His words slowly registered through her lethargic haze. “What? No. It’s not your fault she died. It simply happened.”
“She gave birth to twins without dying. So why was I so difficult? I don’t believe my father blamed me, but still I reflect on it sometimes.”
“You shouldn’t. Not like that. She loved you, I’m sure of it. She’d want you to be happy.”
He chuckled low. “After everything that’s happened to you, how can you remain so damned optimistic?”
“I wouldn’t much like being the other way.” She squinted. “You need to stop drinking. You’re becoming blurred.”
He smiled, a real smile, she thought, but it was so difficult to see. The room was growing dark around the edges, and she was having a devil of a time keeping her eyes open.
“I believe you’re the one who’s blurred,” he said, and she could have sworn she heard the amusement in his voice.
“Who was the other person you killed? You said your mother was the first.”
“I don’t know his name.”
“He deserved it, though. You wouldn’t have killed him otherwise.”
He tilted his head to the side as though to see her more clearly. “Are you not appalled?”
She fought to shake her head forcefully, although it seemed to want to loll about on its own. “I wanted to kill Geoffrey, although he didn’t really deserve it. But I should have smacked him I think.”
“I can arrange that if you like.”
She heard laughter. As his mouth was closed, she supposed it was coming from her. “I’ve decided I feel rather sorry for him. He’s weak, not to be admired. Not worth the effort of me slapping. Besides, I don’t think I can get out of the chair.”
“Yes, I assumed that when you dropped the glass.”
She looked at her hand, her fingers. “I was holding it, wasn’t I?”
“I think you’re quite into your cups.”
She lifted her gaze to find him hovering over her. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers over his lips. “Do you like me?”
“Very much. That’s your misfortune. I thought I’d be done with you by now.”
“I thought you would as well. I don’t think you quite appreciate yourself.”
“And you, my sweet, are drunk.”
He lifted her into his arms and she rested a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t hold you, but this is like when we were waltzing. I liked waltzing.”
“I’ll take you to another ball.”
She was vaguely aware of his long strides taking them out of the library.
“I should like to go on your brother’s boat.”
“You shall have to call it a ship.”
“I will, I promise. So will we be going on it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not yet decided.”
“Have you a coin?” she asked.
“What has that to do with anything?”
“Have you a coin?” she insisted.
“Yes. The same one you used before.”
“Then set me down.”
“You’ll fall on your face.”
“No, I won’t. Set me down.”
He did as she ordered, and her feet settled on the cold marble. They were in the foyer. She wobbled around a bit, before he set his hands on her shoulders and steadied her.
“All right, take out your coin. You’ll be the one to flip it. Heads we go on the ship, tails we don’t. Agreed?”
“I don’t believe in giving fate—”
“Trust me. Are we agreed on the terms?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Agreed.”
“Toss it in the air, but don’t look at it when it lands.”
“How will I know—”
She placed her fingers against his lips. “Don’t think about it. Just do as I say.” She forced herself to concentrate on his face, his eyes. “Toss it.”
He flipped it up, it spiraled down—
“There,” she said, putting her hand up so he couldn’t see the coin as it clinked with its landing, rolled, and fell onto a side. “There, that split second before it landed, what did you think?”
“That this is ridiculous.”
He started to move away, and she stayed him with a hand on his arm. He glared at her. There was a time when the fierceness of his glower would have sent her cowering up the stairs, but that was before she knew him. “My father taught me that when you flip a coin, there is always a second, just before it lands, when you think either heads or tails. And that’s when you truly know what you want the outcome to be. So what did you think? I saw it in your eyes. I know you thought one or the other.”
“The first night you were here, you flipped a coin.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell you if heads meant I stayed. And actually, tails meant I stayed, so I lied to you and said it was heads. But you see, that’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t matter what lands. What matters is what you hoped would land. And that’s your answer. So what did you want, Rafe?”
“Doesn’t matter what I want.” He swept her into his arms. “We’ll go because you’ll harp about it if we don’t.”
Suddenly exhausted, she rested her head against his shoulder. “When have I ever harped?”
Rafe set her down gently on the bed and unknotted the sash of her robe. She barely stirred as he worked her out of it. Bringing the covers up over her, he was incredibly tempted to slip beneath them with her. But it had been years since he’d been able to stand the weight of covers lying heavy on his body.
She didn’t harp, she didn’t complain. The more he came to know her, the more he realized she’d have not ended up in St. Giles as he’d originally assumed. She possessed a determination, a strength of will that would have had her finding a way to avoid the rookeries. She’d taken the path of least resistance by staying with him, but it had also been her smartest move. Smarter yet to make him think that she’d allowed fate to decide when she’d done it all along. She was here because she had chosen to be. Which meant she could just as easily choose to leave.
He broke out in a fine sheen of sweat. He didn’t care if she left. She meant nothing to him. He hadn’t enjoyed dancing with her. He hadn’t taken pleasure in seeing her in the red. He wasn’t glad she’d worn his pearls. He was ready to leave her now, to get on about his business. Yet he stood there, watching her sleep, thinking that she deserved to have a man holding her tightly, his breath wafting over her neck while she dreamed.
