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“Then they beg on the streets, sell their bodies for a pittance, rot their brains with gin, and give their children away. They die young, and the next generation takes their place, disease-ridden and desperate. And the English government does nothing about it, both here and in Ireland.”
She was momentarily shocked by both his words and the intensity behind them. “And what are you doing about it?”
He blinked, as if realizing he’d said too much. “Doing?” He shrugged. “I give to charity, I charm a few politicians, but my main pursuit is pleasure. Fortunately that’s as easy to find as a starving orphan.”
There was no missing the faint bitterness in his voice. “And in your own house, my lord. You have a beautiful wife.” Her voice was stiff.
Once more he was amused. “The pleasure I intend to pursue in my own house isn’t my wife, Miss Greaves. And don’t call me ‘my lord.’”
“Then why do you insist on calling me ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Mrs’?” She knew no servant would address their employer in that tone, but she couldn’t help it.
He leaned forward, and his smile was devastating, lighting his dark green eyes, the kind of smile to mesmerize some vulnerable young girl who didn’t have better sense. Fortunately she was neither young nor vulnerable, and her common sense was excellent. She was immune to that charm of his, even as she felt her skin warm.
“Because, mo chuisle,” he said softly, sounding very Irish indeed, “You’re as sure a virgin as I am Irish. There was no Mr. Greaves, there was no anyone. You’re untouched, and that’s a crying shame.”
She froze, her skin heating. He was having the strangest effect on her normally obedient body. At his words she felt her stomach tighten, as strange, warm sensations moved through the lower part of her body in a most disconcerting manner. What was wrong with her? She finally found her voice. “I don’t think that’s any of your concern, my—” She stopped in the nick of time.
“Don’t you, now?” He smiled at her, but his eyes were steady, gazing into hers. “We’ll have to see about that.”
“I really should check on the kitchen,” she said hastily, suddenly desperate to escape. “The new maids and the scullery girl seem very capable, but I should—”
“I have complete faith in your judgment. I think they’ll be perfectly fine. Their work should be done—most of them have probably been enjoying themselves.”
“I’m exhausted,” she said quickly, no lie. And this verbal sparring was making things worse. “I should retire.”
“It’s only nine.”
She looked at him suspiciously. This was going all wrong, and she had no idea how to put things back on the proper footing. He wasn’t treating her like a housekeeper, and she wasn’t responding like a proper servant. “What does ‘macushla’ mean?”
“Nothing so terrible, Bryony. I’ll tell you later.”
She wondered how he even knew her first name. She’d had to sign papers, but he should hardly have been interested in such a triviality, not enough to remember it. She straightened her back. This had to stop. “I believe you should call me Mrs. Greaves, not by my given name. Those are reserved for housemaids, not upper servants, and I believe I’ve earned the honor.”
“You may have earned the honor, my heart’s delight, but you most definitely haven’t earned the Mrs.”
Enough was enough. She stood up, so abruptly she knocked the dishes, and she caught them before they fell on the floor. “I believe I’ll retire, your lordship,” she said sternly. “Bertie will remove the dishes.”He didn’t rise. Of course he didn’t, she was a servant, she reminded herself. “I haven’t dismissed you, Bryony.” It was a challenge, with a charming smile and eyes of forest green.
Servility could only carry her so far. “But I’ve dismissed you, my lord,” she said serenely, and sailed from the room, closing the door behind her.
She should have been horrified by her temerity, shocked by her boldness. But she heard his laughter behind the heavy door, and breathed a sigh of relief. The Earl of Kilmartyn was proving to be far more of a challenge than she’d expected, but she could deal with him.
She’d been a fool to think this was going to be easy. She had expected he’d be gone, that she’d be able to search his office and any other place that might hold critical information while she directed the servants to work in other areas of the house, but so far she’d been run ragged, and he’d been home, when he should have been off somewhere. She’d also imagined she’d be invisible, as a good servant should be. But the Earl of Kilmartyn insisted on looking at her, at her, not her scars, and his attention was most unsettling. It caused her stomach to flip around in a ridiculous manner, it caused an odd, not unpleasant cramping sensation lower down. It even made her… chest area… feel sensitive. If she didn’t know better she would say he was trying to seduce her. Not that she had any experience with seduction, but she’d read a lot.
It was his form of amusement, she thought, pushing away from the door and starting down the servants’ staircase. But she could deal with it. Still, if there was anything she could do to speed up her investigations it would be a good thing. Once she was assured of his innocence she would simply decamp in the night. The Kilmartyns would once more be left without a housekeeper, but they’d muddled through before.
She wasn’t quite certain what she’d do if she found proof of his guilt. There was something wrong here, she had no doubt of it, but for some reason she didn’t want to think this beautiful, unexpected man had had anything to do with her father’s disgrace. Could he really be a cold-blooded murderer and embezzler? She was a fool not to consider such a thing, considering her father’s hasty note to himself.
She couldn’t afford to ignore it, and she couldn’t afford to assume Kilmartyn was innocent. There were secrets in this house, dark secrets; she could practically breathe them in. Whether they had to do with her father or something else, she didn’t dare leave until she knew the truth.
Even if the truth wasn’t what she wanted to believe.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRYONY WOKE EARLY, after a nearly sleepless night. For some reason she kept thinking of the Earl of Kilmartyn, the heat in his eyes when he looked at her, and it made her skin feel uncomfortably warm. She would rise and throw open the window, letting in the cool night air, and then grow chilly, and rise to close it again. When she dreamed the images were confused and disturbing, sensual dreams of touching and tasting, so that when she finally awoke the sheets were twisted about her and she was covered with a film of sweat.
Fortunately she’d already requested that a bath be prepared for her, and she’d heard Bertie clumping up and down the stairs, hauling the tins of water. Poor man, and his day had only begun, but he was good-natured and hard-working. As the senior servant, Bryony would be the first to enjoy the bath, and the maids would have to make do in her water, but with such hard toil, so much dust, and the craziness of her disordered dreams, she would have carried the water herself if necessary.
The bath improved her mood exponentially. She braided her wet hair in tight plaits and fastened it in a bun at the back of her neck. She put on her second dress, the one that clung to her curves a little more closely and bared too much of her throat, but she covered it up with a capacious apron and hoped for the best. She was going to have to institute regular
