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Chapter Ten

The tavern was small and dark, with low ceilings and guttering oil lamps to aid the roaring fire in lighting the place.

Just the right location for a man to meet with his old partner on the High Toby.

It had been years since Rafferty had made a living as a highwayman—it was a little too risky for his peace of mind, and he had no fancy to be shot by an overzealous coachman.

They’d had a simple but effective routine—Martin was a small, skinny street rat with an affection for dressing up in women’s clothes.

He would appear at the side of the road, a seeming damsel in distress, and once a coach had stopped, Rafferty would move in, relieving the passengers of their jewels and their blunt and carrying off the supposedly fragile young lady.

This had worked like a charm until Rafferty ended up with a bullet in his shoulder, too close to his nonexistent heart for his liking, and they’d decided to part ways.

Martin had stayed a true friend, and he’d exchanged his thieving ways for a career dealing in information.

It was easy enough to come by—Martin worked at Mrs. Percival’s Social Emporium, a brothel dealing in particular tastes.

Martin, in his skirts and petticoats and maquillage, was a great favorite, and men never tended to be discreet in bed.

It was a cold night in late autumn, but not cold enough to give Rafferty the excuse to cover up with mufflers and cloaks and the like.

He was going to have to hope the tavern was small and dark enough to keep people from noticing that Rafferty had reappeared in the neighborhood—he wasn’t ready to deal with Stiles just yet, though he had no idea why he hesitated.

Once again, he cursed his height and his bright blue eyes—it was damned hard to blend in, no matter how much he slumped and squinted.

Martin was waiting for him in the darkest corner of the place, like the good man he was, and Rafferty went straight to him, tucking his big body into a small chair before breathing a sigh of relief.

He was getting too old for all this subterfuge—once he finally dealt with Stiles and his eternal greed, he was going to live an exemplary life, never having to look over his shoulder again.

“You don’t look like yourself,” Martin said, reassuring him, reading him like he always did. “And even if you did, no one here would squawk.”

“Stiles pays well. He doesn’t know where I am at the moment, and I prefer to keep it that way.”

“Yes, but they don’t like him. They like you,” Martin pointed out.

“I don’t know if people can afford to be so particular,” Rafferty said.

Martin shrugged. “Maybe not, but if they have the choice, they’ll choose you. What do you need, old friend? You know I’ll do anything for you.”

Rafferty took a good look at him in the darkness, the traces of kohl around his eyes, the yellowing bruise on his cheek. “Have they been treating you all right?” he asked suddenly, his own business forgotten.

Martin shrugged. “Some have, some haven’t.

I keep hoping I’ll find someone who wants to take me on permanently, set me up in a nice little townhouse and shower me with jewels, but most men tend to hide their peccadillos when it comes to affaires with another man.

So I earn my keep the best I can and hope for the best. Mrs. Percival’s a fair one, and keeps the worst of them out of her establishment, but still, some slip through.

I never did understand why someone would want to hurt someone they shag. ” He shook his head.

“You know as well as I do that that’s the way some men take their pleasure,” Rafferty said.

“Too bad I don’t care for bedding women,” Martin said. “But enough about my woes. I wish I had better news for you, but Stiles has everyone out looking for you. What’s he got on you?”

“Belding’s fortune. I’m supposed to find it and share it with him, or so he says. I’ve been looking for months how, and found nothing.”

“He’s not the sort to do his own dirty work,” Martin said. “Where do you think it is?”

”Beats me. I’m not that interested, but I told him I’d give his men and him half. Assuming I can find the damned pot.”

“Well, you knew Belding better than anyone else—you were his right-hand man. Who better to find out where he hid anything?”

“Who better?” he echoed in a resigned voice. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Stiles in the last few months, not since we had our gentleman’s agreement.”

Marty hooted with laughter. “Neither of you are gentlemen—what good does that do?”

“It keeps him off my back for the time being. I’m not likely to find anything with Billy breathing down my neck, and I don’t expect that to change. Do you think he knows where I am?”

“Where are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

Martin chuckled. “Well, for God’s sake, don’t tell me. Leave it to my imagination.”

“I’m a butler in the Judge’s old house on Corinth Place.”

Martin looked at him for a long moment. “No, you’re not!” he said flatly.