And he found himself desperately wishing he could be that man.
After extinguishing the lamp, he left the room and returned to the foyer. His coin was still on the floor, tails winking up at him. His father had given him the coin one blustery morning. “Go into the village and purchase some humbugs. We’ll share them tonight when I regale you with tales of our hunting.” Then his father had mounted his horse and gone off with his younger brother, Lord David. Rafe had never made it to the sweet shop. It was a cold day, so he’d lounged by the fire instead, playing with a carved wooden horse he’d stolen from Tristan. He didn’t like going to the village alone. He’d planned to convince his father to go with him when he got back.
But his uncle was the only one to return. Servants were sent out to retrieve his father and to put down the horse that had thrown him.
Rafe rubbed his fingers over the coin. He didn’t know why he’d kept it all these years. There was many a time when he could have used it to purchase food to fill his belly. But he had held onto it.
He would never admit it to Eve, but he had hoped for heads. During that one second, just before it landed—heads, his mind whispered. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, he was curious about Tristan’s yacht. Rafe had been disappointed that Tristan had sold his ship before Rafe had a chance to sail on it. If he hadn’t avoided his brothers, if he hadn’t isolated himself—
He’d always known, deep in his gut, that they’d had no choice except to leave him behind. But he also knew that if he’d been stronger, sharper, quicker they migh
t have taken him with them. It was what was lacking in him that had forced them to abandon him. He was tired of clutching to the past. Yet it was so damned hard to let go.
Chapter 17
The following night, standing in the shadows of the balcony, Rafe decided that he was going to stay at the club until dawn. Simply because he so desperately wanted to be with Eve. This need he had for her—
He shook his head. He didn’t need anyone. Only himself. He wouldn’t need anyone. He’d learned that lesson soon enough when he’d first arrived in London. He was a quick study. When taught a lesson once, he mastered it. He was giving Eve too much power, allowing her to have too much influence over him. Did he really want to go on Tristan’s boat? Or was it that she wanted to go, and he wanted only to please her? When had he ever wanted to please anyone other than himself?
He didn’t like the little game she played with the flip of a coin. He believed in knowing his own mind. If she flipped a coin, she should leave it to fate. She shouldn’t have stayed with him. That had been fate’s answer. Go.
Eventually she would. Everyone did. Everyone left.
Except for Wortham, it seemed. The man was losing at an astonishing rate. “How much is he into?”
“Eight thousand quid,” Mick said from farther back in the shadows.
Rafe scoffed. “What an idiot.”
“He thinks the cards will turn in his favor. They all do. That’s the reason they play.”
And the reason that Rafe didn’t. A man had control over the cards only when he cheated. Rafe had done that on occasion when he wanted something badly. His residence, for one. It assuaged his conscience little that once he’d taken ownership, he’d invited the lord to a private game in which the lord had walked away with the majority of the take. The lord had then retired to his country estate. He’d cancelled his membership at Rafe’s club.
Wortham should do the same.
“Think I shall have a word with his lordship,” Rafe murmured.
“In your office?”
“No, on the gaming floor should work well enough.” He didn’t expect much of a protest from Wortham. The man had no backbone. He needed to leave the table until his debt was again paid in full.
Rafe made his way down the darkened stairs. His club was made up of more shadows than light. That’s where sin was best carried on and sinners were most comfortable. He strolled among the tables. Once this was the only place he wanted to be. It irritated him that he now longed to be elsewhere. It annoyed him further that the one place he wished to be most of all—in Eve’s arms—was the one place he would never be. But sometimes he wondered: could it be different with her?
He came to a stop beside Wortham’s chair, watched as the last hand was played out, and the chips were taken from Wortham. “Now would be the time to leave, m’lord. While you still have a few chips to cash in. Your credit here has reached its limit.”
“You fuck my father’s daughter—”
Fisting his hand around the man’s neckcloth and collar, Rafe yanked him to his feet. “Do not speak of her.”
“Or what? You won’t allow me to breathe any longer? Perhaps it’s you who will cease to breathe.”
As fire burst through his side, Rafe slung Wortham away. A knife clattered to the floor one second before Wortham joined it in a sprawl, his eyes wide, his face ashen. Rafe suspected the man had never poked another.
The dealer straddled Wortham and drew his fist back.
“No,” Rafe barked. “He’s not worth it.” One didn’t go about striking the nobility without suffering dire consequences.
“He knifed you,” Mick said.
“It’s just a nick, but get him out of here. I don’t want to see him in here again.” He tugged on his waistcoat when he dearly wanted to rip it off. “Back to your games, gentlemen. The entertainment is over.”
Leaning down, he picked up the knife, pocketed it, and began striding for the stairs that would take him to his office and a back exit.
Mick caught up to him. “Judging by the blood on that knife—”
“See that things are tidied up and everything returns to normal. I’m going to my residence.”
To Eve, a small voice whispered, to Eve.
