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She wasn’t foolish enough to take that as a compliment. She maintained her starchy demeanor, one at odds with her rumpled appearance. She’d been working too hard on his house again, he thought. “I hope I provide good service, my lord.”
His smile widened, and he wondered if she recognized the wickedness in it. “Oh, you will, Mrs. Greaves.”
She did. She stiffened even more, then relaxed, as if she thought she’d misread his intention. Foolish girl.
And she was a girl. Even if her years on earth were close to thirty there was a certain innocence about her. Mrs. Greaves was no widow. She was a virgin. And he liked unsettling her. He hadn’t made up his mind whether he’d do anything about his odd, powerful attraction to her. Bedding servants was bad enough; bedding a spy could be disastrous.
But there was that lovely mouth.
Not now, unfortunately. “I’ll be in my library,” he said abruptly. “I have work to do.”
“Very good, my lord,” Collins said. “Will you be going out later?”
He glanced at his housekeeper. Bryony. That was too uncommon a name to take—it was more than likely her own. Just as Greaves most certainly wasn’t. “Nothing for now. In fact, the two of you can go off and leave me alone.” He sounded bad-tempered and he didn’t care. For some reason the woman irritated him. Fascinated him. Aroused him. And he had to decide just what he was going to do about it.
She didn’t blink. She wasn’t a servant, but she was a damned good actress. That might be why he found her slightly familiar. He must have seen her onstage at some point. For some reason he’d assumed she was here on her own volition, but now he realized the unlikelihood of that. Women were seldom bent on spying, his wife being the exception. Mrs. Greaves must have been hired by someone to infiltrate his household. He wondered if those scars were even real.
But who could have hired her? He was outspoken in his views about independence for Ireland, and those views were very unpopular, particularly since the latest outrage caused by the Fenian rebels. More than thirty people had died in the explosion at Clerkenwell Jail, and a hundred were injured, and the call for redress had been immediate and fierce. If the police had caught any of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the group behind the bombing, the rebels would have been torn apart by the angry mob.
But there was no one to heap the blame on. No one knew it had been his money that had financed that plot, a plot he’d been told would be a peaceful distraction to get their leader out of jail. It didn’t matter that they’d lied to him—he wasn’t born yesterday. His money had paid for a bomb that killed people. It was on his head.
And his secret. Only Cecily knew, and she used her knowledge like a whip to keep him in line. He had no idea what would happen if he were found out. Whether he’d be up for charges in the House of Lords or treated like a common criminal. Barrett, the man who’d set the bomb, had been publicly hanged last year. Who was to say he wouldn’t follow? He had no seat in Parliament, those being relegated to only the oldest of the Irish peerages, but he had friends who could vote, wastrel friends who could be influenced, political friends who were sympathetic. But not if they found out he had been involved in the Fenian Outrage.
There were any number of politicians with opposing views who might be looking for ways to discredit him. They wouldn’t find any cause in his household. He’d severed all connection with the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and there should be no trace of his generous do
nation. Nowadays he kept his excesses in full view, and while they were notorious, he was no worse than many of the less upright members of society, simply less discreet. Being a lord, even an Irish one, excused any amount of misbehavior, be it gaming, sexual indulgences, or a surfeit of alcohol.
There was no way in hell they could find out the one thing that would discredit him entirely. Cecily was the keeper of that secret, and if it were out it would be worthless to her. The value was in the holding of it, and she would protect it with her cold, black heart.
Mrs. Greaves had vanished into the cavernous hallway without a word, and he knew a moment’s regret. Collins remained, still holding his gloves and hat. Kilmartyn glared at him. “Go away,” he snapped.
“As you wish, my lord,” Collins murmured.
Kilmartyn stared down the hallway where Bryony Greaves had disappeared. After a moment he headed for his library, trying to ignore temptation for the very first time in his life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NOW DIDN’T THAT SABOTAGE all her plans, Bryony thought as she headed back down to the kitchens. She’d been busy every single moment since she’d risen at that ungodly hour—once she’d returned from the employment agency she’d assisted with the cleaning, with the intention of taking sole responsibility for Kilmartyn’s study and whatever papers might be there, but Emily had insisted on helping her, and all her efforts to dislodge the girl had been fruitless. So instead she’d spent hours scrubbing fireplace bricks and polishing doorknobs, cleaning windows and shaking out rugs. She hadn’t wasted time looking for a bathing room, but tonight she had no choice. She was filthy.
She’d hoped to make it back to the study when they’d finished cleaning for the day, but the new employees arrived, and Mr. Lawson’s suggestion had been brilliant. Hiring an Irishman to serve Lord Kilmartyn was positively inspired, and Mr. Lawson had assured her how rare it was to have found a qualified candidate. His arrival at the agency that very day had been most opportune, and Bryony could only agree.
The others, a new footman and two new maids, were exceptionally well chosen. Interviewing them, getting them settled, and instructing them in their duties had taken the rest of the day, and she had devoutly hoped that she could slip away during dinner, having been told that the earl never returned home until the small hours of the morning.
Apparently they’d been wrong. Now he was ensconced in the library, the most logical place for her to find any evidence of wrongdoing, and there was no way she could search the place.
Belowstairs they had already eaten their supper. Becky was scrubbing dishes while Mrs. Harkins sat by the stove with a disheartened expression.
“What’s wrong?” Bryony asked, shoving her disordered hair away from her face.
“Not a thing, Mrs. Greaves. At least, nothing I’m not used to. I made truite meunière, followed by the most succulent of lamb chops, some fresh spring potatoes with mint and parsley, a baked turnip with watercress glacé, and they won’t eat.” Her torture of the French made Bryony hide her smile. “Her ladyship says she requires nothing but toast and tea, and his lordship—”
“His lordship says he is not to be disturbed,” Collins spoke from behind her.
Mrs. Harkin’s face crumpled. “It’s a waste of my time and genius! It fair to breaks my heart, working so hard over a meal only to have it tossed back in my face.”
There was an awkward silence in the kitchen. They all knew that the vagaries of their employers were sacred and that life was unfair, and there was no comfort to offer the poor woman.
The hell there wasn’t, Bryony thought. “Mrs. Harkins, please make up a tray.”
