She thought they fixed on her, but in the dimness it was only conjecture and a vague . . . sense. Her imagination was running wild. She was one person in a room full of people. Why would he be looking at her?
“He is a sight to behold, no?” the woman asked as though she could read Mercy’s mind.
She nodded once in agreement, aiming for an unaffected air. “An attractive gentleman.”
“Shall I inform him you wish for an audience with him?”
“No,” she was quick to answer. Perhaps too quickly, but her pulse jumped at the notion of an encounter with Masters. That was to be avoided at all costs. “That’s not necessary.”
“But I thought you wished to see—”
“Might you direct me to your ladies, retiring room?” She needed only to establish his presence, mark his location so that she could safely go forth on this evening’s enterprise, and now that was done. Stealth and strategy were required. He looked quite comfortable up in his perch. The night was still young.
Now was the time to strike.
The woman shrugged and then motioned toward a door on the other side of the large room. “Through there. Second floor.”
“Thank you.” Turning, Mercy started across the room. She tried not to look his way again. No easy task when she knew he was up there watching. She was hoping to achieve an air of covertness. Gawking at the man would not accomplish that.
She wove through the room, taking her time, forcing a sedate pace, stopping occasionally to observe a game or two as though she was interested in the play. She did this in case she was being watched. Or perhaps so she would not become watched.
She had to resist her instinctive urge—which was to dash for the door leading to the second floor and locate Silas Masters’s private rooms, where she assumed he kept all his important documents. She hoped she was correct on that score. She had to be right about that. Otherwise she did not know what she would do. Fling herself at his feet, pleading for mercy? That did not seem like a promising plan. He had looked hard and uncompromising from her one glimpse of him . . . not the manner of man given to compassion.
She was close now. The door loomed ahead.
She sidled past a table of gentlemen playing a particularly lively game of whist. A combination of shouts and applause erupted. One of the gentlemen tossed down his cards with a fierce exclamation. Groaning in defeat, he leaned back in his chair. As he stretched his arms wide, his hand bumped into her while she attempted to pass the table.
He shot a foul glare over his shoulder. Clearly he was in a bad mood over his poor luck and thought to vent his spleen on the person who dared to step in the path behind him.
Unfortunately, she was that person.
His venomous look shifted as he assessed her, transforming into something speculative and fairly lecherous.
“Hallo there, lass.” A meaty paw reached for her and snatched hold of her wrist, stopping her in her tracks.
Reminding herself that she had no wish to call attention to herself, she forced a smile on her face and resisted recoiling in outrage.
“Come here, lovie,” he continued. “Cheer a fellow up, won’t you?” His thick sausage fingers tightened their pressure around her, digging into her skin.
She felt the forced smile on her face turn as brittle as glass. “As tempting as the invitation is, sir, I must decline.”
“Aren’t we the lofty one?” He gave a hard tug and she went tumbling. “Never met a female here who wasn’t open to a little fun.”
“Ooof.” She plopped unwillingly into his lap.
His arms came up around her waist and there was no hiding her outrage now. She was not accustomed to being manhandled. Things like this did not happen back home. Back home she was accorded respect.
“What’s the matter, lass? My coin isn’t good enough? Are you not here to work?”
She sucked in a hot breath. Well. That was rather presumptuous of him. He thought her a courtesan? Certainly not every woman here was plying her trade. And even if she was, a courtesan, undoubtedly, had her standards and did not have to tolerate him.
“Unhand me, sirrah.”
Instead of following her command, his beady little eyes lowered from her face to her daring décolletage.
She rested a hand there, her fingers pressing into her soft flesh. She knew she should not appear so modest, so skittish beneath his insulting regard, but she could not help herself. His gaze felt like a snake slithering across her bare skin.
He tsked and dared to touch her, peeling her hand off her chest, flinging it away as though it were a pesky crumb. “None of that now. Do not hide such a bounty of loveliness from Howie.” Presumably he was Howie.
Enough. She ground her teeth and surged up, determined to free herself from his lecherous advances.
“I am certain there is another lady about only too happy to entertain your abundant charms.”
His eyes narrowed. Apparently he did not appreciate her forcefulness. Bullies never did appreciate someone with a backbone. She was yanked back down with jarring force and his hand came up to roughly fondle her breast.
She gasped and reacted. All attempts to appear at ease in this wildly strange environment with this awful wretch vanished. Ease did not exist. There was only instinct.
Her hand flew, her palm connecting soundly and very satisfyingly with his cheek. The sound reverberated through the air. All the gentlemen at the table froze. Even the people in the vicinity of them stopped to gawk in their direction.
Blast it. She had created a spectacle.
A stark red handprint began to take shape on Howie’s face.
“Oh,” she breathed, dread consuming her, but not regret. She could summon none of that sentiment for putting a stop to his groping.
He lightly stroked his wounded cheek. “You little tart!”
She took advantage of his astonishment and vaulted to her feet. Her action revived him from his frozen stupor. Shaken from his astonishment, he clamped down on her arm. He, too, jumped to his feet, overturning his chair with a clatter and only drawing more attention to them. Splendid.
Exclamations erupted all around them, but Mercy did not look anywhere save Howie. Her handprint became less visible as angry red suffused the rest of his face from the flare of his temper.
“How dare you? Who do you think you are?” His fingers tightened painfully on her bicep and he gave her a hard shake that rattled her very teeth.
“Unhand me before I—” She did not get the rest of her words out.
“Hold there.” A large hand closed around Howie’s shoulder. She followed that big hand up its arm to the face of the gentleman intervening.
Him.
The one who held her life in his hands.
The one whom she was here to rob.
Howie twisted around with an ugly snarl that quickly faded to a squeak when he saw who stood behind him.
Mercy swallowed back her own pitiable squeak at Silas Masters’s sudden appearance.
This was not supposed to happen. She was not supposed to meet him. She was not supposed to come face-to-face with him.
In and out. Undetected. That was the plan.
The blood drained from Howie’s face. “Masters,” he acknowledged in a voice that had lost its edge and was no more than a whispery tremble.
“You know I have no tolerance for disorder in my club, Bassett,” Masters said, and the sound of his growly voice made her knees go weak. Made him all the more real.