He’d never needed anyone or anything. Not since that night when their uncle had tried to kill them. He didn’t need her, but it didn’t stop him from wanting her.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, rubbing the coin, recounting every moment he’d spent with her. He considered lying down on his bed, the one that now looked as though it belonged to a sane man, but he didn’t want to sleep alone.
Turning from the window, he strode back toward the door.
She was his mistress. He made the rules. He would sleep with her when he damned well wanted to, and he wanted to at that moment. He wouldn’t make love to her—
The thought staggered and stumbled through his mind. When had he begun to think of what happened between them as making love? When had it ceased to be merely bedding? When had it become more with her than it had ever been with any other woman?
He pressed his forehead to the door. All he could hear was the silence on the other side. Was she asleep by now? Had she wept? He hated the thought that he might have caused her to cry. She deserved so much better than him. He should walk away, leave, announce the terms met. The residence was already in her name. He’d seen to that before he’d left to retrieve the horse. In truth, she was within her right to toss him out on his ear.
She was a woman who wanted more than he could give her. He could purchase her anything she desired. The problem was what she truly yearned for could not be bought, and well he knew it. He also knew that he hadn’t the means to give it to her.
He wanted to crawl into the bed, have her scoot over, and scrunch up against him. He wanted to feel her pressed against his side, her head nestled on his shoulder, her hand curled on his chest. Once more, just once more, then perhaps he would set her free.
So as not to disturb her, he quietly opened the door and stepped into her bedchamber. Immediately he felt her absence. It was as though all the life, breath, joy had been sucked from the room. He didn’t have to look to know she wasn’t in the bed. He didn’t have to look to know she wasn’t in the residence.
But still he stormed across to the armoire and nearly tore the door off its hinges as he opened it. All the gowns were there: the red, the violet, the yellow. Every dress, every wrap.
All except the hideous black dress and the matching black cloak in which she’d arrived.
“No.”
It was a strangled sound, the cry of disbelief. He hurried over to her vanity, to the jewelry box. Every piece he’d given her was nestled on velvet, winking up at him mockingly. Only the two pieces that her father had given to her were missing.
He felt as though something inside of him was ripping and being torn asunder. She wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t allow it.
He tore out of the room and down the stairs. “Laurence! Laurence!”
Somewhere a clock was chiming—once, twice, thrice. It was the bloody middle of the night. Where could she go?
His hair untidy, his jacket askew, Laurence appeared in the entryway just as Rafe reached it.
“Did Eve have a carriage brought round?”
“Miss Chambers, sir? No.”
Then she was on foot. Where was she going?
He rushed out the door and down the steps. He couldn’t see her on the drive. He couldn’t see her in the shadows of the night. He almost screamed her name, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to do it, to let all of London know that once again, he’d been left behind.
Chapter 20
Rafe was standing at the window of his apartments at the club, watching the people coming and going, trying not to remember how much they had fascinated Eve. To not think of her was proving a fruitless endeavor. Everything reminded him of her.
When he walked through his residence, he inhaled her fragrance. He could no longer tolerate being there, not even for a moment. Every room held a memory of her.
It was equally as difficult being here, at his club.
When he boxed with Mick, he thought of Evie enduring his lessons in the ring.
When he looked out over the gaming floor, he saw it through her eyes.
When he went to his office, he regretted that he’d not shown her the globe that Tristan had carved for him, that he’d not told her that he was afraid to be grateful for it. If he truly cared for something, it would be stripped away. The best recourse was not to care.
Then he was immune to hurt.
So why was he now in so much blasted pain?
Because he adored her, dammit. That was the reason he was in such agony now, why he wasn’t seeing after his club, why he didn’t care how much money was being raked in, why he didn’t care that some men owed him more than they’d be able to repay in ten lifetimes.
She’d had no one, nowhere to go. Yet she had managed to disappear like smoke caught on a wayward breeze. If he didn’t know better, he’d consider that she might be a figment of his demented imagination.
He should leave her be, stop worrying about her. She had made her decision. She had left.
But she had done so without knowing how he truly felt. She had departed believing that he didn’t care.
What a jackass he was.
Would it have killed him to tell her that she mattered?
He removed the coin from his pocket, studied it, remembered how warm it had been when his father had placed it on his palm. He didn’t believe in fate, luck, or good fortune. He believed that a man created all three, sometimes from nothing.
He turned the coin over, once, twice, thrice. He wouldn’t play her silly game. But he would flip it. Heads he would let her go. Tails he would search for her.
Tossing it up, he watched as it reached its apex, turning end over end, before beginning its descent. He was halfway to the door when it clattered on the floor. He realized with everything deep inside him that it didn’t matter how the coin had landed.
He would search for her until he found her or drew his last breath.
He hurried down the stairs and toward the back door. He wasn’t quite certain where he would start. The rookeries he supposed. She certainly would not have returned to Wortham, and if she’d had anyplace else to seek sanctuary, she’d have not stayed with him that first night.
He’d told her where to sell her jewelry. He’d shown her where to seek shelter. Yes, the rookeries. That was where she would go.
