From the start, he had been determined to know his business inside and out and never to rely on others to do things for him. In his mind that was how a man lost his fortune and he intended to keep what he had worked so hard to build. This was his empire. He alone governed it.
Clarke soon arrived with his coffee and a scone. He set the tray on the desk and then turned to tidy the room. His valet tsked at the bits of wood and ash that Silas had carelessly spilled onto the rug before the fireplace. He seized a shovel and began sweeping up the debris.
As the two of them worked at their separate tasks, Constance arrived to clean his chamber. The maid usually followed the arrival of Clarke and his morning coffee.
Silas struggled to focus on the open ledger before him. A definite challenge. Lately he was easily distracted. So much of his business bored him these days. The hell bored him.
You were not bored last night. Not in the least. Quite the opposite.
He could still catch a whiff of her scent. Citrus. Oranges. An odd signature scent for a lady. He was accustomed to rosewater or cloying lavender. How was it she smelled so uniquely of oranges?
He gave his head a slight shake. It mattered naught. He would never know, which was just as well. It was for the best. He was not one to engage in random liaisons with strangers. And she was a stranger. Then and still. He had made certain of that by not asking her name.
The encounter was uncharacteristic of him. He was selective, often committing to one woman at a time for a prolonged period of time.
He had lived on the streets for years and observed the ravages of indiscriminate liaisons. He had seen just as many die from the effects of poverty as the pox. It had made an impression. Left its mark. He was judicious.
He had not been with a woman in nearly a year. Not since he and his last mistress had parted ways. Josephine had come to want more in their relationship than the status quo. Whereas he had been content, she no longer was.
It was fair of her to want something more after a time. People changed their minds. They were entitled to that. He did not begrudge her. He should have known the widow would eventually want something more. Another husband. Children. Last he heard, Josie was engaged to a shopkeeper.
Plenty of women attempted to seduce him since he and Josie had ended things (and before). He had resisted. He had declined. It was not a difficult thing to do. He was not a man governed by his passions. Base urges did not rule him—usually.
Since Josie he had not even been tempted. He had felt bored and restless . . . never enticed. He had started to wonder if he was finished with women . . . with sex. Whether perhaps that part of his life was over. Yes. At the ripe age of thirty, he had contemplated that he was done with it all. A self-decided celibate.
Except last night had happened and now he knew that part of his life was not over. Far from it. Last night he had not been a man in control. His base urges took over. It was alarming, and again, he was partly relieved his mystery woman was gone. And partly not.
He inhaled a deep breath. Again, he was beset with the aroma of oranges.
He lowered his head, determined to get some work done and forget the woman he was not going to see ever again. He focused on tallying figures.
Once he finished with the week’s bookkeeping, he opened the drawer where he had stashed the vouchers from the previous week. He needed to attend to them. For these, Silas utilized agents to fetch the items acquired or visit the properties obtained, and then he would decide how they might be dispensed of for profit.
Occasionally, Silas might keep a property or item that snared his interest. He owned a flashy phaeton he had won in a game of hazard a few months ago. Although he did not recall anything from the previous week that had quite dazzled him. He doubted he would be keeping anything.
He flipped through the vouchers, thumbing over the notes and refreshing his memory on the week’s winnings. Even though he owned a gaming hell, he did not frequently gamble. However, sometimes a ripe pigeon drifted in off the streets and it was simply too easy. If Silas did not take advantage of the opportunity, someone else would and he was above all a businessman at the end of the day. Very well, an opportunist. He was not ashamed to admit it. When one came from nothing—no. Not nothing. When one came from hell, one did whatever possible to keep from going back.
He was only partially through the small stack, already calculating which agents he would need to engage for each acquisition, when he landed on one piece of paper that was not a voucher.
He stared at the unfamiliar handwriting. The unfamiliar looping scrawl, feminine if he had to guess. It was a note. A single sentence.
I’m sorry.
He stared at it for a long moment, trying to make sense of it. What did it mean and how had it found its way amid his vouchers?
I’m sorry.
He lifted the slip of paper higher. Leaning back in his chair, he examined it for a longer spell.
Why, amid his weekly vouchers, had someone inserted an apology note? Presumably it had been left for him to find. As an amends of some kind?
Seized with a sudden thought, he dropped the note to rifle through the stack of vouchers with feverishly swift fingers, softly counting them under his breath as his unease grew. He thought there had been twelve of them. When he dropped them in the drawer a couple of days ago he had counted twelve. He was certain of it.
He went through them again, and then again, muttering the words writ upon each voucher, tracking them in his memory. He recalled his winnings . . . one was missing.
Which one?
Which one . . .
His head shot up. He stared ahead, unseeing and yet seeing. Seeing so clearly. Remembering. Remembering everything in the harsh light of day that now spilled into his chambers.
A voucher was indeed missing. The voucher for a farm somewhere in the north.
He recalled the young man from whom he had won it. He was a memorable individual. The fellow had stood out from the moment he stepped inside the house. If his bright purple jacket had not served as beacon enough, the man’s manner would have proclaimed his presence.
Silas had watched from a distance as he lost everything—the money in his pockets, the signet ring on his finger, the watch dangling from his waistcoat. Everything he had on him. Gone. Gambled. Lost. Silas assumed he would leave then, take his departure at that point with his tail tucked. There was no reason for him to have remained.
But he had.
He had gone one step further. Silas had seen it before. Some fool hoping to recoup all he had lost and not walking away when he should. The man was not going to leave until he was well and fully ruined. Until he was broken and completely destroyed.
There was no saving him—not when he was so determined to defeat himself. Not that Silas was in the habit of saving foolish young bucks born into privilege but destined to throw it all away so recklessly.
So, yes. He had taken a seat at the table and in one hand won the green lad’s home and lands.
He angled his head, trying to recall the details. The precise location of the property. The name of that callow gentleman.
He rubbed at the center of his forehead, urging the memory to return.
Shropshire.
That was the name of the village near the property. He could almost envision it. Some idyllic farm set in rolling hills dotted with fat sheep.
Silas had won it. It belonged to him.
Except it did not. Not anymore.
He did not possess the voucher any longer that would prove him as the rightful owner of the farm.