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Chapter Eighteen

It was a simple enough matter, Georgie thought a few hours later. The faux headache she’d used as an excuse earlier in the day became real, and attending a cotillion was the last thing she wanted to do. She had no idea where Rafferty was, and she didn’t care. She was going to stay in her room.

There was no sign of their butler as the family departed, and she watched them go with a deliberately wan expression on her face. If Rafferty reappeared, it would be too damned bad (she savored the word) if he found himself alone in the house with her. But he was nowhere to be seen.

She was practically alone in the house—Bertha would be tucked up in her rooms and Rafferty was off doing whatever it was he did when he was trying to avoid her.

And she was hungry. She would go down and raid the larder and if she happened to run into their errant butler, she would be cool and disdainful.

She absolutely wouldn’t throw herself at him.

She heard the noise from the front hallway, and froze, as remembrance washed over her.

Something was in the cellars, making a racket, and this time it couldn’t be mice or vermin.

Had Billy Stiles invaded the safety of their home, and was now ferreting around in their basement?

But why would he? What, in fact, did he want from Rafferty, that he was willing to threaten his employers?

If she had an ounce of sense, she’d run back upstairs and lock herself in her room until Rafferty came home to protect them. But sense had never been her strong point, and besides, she had a strong feeling it was Rafferty himself in the coal cellars.

She didn’t bother with her trusty fire poker—she simply headed past the storerooms and the larders to the steep dark stairway and the tiny glow of light emanating forth from it.

If it was Rafferty, she was safe—he would never hurt her.

If it was that awful man with the teeth, she’d still be safe—Rafferty would make sure no one would harm her. And maybe he’d kiss her again.

“What are you doing?” Georgie’s soft voice cut across Rafferty’s concentration like a saber, and he jumped back from the wall, cursing, to face his nemesis across the darkened coal cellar.

“What in Christ’s name are you doing here?” he demanded once he’d caught his breath. “You should be out at the Pettigrews’.”

“I had a headache,” she said blithely, moving closer. She already had a streak of coal dust across one cheek, and her tawny hair was coming out of its knot at the back of her head. She looked deliciously rumpled, and he knew danger when he saw it.

“You’ve had too many headaches,” he said flatly. “People will stop believing you.”

“Oh, I don’t think they believed me tonight, but they didn’t really want me to accompany them anyway, so it was easy enough.

What are you doing?” She came closer, and it took all his determination not to back up.

There were three coal cellars in the basement of the house on Corinth Place, and this one hadn’t been used in years.

What better place to hide a long-lost treasure?

Which he couldn’t very well dig with an interested witness. “Why did you follow me down here?” he shot back.

“You answer my question first. Why are you going through the coal cellars? And don’t tell me it’s to check that we have enough coal—I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Why else would I be down in the cellars?” he countered reasonably.

“You’re looking for something.”

He resisted the impulse to curse. “Whatever makes you think that?”

“Because I already caught you in my father’s study, and you’re always disappearing and showing up in strange places. You’re looking for something, and that scary man wants it too.”

He hadn’t really underestimated her intelligence.

He’d just hoped she wouldn’t notice. “I’m not looking for a treasure in a heap of coal, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, doing exactly that.

“This house is my responsibility, and there aren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish everything I must accomplish.

The good news is there’s plenty of coal. ”

She pushed her hair away from her face, widening the streak of coal dust on her cheekbone. “I don’t believe you.”

He cursed, silently. “Does Bertha know you’re following me around? What about Martina?”

“Bertha’s in bed and Martina’s gone out. It’s just the two of us.” She took another step toward him.

He wanted to groan. He’d told Martina to keep an eye on her, distract her from following him around, and so far, she’d failed quite spectacularly.

His own problem was getting worse—the more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her, and he was running out of excuses to disappear. God knew he never should have kissed her.

“Go back to bed, Georgie,” he said grimly. A mistake, because she smiled at him.

“I like it when you call me Georgie.”

“It’s highly improper,” he said stiffly.

“I’m highly improper,” she said, and he wished it were true. And then she shivered, and he realized how cold and damp the cellars were.

“Back upstairs, Miss Georgiana,” he said. “If you go right now, I won’t tell Bertha you’ve been following me.”

“You think I’m afraid of her?”

“Anyone with sense would be,” he said.

There was a moment of silence as they watched each other across the expanse of the cellar, and he held himself very still, when all he wanted to do was cross the room in two strides and take her into his arms. It was the last thing he was going to do.

“Go to bed, Georgie,” he said softly. “Please.”

The “please” had done it. She disappeared from the entrance to the room, and he let out his pent-up breath.

He should follow her, make certain she made it out of the warren of cellars safely, but he didn’t dare.

He didn’t dare come any closer to her—knowing he’d touch her if he did, knowing he’d be lost if he did.

He’d told her he was leaving, he knew he had to, and to hell with Belding’s hidden cache.

She had much too dangerous an effect on him, and he’d already come perilously close to discovery by the Ormonds.

How would they feel to know the heir’s cousin was a thief and a criminal, working as a butler in a neighbor’s house?

They’d probably mind the butler part the most, he thought with a trace of amusement as he heard her footsteps fade away.

The Ormonds had been a randy lot going all the way back to the first Duke of Ormond during the time of old Cromwell himself.

They were used to black sheep in the family. Just not servants.

By the time he’d cleaned himself up, it was approaching midnight, and all was still and quiet in the house.

He had nothing to worry about, and only a few more places to look: the unused servants’ quarters on the fourth floor and, as a last resort, the rooftop.

The sooner he checked, the sooner he could leave, leave the Mannings to survive as best they could, leave Georgie to marry Andrew Salton.

He barely noticed the pain when he slammed his fist into the wall.

How had such a simple job become such a disaster?

Just because he disappeared wouldn’t mean that Billy Stiles would leave Georgie be.

Billy Stiles never gave up on anything, he would assume that if he hurt Georgie, it would lure him back.

His assumptions were correct—if Stiles hurt Georgie, he was a dead man.

Maybe he should just kill him and get it over with, but he wasn’t a man with a taste for violence, and he preferred a fair fight. But Billy didn’t fight fair.

There were still bottles of brandy in the kitchen—for some reason, Neddy hadn’t devoured his usual bottle and a half during the day, and he’d looked remarkably sober, if pale and unwell the last time Rafferty had seen him.

Doubtless he’d make up for his unaccustomed abstinence that night, and he’d be pouring him into bed once more.

In the meantime, Neddy’s brandy was his.