Kilmartyn watched her departure, at a dead run, and laughed softly. This was much more
fun than he’d expected it to be. He was doing everything he could to unsettle the cuckoo in his nest, the interloper, the spy, whatever she was.
All he had to do was come close, make some sexual innuendo, and she’d panic delightfully. More proof that the girl was the upright British virgin he knew her to be. Unfortunate, because virgins were not fair game, particularly upright British ones. When he’d so much rather see her horizontal.
He laughed again at his own wicked thoughts. She really was quite lovely. The scars on her face were a trifle—he’d seen worse on aristocrats who’d suffered from a surfeit of spots when they were young. That tawny hair of hers fascinated him, her dark blue eyes nagged at his memory. In fact, his enjoyment of this little game of cat and mouse warred with his discomfort. He was becoming a little too obsessed with her. Despite his reputation he wasn’t the heartless rake he was painted, and he didn’t like innocents.
But he found he was liking Miss Greaves. Bryony. Very much indeed.
“Rats!” Mrs. Harkins announced tragically when Bryony breezed in the door. “Rats in the cupboards, getting into me flour and meal, gnawing on the joint I planned to roast for dinner. I’ve had the rat catcher in half a dozen times and it does no good, and now there seem to be hundreds of them.”
“They do tend to breed,” Bryony said smoothly. She’d take rats over the Earl of Kilmartyn any day. “What we need is a cat.”
“An animal in my kitchen?” Mrs. Harkins said. “Never!”
“And a dog. The dog will catch the larger ones, the cat will take care of the mice.”
“Now I don’t mind a dog so much,” Mrs. Harkins said, softening. “But cats are nasty creatures. They look at you as if you’re put on earth to serve them, instead of the other way around.”
Bryony laughed. “That’s part of their charm.” She glanced around the kitchen. Bertie was polishing silver industriously, Mr. Collins was entering something in the wine ledger, and Becky, the scullery maid, was lurking in the corner.
“So, gentlemen,” she continued, “which do you prefer, cats or dogs?”
“Cats,” Mr. Collins announced. “They’re cleaner, and they hunt for the fun of it.”
“Dogs,” Bertie said, casting an apologetic glance at Collins. “They’re more friendly-like, and they’ll take out a rat quick as you please.”
“I likes ’em both,” piped up Jem, the new boy, as he came in lugging a huge brass kettle of coal. He set it down, taking a deep breath. The coal scuttle was almost as big as he was, and probably weighed as much.
“Jem, I think you should carry lighter loads,” Bryony said.
Jem straightened his shoulders, looking affronted. “Lighter? Mrs. Greaves, this is nuffin. I can carry twice as much and not break a sweat, I can.”
Tact, she reminded herself. “I’m sure you can, Jem. But we count on you so strongly that we’d be in disastrous straits if you happened to hurt yourself by overdoing.”
The grubby face looked slightly mollified. She’d have to see to baths for him as well, though to give him his due he had been mucking about in the coal cellar. “I won’t let you down, missus,” he said. “And I just happens to know of a dog what needs a home.”
Bryony raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Happen I do,” Jem said. “He’s a bit of a stray, but he’s a good boy, real friendly-like, and I’ve seen him catch rats big as cats themselves.”
Bryony hid her smile. “And do you know where we’d find this most excellent canine?”
“I can bring him to you, missus. I think I may have seen him in the stables.” He was trying to look innocent and failing.
Bryony had already heard the complaints from the coachman about the dog who’d seemed to arrive at the same time Jem did, though he did grudgingly say the dog wasn’t half-bad, which for Taggart was rare praise. But she decided not to mention it.
“That would be excellent, Jem. Thank you. You may fetch him when Mrs. Harkins can spare you.”
Mrs. Harkins sighed. “You might’s well go now then, boy,” she said. “Just leave the coal here for now—it’s a warm day and no one will be wanting a fire until later tonight, if then.”
“I don’t suppose anyone has a cat stashed someplace?” she asked idly.
“I can see to that, Mrs. Greaves,” Mr. Collins volunteered.
Bryony nodded. “There. Catastrophe averted. Mrs. Harkins, do you have something you can serve instead of the joint, or do you need me to go to the butcher’s for you?”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Harkins said cheerfully. “I’ll just cut off the part they gnawed on and feed it to the staff.”