Stepping outside, he locked the door behind him and headed down the mews. He’d sent his carriage home, because he’d had no plans to return there. It was a miserable place without her. The small things about her brought him such delight. No one had ever fascinated him as she did.
He turned into an alleyway, intending to make his way to the nearest street to hire a hackney, but six hulking men closed in around him. He had neither the time nor the patience for this nonsense. “If you know what’s good for you, gents, you’ll back off and let me be on my way.”
“And if ye know what’s good for ye, ye’ll sign me club back over to me.”
Rafe watched as the group parted and Dimmick stepped through, and while the light was dim, it was clear that he was as ugly as ever. “Ah, Dimmick, I’d heard that you were dead.”
“Best way to lay low for a bit. Found a bloke around my size, bashed in his face, dressed him in my clothes, and let the fish nibble at him for a bit. Then paid a fine fellow to say, ‘By God, that’s Dimmick.’ Bobbies don’t look too hard at our sorts. But now I’ve risen from the dead and I want me club back. And yer fancy residence. That’ll cover the interest.”
Rafe’s stomach tightened with the thought of Dimmick walking into the residence that belonged to Eve. Lord help the servants if Dimmick recognized any of them. Some had owed him money, and Rafe was to have dispensed with them. Instead, he’d given them new names and a place to live where they were unlikely to cross paths with the man who wished them harm. “Afraid I like both a bit too much to part with either easily. And as I am familiar with how you operate, you should know that upon my death, the club goes to Mick. All nice and legal. My solicitor has m
y will and the deed to the property, all properly signed.”
“Sorry to hear that. All right, fellas, you know what to do.”
They rushed in, fists flailing. Rafe fought them off as long as he could. At least one, maybe two, went down, but they were a skilled lot, and he soon found himself trussed up and laying on the ground.
Dimmick crouched low. “You’ll give me what I want, one way or another.”
As Rafe was hefted to his feet, he thought, No, I won’t. Not if it means there is any chance in hell that you’ll ever learn about Eve.
He found himself in an empty room in a large building. A warehouse perhaps. Every movement—shuffling of feet, grunts, breathing, scurrying rats—echoed. Rafe was tied to a chair, the rope wound tightly around his upper torso, arms, and legs. His hands were free, resting on a low table. On it were a pen, an inkwell, and a sheaf of paper.
“Now,” Dimmick began, “you’re going to write a new will, leaving your establishment to me. In exchange for which, I’ll give you a quick death. You’re well aware that I can give you a slow painful one.”
Rafe glanced around, taking in his situation. Half a dozen men surrounded him. One was holding a large hammer. He knew what that was for. If he could break free of his bonds, he could probably get to two of them, but all six was going to be a trick. He almost laughed. When had he become an optimist to think anything good was going to come of this? Optimism was Eve’s domain. He regretted immensely that he’d never see her again. Just once more. To gaze into her eyes, to see her smile, to tell her … Sweet Christ, it was an unfortunate time to realize that he loved her.
And had for some time. For much of his life he had worked hard to ensure that nothing mattered. She mattered. She was all that mattered.
When she left he had lost a part of himself, perhaps the last bit of himself that was of any worth.
He lifted his right hand, wiggled his fingers, as much as he was able with the ropes digging into him. Dimmick moved the pen closer. Rafe picked it up, dipped it in the inkwell, and set the tip on the paper, watching as the ink slowly spread over the parchment. Looking up, he winked at Dimmick. “Don’t think I will.”
“Right. Charlie, smash his left hand.”
“But you always have me smash their important hand, their writing hand.”
“Use your head. He needs it to write.”
“Oh, I see. All right then.”
Two other men moved in. One wrapped his arm around Rafe’s neck and forced his chin up, while the other held his left wrist so his hand was splayed on the table. Rafe remembered the first time that Dimmick had told him to break someone’s hand.
“Break his hand or I’ll break your arm.”
Rafe had broken the man’s hand. He’d never forget the sound of cracking bone and the man’s painful wail. His hand had never healed properly, which made him one of the most ineffectual valets in all of London.
Rafe kept his gaze on Dimmick. If he managed to get out of this, he was going to see Dimmick hanged. Nice and legal. He wouldn’t be coming back from a hanging.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hammer going up. He braced—
The immeasurable pain shot through him. He wanted to be stoic, but he couldn’t hold back the guttural cry. Both men released him. Breathing heavily, he glared at Dimmick, who was smiling with satisfaction.
“Now, write the will or I’ll have him hit your hand again until the bone is naught but tiny bits.”
“Gonna be … a bit difficult. I’m left-handed, you see.”
He heard Dimmick’s roar, saw the hammer was now in his meaty hand, swinging down—
The pain carried him into the depths of darkness.
Evelyn thought that she should be hungry, especially as the dinner set before her was one of the finest she’d ever seen, but everything tasted of nothing. She ate tiny bites because it made things more palatable.
“Is it not to your liking?” Mary asked. “I can have Cook prepare something else.”
