Page 31

Georgie listened to all this with growing despair. She’d spent her life knowing that Norah would marry well and replenish the always needy family coffers, but she’d never considered that she would meet the same fate.

She was about to announce, quite loudly, that she had no intention of marrying Andrew Salton when something stopped her. Maybe it was Rafferty’s determinedly blank face. For some reason he didn’t want her to marry Salton. She could work with that.

“I have things to do,” Norah announced grandly, sweeping from the room, and her mother followed, leaving Rafferty, Georgie, and her father alone.

“So what do you think, puss?” her father said, his usually frowning face softening, turning his back on their butler. “Would you consider marrying this man?”

Georgie looked at Rafferty’s impassive face, and for a moment her gaze lingered on his mouth. “Yes,” she lied, watching him.

Rafferty left the room.

“What’s that you’ve got?” Martina spied Jane moving slowly down the corridor, a heavy-laden tray in her thin arms.

“Coffee for the young master. Not that he’ll drink it—he’ll probably throw it at my head if he wakes up long enough to notice me.”

Martina eyed the tray. “That’s not just coffee.” A decanter of brandy had pride of place on it, and she sighed. “Give it to me.”

“He’ll throw it at you.”

“No, he won’t,” Martina said firmly, accepting the tray in one strong arm and taking the brandy off it. “Take this back to the kitchen or wherever you got it, and next time he asks for it, come to me.”

Jane shook her head. “You don’t know what he’s like when he hasn’t got his bottle.”

“I know perfectly well how men behave when thwarted, and I don’t intend to let him get away with it. Go on about your work and I’ll deal with him.”

“You’re a braver soul than I am,” Jane muttered gratefully, then scurried down the corridor.

Martina watched her go, then stiffened her shoulders. This was going to be a battle, but one worth fighting. After a light tap, she pushed open Neddy’s door.

“Get out, and take your damned coffee with you,” came a muffled voice from the darkened bedroom. “Just leave me the bottle.”

Ignoring him, she set the tray down and went to the tall windows, throwing back the curtains on the bright fall weather. There was a shriek of horror from the shrouded bed, and she could hear him diving for the covers she’d tucked around him the night before.

“Close those damned curtains!” he half yelled, half groaned, but she went on to the next window and did the same, before turning to the bed.

He lay there, flat on his back, one arm across his eyes, panting slightly, and she picked up the tray, approaching him. “I’ve brought you coffee, sir,” she said demurely.

Slowly, slowly, he drew back his arm, peering at her. “It’s you,” he said hoarsely.

“Of course it is,” Martina said briskly. “Now sit up and I’ll give you your tray.”

“Take it away, and yourself with it. Just leave me the bottle.”

“There is no bottle, Mr. Edward. You’ll have to make do with coffee.”

He reached out and tried to dash the tray out of her hands, but she was too quick for him, stepping out of reach. “After you finish your coffee, I’ll bring you breakfast—just toast, I think, for today, until your stomach gets used to it.”

“Used to what?” he snarled.

“No brandy.”

There was dead silence in the bedroom, and she looked at him dispassionately. He was an unprepossessing sight, his eyes bloodshot, the handsome face softened from dissipation, and he was staring back at her with mingled wrath and frustration.

“Listen to me, you...”

“Martina,” she supplied calmly.

“You can take the damned coffee and shove it up your...” words failed him, a fact that amused Martina. He flopped back down on the bed. “Bring me a bottle of wine, then,” he said grumpily.

“No wine either. Your mother is worried about you.”

“My mother doesn’t worry about anything but her protégés and her gambling debts.”

“And her son. You underestimate a mother’s love for her son. But it’s more than that. There’s a definite shortage of decent men in this world, and I have no intention of letting you ruin yourself any further. You’ll have coffee, then toast, then a bath and a shave.”

“Who’s going to shave me? Our criminal butler?”

“I will.”

He looked at her, bleary-eyed, then gathered himself. “I’ll have my brandy first.”

“Coffee,” she said flatly.

“You’re a servant!” he snapped, “You do as you’re told or you’re out on the street!”

“I doubt it. Your sister likes the way I dress her hair. And while you’re arguing, the coffee is getting cold. Sit up and I’ll bring it to you.”

To her surprise, he pushed himself up on the rumpled bed, eyeing her balefully as she approached him. Setting the tray across his lap, she stayed where she was, making no attempt to move out of range.

The first thing he did was pick up the coffeepot, prepared to fling it at her, but she didn’t flinch, simply eyed him steadily. After a long, threatening moment, he set it back down. “If I drink the coffee, may I have my brandy?”

She didn’t make the mistake of thinking he had given in. Neither had she. “You can have toast. Rafferty can help you with your bath, and then you can join your mother in the yellow salon.”

“The moment I’m downstairs, I’ll get my own bottle,” he snapped.

She nodded. “I can’t stop you. You’ll have to decide if you really want to keep on like this, useless to everyone, particularly yourself.”

“I don’t see what business it is of yours,” he said sulkily.

“I told you, I don’t like waste. I don’t like to see handsome young men become an embarrassment to their family and society. You’re not too far along the path now that you can’t be saved.”

“And you have the gall to think you can save me?” he said in biting tones. “Who the hell do you think you are, bloody Joan of Arc?”

“No, sir. I’m the ladies’ maid.”

He looked at her, stupefied. “And you have the gall to talk to me like this?”

“Yes, sir.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Martina realized her heart was hammering inside the tight dress.

This was far from the first time she’d exerted her will on an upper-class gentleman.

Those who came to her previous employer’s house were often like little boys, who wanted to be spanked and treated like recalcitrant children.

She could simply pretend that Neddy was one of her customers.

No, she didn’t want that. She didn’t want to think of him as a commercial transaction. He was lost, he was broken, he was beautiful, and she was going to save him. Whether he liked it or not.

And then he poured himself a cup of coffee, the brew still steaming slightly, and he didn’t throw it at her, though she knew he wanted to. There was a crafty expression on his face. “Rafferty doesn’t need to help me with my bath—you can.”

It was meant as an insult, but Neddy didn’t know he was dealing with. To her it was a triumph. “Yes, sir,” she said, perfectly amiable.

“And shave me,”

She nodded.

“And bring me my bottle when I’m done.”

She slowly shook her head. “You’ll have to spend the day without it. Unless you don’t think you can do it?” He was a gamester, she knew that much about him, and he would be unlikely to resist a bet.

“Of course I can. I just don’t want to.”

“Really? I don’t believe you can. Would you care to place a wager?”

He was growing more alert as he sipped at his coffee. He surveyed her coolly. “And what of yours would I want that I couldn’t have already?”

She smiled a dulcet smile. “A gentleman’s wager to a lady.”

“You’re no lady.”

“You’re no gentleman.”

They stared at each other in silence. Finally, he spoke. “One day,” he said.

“One day,” she agreed.

“And send Rafferty to me.”

“He won’t bring you a bottle.”

“He damned well will, but we have a wager, and I don’t like to lose. He can help me bathe.”

Martina hid her smile. “Yes, sir,” she said with a demure curtsey, and backed out the door.