Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03]

by Lord of Wicked Intentions

  “What might my brother have to do with any of this?” Evelyn asked.

  “He stabbed him one night, right in the gaming area, in front of everyone.”

  She stared at him. “What? No. Rafe told me—” She slammed her eyes closed, remembering the exact conversation.

  “Say it wasn’t him.”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  She blurted a very unladylike invective, and opened her eyes to find the men staring at her as though they thought women were incapable of uttering obscenities. “He never referred to the man who stabbed him by name. Only referred to him as an idiot. I should have known. He has a very low opinion of Geoffrey.”

  “One well deserved,” Mick said. “Although for the life of me I never understood where Wortham got the guts to do what he did. A more cowardly man I’d never met.”

  “Maybe someone else is responsible for his sudden backbone,” Keswick said. “I’m of a mind to have a word and find out.”

  As Evelyn followed Manson down the hallway, with Tristan and the duke behind her, she was amazed by how differently she viewed the residence. She had once considered it home but now she realized that it was her father who had made it home, not the walls or the portraits, the furniture or the decorative pieces—although there seemed to be far fewer of those. She wondered how many items Geoffrey had sold in order to relieve his debts.

  When they walked into the library, Geoffrey shot out of his chair and hurried around his desk. “Your Grace, Lord Tristan, this is an expected surprise.”

  She couldn’t fail to notice how he had ignored her.

  “You know Miss Chambers, do you not?” the duke asked.

  Geoffrey’s face turned a mottled red. “Yes, of course.”

  “You would be remiss in not greeting her as well.”

  He gave her a perfunctory nod. “Miss Chambers.”

  “My lord. May I say that you’re not looking well?” He had lost weight, much as she had after the death of her father. His skin had an unhealthy pallor to it. Dark half-moons had taken up residence beneath his eyes.

  “Your Grace, how might I be of service?” he asked, once again giving her a cut direct.

  “It has recently come to my attention that you attacked Lord Rafe with a knife.”

  If at all possible, Geoffrey looked even more ill. Sweat suddenly beaded his forehead. “He provoked me.”

  “In such a way that killing him would have been acceptable?”

  “It was—” He turned away, his hand shaking as he plowed it through his blond hair.

  “It was?” Lord Tristan prodded.

  “An unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “Where is he?” the duke demanded to know.

  Geoffrey spun around, his expression one of incredulity. “I haven’t a clue. Dimmick doesn’t confide in me.”

  Evelyn felt a jolt of unease and took a step forward. “What do you know of Dimmick?”

  “Who is he?” the duke asked her.

  “He owned the club before Rafe,” she told him. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “If he was, he rose from the grave,” Geoffrey said, his manner superior as though he relished the thought of knowing something she didn’t.

  “What’s your association with him?” Lord Tristan asked, menace reverberating through his voice.

  Geoffrey stepped back as though he were in danger. “I … I borrowed some money from him.”

  “How much?”

  “Too much. He threatened to kill me. You must understand … that’s why …”

  “Why what, Geoffrey?” she asked, marching forward until she stood toe to toe with him. “Does he have anything to do with you hurting Rafe?”

  “I was supposed to kill him. Then my debt would have been forgiven.”

  “You were going to kill him because of money owed?”

  “It was either him or me. This Dimmick fellow is a nasty bit of business.”

  “You bastard!” Without thought or planning, the anger roaring through her, she bundled her hand into a fist the way Rafe had taught her, brought it back, and plowed it into Geoffrey’s face. He landed like a felled tree, blood spurting from his nose.

  Lord Tristan knelt beside Geoffrey. “Looks like you broke it, sweetheart.”

  “What do we do now? How do we find Rafe?”

  “We’ll take him with us back to the Rakehell Club. He might be able to give us some clue that Mick will understand.”

  “I don’t know where to find Dimmick, I don’t know how to get word to him. He just shows up out of the fog,” Geoffrey whined, sounding as though he were holding his nose. It was red and angry looking, and Evelyn could see his eyes were bruising. She thought she should have felt remorse. Instead she wanted to hit him again.

