Martina looked at her with real trepidation. “What do you mean by that?”
“The night dress is made for a man’s mistress. And Madame Racette must think that, because Rafferty somehow arranged for my clothes, that I must be his mistress. Which is absurd—I’m hardly the seductive type. And why me and not Norah?”
“He didn’t buy the clothes for Norah,” Martina said grimly.
“He didn’t buy the clothes for me,” Georgie said. “My father did.”
“With what money?” she countered, leaving Georgie in shock as she ushered her into one of the new tea shops that had recently arisen.
There was no way she could respond, as she followed Martina’s swaying figure to a small table, but a warmth had flooded her insides, filling her with happiness instead of the mournfulness that had plagued her all day. It didn’t matter if he was trying to avoid her. He’d bought her those pretty dresses, those beautiful shoes. He must care about her.
They had cake at the tea house, sweet bars of lemon and treacle, and she devoured three out of sheer relief, sipping at the hot tea. “What are you suddenly looking so happy about?” Martina demanded, eyeing her suspiciously.
Georgie couldn’t keep the huge smile from her face. “I’m just happy.” If she told Martina her happy conclusion, then Martina would try to talk her out of it, and the fact that Rafferty really did care about her was a precious secret, one to hold close to her heart. It didn’t matter how much he denied it, she had solid proof. He hadn’t done anything like that for Norah or Neddy.
She was distracted from these happy thoughts when a voice broke through their cozy meal. “Miss Martina! I never would’ve thought to see you here!”
Martina looked up sharply, and Georgie could see her color pale beneath her heavy maquillage, as her eyes lifted to the man beside the table. “Mr. Stiles,” she said in a breathy voice that almost hid her strain.
He was an ordinary enough man to engender such an intense response from her companion, Georgie thought, surveying him openly. He was middle-aged, and well-dressed, though his clothes just bordered on the flashy, and he was handsome enough, with a full head of salt and pepper hair, fleshy lips, and an oversized smile. It was his eyes that told her there was something wrong. They were small, flat, and black, contradicting that toothy smile as he surveyed the two of them.
“And here I was thinking I’d have to take me tea alone,” he said, pulling out the extra chair at the small table. “When who should I run across but my friend Martina. How is our old mate, Martin?” he inquired, and Martina jerked slightly.
“I haven’t seen him in weeks,” she said in a strained voice.
“Nobody has, or I miss my guess,” Mr. Stiles said cheerfully, signaling for fresh tea and a new cup. And then he turned that black, empty gaze on her. “And who ’ere is this beautiful young lady?”
If Georgie had any doubts before, they vanished at that word. She wasn’t beautiful and she knew it. Her face was pretty enough, if she were being fair, but a far cry from Norah’s elegant features.
“My mistress,” Martina said stiffly, coming out of her frozen daze. “And I’m afraid it would be improper for you to join us....”
“Naah!” He grinned at Georgie with too many teeth, and she decided right then that she didn’t like him. “All you ’ave to do is introduce me to this young lady and things will be right as rain.”
For a moment, Georgie thought she’d refuse. But eventually, reluctantly, she spoke. “This is Miss Georgiana Manning.” She paused.
“Continue,” he said in a silken voice that was clearly an order.
Georgie expected Martina to balk, but even she didn’t miss the warning in those flat black eyes.
“This is...” she hesitated.
“’Er old friend Billy Stiles,” the man broke in, that ugly grin still on his face. “Why, I haven’t seen my friend Martina in quite a long time, though I heard you were working for some toffs. That’s a new lay for the likes of you.” He let his eyes drift over Georgie, and she suddenly felt unclean. “The Mannings, did you say?”
Martina just stared at him stonily, and Georgie looked between the two of them, deeply uncomfortable but wildly curious. Who was this man who seemed to terrorize her stalwart maid?
“And where is our good friend Rafferty?” he said casually, turning back to Martina. “I ’eard rumors that he’d gone into service, though I find that hard to believe. He never was the type to take orders from anyone.”
“Rafferty?” Georgie spoke before Martina could reply. “What does he have to do with anything?”
“Ah, a pretty girl like you needs to be careful around the likes of him. He’d have you on your back with your skirts up in no time.”
“Mr. Stiles!” Martina cried in a shocked, angry voice. “That’s no way to talk to a young lady.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Manning. I’m a simple man from the country, and I’m not up on the ways of polite society.”
That was a lie, Georgie knew it immediately. He was city-bred if anyone was, with the accent of one born within the sound of Bow Bells. But she couldn’t get the picture out of her mind—Rafferty tossing her on a bed and lifting her heavy skirts. It was terrifying, and it was bewitching.
“Excuse me for a moment.” To Georgie’s shock, Martina pushed away from the table, leaving her alone with this jovial, sinister man, and she wanted to shriek in protest. But she was gone in an instant, and Stiles paid no attention to her departure.
