Georgie looked at Rafferty’s impassive face, and for a moment her gaze lingered on his mouth. “Yes,” she lied, watching him.
Rafferty left the room.
“What’s that you’ve got?” Martina spied Jane moving slowly down the corridor, a heavy-laden tray in her thin arms.
“Coffee for the young master. Not that he’ll drink it—he’ll probably throw it at my head if he wakes up long enough to notice me.”
Martina eyed the tray. “That’s not just coffee.” A decanter of brandy had pride of place on it, and she sighed. “Give it to me.”
“He’ll throw it at you.”
“No, he won’t,” Martina said firmly, accepting the tray in one strong arm and taking the brandy off it. “Take this back to the kitchen or wherever you got it, and next time he asks for it, come to me.”
Jane shook her head. “You don’t know what he’s like when he hasn’t got his bottle.”
“I know perfectly well how men behave when thwarted, and I don’t intend to let him get away with it. Go on about your work and I’ll deal with him.”
“You’re a braver soul than I am,” Jane muttered gratefully, then scurried down the corridor.
Martina watched her go, then stiffened her shoulders. This was going to be a battle, but one worth fighting. After a light tap, she pushed open Neddy’s door.
“Get out, and take your damned coffee with you,” came a muffled voice from the darkened bedroom. “Just leave me the bottle.”
Ignoring him, she set the tray down and went to the tall windows, throwing back the curtains on the bright fall weather. There was a shriek of horror from the shrouded bed, and she could hear him diving for the covers she’d tucked around him the night before.
“Close those damned curtains!” he half yelled, half groaned, but she went on to the next window and did the same, before turning to the bed.
He lay there, flat on his back, one arm across his eyes, panting slightly, and she picked up the tray, approaching him. “I’ve brought you coffee, sir,” she said demurely.
Slowly, slowly, he drew back his arm, peering at her. “It’s you,” he said hoarsely.
“Of course it is,” Martina said briskly. “Now sit up and I’ll give you your tray.”
“Take it away, and yourself with it. Just leave me the bottle.”
“There is no bottle, Mr. Edward. You’ll have to make do with coffee.”
He reached out and tried to dash the tray out of her hands, but she was too quick for him, stepping out of reach. “After you finish your coffee, I’ll bring you breakfast—just toast, I think, for today, until your stomach gets used to it.”
“Used to what?” he snarled.
“No brandy.”
There was dead silence in the bedroom, and she looked at him dispassionately. He was an unprepossessing sight, his eyes bloodshot, the handsome face softened from dissipation, and he was staring back at her with mingled wrath and frustration.
“Listen to me, you...”
“Martina,” she supplied calmly.
“You can take the damned coffee and shove it up your...” words failed him, a fact that amused Martina. He flopped back down on the bed. “Bring me a bottle of wine, then,” he said grumpily.
“No wine either. Your mother is worried about you.”
“My mother doesn’t worry about anything but her protégés and her gambling debts.”
“And her son. You underestimate a mother’s love for her son. But it’s more than that. There’s a definite shortage of decent men in this world, and I have no intention of letting you ruin yourself any further. You’ll have coffee, then toast, then a bath and a shave.”
“Who’s going to shave me? Our criminal butler?”
