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Chapter Eight

It had been an absurd thing to do, Rafferty thought as he strode through the streets in Mayfair. It had been one thing to arrange for food and maids for the hapless Manning family. It had even been acceptably quixotic to have a pair of walking shoes made for the forgotten daughter.

But a new wardrobe for a young woman was asking for trouble in every sense of the word.

It had been simple enough to arrange—once he found out who the Mannings used as a modiste, it had been child’s play.

Madame Racette had been all graciousness once he paid her bill, and there were a number of dresses already on consignment that could be altered to fit the so-sweet Miss Georgiana Manning, for a price.

One that he was more than willing to pay.

He didn’t want to see Georgie in her outgrown schoolgirl outfits anymore, the hems too short, the necks too high.

She might look like a child, but she was twenty years old, old enough to. ..

Well, old enough. He still wasn’t interested.

He was too old for her, too experienced, too wicked for such an innocent.

She was like a devoted little puppy dog, looking at him out of her big blue eyes in mute adoration that both unnerved him and.

..he wasn’t sure he wanted to name what else it made him feel.

She was off-limits, not because she was his putative employer’s daughter, but because she was one of the few honestly decent people he’d ever met.

No, he was going to follow Sir Elston Manning’s orders and keep his hands strictly off the women of the household.

It had been a close call last night, alone with her in the study, that threadbare nightgown and the single light outlining her curves.

He’d been too noisy in his search, and he could have kicked himself.

At least it had been Georgie coming to investigate and not her irate father.

Still, the thought that she might have run into Billy Stiles put the fear of God into him. He’d laugh at a fire poker.

But Billy wasn’t going to bother him for the time being—he was happy with Rafferty doing the dirty work. As soon as he found the cache, Billy would be there, claiming the half that he didn’t deserve.

Rafferty wasn’t having much luck, and he needed more time to search, but the Mannings were demanding and their lives were in chaos.

He shouldn’t care, but he was having fun looking after her, and he had more money than he knew what to do with.

Might as well spread it around for the undeserving upper class.

The kitchen was deserted when he reached the house on Corinth Place, though Betsey was industriously chopping vegetables at the table. She scowled up at Rafferty. “How long do we have to stay here?”

“Don’t feel much like honest labor, do you?” he countered, closing the door behind him.

“Janey doesn’t mind. As for me, it’s a lot less trouble earning my living on my back. That way the men do all the work.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If you lie there like a slug, I doubt you’d get many customers.”

“I’m young, and I have all my teeth,” Betsey said. “That’s worth something. I’d rather be on my knees taking care of someone than on my knees scrubbing floors.”

“Then it’s too bad you’re going to keep scrubbing floors for the foreseeable future.”

“Rafferty!” she whined. “Can’t you find someone else? Jane don’t mind, but I do.”

“Sorry, pet, but you two are the most presentable. Can you see someone like Dirty Rose in this household?”

That got a rusty chuckle from Betsey. “All right, but you owe me.”

“You’ll be well-compensated and you know it,” he said. “And keep your hands off the silver.”

“Speaking of which, the old lady says you was to polish it. Can’t really see you doing that, though.”

Rafferty took a moment to savor the thought of Lady Manning’s reaction to being termed an old lady, and then he shrugged. “I’ve done worse things in my life. I’ll survive this.”

Indeed, there was something curiously soothing about polishing the massive silver—epergnes and trays, candelabra, and other assorted centerpieces.

They held no secret cache, but then, he’d known it wouldn’t be that easy.

He’d taken over the massive kitchen table, and as he polished, he let his thoughts drift to places he knew he shouldn’t.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear her approach, so that when he looked up and saw Georgie, he was momentarily struck dumb.

Those clothes had been a very bad mistake, he thought, looking at her. Possibly fatal. He’d learned early on in his rough and tumble life that he couldn’t afford weaknesses, and one was standing right in front of him, nervously tugging at her neckline.

She was...he couldn’t call her beautiful. She was pretty, with a fresh-faced innocence and warmth that were a far cry from Norah’s icy perfection. She was exactly what he didn’t want and couldn’t have, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from her.

“What do you think?” she said nervously, her hand fiddling with the lace at her neck. “Does the color suit me?”

