Never Kiss a Rake Read online

  Maddy shrugged. “Who can blame him for running scared? In place of an heiress he was confronted with a pauper with a cloud over her head. And it wasn’t as if I were in love with him.”

  “Of course not,” Bryony said firmly, knowing how Maddy had wept bitter tears over the faithless Tarkington.

  “He was a weak-chinned idiot who didn’t deserve you,” said Sophie, who held the strong belief that no one should criticize Maddy but her younger sister. Maddy smiled at her, and Bryony sighed in relief. For all their squabbling, her sisters loved each other, and Nanny Gruen would keep them safe.

  “Then we’re agreed,” she said briskly. “Tomorrow you two travel to Somerset and I will go to my interview.”

  “But what if they don’t hire you, Bryony?” Sophie inquired.

  “As I said, they’ve had a great deal of trouble maintaining a decent staff at their house in Berkeley Square, though I’m not sure why. In any case, my forged credentials are impeccable, and I’m quiet, forceful, yet unassuming. They’ll take me.”

  Neither Maddy nor Sophie protested this self-assured statement. Indeed, they believed their older sister capable of anything she set her mind to, Bryony thought. She only wished this were more a matter of fact than bravado.

  “Then we’re decided,” she continued. “I think we should break into Sophie’s supply of tea cakes. They’re sinfully good for only your second attempt at baking.”

  Sophie preened. “Let’s eat them all,” she said recklessly. “I’m ready to tackle bread next.”

  “I’m sure Nanny will give you plenty of scope for your culinary genius,” Maddy said, not without kindness. She looked at her older sister. “There’s no chance at changing your mind, Bryony?”

  “None at all,” she said.

  “Then tea cakes it is.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  BRYONY STOOD OUTSIDE the large town house on Berkeley Square that was home to the notorious Adrian Bruton, Earl of Kilmartyn, and his beautiful wife. Bryony had never stepped foot inside it—indeed, she had shunned society completely for her entire adult life, a fact which now served her well. Standing on the street, her drab mourning garb washed and faded to a dull brown, the ugly hat pulled down over her tightly braided hair, she felt as if she were entering into battle.

  She straightened her back and squared her shoulders. This had been her idea, and a good one it was. She was more than capable of carrying off the role of housekeeper—that was all she’d been since she’d left the schoolroom. Most of her life she’d been immured in the countryside, and no one in London would recognize her, despite the distinctive scars. With her light hair pulled back tight against her scalp, her too-generous mouth pulled into a grim expression, she could pass muster with the best of them.

  She’d seen her sisters off less than an hour ago, and it had taken the brisk walk from the staging house to Berkeley Square to put the ramrod back into her spine, to let the tears dry. She had a mission, and she was never one to shirk a responsibility. It was time to start her new life.

  Opening the iron gate, she started down the alleyway beside the large stone house. How did people know which alleyway belonged to which house, she wondered. There was no plaque to signify. She would simply have to hope this would lead her to the servants’ entrance of the earl’s town house.

  For once her luck held. She descended the narrow steps and rapped firmly on the door.

  No one came. Did servants and delivery persons simply enter a kitchen unannounced? Or need she wait for someone to open to her?

  She rapped again, tapping her foot. A moment later the door opened, revealing a young woman in a maid’s uniform, her hair awry, her eyes running over Bryony’s form with thinly veiled contempt. “Yes?” she said impatiently. The woman was pretty enough, though the sullen turn of her mouth rather spoiled the effect. Her apron and cap were gone, and she looked as if she’d just left her bed. “What do you want?” she demanded of Bryony. “We don’t allow no Reformers in this household.”

  Bryony drew herself up straight. Best to start as she meant to go on. “I am Mrs. Greaves,” she said calmly. She’d chosen the false name with a certain amount of irony. “I have an appointment with Lady Kilmartyn. Please tell her I await her pleasure.” And without another word she moved past the woman, making her way into the overwarm basement kitchen.

