He glanced at her. If she were older, he could always take her home to bed and roam the place while she slept off the soporific effects of sex. She was out of the schoolroom, even if she wasn’t actually “out,” and he had a dislike of hurting innocent creatures. Still, he had to be open to all possibilities.
He was thinking better of it when they rolled up to a brightly-lit mansion in the heart of Mayfair. Crowds surrounded the place—he spied three more goats, eight bowls of goldfish, and various other detritus in the arms of over-dressed, overbred aristocrats. He didn’t see another man who could qualify for the dregs of society, and he sighed. He’d agreed to this, bewitched by those blue eyes. He was going to carry it through.
He pulled the goat with him, striding up the front steps in Georgie’s wake as she transported the goldfish, and he noticed with amusement that he was being given a wide berth, as if he might be contagious. She marched him straight into chaos, a room filled with people shouting, goats bleating, odd objects of furniture being passed overhead, when there was a sudden, thundering silence.
“Miss Georgiana Manning,” a stalwart gentleman announced in a tempered bellow. “Have you brought to us a Dreg of Society?”
She scowled. “I’ve brought you Mr....” She turned to him and whispered loudly. “I beg your pardon, what’s your name?”
“Rafferty,” he replied.
“I’ve brought you Mr. Rafferty,” she announced. “A man temporarily down on his luck.”
The man looked him over, as if guessing his weight for market. “I’ll have to ask some questions.”
“Of course,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice, using his best cockney accent. “What you need to know, guv’nor?”
“Where do you reside?”
“On the streets. Lately I’ve been sleeping in a doorway near the docks.”
“How much money do you have on you?”
“Not a penny.”
“Do you own any property?”
“Nuffink,” he replied easily. “I’m fancy free.”
“And would you term yourself the dregs of society?”
“Can’t think of anyone much lower.”
The man looked at him for a long moment, then turned to the waiting crowd. “Then I declare the winner of The Rutherford Treasure Hunt is Miss Georgiana Manning,” he announced in a stentorian bellow, followed by enthusiastic cheers and huzzahs.
Rafferty was tempted, so tempted, to tell them exactly what he thought of them, but then Norah Manning might get her wish to see him strung up to the nearest tree. The British upper classes took their privilege very seriously, as he knew full well. Everyone had crowded around Georgie, shaking her hand, hugging her as an avalanche of congratulations poured around her, and he judged it a fine time to disappear. He would have time to get back to the deserted town house and begin his search before they returned. He moved through the parting crowds, very aware of the suspicious servants watching him in case he decided to take off with the best silver, and he’d almost made it out the door when he ran smack into the beautiful Norah, with some poor, rundown soul in tow.
“Too late,” he announced cheerfully. “Your sister’s beaten you.”
The expression on her perfect face was so ugly it took him aback. “You!” she said in tones of loathing. “How dare you show your face here?”
“Isn’t that exactly what you wanted me to do?” he countered. She really was a looker, even with that mean expression on her face. Given time and inclination, he’d take her bed, and damned if she wouldn’t go willingly if he put enough effort into the task. He wasn’t interested.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said politely, staring to move around her, but she forestalled him.
“I ought to call the police.”
“What for?”
“You pushed me into the street!”
“You tripped.”
“Alcott!” she called, but her faithful swain was nowhere in sight, and he gave into temptation, looming over her once more.
“I didn’t push you,” he said. “But I could remedy the omission.”
She let out a noisy squawk, for all like a discomfited chicken, but before he could take a step closer, Georgie was by his side.