  They were back at the club, in Rafe’s office. Geoffrey sat in a chair while Mick and Rafe’s two brothers glared at him.

  “I’d heard rumors that Dimmick hadn’t died,” Mick said. “Didn’t want to believe they were true. He holds a grudge. Makes sense that he might be responsible for Rafe’s disappearance.”

  “How are we going to find him?” Evelyn asked.

  “Not to worry. Got the best ferreters in the world at my fingertips. This way, Miss Chambers, gentlemen.”

  Leaving Geoffrey where he was, with a huge hulk of a man watching him from the doorway, Mick led them out of the office to the balcony where they’d been earlier. Reaching up, he jangled a bell. All activity below ceased. Everyone glanced up. “Gentlemen, I must ask you all to leave. We have a bit of cleaning up to do here. When we reopen you’ll find your accounts wiped clean of debt. But you must leave now, as quickly as possible.”

  A bit of grumbling echoed over the floor, but soon the only ones standing about were those who worked for the club.

  “All right, listen up,” Mick said. “Seems Mr. Easton has gone missing. Spread out through St. Giles, see what you can uncover. Let me know as soon as you hear any whisperings, especially if they involve a bloke named Dimmick. Many of you know him, some of you don’t. Be grateful you don’t. Let it be known that there is a five hundred pound reward to the man or woman who can tell us exactly where Mr. Easton might be found. Off with you now.”

  Everyone began to scatter.

  Mick turned back to them. “That should do it. I suspect we’ll have something before the night is done.”

  “They’re all from St. Giles,” Evelyn said.

  “Every last one of us. He always takes the hungriest, the filthiest, the worst off of the lot—gives us something better. Not a soul out there wouldn’t die for him.”

  “You’ve known my brother for a long time,” the duke said, not really questioning, but affirming.

  “Ever since I was a scrap of a lad, fighting to make my way about the streets. He had no patience for me, was constantly telling me to bugger off, to leave him be. But he was always there with a ready fist when the bullies began picking on me, taught me how to raise my own fists and deliver a good solid blow. When my belly was aching, he’d toss me something to eat, even if it was all he had. He has a heart surrounded by stone, your brother. But inside that stone is a far better man than even he knows he is. I’ll go down fighting for him, and if it is Dimmick who is responsible for you not being able to find him—God help your brother, then God help Dimmick once I get my hands on him.”

  “You’ll have to stand in line,” the duke and Lord Tristan said at the same time.

  They’d left him bound tightly in ropes. Without food, without water, without solace. He didn’t know for how long. Days, weeks. Time had no meaning. The only thing he was aware of was the constant agony in his hand.

  They came for him, took him back to the almost empty room, placed him in the chair at the table, secured him to it. Only this time, Dimmick was sitting as well, scrawling on the paper.

  “When I’m finished here, ye’ll just sign it as best ye can,” Dimmick said. “Then yer hell will be over.”

  Rafe doubted it. He’d not gone mad
with the binding. He simply pretended that they were Eve’s arms, wrapped around him, holding him close, as she whispered words of encouragement. All would be well, everything would turn out fine.

  Lies. A man could survive on lies. So could a boy.

  “Did you already forget that I write with my left hand?”

  “I don’t forget nothing. I don’t forget how ye blackmailed me.” He lifted his gaze and stared pointedly at Rafe, with one eye closed and the other hard and accusing. “I don’t forget how you turned my own lads against me. Even those who owed me coin stopped fearing me, thought you’d watch over them.”

  Rafe wouldn’t go so far as to say that he watched over anyone. He had no stomach for bullies, and Dimmick had been one of the worst. That Rafe worked to undermine the ruffian brought him a great deal of satisfaction. That was why he offered better things to those upon whom Dimmick depended. Not for what they received, but for what it brought him.

  Everything was always about him. His world centered around him.

  Until Eve. Then the center had shifted, and nearly toppled him.

