The brazen chit! Where did she learn such flirtatious tactics?
“I own a gaming hell in Town. It occupies much of my time.”
“Ah.” Gwen glanced in the direction of Bede again. “That makes sense.”
Even the residents of Shropshire knew how her brother lived his life . . . or rather how he wasted it. He did not put himself to any honest enterprise. It would indeed fit with their notions of him that he should spend his time at a gaming hell.
“I am certain that is quite a lucrative career for you.”
Silas gave a modest incline of his head.
“Lucrative,” Bede snorted. “That is putting it mildly. The Rogue’s Den is the most popular hell in Town. Some nights it is so crowded they turn people away at the doors.”
“My, my, my,” Grace murmured. “I should like to go.”
Gladys clucked. “Ladies do not patronize gaming hells.”
Silas looked at Mercy across the table. A small secret smile played about his lips and a rush of warmth swept over her face.
Ladies do not patronize gaming hells.
She had spent the night under the roof of The Rogue’s Den engaged in activities that were decidedly outside the boundaries of what was considered ladylike. Mercy supposed the argument could be made that she was not a lady then.
She averted her face and willed her cheeks to cool, concentrating as she did so upon slathering blackberry jam on a still warm from the oven crumpet.
Suddenly a knock sounded on the door.
“Another guest?” Gladys remarked, blinking in surprise.
It must be a guest. The staff never knocked on the front door. They simply used the back door or came in through the kitchen.
Mercy started to lift up from her chair, but Gladys beat her, launching to her feet. “You stay put. I will see to the door.”
She departed the room, but her voice carried from the entry hall, mingling with the voice of a man. Soon after, she arrived with a gentleman behind her. “Mr. Masters. You have a visitor.”
He had a visitor? He had been here a little over a week and he was receiving callers? Her stomach squeezed. It was as though he had moved in and was a permanent resident now.
The well-dressed man lingered in the threshold, his gaze seeking Silas. “Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Masters.” He patted the leather satchel at his side. “I have some pressing matters that require your attention.”
Silas’s expression turned grim as he stood. “If you will excuse me.”
“You can use the parlor,” Mercy offered. “We won’t disturb you.”
“Thank you.”
The two gentlemen departed the room and for several moments there was only the clink of cutlery and dishes and the sound of Bede slurping his coffee and munching his breakfast with gluttonous abandon.
“Well.” Gwen wrapped her fingers around her teacup and brought it close to her lips. “You have quite the busy household this morning.”
“Yes. It is usually much quieter than this.”
“I, for one, am glad for the activity. It is not so dreadfully boring for a change,” Grace said as she stirred her tea.
“Still dreadfully boring,” Bede mumbled around a mouthful of sausage. Grease dribbled down his chin, which he did not bother to catch with his napkin.
Mercy took a deep breath, reaching for patience.
They finished their meal and then Mercy led Gwen from the room, deliberately not glancing at the closed parlor doors where Silas tended to his business. Whatever they discussed was none of her affair. Just as Silas Masters was none of her affair. As difficult as it was for her to accept, especially after this last week with him working by her side about the place, he was not her affair.
Outside, Mercy helped Gwen unload the tools she had brought from her wagon, admiring her craftsmanship. She had repaired at least half a dozen tools and made three more scythes they would need for the forthcoming harvest. “Fine work,” Mercy praised.
“Again, my apologies for how long it took. I am hoping to find a new apprentice to help me soon. I have given up hope of finding anyone in Shropshire. I’ve placed advertisements. I’m spreading out my search into other towns and villages.”
“Best of luck with that,” Mercy murmured. “I know from the days when I nursed my father, it is not easy to care for an ailing family member, in addition to all your other duties.”
“No, it is not.” Gwen squinted and peered toward the house. “How long is your brother staying? I do not imagine he does much to ease your burdens here,” she said bluntly. “I used to wish for a brother or brothers . . . someone to help me when I lost my father and my uncle became too ill to do much of anything.”
Mercy laughed lightly and shook her head. “Be careful what you wish for.” Her brother had been more detriment than benefit. “Mr. Masters has been more helpful about the place in the span of a week than Bede has been in the entirety of his life.”
She winced. It was a rather ghastly thing to admit, but she and Gwen had often confided in each other. As two women in the unique position of overseeing their families and all the responsibilities thereof, they had often commiserated together.
“Mr. Masters?”
Mercy nodded.
Gwen pointed to the house. “That Mr. Masters?”
Mercy nodded and shrugged. “I know. I know. It was unexpected. I did not anticipate he would be so . . . helpful.” That he would even care.
“For a rich city swell to be laboring alongside of you? Yes, I would say so.” Gwen propped her elbows on the side of her wagon, her gaze fixed on the parlor window in a thoughtful manner.
Mercy suddenly felt a wave of nervousness, wondering what Gwen was pondering.
After a moment, she sent a searching glance in Mercy’s direction. “He is a friend of your brother, you say?”
“Er. Yes.”
“Curious.”
“What is so curious about that?”
“How Bede Kittinger could have a friend so very unlike himself.” Gwen paused and then began listing, counting on each of her fingers. “Wealthy, handsome, enterprising, ambitious . . . Not afraid to get his hands dirty. A curious thing, indeed.”
For some reason the mention of Silas’s hands had her envisioning them: slightly callused, broad palmed, long tapering fingers. She could see them. She could still feel them as they had been, touching her, skimming over her skin.
Her throat tightened uncomfortably. Speech, the simple flow of air—suddenly it all became a challenge. Too much for her.
Of course, she was not certain what to say in response. Were words even necessary? It appeared Gwen still had plenty to say on the subject of Silas Masters.
“Perhaps when he is finished here, you could send him my way. I could always use a houseguest who is willing to pitch in with free labor.” Gwen sent her a teasing smile. “And not to mention . . . he’s a pretty man. I would not mind looking at him every morning across the breakfast table.”
Jealousy returned with a quick stab. Mercy laughed shakily, hoping she did not reveal how possessive she suddenly felt. “Well. He is not mine to dispense.”
“Pity.” Gwen’s long legs took her around the wagon to embrace Mercy. “Shall I see you at the Blankenship fete in a few days?”
Mercy could not hide her grimace. “Grace and Bede are both looking forward to it. We would not miss it.”