  It was a shambles. Dirty dishes littered the table where a footman sat, sprawling, his long legs stuck out, his neckcloth awry. There was a stain on his livery, and he looked at her for a moment, his practiced eye raking her body, moving up to her face and then dismissing her as unworthy. “Who’s this, then, Ruby?” he demanded.

  Ruby didn’t have time to answer before an older, cheerful-looking woman scurried into the kitchen, her plump figure and stained apron attesting to her role. “Beg pardon, miss,” she said hurriedly, wiping her hands on the grubby apron. “I’m Mrs. Harkins, the cook. You must be here about the new position.”

  At least this one was polite, though something would have to be done about the general cleanliness of both the kitchen and Mrs. Harkins’s aprons. Bryony nodded graciously, a housekeeper-gracious, not a lady of the manor–gracious. “I’m Mrs. Greaves,” she said composedly. “I hope I’m not too early.” In fact, she hoped no such thing. She’d wanted a chance to get the lay of the land before she had her interview. Clearly her work here would be cut out for her.

  “Don’t you worry about it, Mrs. Greaves,” the cook said. “You have a seat and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea while Alfred goes to inform her ladyship that you’re here.” She turned to the indolent footman. “Get your lumpen arse off that chair, Alfred, and do your duty.”

  Alfred was unimpressed. He rose with slow insolence, reaching up to straighten his neckcloth. It still wasn’t right, but apparently it was good enough for this household. He strolled out of the room; slow enough to make it clear he was going because he wanted to, not because Mrs. Harkins had ordered him.

  “And you, Ruby! Don’t you go be leaving Emma with all the upstairs work. Get a move on.”

  “Emma can handle it,” Ruby said rudely.

  “If she can then there’s no need for you on staff, now is there?” Mrs. Harkins replied.

  A moment later Ruby was gone, and Mrs. Harkins put a cup of very strong tea in front of Bryony, sighing. “You can see we’re at sixes and sevens here, Mrs. Greaves. I do my best, but I’m not cut out for managing a household this size, and that’s the truth of it.”

  Bryony put sugar and milk into the inky tea, then managed to take a sip without shuddering. She sincerely hoped Mrs. Harkins’s cooking was better than her tea. “It’s a difficult task if you’ve been thrust into the midst of it,” she said. “Particularly if things have gotten lax.” She resisted the temptation to glance at the littered table.

  But Mrs. Harkins recognized her own failings. “We need more staff,” she said with a gusty sigh. “Ruby and Emma are the upstairs maids, but Emma doubles as my helper, and the two footmen, Alfred and Bertie, aren’t worth spit, though at least Bertie tries. Mademoiselle Hortense’s only task is to take care of Lady Kilmartyn, but Bertie occasionally doubles as his lordship’s valet when his lordship lets him, and the boy who hauls the coal and such ran off weeks ago.”

  A household this size should have four upstairs maids, a scullery maid, and a kitchen maid. Two footmen might suffice, but a butler would do better at overseeing them, and the idea that a gentleman of Lord Kilmartyn’s stature didn’t have a dedicated valet was a surprise indeed. “If they hire me I’ll do my best to get things sorted out,” she said pleasantly, not disguising the iron determination in her voice.

  “They’ll hire you, mark my words,” Mrs. Harkins said. “Lord Kilmartyn doesn’t concern himself with household matters, but things have come to such a pass that he’s put his foot down. It just remains to be seen if you’ll stay the course. This b’aint an easy job.”

  There was a trace of Yorkshire in Mrs. Harkins’s comfortable voice, reminding
Bryony of cool summers and dark hills and laughter. But the house in Yorkshire was gone, along with everything else. “I’m not in the habit of quitting,” she said coolly.

  At that moment Alfred sauntered back in. “Her ladyship will see you now,” he said, dropping back down at the table.

  “You could see to the silver, young man,” Mrs. Harkins said sternly. “It hasn’t been polished in weeks.”

  “Nobody notices,” he said lazily, reaching past Bryony to pour himself a cup of tea.

  “Aren’t you going to escort Mrs. Greaves to her ladyship?”

  “In a moment,” he said, not making any attempt to move.

  Bryony rose. “I’m ready to go now.”

