Page 43

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next day, Martina rushed into the darkened bedroom with a flurry of skirts. “What’s wrong with you, Miss Georgie? We’re leaving in half an hour and I haven’t had time to pack for you.”

“I’m not going,” Georgie croaked in a hoarse voice. “I’m sick.”

“Oh, no!” Martina began to draw the curtains, letting light into the room, and Georgie moaned loudly, turning her face into the pillow. “What’s wrong?”

“I have a putrid sore throat,” came the weak reply. “I can barely swallow, my head aches, and I feel feverish.”

“But we’re all leaving for the Hendersons’ country estate! You can’t stay behind!”

“I can’t go,” she said with a trace of firmness. “I’m too sick. We can’t afford to have Norah catch it.”

“It’s simple enough, then,” Martina said, drawing the curtains back again, plunging the room into darkness. “I’ll simply stay behind.”

“You don’t have to,” Georgie said pitifully. “I’m certain a few days in bed and I’ll feel right as rain.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I’ll stay behind,” Martina’s voice was firm.

“What’s Georgie doing?” Norah appeared in the doorway. “We’ll be late. Get out of bed!”

“Miss Georgie’s sick, Miss Norah,” Martina said calmly. “I’ll be needing to stay behind and look after her.”

“Noooo!” Norah shrieked. “I need you with me. No one else can do my hair half as well.”

“But Miss Georgie is?—”

“I don’t care what she is. She’ll be fine. Bertha can look after her.”

“Bertha can look after whom?” Liliane appeared in the doorway, and Georgie emitted a heartfelt moan of misery. “She’s gone off to visit her sister—I told her to since we weren’t going to be at home.”

“Well, then, those two slatternly girls can look after Georgie!” Norah snapped. “I’m not doing without my maid because Georgie’s been selfish enough to catch an ague.”

“Do without your maid? Don’t be absurd, of course Martina’s coming with us. You don’t need her here, do you, Georgie?” Her mother stayed in the doorway, loath to come any closer to the patient.

“No,” Georgie whispered. “I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t leave her here with just Rafferty,” Martina said, and Liliane looked troubled for a brief moment, then brightened.

“He’s already gone off as well. After all, the man deserves some time off considering that he’s not being paid. The two housemaids will look after her—after all, she won’t want to eat anything and it wouldn’t involve much more than bringing her an occasional cup of tea.”

“What if she gets worse?” Martina demanded, just the tiniest note of asperity in her rich voice.

“Oh, she won’t,” Liliane said carelessly. “Georgie’s strong as an ox. In fact, I expect she’ll be fine by this afternoon. She should come with us?—”

“No!” Norah shrieked again, and Georgie slunk down deeper into the bed. “I’m not letting her make me sick too—I have too much to do. She can stay behind—she wouldn’t want to make anyone else sick.”

“But what if she gets worse?” Martina persisted.

“Then one of the maids can go for the doctor,” Liliane said. “Not that we have the money to spare, so it would be far better if we dispensed with him. A nice long nap and a cup of gruel will do wonders, I expect.”

“Who’s making the gruel?” Martina said.

“I’m sure one of those girls can manage. I’ll have my husband leave a note for Rafferty—he’s gone out someplace. We’ll only be gone three days—everything will be fine. Georgie doesn’t want us to change our plans for her, do you, Georgie?”

“No, Mama,” she croaked.

Martina stood there, not moving for a long moment. “You mean we’re going to simply take off and leave Miss Georgie behind?”

Liliane eyed her with hauteur. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do. This party is too important—the Viscount Canfield will be there and he’s been most particular in his attentions. Georgie wouldn’t want to interfere, now would you, Georgie?”

“No, Mama,” she said again.

“Then come along, and let the poor girl get some rest. Don’t worry—she’ll be fine. Georgie is as strong as an ox.”

Georgie let out a faint whimper of agreement, and Liliane gave her a brilliant smile.

She waited for the door to close behind her vociferous family, and then managed a creditable coughing fit.

Not enough to alarm them, though the thought of her family being worried about her was remote indeed.

And then she snuggled down in the bed, hugging herself happily.

She was going to have Rafferty all to herself.

There was no limit to what she might accomplish.

The autumn night had a decided chill—winter was coming, and Rafferty huddled in his coat as he strode down the street back to the house on Corinth Place.

