“Well, I shall only make an appearance. I can’t leave my uncle alone for long and I have no one to look in on him in the evenings. Everyone in Shropshire will be at the party.”
“Oh, be truthful now. You don’t regret needing to duck out early.”
Like Mercy, Gwen never danced. Half the time, she stood along the back walls, a tall form nestled among the potted ferns, talking to Mercy and the other spinsters and widows. The other half of the time she spent with the men: farmers and yeomen and laborers who talked on the topics that were of more interest to a blacksmith.
Grace lifted one shoulder in an unassuming shrug. “Will your houseguest be accompanying you?”
“I imagine he will. Yes.” Thankfully, her voice reflected nothing but equanimity. No jealousy. No sudden irrational urge to pull the hair of her lifelong friend.
Gwen’s smile widened. “Staying for a while then, is he?”
What could she say to that? Certainly not the truth. Until it’s proven I am not increasing with child.
Gwen clambered up to the seat and picked up the reins without, evidently, needing a response from Mercy. “Thank you for breakfast. I will see you very soon.”
Mercy waved a hand. “See you soon.”
She watched her friend drive out of the yard before turning back to stare pensively at the house where Silas was in private conference with his man.
A part of her longed to go back inside and linger near the parlor door where she might overhear the happenings in that room. The nosy part. The part of her that longed to be near Silas Masters and know everything about him. To unravel the fascinating man and see to the core of him.
Thankfully, there was the other part of her.
The sensible part ruled by logic that was not persuaded by his handsome face or his proximity. The part of her that refused to allow his nearness during this last week to turn her head or heart—no matter how nice it was to have someone to share in the work, to be a companion, to . . .
She stopped herself before she got carried away with weak and needy thoughts.
Turning away from the house and the unmistakably seductive pull of the man inside, she headed for the stables and the work that awaited her.
Chapter Thirteen
“And our last matter of business.” Clarke stuffed the final document bearing Silas’s signature in the satchel and leveled his gaze on Silas. “Albert Gordon requested I speak with you on his behalf.”
Silas leaned back in his seat with an aggrieved sigh. “I have given my answer once already. There is no further negotiation to be had.”
“He thought you might reconsider if he offered you a greater percentage of the profits.”
“The man is a pimp. I will take no profits from the selling of flesh. The Den is not a brothel and I will not have Gordon step foot in my establishment.” His lip curled faintly over his teeth. “He’s not allowed through the door again. No more audiences with him. Are we understood?”
“Yes, sir. I will inform him.”
Silas shrugged. He cared not if Gordon was warned. The man was a purveyor of human flesh. Boys. Girls. Men. Women. He sold them all, abusing them terribly, withholding their wages and giving them little protection in turn for their services.
Silas tapped the desk. “The next time Gordon steps inside my place, he will end up in the Thames. You can tell him that.”
Clarke inclined his head in acknowledgment, well aware that Silas meant what he said. He made no idle threats. He learned early on in the streets to carry through and never suffer bullies or abusers lest he wanted to be a victim himself.
They both stood and moved toward the parlor doors. Clarke cleared his throat. “How much longer do you think you will be here?”
A fair question and yet Silas was reluctant to give an answer. He was here until he had an answer regarding Mercy’s condition and he was not about to volunteer that very private information.
Instead of answering, he instructed, “Collect the rents due next week.”
In addition to The Den, Silas owned various properties throughout Town.
He had started acquiring them once his business at the hell took off. He rationalized that it would behoove him not to have all his money and assets tied into one enterprise.
He owned a tenement, along with a few shops and a warehouse along the docks. He was a fair landlord, listening to his tenants and never forgetting where he came from and what it was like to have nothing and have to fight for a foothold in the world.
“Of course.” Clarke nodded deferentially. “I will see it done.”
“If you need anything else you know where to find me. I appreciate you manning the helm in my absence.”
He walked Clarke to the door. Silas could tell he was curious at what he was doing there, but he would not ask.
As much as he relied on Clarke to assist him in matters of business when needed, Silas’s private affairs were his own concern. He did not invite judgment or the opinions of others. He was the arbiter of his own life and he had been ever since he walked out the door of his grandfather’s home. He had been alone then and alone ever since. And nothing had changed. He was alone now. Still.
Following Clarke’s departure, he advanced to the stables, intending to saddle his mount and find Mercy and see how he could help her today.
As soon as he entered the confines of the stable, he heard a rhythmic scraping sound. He followed the noise past several stalls holding horses, including his own mount.
He found Mercy mucking a stall at the end of the row, filling a wheelbarrow full of manure.
It was grueling work and she wiped at her brow as she toiled, unaware that he was there, unaware that she was being watched.
“Here.” He stepped forward and attempted to take the shovel from her.
“I can do it,” she protested.
“You take the wheelbarrow and angle it closer. We will work faster together this way.”
She relented, releasing the shovel to him. “It is messy work,” she warned him.
He grinned as he bent over the shovel and set to work. “You think I’m afraid of messy work?”
“No,” she murmured. “I suppose this past week has shown me that you are not.”
“Even if I was, do you think I would stand by . . . watching you do all the messy work and not lend a hand? That’s not who I am.”
“Yes. You mentioned that before.”
“It bears repeating when you continue to attempt to dissuade me from helping you.”
A playful smile curved her pretty lips. “Very well. Thank you for your help.” She released a breath. “Did your friend leave?”
“Yes. And I assume Miss Cully took her leave as well?”
“Yes.”
“And I would not call Clarke my friend.” Come to think of it, he did not have many of those. Although Clarke was probably the closest one he did have.
“He works for you.” She nodded. “And did you conclude your business satisfactorily?”
“We did.”
“I hope your business is not suffering from your prolonged absence.”
He paused amid shoveling and rested his elbow on the end of the handle. “The world will not stop because I am here for a little while.”
“I know you are an important man. I hate to keep you from—”