  He looked up at her with perfect indifference. “Are you, now?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, her voice like steel. “Get up.”

  He rose, much to his own surprise, she expected. She had the voice of command, one he would be used to. She had been dealing with servants her entire life, with fairness and compassion, and despite the laxness of the household Alfred instinctively responded to it.

  “All right,” he said, still sounding sullen. “I suppose the sooner I take you the sooner I can have a peaceful cup of tea.”

  It was going to be the last peaceful cup of tea he had for a long time, Bryony thought, as she followed him up the narrow servants’ staircase. For the first time in months she felt a faint glimmer in the darkness of her soul. At last she was on her way to discovering what lay behind that strange note her father had left, a note that had turned grief and shame to fury and resolution. Finally she had something she could do.

  The room she was ushered into was dimly lit, the curtains pulled against the bright sunlight, and for a moment she blinked, peering into the shadows. A faint voice drifted toward her, soft and gentle. “Please come in, Mrs. Greaves. You’ll have to excuse the dim light—I am afflicted with the migraine and sunlight positively cripples me.”

  Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, and she could see Lady Kilmartyn now, draped across a chaise longue, an icon of frail beauty. Bryony moved toward her, stopped and gave a dignified bow. She’d considered it long and hard, and she and her sisters had decided that a curtsy was too demeaning for an august housekeeper. “Your ladyship,” she said in a quiet voice. She was intimately acquainted with migraines—her mother had suffered from them, and Maddy had inherited the dreadful tendency. Loud voices were almost as bad as sunlight. “Would you prefer I come back later?”

  Heavens, she hoped not. She had counted on this working out so completely that she had informed their landlord they would no longer have need of the shabby rooms that had housed them for the last six weeks.

  “You’re very kind, Mrs. Greaves, but there is no assurance that I will feel any better tomorrow. Please sit.”

  Should she, or shouldn’t she? When she had asked a servant or housekeeper to sit her in presence they usually did, but she had always been a comfortable mistress. On instinct she took the seat Lady Kilmartyn waved her toward, keeping her back straight, her knees together, and her lips pursed.

  Cecily, Countess of Kilmartyn, was one of the most acclaimed beauties in England. The daughter of a minor baronet, she’d reigned over her first season, and if people were astonished she’d married an Irish earl when she could have set her sights higher they had only to consider that the earl was Adrian Bruton and they understood. They were a beautiful couple, moving through their world on a cloud of adoration, and even Bryony understood the perfection of the match. Lady Kilmartyn had smooth, delicate skin, luminous dark eyes, a small, willful chin, and a mass of dark hair that was dressed in loose curls around her beautiful face, and she surveyed Bryony with a critical eye.

  “Your references are impeccable, Mrs. Greaves,” she said finally. “Perhaps you might tell me about your last position and why you left?”

  Bryony had been prepared for this. Of course her references were magnificent—she’d written them herself, and she’d worked up a complicated history that would convince anyone. “I was working in Italy with the late Lady Margrave,” she said, keeping her voice soft and servile. “She kept a large household, and I oversaw both the Italian and English servants, while maintaining order and the serenity she required as she suffered through her fatal illness. Needless to say I returned to England upon her death and immediately sought a new position.”

  “And didn’t Lady Margrave reward such devotion? I would think she would be generous enough to see you didn’t have to work for quite a bit.”

  Bryony had anticipated this. “Lady Margrave was indeed very generous. Unfortunately I have family in Dorset who depend on my assistance.”

  Lady Kilmartyn frowned. “I hope they don’t make too many demands upon your time, Mrs. Greaves. I would expect you to be here.”

  “My responsibility to them is only financial,” she said smoothly.

  Lady Kilmartyn was watching her closely, and she suddenly sat up, peering at her in the darkness. “You know, I’m not sure but that an older woman might be more suitable,” she said suddenly. “You seem too young to be able to run a household.”

  “I assure you, Lady Kilmartyn, that I am more than capable of ordering a full staff of servants and seeing to the smooth running of your home.” Bryony struggled to keep her voice calm as panic filled her. What had she said to change Lady Kilmartyn’s mind?