“I am. For Sir Elston Manning, who has about as much money as a church mouse. I’m trying to get him out of the mess he made for himself.”

“Why?”

It was a logical question, one that Rafferty wasn’t disposed to answer.

It was pure whim on his part and had nothing to do with a certain young lady who.

..well, he wasn’t going to think about her.

“I don’t want see them kicked out of the house.

The Crown will claim it as they claimed all of Belding’s other assets, and I won’t be able to get close. ”

“You think the money’s in the house?”

“It must be. I can ferret around and find it without disturbing anybody. If Stiles gets wind of it, there’ll be a bloodbath.”

Martin shook his head in disbelief. “It sounds logical. Somehow, I don’t think that’s the entire truth. You’ve always had a soft spot for someone down on their luck, but I wouldn’t have thought that would extend to the gentry. Wouldn’t it be better if the place were deserted?”

“I don’t want to risk it. It’s working out well enough as it is. I have plenty of time to search the place while they’re out and about,” he said.

Martin shook his head in disbelief. “There’s something you’re not telling me. James Rafferty, King of the High Toby, prince of the thieving classes, brought down to this! A butler!”

“I really am.” Rafferty leaned back, surveying him. “In fact, I may have something for you in the same line.”

Martin raised a delicately plucked eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

“If you’d like to consider a new position. Your old one’s growing too dangerous.”

Martin sighed, leaning forward. “Tell me more.”

Georgie dreamed, as usual, about a pair of vivid blue eyes that haunted her, keeping her tossing and turning for half the night, and it was late morning when the sound of someone moving around in her room awakened her from her deep sleep.

The clink of china signaled her morning cup of tea, and a moment later, the curtains were flung open, letting in the fitful light of a gloomy autumn day. Rafferty , she thought, and struggled to sit up, only to be confronted by a stranger.

“Good morning, Miss Georgie,” the woman said in a warm contralto.

Controlling her disappointment, she managed a sleepy smile. “Who are you?”

The woman was already bringing her tray over, so Georgie sat up in bed, unused to being fussed over. “I’m the new lady’s maid, Martina,” she said. “I’m here to look after you and your family. Rafferty says you’ve been too long without a proper maid.”

“Rafferty brought you here?” Georgie said, immediately approving of this new addition to the household.

“He did, indeed, miss.” Martina arranged the pillows behind her, then set the tray on her lap. There was a pot of tea and her favorite marmalade toast, and Georgie sighed in happiness.

“Rafferty is a saint,” she said firmly.

Martina choked. “Not what I’d call him,” she said wryly, and Georgie took a long look at her.

She was pretty in a strong-featured way.

She favored heavy maquillage, and her dark hair was in a low bun at the back of her neck.

She wore a flowered dress with an apron, rather than a maid’s uniform, and Georgie remembered that lady’s maids were the aristocracy of the servants’ quarters—her mother’s Havisham had been a terror even abovestairs.

Martina looked far from terrifying, and there was a decided twinkle in her eye. “I’ve never had a maid before,” Georgie said. “And I promise I’ll be the least of your worries. My sister is having her first season, and my mother is very fond of society. You can concentrate on them.”

“I’ve met them,” Martina said.

Georgie looked at her warily, recognizing something in the tone of Martina’s voice. “Was everything all right?”

“Of course, Miss Georgie. They were both very happy to have someone help them with their toilette. I had hoped to provide you similar assistance. Have I offended you?” Martina’s brow wrinkled.

“Oh, no! I’d love your help. It’s just that one maid for three women is a lot of work.”

“I’m bred for hard work. And the three of you managed with no one at all, though how you could is beyond me. I’m here to make everything better.” She headed to the clothes press, looking through the new gowns with a practiced eye.

“I thought I’d wear the blue one today,” Georgie ventured.

Martina shook her head. “That one’s old and shabby,” she announced, pulling it out of the pile and tossing it on the floor.

“Yes, but I’m not going anywhere today. I wanted to save my new dresses for more important occasions.”

“New dresses, eh? Where did all these come from?”

“Rafferty,” she said, and Martina raised one delicately arched eyebrow.

“That is, Madame Racette, of course, but Rafferty arranged for her to extend us more credit and apparently she had some of my gowns already made up and...” Words trailed off as she began to realize how unlikely just such a thing was.