There was even a rug beneath her feet, a rug she’d had to hold out one of the windows and shake fiercely. And the windows were wonderful, now that they were clean, letting in a view of the rooftops of Mayfair. She was like a bird, she thought, perching high overhead, looking down on everything.
The bed had seen better days, but it wasn’t any worse than their previous accommodations. That made her think of her sisters, and for a moment she felt such longing, such worry. They would be fine, of course. Nanny Gruen would look after them, and sooner or later some nice young man would show up and fall in love with Maddy. A rich young man would be perfect—he could see to Sophie as well—but if she had to choose she’d prefer kindness.
Not that her sisters would be amenable to her choosing their husbands. They were both strong-minded, though Sophie was more interested in playing prospective suitors one against the other. In her first season she’d evinced not the slightest interest in any of the young men flocking around her.
Maddy was different, more sober, sensible beneath her pretty exterior. Tarkington had been on the verge of offering when the news of their father’s disgrace came, and he’d beat a hasty retreat. So had everybody else. No one had any interest in associating with the impoverished daughters of a dead thief who’d almost brought the financial structure of a nation to a standstill.
Of course, it could simply be a matter of the very strict rules governing mourning periods. In six months’ time, with their fortune restored and their father’s name cleared, the girls could begin to emerge from the shroud propriety demanded of them. Within a year they could reenter society and even entertain offers, though some might frown at the haste.
She needed her sisters taken care of. She needed not to lie awake in this narrow, uncomfortable bed and worry about them, as she worried about so many things.
It would be about five in the morning, she guessed. Something had woken her—voices, perhaps, though she couldn’t imagine who else might be awake at such an ungodly hour. She might as well get up. Perhaps when this household was better ordered she could sleep in one slothful hour later, but right now she had work to do. The sooner she got this household running properly the sooner she could start concentrating on finding out the truth about her employer. He was hiding something, she just knew it. But was it something evil, or simply the normal secrets that seem to creep into one’s life?
The kitchen was a bustle of activity, and the wide table was spotless. Mrs. Harkins was in the midst of kneading dough, and she looked up when Bryony came in.
“I sent a message to one of the girls who used to work here,” she said. “Begging your pardon for being so forward, but since Becky knows this kitchen and my work habits, and she was in need of a job I thought…”
“Very resourceful, Mrs. Harkins,” she said in a soothing voice, glancing over at the wide copper sink where a young woman was scrubbing pots. “I’m sure you’re the best judge of your own kitchen.”
The cook beamed at her, clearly pleased her own area of power wasn’t threatened. Bryony continued. “Would you like me to present the menus to Lady Kilmartyn or would you prefer to do it?”
Mrs. Harkins looked skeptical. “Her ladyship usually just waves me away when I try. She says the thought of all that food makes her ill.” There was no disguising the hurt in Mrs. Harkins’s voice. “I’ve been taking it to the master the last few weeks. At least he looks at it, and I know I’m not going to lose my place for ordering venison from Scotland and oranges from Spain.”
“You won’t lose your place—this household is lucky to have you,” Bryony said firmly. “Let’s start with her ladyship. When does she usually wa
ke?”
“She’s already had her first tray. We bring her hot cocoa first, then follow it with a breakfast tray that she never touches. Emma was just about to carry it up.”
“Then I’ll go with her,” Bryony said decisively.
Facing the haughty countess was not high on her list of preferred duties but anything was preferable to the fascinating earl. She doubted she could look at him without remembering the forbidden feel of his skin beneath her hand, his mouth beneath hers. What kind of madness had filled her last night? One would have thought she was the one who was drunk, not Kilmartyn.
The countess was reclining in state in the sitting room Bryony had first been taken to when she arrived there, following the dutiful Emma. It was on the second floor, and her first impression was heat and cloying perfume. It took all her strength not to cough.
Mademoiselle Hortense, the countess’s haughty maid, barred her way, her thin body rigid. “Her ladyship has not asked for you,” she said in her heavily accented English.
“Oh, never mind, Hortense,” Lady Kilmartyn’s airy voice floated to the door. “I may as well see her. Come in, Mrs. Greaves. How can I help you?”
Cecily, Lady Kilmartyn, looked as beautiful as ever. Today the dark curtains were pulled back, and Bryony could see her quite clearly. It was little wonder Kilmartyn had fallen in love with her.
Cecily was staring at her with cool disdain, though she was keeping her gaze carefully focused on Bryony’s right ear, the furthest part of her face from the scars that marred her, and suddenly Bryony thought of her mother. Her mother had managed to never look at her directly once she’d recovered.
She took a deep breath and managed a pleasant smile. “I’ve brought the menus for the week. Mrs. Harkins did an excellent job of planning, but we need your approval, and it would help to know if we’re to expect any guests in the next fortnight.”
“I fail to see why that’s any of your concern.”
“We want the household to be ready if you do have guests. So you can take pride in your surroundings.”
Cecily Bruton’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about my surroundings. You think you have me fooled, Mrs. Greaves, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know why you’re here.”
Sudden tension ripped through Bryony. How could the woman know? Was Kilmartyn the true villain, and his wife his accomplice? And was her disguise so poor that it took less than a day to penetrate it? She kept her face impassive, saying nothing.
“You’re here for my husband, aren’t you?” Lady Kilmartyn said accusingly.
Well, in fact, that was the truth, though certainly not in the way Cecily Bruton meant it. “I’m here to serve you, my lady.” The words burned her tongue, but her tone was just the right side of servile.
Lady Kilmartyn had shifted her gaze to Bryony’s shoulder. “Women love my husband,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard Bryony’s words. “He’s irresistible, and I’m afraid servants have always been fair game for the master of the house. If you haven’t come to seduce my husband then you’d be far better off leaving. Today. We can do very well without a housekeeper, and you’ll be generously compensated.”