“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.”
“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 ithomebut 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.”
