“Not like Norah,” Georgie said. “I don’t expect to have her success.”
“Of course not. She’s the beauty—you’re not. But you could manage a respectable arrangement with some unexceptional young man. I should find out exactly what kind of money the Saltons have.”
“I doubt the son of a vicar is particularly well-endowed.”
Her mother cast her a sudden, sharp look, then tittered. “For your sake, I hope so.”
“I don’t need a wealthy husband,” Georgie protested, wondering what her mother found so amusing.
“We do,” Liliane said firmly. “You’ve done well tonight, and that dress looks lovely on you, though I still think it should have gone to Norah. Let us find our carriage and go home before anyone realizes the wretched state of our conveyance. We’re lucky we even made it here in the first place.” She took Georgie’s arm and her heavy scent enveloped them both. “Your father will be very pleased.”
So will Rafferty, she thought miserably. Andrew was exactly what he wanted for her. A good man, he’d said, and she wanted a bad man.
Too bad he didn’t want her.
Chapter Ten
The tavern was small and dark, with low ceilings and guttering oil lamps to aid the roaring fire in lighting the place. Just the right location for a man to meet with his old partner on the High Toby. It had been years since Rafferty had made a living as a highwayman—it was a little too risky for his peace of mind, and he had no fancy to be shot by an overzealous coachman.
They’d had a simple but effective routine—Martin was a small, skinny street rat with an affection for dressing up in women’s clothes. He would appear at the side of the road, a seeming damsel in distress, and once a coach had stopped, Rafferty would move in, relieving the passengers of their jewels and their blunt and carrying off the supposedly fragile young lady. This had worked like a charm until Rafferty ended up with a bullet in his shoulder, too close to his nonexistent heart for his liking, and they’d decided to part ways.
Martin had stayed a true friend, and he’d exchanged his thieving ways for a career dealing in information. It was easy enough to come by—Martin worked at Mrs. Percival’s Social Emporium, a brothel dealing in particular tastes. Martin, in his skirts and petticoats and maquillage, was a great favorite, and men never tended to be discreet in bed.
It was a cold night in late autumn, but not cold enough to give Rafferty the excuse to cover up with mufflers and cloaks and the like. He was going to have to hope the tavern was small and dark enough to keep people from noticing that Rafferty had reappeared in the neighborhood—he wasn’t ready to deal with Stiles just yet, though he had no idea why he hesitated. Once again, he cursed his height and his bright blue eyes—it was damned hard to blend in, no matter how much he slumped and squinted.
Martin was waiting for him in the darkest corner of the place, like the good man he was, and Rafferty went straight to him, tucking his big body into a small chair before breathing a sigh of relief. He was getting too old for all this subterfuge—once he finally dealt with Stiles and his eternal greed, he was going to live an exemplary life, never having to look over his shoulder again.
“You don’t look like yourself,” Martin said, reassuring him, reading him like he always did. “And even if you did, no one here would squawk.”
“Stiles pays well. He doesn’t know where I am at the moment, and I prefer to keep it that way.”
“Yes, but they don’t like him. They like you,” Martin pointed out.
“I don’t know if people can afford to be so particular,” Rafferty said.
Martin shrugged. “Maybe not, but if they have the choice, they’ll choose you. What do you need, old friend? You know I’ll do anything for you.”
Rafferty took a good look at him in the darkness, the traces of kohl around his eyes, the yellowing bruise on his cheek. “Have they been treating you all right?” he asked suddenly, his own business forgotten.
Martin shrugged. “Some have, some haven’t. I keep hoping I’ll find someone who wants to take me on permanently, set me up in a nice little townhouse and shower me with jewels, but most men tend to hide their peccadillos when it comes to affaires with another man. So I earn my keep the best I can and hope for the best. Mrs. Percival’s a fair one, and keeps the worst of them out of her establishment, but still, some slip through. I never did understand why someone would want to hurt someone they shag.” He shook his head.
“You know as well as I do that that’s the way some men take their pleasure,” Rafferty said.
“Too bad I don’t care for bedding women,” Martin said. “But enough about my woes. I wish I had better news for you, but Stiles has everyone out looking for you. What’s he got on you?”
“Belding’s fortune. I’m supposed to find it and share it with him, or so he says. I’ve been looking for months how, and found nothing.”
“He’s not the sort to do his own dirty work,” Martin said. “Where do you think it is?”
”Beats me. I’m not that interested, but I told him I’d give his men and him half. Assuming I can find the damned pot.”
“Well, you knew Belding better than anyone else—you were his right-hand man. Who better to find out where he hid anything?”
“Who better?” he echoed in a resigned voice. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Stiles in the last few months, not since we had our gentleman’s agreement.”
Marty hooted with laughter. “Neither of you are gentlemen—what good does that do?”
“It keeps him off my back for the time being. I’m not likely to find anything with Billy breathing down my neck, and I don’t expect that to change. Do you think he knows where I am?”
