“Shocked you, didn’t I, my very dear Miss Greaves? Do you even know the meaning of the bad words you occasionally spout when you’re caught unawares? I’d suggest you ask someone.”
She gave him the same steely gaze she used to subdue her sisters. “If you’re finished with me, my lord, I have to oversee the maids, have them move your belongings to the yellow room. Mr. Peach and his men should be arriving shortly.”
“I’m not finished with you by a long shot, my pet. But if you want to go make my bed, feel perfectly free.”
She gave him a glacial nod and moved to pick up the breakfast tray. It wasn’t her place to do such menial labor, but then, she’d done far worse in the few days she’d been in residence. Unfortunately she had nothing to show for her great subterfuge but cracked, blistered hands, a spotless house, an inexplicable ache in her heart with no proof at all of the man’s guilt or innocence. She was going to need to work harder.
She leaned across the desk and caught the handles of the heavy silver tray, about to lift it when his hands gripped her wrists, stopping her. He lifted her hands, and though she tried to yank them away he was holding her tight.
She was used to wearing gloves. Last night had been a strange, dreamlike interlude, one she could pretend hadn’t happened. For some reason the broad daylight on her poor hands made everything more intimate, his skin on hers. “What in God’s name have you been doing to your hands?” he demanded.
“Cleaning your house.”
“That’s the maids’ work.”
“It is. But when I first arrived we didn’t have enough staff, and the place was a disaster. We had to make a start on it.”
He’d turned her hand over, his thumbs rubbing the soft spot in her palms, and he said another foul word. “You need to do something about them.”
“I will. It’s the housekeeper’s place to see to the care of minor wounds and such. When I get a chance I’ll use some salve and wear gloves if your lordship doesn’t mind.”
“His lordship doesn’t mind.” The indolent master had returned, releasing her hands and leaning back in his chair. “Go and do it now. Unless you’d rather I take care of you.”
“No, my lord.” She started to pick the tray up again but he brushed her away. “Yes, my lord.”
“Send someone else in. Send the new boy so I can take a look at him. It would be a good idea if I knew just who had free run of my household.”
Like that handsome man outside the ballroom, Bryony thought, and almost opened her mouth to say something. But then, he was clearly there as an intimate guest of Lady Kilmartyn, and it would hardly be politic to mention him.
“Yes, my lord. Do you know when we may expect the return of your wife?”
He shrugged, completely unabashed, as if he hadn’t had her in his bed last night, hadn’t been kissing her so thoroughly she doubted her mouth would ever forget the feel and taste of it.
“I have no idea. If she stays true to form she won’t return for weeks. No need to bother with cleaning up in there. Save your hands.”
She was getting to the point where she didn’t believe a word he said. The unpleasant Lady Kilmartyn could return anytime now. If she was to get a chance to search her rooms that chance would be now.
“Of course, my lord,” she murmured. She was getting so very good at lying.
Kilmartyn sat where he was, staring at the closed door to his study, considering matters. Things were becoming a bit clearer, but for every a
nswer two more questions sprung up.
Such as, why had one of Russell’s daughters infiltrated his household?
It had come to him in a moment, when he’d randomly mentioned sisters, and then everything had fallen into place. The reason her eyes looked so familiar. Not the shape of them, but the deep blue color that he’d only seen in one other person. Eustace Russell was a far cry from the pretty woman who was trying so hard to look plain—it was little wonder he hadn’t recognized the eyes he was used to seeing in a heavy, aging face. But once he had made the connection he was shocked it had taken so long.
His little spy had nothing to do with his own secrets—she would have no reason to be interested in the fact that he’d supported a doomed and dangerous cause, something that could get him arrested and possibly even hanged for treason.
But Eustace Russell was another matter entirely. Her father had committed a crime and been caught at it, and died trying to escape the country. He was disgraced, his entire estate confiscated by the crown, and at the time Kilmartyn hadn’t remembered his three daughters, much less felt a moment’s concern for their well-being. His own solicitor had assured him the girls were well cared for by their late mother’s estate, and they had no need of money earned the old-fashioned way, by hard work.
He hadn’t even bothered to revisit Russell’s peculiar accusation, ascribing it to an attempt to divert suspicion from his own nefarious activities. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Why was Russell’s daughter here? He was almost positive she was the eldest, the one he’d never met. Supposedly a childhood illness had left her weak. Obviously a lie, to cover up the fact that she had a few trifling scars from a bout with smallpox. It was hard to believe that was the reason she’d been hidden away, but he could think of no other.
He might be mistaken, but he didn’t think so. Russell had not been a pretty man, but those uncommon blue eyes were a giveaway. And their mother had been an acclaimed beauty, which explained where Miss Greaves had gotten her looks.
Miss Greaves? Miss Grieves! Now that he thought about it everything was incredibly obvious, and he was tempted to go after her and demand what the hell she was doing. What she wanted from him.