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Because he knew what he wanted from her.
That was another matter entirely, one he needed to put out of his mind until he found out why she was here. He couldn’t afford to think with his cock right now. That could come later.
The first thing he needed to check was the status of the daughters’ finances. He trusted his solicitor completely, but there had been a great deal to sort through at the time, what with Russell’s supposed absconding with such a huge amount of investors’ money, and the welfare of the criminal’s offspring had hardly been of monumental importance. It was possible they didn’t have enough money to support themselves, and with the cloud over Eustace Russell’s name the girls would be hard put to make decent marriages. But no matter how destitute they might actually be, there was no reason for them to do manual labor.
Now one of them had landed in his lap. He had an unfortunate tendency to remember almost everything people said to him, and he instantly remembered Russell’s talk of his three daughters. He’d even had miniatures of two of them on his desk. With the third he’d had only a silhouette.
He shook his head in disbelief. Was her family blind? Had they been the ones to turn her into a pariah, or had she chosen that way herself? He knew enough about her strength of will to guess that it had been mostly her choice.
The pseudonymous Mrs. Greaves was Bryony. She’d given her name as Bryony Greaves, and it was an easy jump. If she was going to take as obvious a last name as Greaves then she probably wouldn’t go far from her given name, no matter how unusual it was. People who were pretending to be someone other than who they were—and he had far too much experience in that regard—would be wise to stay as close to their given name as possible. And Miss Bryony Russell was a very wise young woman.
He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. This was even better than he expected. She could have only one reason to be in his household. She must believe her father innocent, and she was looking either for a scapegoat or the missing fortune, or both.
He himself had little doubt that Russell had done it. The evidence had been clear—there had been no other possible conclusion. Then again, perhaps that evidence had been just a little too clear. He’d known Russell since he’d first come to England, had considered the man a mentor as well as a business partner. Not that Russell was a particularly warm man. In fact, he was gruff and practical and rigidly honest…
Kilmartyn slammed his hand down on the desk with a muttered oath, and the dishes jumped. God, he’d been a fool! Russell had always been so scrupulous about matters of business—insisting on refunds if he considered there had been an error on the part of his employees, despite his concern for his stockholders. He never would have stolen money and tried to run away with it, abandoning his daughters, nor destroyed the company he was so proud of, the company that bore his name. His coach had gone over the cliffs near Devonport, his daughters left behind in Somerset to fend for themselves. The one weakness Russell had had was for his children. He would never have abandoned them.
Rising, he paced toward the window, pushing the curtain aside to stare out at the damp spring day. This changed everything. No wonder they hadn’t found a trace of the fortune that had gone missing. Russell had never had it. Though why he’d been heading toward Devonport was anybody’s guess. Unless he was going after Captain Thomas Morgan.
Morgan was a reprobate, and it took one to know one. He’d lived hard for his thirty-some years, including a stint as a privateer down in the Indian Ocean. His ethics and morals had always been highly questionable, but he’d been a damned good captain, and up until a week before Russell had died he’d commanded the best ship in the fleet.
Kilmartyn had had very little to do with the day-to-day running of the business—he sat on the board of directors and Russell would consult him about the financial end of things. Kilmartyn had an exceptional mind for business, a fact that had always amused him. Since he’d come to London he’d made ridiculous amounts of money, and even after sending the bulk back to the estate in Ireland he still managed to live in luxury. So much that he hadn’t paid proper attention when the Fenians had come to him for help, calling on his Irish blood. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again, if he managed to survive the first one.
He hadn’t known that Russell had sent orders to remove Morgan from his command at the last minute, beaching him like a fish. Or, remembering Morgan, a shark. That came out in the inquest, but Morgan had insisted he had no idea why.
If Russell had been heading toward Morgan then the man must be involved, or at least Russell had had very good reason to believe so.
Had his little spy deduced that? Apparently not, since she was busy snooping around his house and not Morgan’s. Of course, he had the advantage of knowing he had nothing to do with the huge mess, whereas Bryony Russell thought he might be a murderer.
He turned back, smiling faintly. If he were a good man he would call her into the library, tell her he’d seen through her charade, and explain to her why Morgan was the logical culprit.
But then, he wasn’t a good man, he knew that. He was a liar, a cheat, a shallow, conscienceless cad.
He was also a very handsome man; his mirror, his horrible wife, and the female half of society made that very clear. He could have just about anyone he wanted, with little or no effort. But for some damned reason he wanted Bryony Russell, thorns and all.
Maybe it was simply the challenge she offered, the sheer delight of playing her ridiculous game, confounding her even more. In the end, when he was ready to let her go, he’d tell her the truth. And then she could run off to Devonport and see if Thomas Morgan was in need of a housekeeper. And if that thought bothered him he’d soon get over it.
At least Cecily had decided to disappear without a trace. She had a habit of doing so, ever since the first time, when he’d gone into a panic, afraid she’d thrown herself in the river. Nowadays he couldn’t care less. For the time being he didn’t have to worry about her and what kind of trouble she might be stirring up for him, a small blessing. He didn’t have to deal with her threats or her tantrums. She was gone and she could stay that way.
He’d much rather concentrate on Miss Bryony Russell. Bryony. First off, it would behoove him to find out where the other two sisters were, and what their financial situation really was. Then, and only then would he start in on the cuckoo in his nest.
There was only one problem with all this. Seducing well-born virgins was universally frowned upon by society. It was just lucky he didn’t give a tinker’s damn about society. Because he meant to have her, and he was getting tired of waiting. Last night he’d had a taste, and that taste lingered in his senses, driving him mad. He would have her, and soon.
The question was, would he ever be ready to let her go?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN THE END, Bryony had no choice in the matter. Much as she wanted to inspect Lady Kilmartyn’s apartment, Mr. Peach and his crew were arriving after lunch to begin work on Kilmartyn’s room, and she needed to get his belongings out of there. More important, she needed to get the leather book from beneath the mattress.
It had been easier than she expected. Mr. Collins was an excellent taskmaster, and he kept the men busy making room for the new furniture. She could hear the girls chattering away cheerfully from down the hall, and there were no eyes to watch her as she stepped back into his bedchamber once more.
She was perfectly composed looking out the tall windows, glancing at the pretty rug, the door to the empty dressing room. It wasn’t until she looked down at the unmade bed that her body felt suffused with heat.
She needed fresh air, she thought, making no move to go to the window. She simply stood and stared at the bed. Your heart is pounding, your pulses are racing, and your nipples are hard. I’m willing to bet my swe
et little virgin is wet. His soft, seductive words echoed in her mind, as she felt her body responding to the memory of those moments in the bed with him, the fierce surge of pleasure at the touch of his hand between her legs.
She gave herself an impatient shake. She was no young debutante to be all atremble over a man. She was simply… unused to such attentions. It was no wonder it had upset her. But she was strong-willed, and she would deal with it.
