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At least she must have managed to get back to her own room safely enough. With great care she pushed herself up, swinging her trembling legs over the side of the bed. Her entire body felt tender, from her breasts to between her legs to the soles of feet to her scalp. Sitting motionless on the side of the bed wouldn’t fix anything, however, and she could scarcely spend the day in her room. The only way to get past this was to get through it, and she pushed herself to her feet, swaying for a moment before moving to the wardrobe.
Stripping off her nightclothes, she dressed as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the fiendish screeches of the normally twittering birds outside. On top of everything else her stomach was queasy, and the thought of one of Mrs. Harkins’s grand fry-ups was daunting. There must be some way she could avoid looking at eggs while they were staring
back at her.
She’d washed her hair in Kilmartyn’s impressive bathtub last night, and she’d fallen asleep before it had dried properly. Dragging a comb through the tangled mess had tears springing in her eyes, and there was no way she could bring it under complete control. By the time she’d managed to plait it and pin it down at the nape of her neck she was ready to go back to bed and be damned to the consequences. She pinned a black lace cap to the back of her hair, trying to blink away the tears that filled her eyes, and then she straightened her shoulders and started down the endless flights of stairs. If she was lucky no one would have any knowledge of those missing hours. If it was up to her she’d just as soon not remember them either.
For some reason Mrs. Harkins had decided to make an extreme racket as she capably handled her pots and pans. She gave Bryony a comforting look. “Slept in, did you? Well, you needed that. And not to worry—Emma saw to the master’s morning tray and he’ll probably want to see you later. He was asking about the mistress’s rooms—apparently he knew they were in a mess. I just hope it wasn’t another knockdown, dragged out fight.” She slammed a cast-iron skillet onto the hob and tossed some butter in. Even the sizzle made Bryony’s ears itch.
“Do they have knockdown, dragged out fights?” she said, the sound of her voice echoing inside her head. She needed tea, strong tea with loads of sugar and cream, quite badly. She sat at the table and poured herself a cup, then paused, staring down at the clean, scarred surface. There was something about the worktable, something about the kitchen, something she needed to remember. No, something she didn’t want to remember. She looked up quickly.
“Occasionally. I don’t think he hits her—he’s the only one who’s ever seemed to have bruises. She screams and rages and throws things, and I expect he goads her. There’s no love lost between them.”
She wasn’t sure whether this knowledge pleased her or frightened her. On the one hand, she was illogically happy that he didn’t care for his wife, and she wasn’t going to consider why. On the other, if what she suspected had happened in that room, his dislike of his wife wasn’t a good sign.
She brought the cup to her lips, trying to disguise the fact that her hands were shaking. The first sip was ambrosia, and she felt her world begin to fall back into order. Another, and the incessant pounding in her head quieted. Whether it was the tea, the sugar, or simply the ritual of it all, she was coming alive again. With the sense that something was dreadfully wrong.
Was it just the disaster in the countess’s apartments? Or was there something else, something possibly catastrophic, that she couldn’t remember? Didn’t want to remember.
“Are you quite all right, Mrs. Greaves?”
She looked up at Mr. Collins and managed to shake off some of her dark doubts. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I simply wondered if something had gone on last night. I found bits of glass on the floor down here, and the bottle of cognac is missing.”
Hell’s bells, she thought miserably. Her sins were coming home to roost. She must have dropped the bottle—that was the catastrophe her mind refused to recall. “My fault, I confess,” she said easily. “I thought I heard a noise and I came down to investigate, and I’m afraid I knocked over the tray in the pantry.”
“You should have come and got me and some of the menservants,” Collins said severely. “It could have been an intruder. I’ve heard stories of bad things happening, even in this part of town, and you can’t be too careful.”
“Next time I’ll be certain to call for you.” She took another deep gulp of tea, grateful to note that her hands weren’t shaking, grateful that Mr. Collins didn’t question why the tray he’d left in the butler’s pantry had been broken in the kitchen. She could have come up with a convoluted excuse but right then her brain was too tired to think.
“He’s in a right foul mood,” Bertie said as he came into the kitchen. “Something must have tweaked him real bad.” He spied Bryony. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Greaves.”
“He’s probably suffering the ill effects of overindulgence,” Mr. Collins said smoothly from his spot beside Mrs. Harkins, and Bryony’s sense of impending doom increased. “Not that it’s our place to criticize our betters. But drinking too deeply can wreak havoc with the mind and constitution. Take that as a lesson well learned, Bertie.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Collins,” Bertie said respectfully, as Bryony ducked her head. Collins was a great deal more observant than was entirely comfortable. “And he’s asking for you, Mrs. Greaves. Said as how you should bring a fresh pot of tea and two cups and meet him in the library.”
Mrs. Harkins threw her a look. “He certainly spends more time with you than other housekeepers we’ve had. It’s not my place to say anything, but you have a care. It’s clear to all of us you’re better bred than our usual run of housekeepers. You may not be aware of the dangers. Lord Kilmartyn is a very attractive man, with strong appetites and not much care for what society thinks. You could get into trouble quite easily if you’re not careful. He’s always had an eye out for a pretty girl.”
Bryony stared at her in astonishment. “Mrs. Harkins, do you have trouble with your eyesight? I’m a far cry from a pretty girl.”
“Nonsense,” the woman said comfortably as she watched the bubbling contents of her frying pan. “You’ve got a few marks on your face, that’s all. In truth, you’ve got a quiet sort of beauty, and a graceful way about you. You’re quality, in every sense of the word, and his lordship is well aware of it. I’m just being bold enough to warn you. We like having you here, and I, for one, wouldn’t want you to come to no harm.”
Harm? What kind of harm? The kind of harm that had befallen someone in Lady Kilmartyn’s room? Or some other kind of harm that she couldn’t remember?
She barely managed her calm smile. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Harkins, but I believe I’m well aware of his lordship’s… attractions. Trust me, I’m the last person he’d be interested in seducing. He’s much more likely to turn to someone like Emma.”
“Oh, goodness, no!” Emma squealed. “He scares me.”
“There’s nothing scary about him,” Bryony said crossly, and then could have bit her tongue. “He’s a man like any other,” she continued evenly, “despite his title.”
“And you’ve known so many men, Mrs. Greaves?” Mr. Collins asked. “Begging your pardon for the impertinence, but Mrs. Harkins is right concerned for you. You don’t have the air of someone who’s been… well, in the company of men much.”
Bryony straightened. She was supposed to be a woman of the world, a capable, mature housekeeper, not some sheltered ninny. Even if that was what she was feeling like at the moment. “No, Mr. Collins, I have not known many men. Not in the biblical sense, certainly, and not particularly in the social sense. My previous mistress and I lived a secluded life in Italy and here in England. Nevertheless, it’s been my responsibility to see to the gentlemen’s well-being when they visit a household I have charge of, and they’re really not so different.”
Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from Mrs. Harkins, but she said nothing, simply turned to the butler. “Mr. Collins, would you be good enough to make up a tray for Mrs. Greaves to take to the master? He likes things delivered promptly.”
Bryony drained her tea, shuddering. Was she one of the things being delivered to Kilmartyn? Of course not—where did that thought come from? So he’d kissed her, touched her when he’d had her in his bed a few nights ago. He’d probably do that to anyone who ended up in his bed. And he’d let her go quite easily.
