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 my 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.”
