically as she took in the scars. “I do believe these menus are unacceptable. Make up new ones. And I want you to do it, not Mrs. Harkins. I recognize her semiliterate scrawl. In fact, Mrs. Greaves, I want you to make up complete menus for the next three weeks, so I have something to choose from. Assuming, of course, you stay that long.”
Bryony didn’t blink. This woman was her enemy, and she had no idea why. She did, however, have enough sense not to react. “Of course, Lady Kilmartyn.”
“You’re not wanted here,” the woman added in a low, scathing voice. “The sooner you realize it the better.”
The animosity was bewildering, and Bryony broke the cardinal rule of servitude. She asked a question. “Why do you dislike me, Lady Kilmartyn?”
The woman was momentarily taken aback. “Because my husband likes you. He never would have interfered if he wasn’t attracted to you. He wants to bring his affairs into my house and I won’t have it.”
“Lady Kilmartyn, have you taken a close look at me?” Bryony knew she had, of course, but she seemed to have forgotten one essential fact. “Why would any gentleman, in particular a gentleman who could presumably have anyone he wanted, be interested in the likes of me? You’re worried for nothing.” It was too familiar of her, but she was at a loss.
“You think he could have anyone he wants? Because he’s so handsome, so charming, so wickedly appealing? I knew you wanted him—I could see it in your eyes the moment you looked at him.” The woman’s voice was rising, moving toward hysteria, and the maid rushed over, flashing a furious glance at Bryony.
“Now, now, my lady, don’t let that one disturb you,” she murmured soothingly. “She will be gone soon enough, and you will have nothing to worry about.”
Bryony desperately wanted to point out she had nothing to worry about now, but Hortense glared at her, and she decided retreat was her best course. “If your ladyship will excuse me…” she began.
But Cecily Bruton’s voice rose to a scream. “Get out, get out, get out,” she shrieked, as Hortense put her skinny arms around her and began to soothe her in French.
Bryony decamped.
She made her way back to the kitchen, slowly enough, giving herself time to consider the unpleasant interview. Clearly she was going to have to deal with Kilmartyn after all.
Mrs. Harkins looked up hopefully when Bryony returned to the kitchen, but one look at her face and her empty hands told her what she needed to know. She sighed. “Should have gone to the master first,” she said.
“I had decided as much myself,” she said composedly, ignoring her apprehension. “When did he last approve the menus?”
“Not for weeks, Mrs. Greaves. Bertie will take his tray up and he can tell you when his lordship might be ready to see you.”
“It won’t be for a while,” Bryony said caustically. “And I have errands to do.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was quite the worse for drink last night. He barely made it into his rooms. Tell me, is that a common occurrence in this household?”
“Not common, but not unheard of,” Mrs. Harkins said carefully, clearly not wanting to malign her employer, and Bryony immediately realized her mistake. She should never have mentioned it, never have questioned, but tact had never been her strong point.
“Of course,” she said, dismissing it. “That’s not unusual. It was an impertinent question, but I need to visit the employment agency to find us new help and I planned to hire a valet for his lordship today as well. If he was frequently… indisposed that could alter my choice.”
Everyone turned to look at her in astonishment. Bertie was busy shining shoes, Emma gathering a mop and bucket, but the sudden silence was broken only by the sound of Becky, soldiering on at the sink.
“His lordship doesn’t wish to have a valet,” Mrs. Harkins said finally. “He refuses.”
“Which is why I will have to be extremely resourceful in hiring one,” Bryony said, unperturbed. “In the meantime, follow the menu you had planned. I’ll deal with his lordship later.”
She didn’t hesitate any longer. After her unpleasant interview with Lady Kilmartyn she found
she was in desperate need of fresh air, and there were servants to be hired. She wrapped her cloak around her and stepped out into the cool morning air to make her way to the employment agency.
Bryony had mastered the circuitous paths surrounding Berkeley Square and their old home on Curzon Street, and she arrived at Lawson’s Agency for Domestics in a good amount of time. They greeted her arrival with appropriate delight, plying her with tea and small cakes.
“I have a most startling suggestion, Mrs. Greaves,” Mr. Lawson himself said when she finished listing her requirements. “I beg you will hear me out.”
“Certainly, Mr. Lawson,” she agreed. He was a kindly man, slightly patronizing, but with a good heart.
“Just today the perfect man to serve as valet to his lordship arrived on our doorstep like a gift from heaven. I do think you should consider him.”
“It would be extremely shortsighted to ignore a gift from heaven, Mr. Lawson,” Bryony said, reaching for her cup of tea. “Tell me about him.”
The Earl of Kilmartyn never liked coming home. He always rose early, no matter how much he’d imbibed the night before, and he was out of the house before his loving wife could arise. He’d spent the early morning at the stables, watching the horses being put through their paces in light of the upcoming derby. Then his club provided a quiet place to read the paper and pick at the excellent food offered, and in the afternoon he played cards at Ridgely, the latest in a line of popular houses that offered both gambling and available women. He ignored the women, left the table nine hundred pounds to the good, and decided to walk home. The longer it took him the better—he had a great deal to think about. His brand-new live-in spy wouldn’t have time to be a problem—the house was in too much disarray. He could always go out, but he wasn’t in the mood for loud voices and bright lights; he wasn’t interested in willing women and inventive sex. He was in the mood to play games.
He climbed the front steps, two at a time, and was astonished to see it open before he had to apply his cane. Mrs. Greaves had already improved things.