Sex was about give and take. Desire and retreat, need and generosity, control and abandon. He’d never waited so long for a woman, which amused him, considering it had only been four days. In his experience most women fell at his feet. And if they didn’t, there were always other women available. Unfortunately, at least for the moment, no other woman would do.
Bryony. He liked it. His very dear Miss Greaves was Bryony Russell, eldest daughter of Eustace Russell, a woman who was purported to be an invalid, one who was judged too frail to appear in public. He’d snorted with laughter at that one. Bryony Russell was about as frail as a steamship. She’d stormed through his house like a typhoon and swept everything in front of her. It had been days since he’d seen so much as a speck of dust.
He didn’t want her weak, broken like this. He wanted her strong, fighting back, and he wasn’t going to consider why, or whether it had anything to do with this strange fascination she held for him. Indeed, he should probably just take her and get it done with. But she was going to have to be feeling just a little bit better before he became the complete villain he knew himself to be.
He woke up before she did, a knot in his neck, the arm beneath her numb. He slid from the bed, careful not to wake her. Her skin was cool, her color good. She hadn’t taken on an infection, and since the bullet had thankfully landed in a fleshy part of her arm she should be up and about in a few days, a week at most. In the meantime, he had things to do.
If Collins was surprised to see him strolling from the housekeeper’s bedroom he didn’t show it. “I’m afraid Mr. Peach’s men are here again, my lord. Would you like me to send them away?”
“How noisy are they?”
“Not very, my lord. I shouldn’t think they’d disturb you, and they’ve promised to finish today.”
He grimaced. “It was Mrs. Greaves I was concerned about. She’ll need peace and quiet while she recovers.”
“I don’t believe they’ll present a problem, my lord. Your rooms are at the opposite end of the house. If they disturb her we could always see they’re sent away to a more opportune time.”
He nodded, dismissing him, but Collins wasn’t so easily dismissed. “Might I be bold enough to inquire whether your lordship might like assistance with his toilette this morning? I am accounted an excellent barber—my gentlemen always said I had a most delicate hand with a razor.”
He was damnably tired. “I prefer to shave myself. In fact, I believe I’ll take a bath first, unless the workmen are mucking about in the bathing room.” He was very fond of the huge copper bathing tub and the hot water that traveled by pipes directly into it.
“Not at the moment, my lord. Allow me to draw one for you.”
There was an odd note in Collins’s voice, and Kilmartyn looked at him sharply. The imperturbable Collins was looking decidedly perturbed, almost… guilty. Odd. And interesting. Instead of sending him about his business, Kilmartyn nodded. “Do so then. And I believe I’ll sample your skills with the razor after all.”
Collins bowed, and most men wouldn’t have noticed any difference in his behavior. But Kilmartyn wasn’t most men. Something was off. Was Collins going to cut his throat when he shaved him? He could try, of course, but he wouldn’t get very far. If he were dealing with the gently reared son of a British lord then he might succeed. But Kilmartyn hadn’t been gently reared, he was Irish, and even if he hadn’t developed an unexpected distrust for his butler-cum-gentleman’s gentleman it would require someone of great cunning and skill to best him.
A man of great cunning and skill wouldn’t be letting his current agitation show. Something was disturbing Collins, and Kilmartyn had every intention of finding out what it was. His initial thought, that Collins harbored romantic feelings for the housekeeper, had evaporated. There was nothing of the worried lover in the man’s bearing. Something else was troubling his manservant, the one who had been thrust upon him despite his protests.
There was a logical conclusion. Collins arrived soon after Bryony, at her behest. There was a strong probability that they were in this together. But he didn’t think so. For one thing, what would a gentleman’s gentleman care about an embezzlement scheme? There was no doubt that was exactly what Collins was—he was too good at his vocation to be an imposter. And Kilmartyn had sensed no collusion between them. His housekeeper had secrets, and he’d known that, but Collins came as a surprise.
The bathing room was large, a converted bedroom at the back of the third floor, a fact which had annoyed his wife to no end.
He shook his head. He really was a heartless bastard. He’d been so worried about Bryony that he hadn’t given a thought to the fact that the woman he’d been married to for almost ten years, the woman he’d once loved to distraction with all the passion of a twenty-year-old, was almost certainly dead. They’d hated each other so intensely that it was impossible to summon the grief he knew he should be feeli
ng, but at least he should remember she’d been murdered. Unless she was perpetrating some complicated sham as revenge.
He didn’t think so. He was Irish enough to trust his instincts on this. Cecily was well and truly dead. He was now a widower. Whether he could prove it, and whether that proof might send him to the gallows, was another matter entirely.
He saw the merest shadow out of the corner of his eye as he walked down the hallway, but he moved quickly, grabbing the child by the scruffy shirt he wore and holding him while he struggled.
“And what are you doing on this floor, young Jem?” He gave him a gentle shake. “Are you spying on me?”
The child looked both indignant and guilty, and Kilmartyn remembered with a flash that his reaction to Bryony’s being shot had been similar to Collins’s. Remorse.
“Am not, guv’nor. Me lord,” he amended hastily, his dark eyes shifting. “I was just wanting to make sure Mrs. Greaves was all right.”
“Why should you care?”
Again the guilt. “She hired me, didn’t she?” he said. “No one ought to have shot her. He said… I mean, she should have been safe.”
Kilmartyn froze. He forced himself to take a slow, calming breath. “He said?” he prompted gently. He’d known boys like this, rough and desperate and determined not to show it.
“Nuffin,” the child said stubbornly.
“You said, ‘he said.’ Exactly whom are you talking about?” The child was squirming, trying to get away from him, but Kilmartyn’s fingers tightened on the collar of his shabby shirt.
“Nuffin!” he shouted, and yanked. The shirt tore, and the child, Jem, was off, disappearing through the door to the servants’ stairs in a flash.