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He should feel grief. Feel something. But instead he simply felt dazed, empty of everything, even relief. The only thing he could concentrate on was trying to figure out who was his enemy? Who would want Cecily dead? Who would want him dead as well, because surely he’d hang for it if they convicted him. Being a lord would do nothing to help him.
He was nobody’s scapegoat. The clothes were hidden at the back of his cupboard, where even the inquisitive Collins wouldn’t find them, and he’d deal with them later.
Cecily’s rooms, at first glance, had looked normal, despite the stench of spilled perfume. And then he recognized the coppery tang of spilled blood beneath the thick, flowery scent, and on closer inspection he’d seen signs of a struggle. Someone had cleaned up after whatever violence had been done to her, though he couldn’t imagine whom.
Yes, he could. Bryony could have done it, though he wasn’t certain why she’d bother. If she’d called the police it wouldn’t take long before she’d be exposed, but if she truly believed he was responsible for her father’s death he would have thought that would be exactly what she wanted.
And yet everything had been wiped clean. He was half-tempted to find his way back into those rooms, see if he could discover any sign left behind of what had happened, but something stopped him. If he was going anywhere he was going up to the servants’ quarters to see what the proper Miss Russell thought of his erotic engravings, and he couldn’t do that. Not given who she was. She was now officially off-limits.
Or was she? She’d destroyed her reputation by moving into his household. If word got out she’d never marry, never be able to hold her head up. But she’d said she had no intention of marrying, and she’d never been in society before—she would hardly start now, after her father’s disgrace. So who would know or care if he partook of such a tempting morsel?
She’d know. Bryony, for all her stern behavior, had a fragile heart beneath everything. She’d deny it as strongly as she’d deny who she was, but he knew women. He could scarcely seduce and then discard her like a demimondaine.
And he’d know. He didn’t have much of a conscience left, but what remained seemed to belong to Bryony.
He reached his temporary bedroom in the darkness, not bothering with the gaslight or even a candle. Collins was nowhere around, thank God. He stripped off his cravat and coat, undid his waistcoat and dropped it on the floor. He was bone-tired, and he didn’t want to think about blood or death or sex or anything pleasant or unpleasant. He just wanted to sleep.
He heard the footsteps, and cursed his damnably acute hearing. Someone was descending the servants’ stairs, too near his room, and he recognized the sound. Bryony Russell was heading downstairs, and there was the excellent chance he’d catch her just as she was rummaging through his desk.
That would be more than interesting. With a sigh he rose from his bed and moved into the darkened hallway.
The crash had woken her up. At least, she thought it was a crash—in the suddenness of her nighttime awakening she couldn’t be sure it was anything more than a bad dream. She heard it again, a muffled noise, and she sat up, reaching for her wrapper. It hadn’t come from directly beneath the servants’ floor, which should rule out Kilmartyn trying to find his drunken way to his new bedroom.
She slipped from the covers, her bare feet silent on the plain wood floor. She ought to go wake up one of the men. She moved to the cupboard and reached for her apron, and then pulled her hand back. She didn’t have her keys, and the door between the attics that housed the male and female servants was stoutly locked. There was no way she could rouse any of the men.
She could see a light coming from the gap under her door, and she froze. Whoever was approaching was silent, ominously so, and for a moment she was tempted to try to shove the wardrobe in front of the door to keep out whatever monster lurked there. And then she stiffened her back. There was no way she was going to cower in her room, leaving the other women to the mercy of whoever was roaming the house. She pulled open the door before she could think better of it, and both she and Emma shrieked in unison.
“Hush!” Bryony said firmly, as if she hadn’t been equally loud. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Mrs. Greaves, we heard the most dreadful noise coming from downstairs, and we thought you ought to know about it.”
“I heard it,” she said dryly. “It was probably nothing, but I think we’d best investigate, don’t you?”
Emma’s pale face looked aghast. “Oh, no, missus! I’m right terrified. I can’t go down there.”
Bryony stifled a sigh of irritation. “There’s nothing to hurt you, Emma. It was most likely his lordship returning home.”
“Most likely,” Emma said with alacrity. “And if it’s anyone else they’re hardly likely to want to bother the servants, even if they could find the back staircase. I’ll just go and tell the other girls not to worry about it.” She had already started to back down the hallway, leaving Bryony alone and in the dark.
“Wait a moment,” she said. “At least give me your lamp. I intend to investigate.”
Emma offered no token protest, simply handing the lamp to Bryony. “You be careful, missus.”
I’d be a great deal more careful if I had someone to watch my back, my girl, Bryony thought, irritation almost managing to wipe out her nervousness. “There’s ab
solutely nothing to worry about,” she said in the voice that had always convinced her younger sisters she was afraid of nothing. “But in the meantime you lock your door and stay in your room until morning. I don’t want to be running into you in the dark again and frightening the life out of me.”
“Yes, miss.” Emma bobbed a curtsy, and before Bryony could think of another way to make her stay the girl had disappeared into the darkness, followed by the closing of the door and the scrape of a lock.
Idiot, Bryony chided herself. Emma was a servant; she was her mistress, or at least as close as you could get. She could have simply ordered the girl to go with her.
Except she understood very well why the girl was so nervous. And she had no intention of ordering anyone to do something that she herself wasn’t willing to do.
Squaring her shoulders, she shut the door to her room behind her before starting down the narrow hallway, resisting the strong impulse to follow Emma’s lead and dive back into the safety of her bed. Emma was right—the servants’ staircase was hidden behind a series of baize doors, and no casual visitor to the house would easily discover it. She would make her way carefully down into the basement kitchen and equip herself with one of Mrs. Harkins’s stout butcher knives. She was also possessed of a most impressive scream, one that could rouse the entire household and scare away all but the most determined villain. If things got really bad she could hurl the lamp at him, but since that might end up with the house going up in flames, just as their house on Curzon Street had, that would be only as a last resort.
She could be as silent as she could be loud, and she barely made a sound as she crept down the endless flights of stairs to the kitchen, stopping on each landing to listen for any telltale noise. The house was quiet once more, and she wondered whether that crashing noise had been next door, or out in the streets. After all, she slept with her windows ajar, no matter how chill the spring weather, and she could have easily heard the sound of dustbins crashing over, or an amorous catfight.
She paused on the second floor, about to move on, when she heard a muffled curse, and she froze, suddenly terrified. The curse came again, and she sank back against the wall in relief, recognizing Kilmartyn’s deep voice. He’d come home after all, and he was probably so drunk he didn’t realize he wasn’t on the third floor but the second. If she were truly a good Christian she would rescue him, lead him to his bedroom, and dump him on his bed as she had the first night she’d been here. And she was going to do no such thing.