  Dimmick returned to his scribbling. “I, Rafe Easton, bein’ of sound mind and body, do hereby … how do you spell bequeathed?”

  Dimmick looked at him again. Rafe simply looked back.

  Dimmick sighed heavily. “You are a stubborn one. Charlie, the hammer.”

  “B,” Rafe began, “e-q-e-t-h-e-d.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  Rafe hoped that Mick or a solicitor would recognize with the misspelled word that Rafe had not in fact written the will. It might not make any difference, but perhaps—

  “Bequeath to Angus Dimmick the Rakehell Club—”

  Rafe was vaguely aware of a commotion, the sound of a door crashing open, the rush of feet. The air suddenly filled with shouts and yells. Dimmick was scrambling out of his chair, a blurred figure rushed by and grabbed him by the throat.

  “You dare to harm my brother?”

  Sebastian? What the bloody hell was he doing here? Had the pain caused Rafe to hallucinate? Was all this a dream?

  Rafe watched as he took Dimmick to the floor and began pounding him as Rafe had longed to do ever since he’d found himself bound.

  “Oh, my God. Help me get the bindings off him. Quickly. Quickly.”

  Eve was suddenly kneeling beside him, touching his face. “My love, we’ll have them off in no time.”

  “Eve,” he rasped.

  “I’m here now.”

  Mick and Laurence were cutting the binding, he felt it loosening, felt as though he could finally breathe again. When his good hand was free, he cradled her face. “I want to make you laugh, Evie.”

  “I’m not quite certain you understand the concept. This isn’t the way to go about it. Oh, my Lord, your hand. It’s so terribly swollen and bruised. We must get you to a doctor.”

  “Later. First, you must know that I love you, Evie. I want to marry you. I want to give you children and the family you so yearn for.”

  “You’re in pain, Rafe. Your poor hand. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying. I wanted to tell you before. But I couldn’t find you.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. Because her answer would be no or yes?

  “Sebastian, stop now,” Tristan ordered, and Rafe glanced over to see him trying to move an unconscious Dimmick out of the path of his brother’s flailing fists. “You’re going to kill him.”

  “Do you think I bloody care? Did you see what he did to Rafe?”

  “He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

  Sebastian slumped down onto the floor. “It’s not all that matters. I’m supposed to watch out for him, for you and Rafe. I didn’t do it fifteen years ago. By God, I should be able to do it now.”

  Rafe wanted nothing more than to take Evie into his arms, kiss her soundly, and then lead her someplace where they could be alone. But he’d been doing a lot of thinking the past few days, as he had nothing else to do except think. He stood on unsteady legs and walked over to where his brothers were hunkered near Dimmick.

  Sebastian looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Rafe.”

  “I don’t need you to watch out for me.”

  “Rafe—”

  “Hear me out. I don’t need you to watch out for me because I’m completely capable of watching out for myself. Even if he’d killed me, it would have been on my terms. You had no choice except to leave me all those years ago. I’ve always known that. Didn’t make it more palatable but there it was. Because you weren’t there to coddle me, I made something of myself—something I’m not always proud of—”

  “You might want to rethink that,” Tristan said. “The being proud of what you are. How do you think we found you?”

  Rafe hadn’t had time to give any thought to how they’d known he’d been taken, by whom, and to where. His brothers didn’t know the dark side of London, not as he did.

  Tristan jerked his chin to the area behind Rafe. “You’ve got quite the loyal following.”

  Rafe turned then, stunned by the sight that greeted him. His servants, his staff at the Rakehell Club—they were all there, down to every man and woman. And Evie, standing apart from them, and yet part of them. But more, so much more.

  She smiled softly. “I knew they would help us to find you.”

  He’d never felt so overwhelmed. Never felt as though something inside of him was crumbling. He’d not cried since the night he was left at the workhouse, but something thick and hot was clogging his throat.

  Tristan slapped him on the back. “Seems you’re not as alone as you always thought.”

  “God, Rafe, your hand,” Sebastian said.

