Read Online Never Kiss a Rake by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Stuart
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voice.
She wasn’t foolish enough to take that as a compliment. She maintained her starchy demeanor, one at odds with her rumpled appearance. She’d been working too hard on his house again, he thought. “I hope I provide good service, my lord.”
His smile widened, and he wondered if she recognized the wickedness in it. “Oh, you will, Mrs. Greaves.”
She did. She stiffened even more, then relaxed, as if she thought she’d misread his intention. Foolish girl.
And she was a girl. Even if her years on earth were close to thirty there was a certain innocence about her. Mrs. Greaves was no widow. She was a virgin. And he liked unsettling her. He hadn’t made up his mind whether he’d do anything about his odd, powerful attraction to her. Bedding servants was bad enough; bedding a spy could be disastrous.
But there was that lovely mouth.
Not now, unfortunately. “I’ll be in my library,” he said abruptly. “I have work to do.”
“Very good, my lord,” Collins said. “Will you be going out later?”
He glanced at his housekeeper. Bryony. That was too uncommon a name to take—it was more than likely her own. Just as Greaves most certainly wasn’t. “Nothing for now. In fact, the two of you can go off and leave me alone.” He sounded bad-tempered and he didn’t care. For some reason the woman irritated him. Fascinated him. Aroused him. And he had to decide just what he was going to do about it.
She didn’t blink. She wasn’t a servant, but she was a damned good actress. That might be why he found her slightly familiar. He must have seen her onstage at some point. For some reason he’d assumed she was here on her own volition, but now he realized the unlikelihood of that. Women were seldom bent on spying, his wife being the exception. Mrs. Greaves must have been hired by someone to infiltrate his household. He wondered if those scars were even real.
But who could have hired her? He was outspoken in his views about independence for Ireland, and those views were very unpopular, particularly since the latest outrage caused by the Fenian rebels. More than thirty people had died in the explosion at Clerkenwell Jail, and a hundred were injured, and the call for redress had been immediate and fierce. If the police had caught any of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the group behind the bombing, the rebels would have been torn apart by the angry mob.
But there was no one to heap the blame on. No one knew it had been his money that had financed that plot, a plot he’d been told would be a peaceful distraction to get their leader out of jail. It didn’t matter that they’d lied to him—he wasn’t born yesterday. His money had paid for a bomb that killed people. It was on his head.
And his secret. Only Cecily knew, and she used her knowledge like a whip to keep him in line. He had no idea what would happen if he were found out. Whether he’d be up for charges in the House of Lords or treated like a common criminal. Barrett, the man who’d set the bomb, had been publicly hanged last year. Who was to say he wouldn’t follow? He had no seat in Parliament, those being relegated to only the oldest of the Irish peerages, but he had friends who could vote, wastrel friends who could be influenced, political friends who were sympathetic. But not if they found out he had been involved in the Fenian Outrage.
There were any number of politicians with opposing views who might be looking for ways to discredit him. They wouldn’t find any cause in his household. He’d severed all connection with the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and there should be no trace of his generous donation. Nowadays he kept his excesses in full view, and while they were notorious, he was no worse than many of the less upright members of society, simply less discreet. Being a lord, even an Irish one, excused any amount of misbehavior, be it gaming, sexual indulgences, or a surfeit of alcohol.
There was no way in hell they could find out
She wasn’t foolish enough to take that as a compliment. She maintained her starchy demeanor, one at odds with her rumpled appearance. She’d been working too hard on his house again, he thought. “I hope I provide good service, my lord.”
His smile widened, and he wondered if she recognized the wickedness in it. “Oh, you will, Mrs. Greaves.”
She did. She stiffened even more, then relaxed, as if she thought she’d misread his intention. Foolish girl.
And she was a girl. Even if her years on earth were close to thirty there was a certain innocence about her. Mrs. Greaves was no widow. She was a virgin. And he liked unsettling her. He hadn’t made up his mind whether he’d do anything about his odd, powerful attraction to her. Bedding servants was bad enough; bedding a spy could be disastrous.
But there was that lovely mouth.
Not now, unfortunately. “I’ll be in my library,” he said abruptly. “I have work to do.”
“Very good, my lord,” Collins said. “Will you be going out later?”
He glanced at his housekeeper. Bryony. That was too uncommon a name to take—it was more than likely her own. Just as Greaves most certainly wasn’t. “Nothing for now. In fact, the two of you can go off and leave me alone.” He sounded bad-tempered and he didn’t care. For some reason the woman irritated him. Fascinated him. Aroused him. And he had to decide just what he was going to do about it.
She didn’t blink. She wasn’t a servant, but she was a damned good actress. That might be why he found her slightly familiar. He must have seen her onstage at some point. For some reason he’d assumed she was here on her own volition, but now he realized the unlikelihood of that. Women were seldom bent on spying, his wife being the exception. Mrs. Greaves must have been hired by someone to infiltrate his household. He wondered if those scars were even real.
But who could have hired her? He was outspoken in his views about independence for Ireland, and those views were very unpopular, particularly since the latest outrage caused by the Fenian rebels. More than thirty people had died in the explosion at Clerkenwell Jail, and a hundred were injured, and the call for redress had been immediate and fierce. If the police had caught any of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the group behind the bombing, the rebels would have been torn apart by the angry mob.
But there was no one to heap the blame on. No one knew it had been his money that had financed that plot, a plot he’d been told would be a peaceful distraction to get their leader out of jail. It didn’t matter that they’d lied to him—he wasn’t born yesterday. His money had paid for a bomb that killed people. It was on his head.
And his secret. Only Cecily knew, and she used her knowledge like a whip to keep him in line. He had no idea what would happen if he were found out. Whether he’d be up for charges in the House of Lords or treated like a common criminal. Barrett, the man who’d set the bomb, had been publicly hanged last year. Who was to say he wouldn’t follow? He had no seat in Parliament, those being relegated to only the oldest of the Irish peerages, but he had friends who could vote, wastrel friends who could be influenced, political friends who were sympathetic. But not if they found out he had been involved in the Fenian Outrage.
There were any number of politicians with opposing views who might be looking for ways to discredit him. They wouldn’t find any cause in his household. He’d severed all connection with the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and there should be no trace of his generous donation. Nowadays he kept his excesses in full view, and while they were notorious, he was no worse than many of the less upright members of society, simply less discreet. Being a lord, even an Irish one, excused any amount of misbehavior, be it gaming, sexual indulgences, or a surfeit of alcohol.
There was no way in hell they could find out
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