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 released 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.”
“Why did you tell me all this?”
“So if I die, you’d know not to come looking for me when you get to heaven.”
She felt compelled to carry on with the farce that neither of them was worried about the wound. “I wouldn’t anyway.”
He grinned. She heard the door creak as it was opened further. Rafe looked up. “Ah, Graves, I’m in need of your skills.”
Evelyn put her faith in Dr. William Graves because he had the countenance of an angel. Rafe seemed to have an inordinate amount of confidence in the man’s abilities as he cleaned out the wound—which was far deeper and ghastlier than Evelyn had originally thought—and sewed it up.
After Graves left, tiny tremors were still coursing through her. She was half tempted to take a dose of the laudanum that the doctor had left behind. It had certainly worked to put Rafe asleep. As he didn’t stay with her after they—she didn’t know how to think of it. They weren’t making love, yet it seemed to be more than just bedding, at least to her; she doubted it was to him. But because he didn’t remain, she’d never had the opportunity to watch him sleep. With the medication carrying away his worries and burdens, he appeared vulnerable, young.
And so damned proud. Not allowing the servants in to see to his needs. What if he’d not had her? Would he have suffered through all this alone, with no one to watch over him? She knew the answer before she’d completely asked herself the question. He would have. He kept himself isolated from others. He fought not to need anyone. Not even her.
She provided surcease for his physical needs, but his heart, his soul remained distant, untouchable. He did things for her because they were expected of him—a man bought jewelry for his mistress and so he bought it for her. Because she was his mistress, not because he held any tender regard for her.
She was a fool for wanting to mean something to him. But then, unlike him, she seemed to have little control over her heart. Perhaps she was more like her mother than she realized. Surely if she’d had a choice, her mother would have fallen in love with a man who could marry her, instead of one forced to steal moments with her. Evelyn would be mistress to but one man. When he was done with her, she would find a way to make herself presentable. She would leave the aristocracy behind, London as well. She would go someplace where she wasn’t known and she would find love. Or at the very least a man who placed her happiness above his own. He would intertwine his fingers with hers when they strolled along. He would wrap his arms around her when they watched the sunset. He would carry her into the house because his strides were longer than hers and he was impatient to be with her.
With a sigh, she brought the covers up higher over Rafe’s still form and tucked him in. A chill haunted the air tonight, and she didn’t want him falling ill. Dealing with his wound would be troublesome enough. Dr. Graves had told her to expect a fever and explained how she would know if the stitched-up gash became infected. He gave her instructions to send for him if he was needed. Lowering her head, she pressed a light kiss to Rafe’s forehead, aware that it was clammy. She hated seeing him in agony. She would get a damp cloth and gently pat his face.
Turning away from the bed, she spotted his clothing strewn over the floor. As she gathered it up, her gut clenched at the sight of his blood staining the white, and marring the beautiful brocade. The material was ripped beyond repair not only from the knife—she shuddered with the image—but from Rafe’s haste to rid himself of his clothing.
Starting to bundle it up, she realized that something was in the pocket of the waistcoat. Gingerly, she dug her fingers into it and retrieved a key. It very much resembled the one in her door, one she never turned because a mistress shouldn’t lock out her lover. And then she knew. This brass object provided entry into his room. Clutching it to her breast, dropping the clothes, she snapped her head around to stare at the bed.
He was still there, had not moved a single muscle. Sleeping soundly.
She turned her attention to the door separating their rooms. What was behind it that he protected so fiercely?
As quietly as possible she crept toward it, her heart hammering, her breathing unsteady. Reaching the door, she unfurled her fingers and stared at the blood smeared over the brass. His blood.
She would not feel guilty for wanting to know everything possible about him. It was unconscionable that they were intimate physically and yet he held secrets. What might be behind that door had been taunting her. Now she would know. It wasn’t as though she was really doing anything awful. She would see the room when the house became hers exclusively. So where was the harm in seeing it now?
She peered over at him to make certain he was still asleep. Deeply based upon the snores he was beginning to emit. She didn’t know he snored. She didn’t know so many things about him. It was the reason that she wanted to take a peek into his room. Just a peek. Was the bedding dark? Was the bedchamber filled with globes?
