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Chapter Twenty-Three

“Where’s your little girl, Rafferty?” Billy Stiles greeted him from behind Sir Elston’s desk. He was drinking the man’s expensive brandy, the one indulgence the baronet had left, and his feet were on the top of the desk.

“She’s in Kent with her family, of course,” he said, moving into the room warily.

He didn’t trust Stiles further than he could throw him, and he could see the anger and frustration in his flat black eyes.

“You know where they’ve gone—that’s why you decided to ignore my warnings and have your men search this place themselves. ”

“And doing a fine job, aren’t they?” he said with specious joviality. “I haven’t heard any crashing or breaking. No one will be able to tell we’ve been here.”

“I can.”

“Well, that’s just too bad, ain’t it? It’s your fault you haven’t found anything.

Been too busy sniffing around that girl’s ankles.

That’s one thing I don’t understand, old son.

Why go after the young one when the other’s such a beauty?

You’ve always had an eye for the best, and that girl of yours is nothing special. ”

Rafferty looked at him calmly, resisting the strong temptation to tell him to keep his mouth shut when it came to Georgie.

He already knew she was his weakness, and he couldn’t afford to be weak.

Not with an enemy like Billy Stiles. “You’ve got it all wrong, Billy.

I’m not interested in either of them, but I’ve got a role to play if I’m going to find our money. ”

“Unless my men find it tonight.”

There was a resounding crash from the kitchen and Rafferty hid his wince. Bertha would have his guts for garters if she came back to a disaster.

“Oh, dear,” Stiles said. “They might be getting a bit impatient.”

“Then you can imagine how I feel. Searching the place day after day, coming up with nothing. Except this.” He pulled Norah’s ugly diamond necklace from his pocket and dangled it in front of Stiles.

The man snatched it, peering at it closely. “This ain’t paste?” he said suspiciously.

“No, the real thing. Found it in the attics.”

“Pretty piece,” said Stiles, taking it. “But where’s the rest?”

“I told you I’ve searched everywhere. It’s not here.”

“You’d like me to believe that, wouldn’t you? You’d go your own way and then come back to claim it when you think I’m not looking. The money’s here, and it’s mine.”

“Ours,” he corrected softly.

Stiles gave him a sour look. “Ours,” he agreed reluctantly. “But I’m thinking it shouldn’t be fifty-fifty since it’s taking you so damned long to find it and you won’t let me tear this place apart like it needs to be.”

“That would be stupid. Someone would tell Bow Street and you’d be shit out of luck if you weren’t well ahead of them. And even tearing this place apart is no guarantee that the money will show up.”

Stiles gave him a sour look but didn’t reply. “Are you going to help my men?” he demanded. “They’re getting more and more riled up.”

“I’ll be cleaning up your mess—I’ll be able to see if they’ve overlooked anything. Are you almost done?”

“Why in such a hurry, old sod? The night is young.”

Another crash sounded from the kitchen, and Rafferty wondered what would happen if they actually found Belding’s treasure.

He could only hope so—it would leave him free to disappear without worrying what would happen to Georgie.

Once he left, she’d stop thinking about him, and she’d find someone kind and honest to marry. Someone the opposite of him.

“I’ve got things to do,” he said roughly.

“Make sure your men put everything back when they finish.” That wasn’t going to happen, and he was going to spend the next two days tidying up the mess they made.

Though he had no idea what the hell he was going to do with Georgie. She’d probably offer to help!

Stiles grinned at him, his teeth shining in the lamplight. “Of course they will. Trust me.”

That was the very last thing Rafferty was going to do.

After two sleepless hours, Georgie came to a very simple conclusion. She was going to have to seduce James Rafferty.

Not that she knew much, if anything, about seduction.

Her only acquaintance was in the pages of racy French novels, and it was always the man who did the seducing.

Unfortunately, it was clear she couldn’t count on Rafferty to do his part.

He was determined to protect her, and she was going to have to find some way to overcome his scruples.

She was here in his bed, all wrapped up and cozy, and she was tired of waiting.

She had a perfectly natural hesitation about the act, of course.

The way Bertha had described it sounded messy and embarrassing, but Bertha had assured her that men were crazy for it, and after a while, women even liked it too.

