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IT WAS INFINITELY REASSURING how well things seemed to come tog
ether, Bryony thought later that evening, sipping at her delicious cup of smoky China tea Mrs. Harkins had unearthed. Alfred and Ruby had been dismissed, departing in a huff, but Bertie and Emma had filled in admirably, and Bryony had pitched in, ensuring that the meal was presented and served as it should be, even if most of it was returned untouched.
She took a deep sip of the wonderful tea. She was right where she needed to be, with her sisters safely stowed in the countryside while Bryony did her investigating.
And so she was—starting with the Earl of Kilmartyn. He was the majority stockholder of Russell Shipping. The embezzlement scheme had left his share of the company oddly untouched, and the ensuing bank panic hadn’t affected him.
Her father’s lawyer had been no help in looking into things—he’d known he wouldn’t be paid, and he’d been brutally clear with what little information he had. Her father was a criminal who had stolen everything and left them destitute.
Not that Bryony could ever believe it. Her new employer was the logical villain. He was her father’s partner—who better than he to embezzle the fortune that Eustace Russell had spent his life amassing? A house on Berkeley Square cost a great deal to maintain, and the jewels around Lady Kilmartyn’s slender throat were impressive indeed.
Was he really capable of such a heinous act? To be sure, he was reputed to have the morals of an alley cat when it came to affairs of the heart—that much gossip had been simple enough to acquire. He also had an extraordinary gift for making the right investments, amassing a fortune so impressive it made society overlook his Irish heritage.
Bryony leaned back in her chair. There was a tiny office just off the kitchen, and her predecessor had left it in a shambles. She had cleaned it herself, had even found a comfortable chair in a storeroom that would definitely need clearing out. The material that covered it was ripped, but it didn’t take her more than a few moments to mend it with invisible stitches. Her feet hurt, her shoulders ached, her hands were raw. Given the wretched state of the household, even the housekeeper had to do her part, and the office had needed a thorough scrub.
She could only hope most days wouldn’t be so tiring. Housekeepers kept long hours, but they weren’t usually responsible for the rough work. Things were so disastrous in Kilmartyn’s house that today it was necessary, and perhaps tomorrow as well, until she managed to hire more help. But hard work never did a soul harm, and it kept her mind off things. Such as the darkness in Kilmartyn’s eyes, the lines of dissipation around his mouth and forehead.
Dissipation, or guilt gnawing at him?
“Mrs. Greaves?” Emma appeared in the open doorway, looking nervous. “Lord Kilmartyn’s asking for you.”
The tea immediately curdled in Bryony’s stomach. “For heaven’s sake, why?” she said, and then could have cursed herself. That wasn’t a proper housekeeper’s response. She quickly recovered. “Wouldn’t you know, just when I’ve gotten my feet up,” she said with a small laugh. She rose. She looked like a mess—her hair had come loose, her ugly worsted dress was wrinkled and spotted, she’d managed to roll up the sleeves and unfasten the neck. She needed to put herself in order, but she could hardly be caught primping. “Could you tell him I’ll be there momentarily? I can hardly present myself to my employer in this state.” She unfastened the apron she’d found and placed it on the desk.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Greaves, but he said you was to come immediately. He’s in the music room on the third floor and he says it can’t wait.”
This time she stifled her instinctive curse. Five blasted flights of stairs, from basement, ground floor, first floor through the third, when her feet were killing her. At least she’d been able to keep her own shoes and underclothes when they’d been brought back to London, though the soft, expensive leather was hardly made for such rough treatment. “Then I shall go,” she said calmly, rolling down her sleeves.
She had time enough to work on her toilette as she trudged up the servants’ stairs. There were no railings to help her—most servants were carrying things when they moved between floors—so she went slowly, refastening her sleeves at her wrist, fighting with her open neckline. The button there was missing, but the tiny bit of throat exposed was hardly noticeable. At least she was blessed in one matter—employers never really looked at servants. They were part of the furniture, existing solely to make the master’s life effortless.
She was out of breath by the time she reached the third floor. She moved swiftly through the back corridors into the dimly lit hallway. The double doors to the music room were closed, and for a moment she wondered whether Emma had been mistaken. Bryony would have given anything to simply walk up one more flight to her attic bedroom and curl up.
She stiffened her back. She was a Russell, she reminded herself. She was on a mission, and her father’s reputation and her sisters’ futures depended on her. She strode forward and knocked quietly on the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE EARL OF KILMARTYN knew he was getting drunk. Not as drunk as he could be, and he hadn’t indulged in absinthe for almost a week now. The Irish whiskey worked almost as well, though he wasn’t sure if the headache was worse than the aftereffects of the green fairy. He stretched out on a sofa, glass in one hand, waiting for his mysterious new housekeeper to come in and lie to him.
Other men might be annoyed. He was perversely pleased. After all, everyone lied; it was only to be expected. And he was damnably bored with life right now. Having a gently bred young woman wait on him was a novelty not to be missed.
She looked familiar, but he couldn’t imagine where he would have seen her before. Granted, the scattering of pox scars on one side of her face should have made her memorable, but he couldn’t place her. It was something about her eyes, perhaps. The dark, almost indigo eyes she tried to make cool and detached. Maybe she was a wandering lunatic, bringing danger into his household.
Wouldn’t that be delightful? he thought with cynical amusement. One could only hope.
He heard the quiet knock. Most servants scratched at the door, not wanting to intrude on their masters’ lives more than necessary. They were supposed to be like fairies, managing everything while they were unseen, invisible. It was simply unfortunate that he always noticed things.
It must be part of his bloody Irish heritage. Another thing to thank an absent God for. He was far too fanciful—what other grown man would even remember the notion of fairies?
“Come,” he said.
She slipped inside the room, the proper shadow of a servant. She looked different, though. Her hair was coming loose from its rigid arrangement of braids, curling slightly around her face. She was rumpled, and tired, and he knew he should feel guilty. She shouldn’t have worked herself into exhaustion in his household.
Then again, for some distant reason she had sought this out. He intended to find out why.
“Lord Kilmartyn?” she said, polite and professional, not like a damned spy at all.
He didn’t bother to sit up. “What color is your hair?”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