  “Take off your bonnet and move into the light, if you please,” Lady Kilmartyn said, her voice sharp.

  Bryony didn’t dare hesitate. She rose, pulling off her bonnet to expose the tightly braided hair, then moved toward the pool of light that escaped one dark curtain.

  “What’s wrong with your face?” the woman demanded.

  For a moment Bryony considered not responding to her rude question. Then again, if one was a servant then there was no such thing as rude behavior from an employer. “Smallpox, your ladyship. I had it when I was quite young.”

  Lady Kilmartyn considered her for a long moment. “No,” she said abruptly. “Your face distresses me. I don’t like to be surrounded by ugly things.”

  Ugly things. The words should have stung, but Bryony had heard them before. From her mother. From her own mouth as she stared into a mirror.

  She stood frozen. She could hardly change her face, and begging would do no good. She nodded, temporarily accepting defeat, when there was a sudden shaft of light into the room, and Lady Kilmartyn let out a cry of pain that was as beautiful as she was.

  “Close that door!” she demanded. “You know how much the light hurts me.”

  “Indeed I do, my love,” came a smooth, elegant voice. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to override you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  LIGHT FLOODED THE SALON, and Bryony almost clapped her hat back on her head, but something stopped her. If she was going to work here he would see her face soon enough, and there was no chance in the world he would recognize her. Few people even knew there were three Russell daughters.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Adrian.” There was just the hint of a snap in his wife’s voice. “You’ve given me run of the household and promised not to interfere. Mrs. Greaves will not suit—”

  “Mrs. Greaves will suit very well, my darling,” he said softly, but there was no mistaking the steel in his charming voice. “I’m afraid your delicate health is simply not up to the strain of ordering the household. Things are in such disarray that either something must be done or I’ll be forced to take rooms of my own and spare the household the added strain of my presence.”

  Lady Kilmartyn reacted quickly. “You’re too thoughtful, my love. Of course there can be no question of you removing yourself. Alas, you’re right, I’ve been too indisposed to see to the household. If you believe Mrs. Greaves will suit then I wouldn’t think to suggest otherwise.”

  “Mrs. Greaves will be a treasure, my love. When can you start?”

  It took Bryony a moment to realize he had turned his attention to her. “As s
oon as you wish, Lord Kilmartyn.” Her voice was cool, unaffected, and she allowed herself a covert glance at him.

  And she felt her breath stop.

  He was beautiful, there was no other word for it. Tall and lean, with a slightly disheveled elegance that was both charming and impudent, he had eyes of such a deep green she could see them from across the room. He had high cheekbones, slightly slanted brows, and golden hair just a bit too long in a manner that looked dashing rather than unkempt, and his mouth was mesmerizing. A laughing, mocking mouth, made for wickedness. He looked every inch the charming rake he was purported to be, the seducer of beautiful women, yet he was looking at her with no sign of disdain for her ugliness.

  She deliberately turned the scarred side of her face toward him, though she wasn’t quite sure why. The lord and master of the house would hardly trifle with the hired help when clearly a man like that could have any woman in London. And he already had one of the most beautiful in his bed.

  He was watching her, that lazy smile on his face, with no reaction at all to the scarring on her face, and the light from the open doorway was merciless. Could the man possibly be a liar, a thief, and a murderer? Her own father had doubted him.

  She met his gaze for a moment, then lowered her eyes politely, the perfect housekeeper.

  “Then we would have you come to us immediately, Mrs. Greaves,” he said in that enticing voice. “You should take one of our carriages to collect your things.”

  “There’s no need, my lord. It’s not a long walk.”

  “Indulge me,” he said softly, and the words rippled down her spine. Her stiff, unbending spine, she reminded herself. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, and indeed, he’d probably never really seen her. Few people of their class actually looked at servants. It was little wonder the scarring hadn’t caused him to react.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said in the voice she had worked hard to perfect. Neither meek nor arrogant, upper class nor working class, it was a perfect blend of each, and it had been difficult to master just the right note of subservience without sounding weak. It wasn’t that she was naturally arrogant, but humility had definitely never been her strong point.