The decision was made for her when the other man spotted her hovering in the threshold. He shifted his large girth slightly in his seat to better survey her, sending the sofa springs squeaking in protest. “Oh, my,” he exclaimed. “What do we have here? Is this, perchance, your lovely sister?”
Mercy opened her mouth. “Ah,” she said, uncertain how to respond to that.
Her brother was now looking at her as though he wished for the earth to open up and swallow them both. Not a good omen. Not at all.
The older gentleman did not even rise to his feet. He merely continued to look her over in a bold and rather offensive manner. She looked down her nose at him, returning his rude scrutiny. Standing, she had a perfect view of his head, of his white hair so thin and wispy his bone-white scalp was visible through the strands.
“Come, lass. Speak up. Which one are you?”
She shook her head. “Which one . . . What?” She looked pointedly to Bede, ready for an explanation.
The older gentleman turned his sharp stare on her brother. “Kittinger, do you want to properly introduce me?”
Bede tugged on his collar and cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Mercy, this is Mr. Hinton, an acquaintance of mine from Town.”
Another acquaintance from Town? What were the odds of that? It could not bode well. She shifted on her feet uneasily. This could not be good. No one ever called here on Bede—other than Silas, if he was to be counted. And truthfully . . . he had come here for her.
Indeed, this did not bode well at all. Her mind immediately leapt to the reason for Silas’s visit here, and she shuddered to think what reason could have brought this man here. Did Bede owe him money? That was her immediate suspicion . . . and fear.
She inclined her head slightly. “Mr. Hinton. A pleasure to meet you. What brings you to our home?” Rather direct, but she felt the need to get to the heart of this visit. Something was afoot, and she wanted to know what.
“A pleasure indeed,” he said, his rather swollen-looking lips savoring and hugging each word in a manner that made her skin crawl. “And how old would you be, my lovely?”
She flinched at the overly familiar manner in which he spoke to her. Not to mention his ill-mannered and prying question. A gentleman did not ask a lady’s age upon their first meeting.
Again, her gaze drifted to her brother. An explanation was well past due, and yet he was not volunteering any information. Instead he continued to look back and forth between Mercy and Mr. Hinton, as though unable to formulate words.
“Bede?” she prompted, an edge to her voice.
Her brother shrugged rather helplessly.
At that moment her sister came up behind her, bringing with her the most delightful aroma of cinnamon. “Mercy, Gladys made your favorite crumpets.” Grace took a crunchy bite of the cake in her hand. “Help yourself while they are still hot from the oven.”
Mr. Hinton perked up at the arrival of Grace.
Her sister came to an abrupt stop, peering inside the parlor around Mercy. “Oh.” Grace’s eyes widened. “I did not realize we had a guest.”
At the arrival of a second lady in their midst, the older gentleman finally labored to his feet with several pained pants of breath, as though the exertion fatigued him. “What delight is this? Now we have the pleasure of another lovely little bird. What is your name, my dear?”
Mercy flinched, disliking this man completely and quite past the point of tolerating him with any level of civility.
“Bede!” she snapped. “Who is this man?” She gestured at him impatiently.
She could not even bring herself to call him a gentleman anymore. Not the way he was ogling both her and Grace.
Hinton looked askance at Bede. “Well, go on with you, Kittinger. Tell your sister who I am.” He sent Mercy a bold, exaggerated wink. “I have been most eager to meet you, my dear.”
She pointed a finger at herself as though to say, Me?—but could manage no words. She was quite astounded by the man’s temerity.
Bede cleared his throat, tugging at that infernal collar of his again as though it were choking him. “Ah, Mr. Hinton. These are my sisters, Mercy and Grace.”
Mr. Hinton clapped his hands together and then rubbed them as though he were about to devour a particularly tasty morsel. “You made no mention of two sisters. Such bounty! I thought there was just one. Which one is mine?”
Grace gasped beside Mercy.
Which one is mine?
Mercy could only gawk, convinced she had misunderstood the man. Certainly he had not said—
“Well. Which one is mine, Kittinger?” Hinton repeated, a hard edge entering his voice. “I came all the way from London to get what is mine, and I am not leaving empty-handed.”
Her brother’s face had gone white. Bloodless.
Mercy took an instinctive step in front of her sister. “What is he talking about, Bede?” Her gaze split between both of the men, uncertain which one posed a greater danger, but certain that they both did.
Mr. Hinton sighed and lumbered back toward the sofa where his coat was tossed. He searched through the pockets whilst her brother buried his head into his hands and mumbled, “I’m so sorry. I was trying to get it back, Mercy.”
“Get what back?” she demanded, even as a dark suspicion took root inside her.
His hands gripped his hair, tugging on the ends as though he would like to rip them from his skull. “I was desperate.”
“Oh, no.” No no no no. She shook her head, unaware of what it was she was precisely dreading, but she knew it was bad. If he was reacting like this, then it was bad. Very bad.
“Mercy?” Grace whispered nervously beside her.
“Here it is!” Mr. Hinton brandished a paper in the air. “I have it right here. Feast your eyes!”
“What is that?” She nodded toward the paper in his hand and then turned a hot glare on her brother, still hoping for some explanation from him. “Bede!”
“This is a contract your brother signed.” The man waved the paper rather loftily, the gesture menacing even in his old gnarled hand.
The sinking sensation in her stomach only worsened. She feared she was going to be ill.
“What kind of contract?” she asked forcefully, her hand tightening around her sister’s hand.
Bede had been here for weeks. He had to have negotiated whatever was in that contract previous to venturing here. What could he have done? And how could he not have warned her that this, whatever this happened to be, was coming for them?
Mr. Hinton unfolded the paper and read with great flourish. “Permit me to paraphrase. This here is a contract promising one Miss Kittinger, sister to Bede Kittinger of Shropshire, in marriage to me.”
“What?” Grace choked out. Grace went limp beside Mercy, and she had to loop her arm around her waist to help hold herself up.
“What nonsense is this?” she asked with an impressive amount of aplomb. She could not fall apart now. She needed her wits and composure even if she wanted to shriek and take a fist to her brother.
Bede finally lifted his head up from his hands. “I am sorry! I am so bloody sorry. I had just lost everything to Masters, and I was desperate. I was hoping I could win it all back and then return to Masters for another go. I was trying to set things right.”
“By gambling away your sister? Your own flesh and blood? Like we are nothing more than property to you! Something to be leveraged?”