Evelyn smiled at her. “I have no appetite. That’s all. You’ve been so kind.” They’d taken her in the night she’d walked out on Rafe. She hadn’t known where else to go, but she’d learned early on that the duchess was an extremely compassionate sort. She’d held Evelyn while she wept and blubbered. She’d passed no judgments on Rafe except to say that Evelyn had been right to leave him.
But if that were the case, why did she hurt so badly? Why did she sit in her bedchamber and stare out the window at the residence across the way, hoping for a glimpse of Rafe? Was he well? Did he miss her at all?
Sometimes she considered returning to him, but she wanted so much more than he could give her. She yearned for the essentials that couldn’t be purchased: love, family, happiness.
She’d moped about long enough. It was time to move on.
“I can’t continue to take advantage. I thought tomorrow to start searching for employment.” How long had she been here now? Even the passing of days, nights held no meaning.
“We’ll help you find something. What are your skills?”
Before she could begin to list her limited talents, the door to the dining room burst open as though by a tempest and Tristan Easton strode in and, without preamble, announced, “I suspect Rafe might be in trouble.”
The duke was on his feet so fast, with such force, that the table shook. “Why do you think that?”
“He hasn’t been to his club or his residence in three days. No one knows of his whereabouts.”
A sense of dread and foreboding tore through Eve. “It’s not like him, to stay away from his club.”
“Have you a notion as to where he might be?”
She shook her head. “His club is the only thing about which he cares.”
“I very much doubt that,” the duke said, and the look in his gaze told her that he thought she was important to Rafe. She wasn’t going to argue the point. “Do you think he might have gone to Pembrook?”
“It seems unlikely to me,” she told him, “but then I don’t believe that I truly knew him very well.”
“I went there,” Tristan said. “When Anne and I had our parting of ways. It helped me to overcome the past but I’m not sure Rafe’s demons reside in Pembrook.”
“If they live anywhere at all, they live in the workhouse or in St. Giles,” Evelyn said. “Laurence might know. He tried to kill him once.”
“His butler tried to kill him?” the duke asked. “What the devil was he thinking to hire the man to run his household?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lord Tristan said. “I’ll have another chat with him.”
Evelyn came to her feet. “I’m going with you.”
As she walked with Tristan and the duke—who had insisted upon coming as well—to the house next door, she knew that Rafe wouldn’t fancy his brothers learning the truth about the life he’d led while they’d been away. But if he was in trouble they might be in a position to help him, and that was all that mattered now. Finding him, ensuring he was safe.
She didn’t know why she cared so much. Yes, she did. It was that little irritating fact that she loved him, in spite of his gruffness, his walls, and his distance. He was a better man than he gave himself credit for. She’d caught glimpses of that man.
She didn’t bother to knock when they arrived, but simply walked in as though the residence was hers. Laurence emerged from a doorway, stumbled to a stop, and smiled. “Miss Chambers, you’ve returned. The master will be relieved. I’ll send word round to the club.”
“He’s not there,” Tristan said. “He left his club three nights ago. When I was here earlier, you told me you hadn’t seen him in three days.”
“Yes, that’s correct. He’s not been here, but then for him that’s not unusual. Before Miss Chambers arrived here, he might go a month or two without popping by.”
“So if he isn’t at his club or here,” the duke began, “where might he be?”
Laurence shook his head. “There is nowhere else. Except f
or St. Giles. But he wouldn’t stay there for any length of time. He quite abhors the place.”
“Where should we begin looking?”
Laurence hesitated, no doubt from long association with a man who harbored secrets.
Evelyn gave him an encouraging smile. “Laurence, you should answer the duke. He and Lord Tristan are Mr. Easton’s brothers.”
“Ah, yes, I can see the similarities.”
“Tell him what you know.”
“He could be anywhere in St. Giles. I’ll send the servants out to see what they can uncover.”
“No need,” the duke said. “We’re off for there now.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, are you familiar with St. Giles?”
“I’ve been through there, yes.”
“We all have lived there. If something is amiss, we can ferret it out.”
“All of you are from St. Giles?” Evelyn asked, not surprised to discover that Rafe had taken them in.
“Indeed, miss. If I might so bold, I suggest that you also have a word with Mick at the club. He remains a bit closer to the unsavory element than I.”
“Thank you, Laurence, for your advice,” Evelyn said. “We’ll heed it.”
“Let’s head to his club,” the duke said, turning to the door.
Evelyn spun on her heel to follow him.
“Miss?”
She turned back to Laurence.
“He spent a good deal of his life surviving those streets. One doesn’t do that without making some enemies, but he’s not one to go down easily.”
“You agree with Lord Tristan, you think he’s in trouble?”
“If he’s not at the club, then I fear it is the case. But we’ll find him, one way or another.”
She didn’t want to consider that “another” meant finding him dead.
“Disappeared?”
Standing in the balcony with the duke and Lord Tristan, Evelyn watched as the manager of the Rakehell Club, Mick, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at them as though they were responsible for the disappearance.
Tristan explained what Laurence had told him. Mick swore harshly beneath his breath. “ ’Tis true that he never is long from this place. But of late he’s been spending more time away, so I thought nothing of it. You should make inquiries of Lord Wortham.”
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