She had her doubts, but she suspected what women really liked was the cuddling afterward, not the actual deed itself.

And she’d go through all manner of distasteful things to feel herself wrapped in Rafferty’s arms, have him kiss her again, gently.

She wanted him to kiss her roughly even more—there had been something irresistible about the way he’d pushed her up against the door and claimed her mouth.

Maybe those kinds of kisses were the reason women agreed to the whole mess—she knew she would.

But she had to make him want to kiss her.

Want to lay her down on the bed and do the things Bertha had described in a matter of fact voice.

She was a grown-up woman now—she could survive the act of copulation as so many others did.

And it would be Rafferty touching her, Rafferty lying on top of her, Rafferty. ..

She’d found a basin of water and managed a makeshift bath, and then she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked ghostly pale in her plain white chemise, devoid of any of the laces or embroidery that decorated Norah’s underclothing.

It wasn’t fair—she was going to go to bed with someone before her beauteous older sister did.

She was the one who needed bridal underwear.

Her plan was simple. If Rafferty could be persuaded to debauch her, then he’d simply have to marry her.

She’d be ruined for anyone else, thankfully so, and Rafferty would have no choice.

It didn’t matter that he said he didn’t care for her—that was clearly a lie.

He wouldn’t kiss her, he wouldn’t be providing her with pretty things, he wouldn’t fight so hard to keep away from her if she didn’t matter.

She was young but not that na?ve—most butlers would take what was offered quite happily. Rafferty’s diffidence only meant that he cared about her.

She turned from the mirror, a disconsolate frown on her face. It was inescapable—she was no great beauty like her sister, but for some reason Rafferty seemed to prefer her, when all her life she’d been simply the younger sister, easy to forget. Even Andrew Salton had been lying to her.

But when Rafferty looked at her, he saw her, really saw her. And she’d go through anything to keep it that way.

She was starving—stuck up in her room, she hadn’t eaten anything but the stale toast from her untouched breakfast. If she was going to seduce Rafferty, she needed some sustenance; it wasn’t going to be easy.

Grabbing her candle, she made her way through the rooms until she found the small kitchen in the back.

Did Rafferty cook for himself? She had made some progress with Bertha’s tutelage, but she was going to have to learn more if she was going to take proper care of him.

She was good at toast, and there was half a loaf of bread in the scullery, but the big stove was banked down, making it a more dangerous task than usual.

She burnt her hand, but success was finally hers, though making a pot of tea proved beyond her capabilities.

She took her jam-smeared toast back into the salon, curling up on the window seat near the banked fireplace.

The place was getting colder, and she shivered slightly as she tucked into the bread. And then she saw the brandy bottle.

If she were about to go through an ordeal, a little brandy might be just the thing to lessen her fears. She wasn’t really frightened—Rafferty would take care of her. But Dutch courage was never a bad idea.

Except when she had three glasses. By that time she was deliciously warm, having stirred the coals with a fire poker that reminded her of the night she’d found him in her father’s office, looking for the mysterious treasure he talked about, one that probably didn’t exist. She had just started singing to herself when she heard the key in the lock, and she knew her time had come.

He looked tired, and bad-tempered. “I told you to go to bed,” he said abruptly, locking the door and divesting himself of his warm coat.

“I was waiting for you.”

His reaction wasn’t promising. “I’m here now. Go back to bed.”

“Where were you?”

“None of your damned business.”

This was looking more difficult, and she wanted to snap back at him, but she controlled her irritation. “Was anyone at the house?”

“Your old friend Stiles was. It’s a bloody good thing he didn’t find you there—he’s not known for his gentlemanly behavior.”

“You’re not doing too good a job yourself at the moment,” she said sulkily. “He’s your fault, not mine.”

“True enough. He’ll be gone by morning and I’ll take you back.”

“I want to stay here. This place belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t look surprised. “It does.”

“How does a beggar afford rooms in this part of town?” she demanded.

“I told you, I’m a liar and a thief. Everything I’ve told you has been a lie.”

“You keep telling me you don’t care about me,” she pointed out. “Is that a lie?”

“Go to bed, Georgie.”

She couldn’t help but warm to the sound of her name in his deep voice. “Not without you.”