That wouldn’t suit him at all, Rafferty thought. He’d had a chance to make a preliminary inventory of the place—this ramshackle old house was huge, with a warren of cellars beneath the ground floor, attics overhead, and the rambling family quarters. Belding could have stored his money anywhere, and it was going to take time to find it. If the Mannings were thrown out on the street, he’d no longer have access to the place. Of course, he might be lucky and find the stuff on first try, but life didn’t tend to work that way. And he had Billy Stiles breathing down his neck, just as determined to find Belding’s cache as he was.
It should be simple enough—his erstwhile employer, the notorious Judge Belding, had left a fortune behind, presumably in this very house.
He also didn’t fancy seeing Georgie destitute, though the rest of them could suffer for all he cared. Though he liked Sir Elston, and Bertha was a good sort.
“She needs to get married,” he said, half to himself.
“Miss Norah’s been scaring them all away, for all she’s a diamond.”
“I meant Miss Georgie.”
Bertha didn’t blink at the nickname. “She’s not interested. The daft girl wants nothing more than to go back to the country and live a quiet life. What she wants is a farmer, say, or a horse trainer, and you can imagine what Sir Elston would say to that.”
“She’ll get married,” he said firmly.
Bertha’s brow furrowed. “It will be up to Sir Elston to arrange something, and he’s got enough on his plate right now, trying to bring Norah up to snuff.”
“I think you’re underestimating Miss Georgie’s charms,” he said.
“I think that you’re paying too much attention to Miss Georgie and not enough on your duties,” Bertha said dourly. “She’s not for the likes of you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, horrified at the idea.
“Just keep that in mind. And don’t call her Georgie. She’s Miss Georgiana to you.”
Bertha was right—he was asking too many questions about someone who was none of his business. He needed to concentrate on Henry Belding’s lost fortune.
“I’m going before she can get back,” he said, heading for the door. “Stall her if she tries to follow.”
“She’s a stubborn young woman. Might as well try to stop a hurricane,” Bertha said dubiously.
It was a beautiful day in Mayfair, the crisp autumn weather a treat for the mind and soul. If he still had a soul, which he sincerely doubted. No one even glanced at him as he strode, hatless, down the sidewalk.
He was walking too fast, ghosts and demons at his heels, when he suddenly remembered who he was pretending to be, and he slowed his pace to a butler’s walk, a cross between self-important and servile, and was congratulating himself when he heard a clatter of footsteps behind him.
Chapter Four
His legs were simply too long, Georgie thought as she scurried after him. She was already limping slightly in her too-small boots, but she was determined.
“I told you I’d follow you,” she said triumphantly, catching up with him. “Bertha said I was to bring this basket along as well, just in case you managed to talk someone into an act of charity.”
“No one’s getting charity,” he said. “I’ll simply explain to the shopkeepers that it would be in their best interest to advance more credit. They’ll be reasonable.”
“I doubt it,” she said, looking up at him. She still couldn’t get over the transformation—he was quite the prettiest man she’d ever seen. No, not pretty like Darcy Winderham, the town beau with the brain of a peacock, but pretty like some ancient Greek statue. He had high cheekbones and a strong chin, but it was his eyes, she thought dreamily. They were a beautiful clear blue with hints of silver—quite the most extraordinary eyes she’d ever seen on anyone, including her sister’s limpid, violet gaze. Of course, when his eyes rested on her, they tended to be impatient, but she could deal with that.
She would have to work on him. After all, she wanted to talk to him, to find out all about his mysterious life and what it was like on the streets.
Rafferty let out a sigh. “You’re limping,” he observed.
“My boots are too small—I told you.”
“So you did. We’ll have to arrange for new shoes for you.”
“That’s not a butler’s job,” she protested, skipping slightly to keep up with his long strides, and he slowed down. “Besides, there’s no money for frivolities.”
“Everything is a butler’s job, Miss Georgie.”
He called her by her name! She smiled up at him. “I told you that you were a natural at this. But how are we going to get me shoes? You can’t just go out and buy them, and the cobbler told father he’d see him in hell before he made another pair of shoes for our family.”