Once she opened the door, she couldn’t unopen it. She looked at him again. If he trusted her, if he cared for her, he wouldn’t remain so mysterious. He would bare all. By opening the door, wasn’t she indicating that he couldn’t trust her? Even if he never found out, she would know.
Placing her hand on the knob, she moved the key nearer to the keyhole—
They were holding him down, beating him, monsters with hideous smiles and cackling laughter. He wanted to kick at them, strike out with flailing fists, but he had no arms, he had no legs. Nothing. He could do nothing, not even roll. Everything was pressing in. His chest was going to cave in. He couldn’t breathe.
He heard the whimpering, the fading cries for help. They were coming from him. They weren’t coming from him. They stopped, and that terrified him even more.
“I’m a lord! You can’t treat me like this! I’m a lord! My father was a duke! My brother’s a duke!”
But they only laughed louder, pushed harder, wrapped more tightly. They were putting him in a cocoon, like the one he’d once seen a caterpillar create. Being inside it had changed the insect into something else, something beautiful. He’d seen it emerge. But he knew he wouldn’t emerge from this. He was going to suffocate, die. He could feel less and less of himself. He was disappearing while the monsters loomed larger. When he no longer existed, he wouldn’t be free of them. They would follow him into hell.
He had to escape, he had to fight. If only he could breathe. He could regain his strength, he could fight them off. He had to show them he was strong, that they couldn’t beat him. But his lungs were going to explode.
Air. Air. There was none to breathe because all the space was filled with screams.
The screams woke her. She shot out of the chair near the bed, disoriented and groggy. She’d meant to watch over him, not fall asleep. She was horrified to see him thrashing about as though caught in the grip of a horrendous nightmare.
Climbing onto the bed, she fought desperately to grab his wildly flailing arms. “Rafe. Rafe! Wake up! It’s only a dream.”
“Get it off! Get me out of here!”
His wayward fist smashed into her face and sent her reeling backward off the bed, slamming against the floor, jarring her teeth. Pinpricks of light danced in front of her eyes, her head spun. With determination she struggled to her feet.
“Rafe?” Dear Lord, her jaw ached.
He glared at her with an unholy feral gleam in his eyes, like those of a cornered animal she’d once seen at the zoological gardens. He was a man possessed, battling the covers, as though they were the enemy.
“Oh, dear God.” His rule slammed into her with the impact that his fist had only moments earlier. He didn’t like to be held, and she had tucked the covers in snuggly around him. When she was ill, she drew comfort from being nestled beneath a mound of them. But he had to feel as though the widest arms on earth were holding him. Grabbing the covers, she began jerking them free. “Calm down, calm down. I’ll get them off.”
As their hold loosened, so he began to still. When she had dragged the last of the dampened sheets to the floor, he scrambled off the bed. Breathing heavily, he glanced around wildly. She could see blood seeping through the bandages.
“Where are my clothes?” His voice was rough, harsh.
He was still in his trousers. Surely he wasn’t planning to go out. “They were ruined. I had one of the servants take them to a rubbish bin.”
“My key. I have to get—”
“I placed it on the bedside table there. I found it in your waistcoat pocket.”
He spun around, pinned her with an accusatory glare. She knew what he assumed, and she was so grateful that she could speak the truth.
“I didn’t use it. I didn’t go into your room.” She’d not been able to bring herself to open the door. Everyone had secrets. She had decided he was entitled to his. “Please, lie back on the bed so I can tend to your wound.”
Ignoring her, he snatched up his key and staggered to the door. She didn’t know if it was the pain, the final throes of the nightmare, or the lingering effects of the laudanum, but he was having a devil of a time putting the key into the keyhole.
She darted around the bed, hurried to the door. “Allow me.”
“No.”
“Rafe, I want to help you.”
“Then leave me be.” He finally jammed the key in, turned it. “Go away, go away now.” He opened the door, slid through the narrow opening.
“You need help. You’re bleeding again,” she said, determined to help this obstinate, proud—
She staggered to a stop in muted disbelief.
“Well, now you know the truth of it,” he said, his voice laced with anger, resignation, shame. “You’re the mistress of a madman.”