“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.
“Y-yes. Of course,” the man stammered, releasing her as though the touch of her now burned him. “P’raps you should have a word with your girl here then.”
“I am not anyone’s girl,” she objected.
“You’re here,” Bassett said with heavy accusation, “and dressed like a trollop.”
“What does the manner of my dress signify?” she demanded. “That it is acceptable to grope me? That I invite your attentions?”
“Precisely.” He spat the word without shame.
“Precisely not,” Masters intoned in his deep yet soft voice—a voice that nonetheless shouted of authority.
Even if he were not the proprietor of this club, this man commanded deference. She doubted anyone ever challenged him.
He continued, “The women here are not in my employ and even if they were, I would not require them to suffer your or any man’s attentions.”
Bassett blustered and waved at her with contempt. “I have a right to courtesy and respect from this—”
“There you are wrong. The women who patronize my club are guests here just as you are. They should be able to stroll across the floors of this house free of molestation. Since you cannot afford a lady that modicum of courtesy, you have no right to respect and are no longer welcome here.”
Mr. Bassett blanched. “Ever?”
“You shall have to find other diversions to amuse yourself. Elsewhere.”
A long stretch of silence fell.
“What? Now? I must leave?” Mr. Bassett glanced wildly around him as though any of the many faces staring back at him might offer an alternative solution. His face flushed an even deeper red and his eyes suddenly looked watery.
“Indeed.” Mr. Masters nodded his dark head once, decisively. “Do not cause further spectacle, man. Have some dignity and take your leave.”
With a baleful glare cast her way, Mr. Bassett gave a grunt, followed by a nod, and stormed off through the room, dodging people and tables with angry movements.
The gentlemen at the table whom he had been playing with resumed their game of whist as though nothing untoward had occurred. Apparently he would not be missed by any of them.
Mercy turned her gaze on Masters to find his attention smoothly trained on her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You seemed to have the situation well in hand, but my apologies. You should not have been accosted.”
“As you said, it was no doing of yours, sir.” She swallowed, but it felt an impossible task. There was no ridding herself of the giant lump in her throat. “You need not apologize.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Everything that happens under this roof is my responsibility.”
Everything?
It was precisely the reminder she needed to put aside any softening she felt over his display of gallantry.
By his own admission, everything that occurred here was his responsibility, including the ruination of a family. Her family. Here. Under this roof. Had he no care for that? For all the families he had ruined, because there were undoubtedly many more. More reckless brothers. More selfish fathers. More ruthless takers like Silas Masters.
With her heart freshly hardened against him, she closed herself off to his outward courtesy and handsome face. Many a lady would doubtlessly simper when presented with such a darkly pretty man. Mercy, however, was made of sterner stuff.
As a guardian to her younger sister—true, Bede was their sister’s legal guardian, but it always fell to Mercy to act as mother and father to Grace—Mercy had to be immune. There was only room enough for one husband-seeking, stars-in-her-eyes dreamer in the Kittinger household.
Grace’s arrival had been a surprise to their parents. It had been a surprise to all, in truth. At the time Mama was no young woman set to the task of delivering babies, and the birthing of twins had nearly finished her a decade before.
Unsurprising then, perhaps, that she had never recovered from Grace’s birth, sadly languishing . . . withering, really, until her broken body finally surrendered to death’s embrace two years later. Even before Mama’s demise, it had fallen to Papa to see to his three children—or rather, it had fallen to Mercy.
Only a young girl herself, Mercy had stepped forward and taken the reins as lady of the house. Papa had managed the farm and she managed her baby sister and rascal of a brother. At least until Papa sent Bede off to school. At that point her brother belonged to the world and his own many foibles.
Ever since Grace’s birth, Mercy had put family first. She had not approached adulthood with the hopes that other young women harbored. She had a farm to run, a family to oversee and a young sister to bring up whilst her brother followed his own merry pursuits.
It was a relentless and grueling task, ushering a young girl into womanhood. Especially when one did not rely on servants and governesses and ladies’ maids for assistance. It all fell to Mercy. Everything fell to Mercy.
Mercy had not the leisure herself for merry pursuits. There were no courtships or dalliances or even flirtations that one might expect for an unattached lady. Those adventures were reserved for other young ladies. Ladies like her young sister—or so Grace hoped.
Grace hoped for a great deal. Dances. Parties. Teas. Catching the eye of a handsome young gentleman. She begged Mercy for a trip to Town where she might enter the marriage mart on a broader scale—as though they were good ton and not simple gentry.
Mercy fixed her attention on Silas Masters’s face, continuing to tell herself not to be swayed by all of his masculine beauty. Grace would have melted into a puddle at his feet. He was not like the country gentlemen in their sphere. Not in the least.
Bede should have warned her.
When her brother first told her of The Rogue’s Den and of the proprietor, Silas Masters, he merely described him as ruthless, intimidating and powerful. A very rich man without mercy.
Without mercy. She remembered that specifically because Bede had used her name. The irony had struck her at the time as her brother continued talking, bemoaning this wretched owner of a gaming hell who would take everything from him so callously. From him, Bede. No mention was given of Mercy or Grace and what they stood to lose.
And yet Mercy had vowed that she would go to this club and face the purportedly ruthless man himself if need be. Of course, she had hoped it would not come to that.
She would somehow reclaim their lives. She would succeed and not be deterred by Silas Masters’s lack of compassion or, as it would turn out, by his dark good looks.
“If you would pardon me, I was on my way to the ladies’ retiring room.”
His gaze held hers, perhaps a bit too long. As though he could smell the subterfuge on her person. Perhaps he thought her suspicious or simply up to mischief in his establishment. She certainly felt suspicious standing there in her newly acquired gown that felt like someone else’s skin on her.
But that was silly. She took a gulping breath. She was being overly anxious. He had no reason to suspect she was anything other than a lady-about-town, here for diversions just like everyone else.
Even though she was not like everyone else. Far from it.
She was in this lion’s den to thieve.