“Will they?” she asked listlessly.
“In the end.” Martina sounded resigned, and Georgie turned back to the window, more of that conversation drifting through her mind.
He’d killed someone. That should have shocked and horrified her, but for some reason it didn’t. She’d never had any illusions that Rafferty was a gentleman, or particularly safe and gentle. He had been gentle with her, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Why had he done all these things for her if she meant nothing to him? Why had he come back with her to be their butler if he was...what was he? A man who killed? A man who lied? And what was that awful man talking about? What was a catamite, and who was Martin?
“Did Rafferty kill a man?” she asked suddenly.
“What would you think if he did, Miss Georgie?” Martina countered, admitting nothing.
“That he would have had a good reason for it.”
Martina’s smile was so wide it almost cracked her maquillage. “You’re a good girl, Miss Georgie. No wonder he likes you so much.”
“He doesn’t. He said I meant nothing to him.” Her voice came out more strained than she would have liked, almost tearful. She wasn’t going to cry, not now, not until she was entirely alone. If Norah were to hear of her distress she’d crow.
Martina looked torn. “You’d be better off believing that.”
“It’s the truth. You heard him.”
“I heard him tell a man who was threatening you that you don’t matter. You might want to take that with a grain of salt. And that’s all I’m saying, so don’t ask any more questions.”
A faint hope, one that had almost been crushed beyond recognition, began to stir. “What do you mean?”
“You heard me. You can figure it out yourself, Miss Georgie.” She glanced outside in relief. “We’re home now. Why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea?”
“I’ve just had enough tea to turn my insides brown,” she protested, feeling oddly comforted. “But you could see if you can sneak me one of Bertha’s cream cakes.”
Martina’s smile was warm and sympathetic. “Now that I can do.”
Rafferty went through his duties with his usual unflappable calm, showing no sign that his brain was in a turmoil. He and Stiles had an arrangement—Rafferty would find the treasure and Stiles would get his cut. It was the only way he could have gotten Billy out of his hair while he searched. Rafferty could do a thing with delicacy—Stiles was more brute strength and a total lack of morals. Not that he trusted Stiles for a moment—as soon as he told Stiles where the money was, he’d then become superfluous, and Stiles had killed a man for a great deal less. This job had been a godsend in his efforts to locate the hidden cache, but he’d forgotten how it might affect the Mannings. How it might affect Georgie. Of course, Stiles had picked up on that right away—how could he not, with Rafferty flying to the rescue? He’d been a fool to underestimate him.
No, he hadn’t been careful enough as he’d gone about resurrecting the Mannings’ luck. He still wasn’t quite sure why he’d done it—down on their luck aristocrats were hardly his charity case.
But he knew the answer perfectly well. Georgie had gotten beneath his skin, though he wasn’t quite sure how or why. Well-bred virgins were probably the least interesting of womankind, and yet the only way he could keep himself from thinking about her was by concerted effort.
At least that was over now. She knew him for what he was—an ordinary criminal. No, that wasn’t quite true—he was an extraordinary criminal, one who had proven impossible to catch.
Stiles was the problem. He was the one who would put a knife in his back the moment it was turned. He was the one who’d hurt Georgie if he thought Rafferty was cheating him. And Stiles was a suspicious man.
If it were as simple as disappearing, then Rafferty would consider it, as long as it kept Georgie safe. But the plain truth was, it would do no good. Stiles would just go after it himself, slaughtering anyone who got in his way.
Ice ran down his spine. He couldn’t protect her, not all the time.
Things were a right cock-up, and that didn’t even include the complication of the Ormonds and their sharp-sighted gardener. The best thing he could possibly do was take off, simply disappear for a few months until Stiles grew careless. It was what a sane man would do.
But that would mean he’d leave the Mannings unprotected, something he wasn’t willing to do.
At least Georgie would be over her inconvenient crush—that would simplify matters, particularly if he now had to spend more time with her to keep her safe. Martin—no, Martina, wasn’t enough. He was going to have to do better.
Georgie didn’t make one of her unannounced visits to the kitchen, and she wasn’t about to. He didn’t have to worry about running into her on the servants’ staircase, sneaking behind a baize door. She’d leave him strictly alone from now on, thank God, and he could concentrate on his duties?—
“Did you really kill a man?”
He jumped and swore. If he were going to let people sneak up on him, then he wasn’t long for this world. He turned slowly to look at her.
She was standing in the doorway of the storeroom where he’d gone to unlock the silver, and there was no bright, sunny smile on her face. In truth, it looked as if she might have been crying, and he wanted to curse. He didn’t want anyone making her cry, particularly not him.
“Yes,” he said, steeling himself. “More than one, if the truth be told.”
