He quickly flipped through the vouchers again to make certain he had not missed it. No. He had not. It was not among the other vouchers. He dropped the slips of paper onto his desk. It was gone. The only thing in its place . . . an apology.
An apology left from the thief?
He nodded. It seemed the only conclusion. He stared at the words again. I’m sorry. Apparently the thief felt guilt over his thievery. Why?
A short gasp tore his attention from the note. Constance recoiled from his bed as though a snake lay curled up inside it.
“Constance?” He rose from his chair.
The maid flickered wide eyes his way, looking him up and down. “Are you injured, Mr. Masters?”
“Injured?” He approached the bed, a frown pulling on his lips. “No. Why do you—”
His words died abruptly as he stopped beside his bed next to Constance.
The maid looked from the bed to him and back again. She inched away from him, hugging one of his pillows close to her chest like a much-needed shield, as though she was fearful of being too close to him.
The woman had long been in his employ and never looked at him with fear before, but now wariness radiated from her.
He followed her gaze to his bed—to his bedding. Stained with blood. The streaks of crimson were faint but no less startling, no less identifiable.
It was blood and it was not his.
“Mr. Masters?”
He looked sharply at Clarke who had come to stand beside him.
Like Constance, his valet assessed him, although his look was more curious than suspicious. He had been with Silas a long time and served him most faithfully ever since Silas had saved him from what was certain to be a tragic fate at the hands of some street ruffians who decided to beat him simply because he was smaller and vulnerable.
Silas gestured weakly to the bed and then lifted that same hand behind his head, rubbing at the back of his neck in agitation.
The blood was not his. It had to be hers. He suddenly felt ill. His stomach roiled.
Had he hurt her? Had he been too rough? He shook his head, rejecting the notion.
He was always mindful to treat the women in his life with care and respect. After what happened to his mother, how could he not?
Still, his mind tracked over the events of last night. She had voiced no complaints or objections. Quite the opposite. If anyone could be described as the aggressor, it would be his mystery woman. She had taken the lead and he had permitted her to have her way with him.
“Constance,” Clarke spoke in his ever-efficient tones, “why don’t you go down and fetch fresh bedding for Mr. Masters?”
She nodded jerkily and jumped into motion, clearly eager to have the distraction of something to do and be gone from the room in that moment.
Silas could not move, however. He could only stand by and watch, a deep sinking sensation in his stomach as she removed the bedding, wadded the voluminous fabric into a ball and carried it away, holding it from her person as though it were poisonous.
His mind worked, thinking, struggling with the facts: blood on his bed. It could only be one thing. That was virgin blood. As improbable as it seemed, a virgin had seduced him with all the skill of courtesan. Unlikely and nigh on impossible . . . but true.
Why?
Why would a virgin await him in his rooms to seduce him? It was not logical. He did not consider himself such an enticement that a lass would spot him on the streets or across a room and decide to dispense with her virtue instantly and impulsively—on him. Oh, he knew he was attractive. He knew he possessed wealth, but they were strangers ultimately.
Unless she possessed a motive that made it a logical act.
He considered that. What would make it logical?
What could prompt a woman to toss aside her virtue as though it were something inconsequential? She had not been fresh out of the schoolroom. She had to be five and twenty at least. Perhaps older even. A woman in full possession of her faculties did not cling to her virginity for so long to simply give it up to a man she had known less than thirty minutes.
The answer materialized in his mind. He had something she wanted.
His head swiveled then in the direction of his desk. He stared in the direction of the single slip of paper on its surface. To the note. The apology. The sparse words.
I’m sorry.
He had held a deep breath that lifted his chest. I’m sorry. For stealing from him. For using him.
He had assumed the thief to be a man, but that was not very forward-thinking of him. The thief could have been anyone, but in this case it was a woman. A specific woman. He knew that now. He saw that. He saw everything very clearly.
I’m sorry.
She was sorry for stealing from him. For using him and sneaking off like the thief she was.
A dark tightness came over him. She would be sorry, he vowed. She would indeed be very sorry.
He was feeling . . . something. Disappointment. Betrayal. A building wrath that was steadily growing into fury. Complicated emotions—and he shied away from them all, fearful of their intensity.
He had been duped. She had tricked him.
Her weak apology did not undo that. It did not make him feel better or alleviate his determination to see her again, to find her, to make her pay.
Chapter Six
Mercy felt something different on the air.
She was home, but not home as she remembered it. Or perhaps she was different now. Home was the same, but perhaps she was not. Perhaps she had returned from Town as someone else entirely.
Certainly she had left London a changed person. Changed in at least one very noteworthy way. And, she suspected, in other ways, too, that had yet to fully surface.
She paused on her walk back to the house from the south field. She lifted her face to the waning afternoon. A breeze rustled the leaves on a nearby oak. The trunk of the tree stretched as wide as a carriage. There were several big oaks like these about the place. Older than the first Kittinger to live on these lands, and that was significant. Her forefather had been gifted this property by the Duke of Penning, over four generations ago.
This was why she had gone to London. To save all of this. To keep this.
She released a contented breath. There was no regret. She would do it all over again without another thought. A barrage of memories beset her. Her body sprawled over Silas Masters. The taste of him. The scent. The sensation of his skin under her palms, his member throbbing within her. She inhaled sharply and cast the memories away, fixing her attention on the lovely skyline.
The sun sat low, mostly obscured by clouds. The weather was mild. Mercy sniffed the air. No hint of forthcoming rain. Sometimes she could smell when a storm or rain shower was coming, but she perceived no whiff of that.
That was not the different thing she felt.
No. The vague thing she detected was more of a sensation. A crackle on the air. Prickles up her spine.
She peered back out at the horizon. A gentle wind ruffled the tall grass. Otherwise all was still and quiet. She knew the men would be coming up from the fields soon, but for now there was no one in sight.
Compelled, she turned and scanned her surroundings. She spotted nothing—not a single soul. But that did not mean she was alone. Someone could be out there, tucked into the deep foliage, buried in shadows. Watching.
She gave her head a swift shake. She was simply skittish. Guarded. On edge. She had committed a crime, after all.
She was a criminal. Criminals probably always felt this way—constantly looking over their shoulders, fearful of their every step.