He had yet to show. It was unusual for him, even though he always claimed he would not see her before midnight, he had never held to that claim. As Evelyn waited in the sitting area of her bedchamber, she tugged on the sash of her silk wrap. Beneath it, she wore a silk nightdress that shimmered over her skin whenever she moved. She saw no reason to dress formally, when he would have her out of the clothes almost as soon as he walked through the door. She supposed she should be glad that he had such a driving need to possess her, but sometimes she did wish they had time to savor each other a little more. Although she wasn’t going to complain. He had taken her to the ball after all. She thought if she asked that he would take her to the theater. She had seen an advert—
The door burst open. He took two steps in, halted. “Why weren’t you waiting for me downstairs?”
“I was waiting for you here.” She’d never seen him look so disheveled. He was breathing harshly, his neckcloth askew, his waistcoat open, his shirt unbuttoned. She slowly came to her feet. “Dear God, is that blood? Did you kill someone?”
He laughed darkly. “At least you know me well enough to know what I’m capable of.”
He tore at his jacket. She heard material ripping before he had properly removed and discarded it.
“We must send for a physician,” she said.
“Laurence is seeing to it.”
Working to get off his waistcoat next, he took a step, staggered, then made his way to the bed. He sat down heavily and hung his head. She hurried over, stared at him, at the red-soaked spot on his shirt. “Oh, my Lord. Is it all your blood?”
“Afraid so, but don’t worry, pet. My solicitor is well aware that should I die, you gain all. Except the gaming hell. That goes to Mick.”
“Do you honestly believe that is what is on my mind at this moment?”
“If you’re smart, you’ll start praying for my demise.”
“Then I must be exceedingly stupid, because what I’m praying for is the physician’s hasty arrival.”
He studied her as though she were a new species of butterfly to be pinned to a board and examined. “After all you’ve endured, how can you think of others before yourself? Do you not see how important you are? That you are all that matters?”
“I’m not all that matters. It would be a rather sad world if I were.” As carefully as she could, she worked his arms out of his waistcoat. “What happened?”
“Idiot didn’t like that I wasn’t going to give him any more credit.”
“You were attacked at your club?”
He shrugged, grimaced.
“What sort of clientele do you serve?”
“Wortham’s a member. That should give you a clue.”
She began gathering up the hem of his shirt. “But he wouldn’t do something like this.”
He was silent as she began to lift. She stilled, horrified by a thought. “Say it wasn’t him.”
“It wasn’t him.”
Relief coursed through her. Cautiously, as he raised his arms, she pulled his shirt over his head. Then she saw the ghastly gash oozing blood. She thought she might be ill.
She rushed over to the washbasin and grabbed a towel. After returning to the bed, she pressed the cloth against the gaping wound. She heard his sharp intake of breath.
“It isn’t bad,” he assured her. “It’s long, but not deep. He didn’t strike any organs.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’d be in a good deal more pain. Idiot didn’t know what he was doing. He just struck without thought or aim. A few stitches should do the trick. You could probably sew me up.”
“My stitching is atrocious. I’m always having to undo it and redo it. I’d probably end up sewing your side to your thigh.”
He release
d a short burst of laughter. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t take you to be my tailor.”
“I told you I have no skills.” She lifted her gaze to his as realization dawned. “You live in a very violent world, don’t you?”
“Not as violent as it once was.” He averted his gaze. She thought perhaps he was studying the lamp. She could see the flame reflected in his eyes. “I know he didn’t hit any organs because I know what the inside looks like. When I was fourteen, I worked for a nasty fellow. He went by the name of Dimmick. He would do favors for people or lend them money, but what they owed him was a good deal more. When it was time to pay up, he would send a couple of us to collect. ‘His boys’ he called us. ‘Don’t want me to be sendin’ me boys ’round.’ Before he sent us on our first job, he took us to a morgue, cut open a cadaver, and showed us how to strike to cause the most pain, where to strike to kill.”
“You mentioned that you’d killed someone. Did you do it for him?”
He brought his gaze back to her. “Not for him. But I hurt people, badly. I’m not proud of it, but at the time I felt I had no choice if I was to survive. A couple of years later, he found himself in a bit of a bother. One of his boys could read and write, you see. He kept very good records of the man’s activities.” He gave her a devilish grin. “In exchange for not taking them to Scotland Yard, I wanted his gaming hell.”
“That’s how you came to have your club.”
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and she wondered how much longer before he clammed back up. It was unusual for him to reveal so much. He had to be trying to distract himself from the pain.
“What happened to him? Where is he now?”
“He sent someone to kill me. I broke the bloke’s arm, told him I could teach him a better way to live.”
Knowledge dawned. “Laurence?”
He nodded again. “Word spread that I was a fairer sort. Those who once worked for him began to work for me. He had a lot of enemies, and soon there was no one to protect him. Heard he jumped off Tower Bridge one night.”
“You shouldn’t feel guilty.”
“I don’t feel guilty about anything. There’s nothing to be gained by it.”
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] Page 23
