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“Have you seen John?”

Mila broke off what she was saying, glancing around the crowded room. “I think Mrs. Simms said he had a phone call?”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Are you feeling all right, dear?”

He didn’t bother to answer, edging past her, working his way through the crush of people. Tempting though it was, he couldn’t just bail without letting John know he was calling it a night. He moved from room to room, keeping his expression pleasant, shaking hands and bumping cheeks as required—mostly it was not required. The majority of guests didn’t know him from Adam. Which was ideal, in Archie’s opinion.

He was having a surprisingly difficult time tracking down John.

John took pleasure in entertaining, took pleasure in hosting these ghostly get-togethers. He was usually front and center, making sure his guests felt welcome, had everything they needed to enjoy their evening.

How funny was it that everyone dressed for a black-tie event in order to spend most of the evening traipsing around the damp garden hoping Jacqueline McCabe would show up? It seemed as ridiculous to Archie now as it had when he’d been a kid.

Where the hell was John?

At last, he located Mrs. Simms, having a quiet word with one of the caterers.

“We were very clear that we needed to have vegetarian options.”

The caterer opened his mouth, and promptly closed it at Archie’s approach.

“Mrs. Simms—”

Simmy, as John called her, turned to him at once. She was a small, spare woman with short silver hair and very blue eyes. Her look of inquiry turned to instant concern.

“Are you all right, Archie? Are you ill?”

“Have you seen John?”

Simmy looked surprised. “Isn’t he back?”

“Back from where?”

Simmy was craning her head, trying to see through the crowd. “He said he was going out to the gazebo for a minute.”

Archie could feel the hard, alarmed pound of his heart echoing in his temples, even as he told himself there was no reason to be concerned.

“Why?”

Simmy blinked at his tone. “I-I’m not sure. There was a message—”

“What kind of message?”

“I didn’t read it.”

Archie’s brows drew together. “It wasn’t a phone message? It came in the mail?”

“Yes. No. No, it must have been hand delivered. It was lying on the—”

“Never mind.” Archie turned, pushing his way through the crowd, ignoring the surprised or irritated looks he received. His head, keeping time with his heart, was pounding so hard he could barely see.

He reached John’s study door, opened it, slipped inside the dark room, crossing either by instinct or long-forgotten memory, straight to the French doors. He unlatched them and stepped out once more onto the terrace.

It was much cooler outside. The fragrance of the night-blooming flowers hung heavily in the still air.

He could see the gazebo, dark and silent, silhouetted against the full moon.