  “It’ll heal. You and Tristan have had worse.” And for the first time in his life, he recognized that perhaps they had.

  Mick and Laurence wandered over.

  “What do we do with the maggot?” Mick asked.

  “Haul him down to Scotland Yard, hand him off to an Inspector Swindler. Tell him I’ll be down with some information in a day or so.” Rafe knew James Swindler because he, too, had grown up on the streets. He knew he could trust him with the journal he’d written that described Dimmick’s activities.

  “Right. And his lads? Same as always?”

  Rafe looked around at Dimmick’s pitiful followers. He knew what it was to fall in with the wrong sort. He nodded. “Give them their choice: service work or the club.”

  As Mick and Laurence took over, issuing orders, having Dimmick carted out, Rafe turned his attention to Eve. She was still standing there, studying him.

  Sebastian cleared his throat. “Tristan and I will be waiting outside for you.”

  Just as he’d once been waiting for them. Two long years of wondering if they were dead. During the ten that had come before, it had never crossed his mind that he wouldn’t see them again. But the last two of waiting for them had been the longest of his life.

  Finally, it was only he and Eve. “I meant what I said,” he told her. “I want to marry you.” He took a step toward her. “I know I don’t deserve you, and that I can never be the kind of man who does deserve—”

  “I need to hold you,” she cut in.

  He felt as though his chest might cave. “Dear God, Evie, I need you to hold me. But more than that, sweetheart, I need to hold you. Desperately.”

  In the next breath, her arms were locked tightly around his neck and she was sobbing against his chest. It nearly broke his heart. When had he acquired one?

  He folded his arms around her. “Oh, Evie, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

  “I was so afraid you might be dead.”

  “I’m too much of a bastard to die young, so if you do marry me it’ll be for a good long while.”

  She leaned back slightly. “You do know that you’re only giving me the illusion of choice. How can I not marry you when I love you so much?”

  He felt as though she’d picked up the hammer and slammed it into his chest. No
woman had ever loved him. “Say it again.”

  “I love you, and yes I’ll marry you.”

  He covered her mouth with his. Soon, he thought. Very, very soon. Before she had a chance to change her mind.

  Chapter 21

  The boxing room was more shadows than light but then it usually was. Most of the light focused on the ring where Lord Ekroth stood, as he kept glancing around at the other men surrounding the roped-off area.

  Rafe had called the meeting, invited Ekroth into the ring. It had appeared he was going to decline the invitation until Mick ushered him in with a gentle prodding and the lifting of the rope. Splints kept Rafe’s left hand immobile and it was far from being completely healed, but he could pack quite the wallop with his right.

  He wondered if Ekroth recognized the significance of the group of men who were in attendance. If any of them realized why they had been singled out for this particular lesson.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, Easton. What’s the meaning of all this?” Ekroth asked.

  “Lord Rafe.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Not Easton, but Lord Rafe Easton. That’s how I should be addressed.”

  “I didn’t think you much cared for your noble heritage.”

  “I’ve had a change of … heart. So in the future, you will address me with the respect that my father passed down to me.”

  “Simple enough. Consider it done.”

  “Splendid. Now on to more important matters. Do you know what you all have in common?”

  Each one looked at the others. Some squirmed. Some shook their heads. Some averted their gazes.

  “You were all at Wortham’s the night that he decided to send the earl’s daughter to her ruin.”

  “You were there as well,” Ekroth said accusingly.

  “Indeed I was, and so I’m well aware of what you’d planned for the woman who is to become my wife. And it doesn’t sit well with me. Doesn’t sit well with me at all. So, gentlemen, tonight I give you a choice: you can see your debts to me come due and your status within Society ruined, or you can let it be known—without going into specifics—that you know Wortham to be unsuitable for any man’s daughter, sister, or cousin. You will ensure that he is reviled, considered the scum of the earth, and shunned by all who are proper. Do that, gentlemen, and with the exception of Ekroth, all your debts to me will be wiped clean.”