The moon shone brightly overhead, but there was no one about—Corinth Place was down on its luck and there were no glittering parties to fill the streets with carriages and party-goers.

The Manning house was typical of the rest of the buildings on the square—like a grande dame gone to seed.

No one would make the mistake that there was anything worth stealing from its fallen grandeur.

He ducked down the back steps to the kitchen, letting himself in and shutting the door behind him.

The house was cold—the other servants were gone, the family off to some house party in the countryside, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

No Georgie to pop up and distract him, and she was so very distracting.

With luck, she’d find the perfectly sweet young man to adore her and treat her with the exquisite care she deserved.

He couldn’t imagine such a man, but one had to exist.

Except a sweet young man would be bowled over by her.

She needed someone a little older, old enough to get her out of the scrapes she was always falling into, old enough not to get carried away by her flights of fancy.

She needed someone to love her, completely, but someone who wouldn’t get cozened by her wild imagination.

He knew what she needed, and she wasn’t getting him.

He’d told her straight out, he wasn’t the marrying kind.

It would be one thing if he didn’t have his history behind him.

..no, none of that mattered. She wasn’t for him, no matter how damned tempting she was, and days without her would soon set his wavering mind to rights.

The kitchen was icy—no great fire in the stove, no lights to brighten the darkness. Not that he needed them—he’d grown used to navigating in the dark, and he moved through the deserted house on silent, sure feet.

He hadn’t meant to come back that night—his plans were simple. Do one last sweep of every nook and cranny, and if Beldon’s cache was there, he’d find it. He’d told Billy Stiles as much—this was the last chance, and if it wasn’t there, he was giving up. Billy hadn’t looked pleased.

“If you can’t find it, maybe me and my men can,” Stiles had said, his flat black eyes drilling into him.

“You’re not to touch the place. The family is under my protection,” he said, controlling his rage with an effort.

“That doesn’t say much. Who’ve you got to stand by you—a catamite and a cook? I’m tired of waiting.”

“I’ve got three days. If it’s there, I’ll find it.”

Stiles had made a harrumphing noise before flashing his teeth at Rafferty. “I’ll give you that,” he said. “And not an hour more.”

He wished he could believe him, but Billy wasn’t the kind of man who sat around and waited.

Rafferty had put him off long enough, and by the time the Mannings returned, they were going to be in very grave danger.

There’d been a family slaughtered in Mayfair last year, killed in the midst of a robbery, and if the police suspected it was Stiles and his men, they weren’t doing anything about it.

Stiles wouldn’t hesitate hurting Georgie if he thought it would get him what he wanted.

Hell, he didn’t even need that incentive. Billy liked to hurt women.

Knowing that, Rafferty couldn’t just go off and get a well-deserved rest. He needed to use every spare minute he had looking for the damn money.

He moved through the darkness on silent feet, heading toward the top floor and the servants’ rooms. Only Martina slept up there, and she’d gone through everything with a fine-toothed comb, but another set of eyes might pick up on something new.

He moved past the closed bedroom doors, heading for the back stairs, when he heard a sound.

It was just a small scuffle, probably nothing more than an errant mouse. But it had come from Georgie’s room, and there was no way he was simply going to walk on by.

He pushed the well-oiled door open silently, peering into the stygian darkness, and saw nothing. He was about to close it again, when he heard the scuffle, and something moved by the fireplace.

He always carried his knife, even when dressed in full butler’s regalia, and he slid it out, prepared for anything, when a dark figure rose from the floor, and he half expected a ghostly moan. He was about to fling the knife when the creature spoke, stopping him cold.

“Rafferty?” came Georgie’s strained voice in the darkness, and he dropped the knife, shaken.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, moving into the bedroom in a blur of speed, catching hold of the dark figure. It was Georgie, all right, wrapped in a dark blanket, and he wanted to shake her. “Why didn’t you say something sooner—I could have killed you!”

“I didn’t know it was you,” she said, her attempt at sounding practical belied by the tremor in her voice. “I thought you might be the man with the teeth.”

“This house is supposed to be empty. Why aren’t you with your family in Kent?”

“I was sick,” she said in a stronger voice.

“You don’t sound sick.”

“I’m better now.”

Damn the girl. “And they just left you behind?”

“They thought Jane and Betsey would look after me, but they never showed up.”

“I told them they could take the next few days off.” He clutched the heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Why are you wearing this?”