She was wearing the yellow dress that looked perfect on her—warming her cheeks, brightening her eyes. Madame Racette had tried to talk him out of it—the dress had been promised to a brunette, but he’d been adamant. He’d been right.

“It does,” he said shortly, afraid of saying more.

If his faint praise disheartened her, she didn’t show it—she simply moved into the room and took the chair opposite him. “Can I help? I like polishing silver.”

“You’ll ruin your new dress.”

“I can wear an apron like you. Or I could put on one of my old dresses...”

“Those should be burned,” he said darkly.

“Oh, you never know when they’ll come in handy,” she said. “Let me help.”

“No.”

For a moment, she looked hurt, and she started to rise, but he was fool enough to stop her. “But you can talk to me while I work,” he suggested.

That sunny smile wreathed her face again. “All right,” she said, settling back in the seat. “You can tell me why you ordered all those dresses for me. And how you managed to talk Madame Racette into extending more credit. I don’t know how my father will pay for it.”

He should have known she’d ask what he didn’t want to answer.

“She’s not extending any more credit. The dresses were made for others who didn’t need them.

” Not strictly a lie on his part. The dresses had been made for other young ladies of society, and they didn’t need them half as much as Georgie did.

She cast him a skeptical glance, but she didn’t dispute it. “But they really should have gone to Norah. She’s the one who’s supposed to get us out of this mess.”

“Norah has plenty. Besides, she’s not the only one who needs a husband. You’re old enough to be in society as well, and my money’s on you to bag a better match than your sister.”

“You’re biased,” she said cheerfully, obviously pleased by the thought.

“Am not.”

“Of course, you are. You don’t like Norah and you like me. Naturally you think I’d beat her.”

“What makes you think I like you?” he countered, rubbing paste on the serving tray.

She grinned. “Of course you do. You’re my protégé. I’ve rescued you from a life of misery and crime. You’re grateful.”

Gratitude was a far cry from what he was determined not to feel for her. “Who says I don’t like misery and crime?”

“No one wants to be a criminal,” she said firmly. “They simply have no other choice.”

He set down the tray. “Now there’s where you’re wrong, Miss Georgie. Crime can be a great deal of fun.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you a criminal?”

“One of the best.”

She said nothing for a moment, blinking, then smiled beatifically. “Then you’ll be an even better butler.”

She really was the most frustratingly cheerful person, he thought. She wasn’t safe out on her own—she needed a husband to look after her and make sure her innocence wasn’t destroyed.

There was a sudden crashing sound from the ground floor, followed by a bellow, and Rafferty quickly rose.

More noise followed, and it sounded as if an elephant had charged its way into the house.

He quickly stripped off his apron and gloves and reached for the somber black coat that denoted his temporary profession.

“It’s Neddy,” Georgie announced in a disconsolate voice. “He must be back.”

“Who the he— Who is Neddy?”

She had risen too. “My brother. He’s been visiting friends.”

“Does he always make so much noise?”

“Usually,” she replied. “That’s because he’s always had too much to drink.”

Another crash, and the sound of breaking glass. “I’d best see to him, then.” And he started for the stairs.

Edward Manning was lying on the floor, his long limbs sprawled out around him as he lay half in the hallway, half in one of the downstairs parlors, and he was, indeed, very drunk.

He’d lost his hat somewhere, his cravat was missing as well, and his jacket was torn.

He didn’t move from where he lay, but his eyes, a match to Norah’s lavender eyes, were wide open and staring at him in mild curiosity.

“Who’re you?” he demanded in a genteel slur.

“Rafferty. The new butler.” He reached down and pulled the man into a sitting position where he could better assess him. He was a handsome young man, but there were signs of dissipation around his eyes and his skin, and he blinked up at Rafferty in disbelief.

“We can’t afford a butler,” he said, sounding mournful. “Shouldn’t have come back here. Nothing but trouble. Poor little Norah. Ruined her chances.”

Norah was far from pitiful, but Rafferty refrained from pointing that out. He shoved his arms under Neddy’s and hauled him to his feet, where Neddy stood there, swaying slightly, looking like he was ready to take another tumble.

“Which is your room, sir?” he questioned, doing his best to sound patient. He found drunks particularly annoying.