pull the sheets together, yanking them up and smoothing them so that they lay, flat and neat against the mattress, followed by the heavy brocade counterpane. Tucking the sheets underneath the mattress, she suddenly froze as her fingers touched something. A journal, a book of some sort, the leather of the thin spine soft against her questing fingers, and she began to tug it toward her, excitement rippling through her, when she heard a noise.
The Earl of Kilmartyn stood in the open doorway, an unreadable expression on his handsome, saturnine face, and she froze, knowing she was the picture of guilt.
CHAPTER NINE
“L OOKING FOR SOMETHING , Mrs. Greaves?” Kilmartyn said in a lazy voice. And then, to Bryony’s horror, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, all catlike elegance.
She stiffened, as she knew she should. “Of course,” she said briskly. “This entire household is under my care, and I wished to make certain your rooms were cleaned and comfortable. I’m afraid the maids have yet to get to your room, and I thought I should help.”
“The staff know to leave my room alone,” he said, not moving. “They are to come in when I tell them to, and at no other time. I don’t like spies.”
There was no way she could control the heat that flooded her face, but she pulled herself together, banishing inconvenient things like guilt. “You’ve hired me to be the housekeeper here, my lord, and it’s my responsibility to make certain the rooms are clean and comfortable. If you have a problem with that perhaps you don’t need my services.”
He seemed amused. “Oh, I most definitely need your services, my dear Miss Greaves. If it would make you happy to have my rooms cleaned daily then feel free to arrange it. In fact, if you wished to do it yourself I could hardly make an objection, and I must admit the sight of your hands tending my bedding is curiously arousing. As for the room, nothing in hellcould make it comfortable. The walls and the hangings look like pig vomit, and letting in sunlight only makes it worse. I use this room for sleep and nothing more.”
Except for the book beneath the mattress.
“I trust my staff to take care of your quarters, my lord. Though I agree these are quite distasteful. Why do you stay here if you hate it so much? There are other more pleasantly outfitted bedrooms on the second floor.” She shouldn’t be asking so many impertinent questions, but if she didn’t, how would she ever discover the truth?
“I like it up here. I just don’t like the way the previous owners decorated it. My wife went through and spent a fortune on everything she could, but by the time she got to these smaller rooms she lost interest. After all, they’re for poor relatives and unimportant guests, and they should simply make do. Or so she said.”
“Previous owners?” she echoed.
“Did you think this was a family manse, passed down by generations of Brutons? We’re Irish, Miss Greaves. I’m only tolerated because I’m an aristocrat—I’m sure they’d send me back to the bogs if they could. I bought it from a businessman who lost a fortune in a slight miscalculation. Fortunes are won and lost that way, you know, my dear Miss Greaves. Just one mistake, and everything can disappear.”
Was he talking about her father? Thinking about him? Did he think Eustace Russell had truly brought the shipping company to the edge of ruin by embezzlement and then run away to escape the consequences? It could hardly be termed a mistake, if true, and she knew it wasn’t. What small mistake could he have made that left him dead and his family destitute? Trusting the Earl of Kilmartyn?
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said in a polite voice, hiding the emotion that surged beneath her faded black dress. “High finance is hardly my concern. This household is.”
He was making no sign that he was going to move away from the door anytime soon, and if she approached him there was a good chance
The Earl of Kilmartyn stood in the open doorway, an unreadable expression on his handsome, saturnine face, and she froze, knowing she was the picture of guilt.
CHAPTER NINE
“L OOKING FOR SOMETHING , Mrs. Greaves?” Kilmartyn said in a lazy voice. And then, to Bryony’s horror, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, all catlike elegance.
She stiffened, as she knew she should. “Of course,” she said briskly. “This entire household is under my care, and I wished to make certain your rooms were cleaned and comfortable. I’m afraid the maids have yet to get to your room, and I thought I should help.”
“The staff know to leave my room alone,” he said, not moving. “They are to come in when I tell them to, and at no other time. I don’t like spies.”
There was no way she could control the heat that flooded her face, but she pulled herself together, banishing inconvenient things like guilt. “You’ve hired me to be the housekeeper here, my lord, and it’s my responsibility to make certain the rooms are clean and comfortable. If you have a problem with that perhaps you don’t need my services.”
He seemed amused. “Oh, I most definitely need your services, my dear Miss Greaves. If it would make you happy to have my rooms cleaned daily then feel free to arrange it. In fact, if you wished to do it yourself I could hardly make an objection, and I must admit the sight of your hands tending my bedding is curiously arousing. As for the room, nothing in hellcould make it comfortable. The walls and the hangings look like pig vomit, and letting in sunlight only makes it worse. I use this room for sleep and nothing more.”
Except for the book beneath the mattress.
“I trust my staff to take care of your quarters, my lord. Though I agree these are quite distasteful. Why do you stay here if you hate it so much? There are other more pleasantly outfitted bedrooms on the second floor.” She shouldn’t be asking so many impertinent questions, but if she didn’t, how would she ever discover the truth?
“I like it up here. I just don’t like the way the previous owners decorated it. My wife went through and spent a fortune on everything she could, but by the time she got to these smaller rooms she lost interest. After all, they’re for poor relatives and unimportant guests, and they should simply make do. Or so she said.”
“Previous owners?” she echoed.
“Did you think this was a family manse, passed down by generations of Brutons? We’re Irish, Miss Greaves. I’m only tolerated because I’m an aristocrat—I’m sure they’d send me back to the bogs if they could. I bought it from a businessman who lost a fortune in a slight miscalculation. Fortunes are won and lost that way, you know, my dear Miss Greaves. Just one mistake, and everything can disappear.”
Was he talking about her father? Thinking about him? Did he think Eustace Russell had truly brought the shipping company to the edge of ruin by embezzlement and then run away to escape the consequences? It could hardly be termed a mistake, if true, and she knew it wasn’t. What small mistake could he have made that left him dead and his family destitute? Trusting the Earl of Kilmartyn?
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said in a polite voice, hiding the emotion that surged beneath her faded black dress. “High finance is hardly my concern. This household is.”
He was making no sign that he was going to move away from the door anytime soon, and if she approached him there was a good chance
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