He strode inside and faced her with hard, glittering eyes. “It seems much has happened in my brief absence.”
He knew.
She gave a mirthless laugh. “Indeed. My brother is ever full of surprises.”
“You cannot do this, Mercy.”
Somehow he had been apprised of matters. She suspected that was her sister’s doing. Her well-meaning and interfering sister. “There is no other alternative.”
“There is always a choice.”
That was easy for him to say. A man who would never marry would, of course, believe marriage was a choice.
She angled her head. She did not have the luxury of choice. How could he not see that?
“It is not the end of the world.” Even as she uttered the words with a flippant air, she did not believe them. And yet she said them. She had to say them. She had to learn to believe in them. Just as she would learn to live with her fate. She continued, “People marry all the time, and there is no affection or love as the foundation.”
He waved an arm wildly toward the door. “But that man? Did you not converse with him? I realize you don’t know him, but believe you me. You do not want to be married to Otto Hinton. His wives die as frequently as a change of season. Marriage to him very well could be the end of your world.”
She lifted her chin and swallowed back the lump of emotion . . . of dread . . . clogging her throat. “Surely you exaggerate.”
His eyes grew as round as saucers. “About this? I do not.”
She stomped her foot. “Do not make this more difficult than it already is. I have to do this.”
“Oh, you admit this is difficult then? That is something at least.”
Of course, it was. Did he not see that? She was trying to be brave lest she crumble and fall apart. He was only making it worse. “What business is any of this of yours?”
He reared back slightly as though she had slapped him. “What business? You. You are my business, you daft woman. Can you not see that?”
She shook her head, hard and fierce. “No. I do not see that. Why would I see that? Our time together has come to a conclusion. You said as much. You are leaving tomorrow.”
“So I should just go on and forget about you? Are we not friends? Did you not say that to me?”
“Friends?” she echoed numbly.
Yes. She had called him that. She had said he was a good friend, but now that word somehow rang ridiculous to her. Insignificant. She had several friends and she had done none of the things with her friends that she had done with Silas Masters. Suddenly she wanted to shout at him. She wanted to strike him. At the very least she wanted to scream: Go! Be gone!
His eyes narrowed. “Yes. Friends. Should I simply forget you?”
“Yes!”
He ignored her and continued loudly, angrily, “Forget you and leave you to this fate you have assigned yourself?”
Mercy gulped, wondering why he was even here. He could do nothing to help her. So why was he doing this to her? The torment was real. He had said he was leaving. She was not making that up. She did not impose that upon him. It was his choice. He who was so blasted fortunate to have choices.
“I am doing nothing more than making the best of a bad situation.” She was proud at how calmly her voice escaped.
He laughed harshly, bitterly. She cringed at the sound. “There is no good, no making the best of this situation.”
“Go. Leave.” She flipped a hand to the door. “This has nothing to do with you.”
He nodded slowly, a tic feathering along his jaw tensely. “Very well. I will leave as planned in the morning.”
Those words fell with finality. They stung more than they should. More even than the words she had uttered only earlier tonight, agreeing to marry Hinton.
She clutched the collar of her nightgown in her fist and nodded jerkily. “Goodbye, Silas.”
He blinked slowly and turned for the door. “Goodbye, Mercy. Have a good life.”
She flinched.
He left her room. Left her. As had been the plan from the start.
She stood alone, wondering why she suddenly felt so terribly wretched—even more wretched than when she had agreed to marry a stranger old enough to be her grandfather.
Why did she feel as though he had abandoned her?
Why did she feel like she was dying inside?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Silas did not return to his bedchamber upon leaving Mercy’s room. She might have pushed him from her life, she might have insisted she was marrying Hinton and that he had no place in her affairs, but he could not abandon her to the wolves.
He knocked firmly at Kittinger’s bedchamber door where Hinton slept. It took a few moments before he heard sounds coming from the other side.
After several minutes the door finally opened. Hinton stood there, wispy strands of white hair standing up in every direction on his head. He blinked bleary eyes at Silas before recognition lit his face. “Masters! What are you doing here? No one mentioned you were here as well.”
“The question to be asked is—how soon can you pack your things and get the bloody hell out of here?”
Hinton stared at him, speechless for several moments before a slow insidious smile curved his fleshy lips. Avarice filtered through his rheumy eyes. “Oh. I see. You have a vested interest here, too.”
“You could say that,” he agreed tightly. There was no sense denying it. He was at this man’s door, prepared to barter with the devil himself to save Mercy.
“I take it one of the lovely Misses Kittinger has snared your fancy. Which one? Is it mine? The elder gel?”
“She is not yours. Your filthy hands shall never touch her.”
The old man chuckled and then nodded. “Ah. It is my soon-to-be wife then. She is a spirited lass.”
“You will never marry her. Get that notion out of your head.”
“She is a tasty morsel.” He paused and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well. I am a businessman above all else. Let us negotiate. What will you give me for her?” He eyed Silas expectantly.
“I understand the stakes of the pool were twelve thousand pounds. I’m prepared to offer you that.”
Hinton waved a hand with a grunt of dissatisfaction. “That was weeks ago. Things have changed. Apparently her value has gone up. Demand has a way of doing that. She is worth more than mere money.”
“What will it take?” Silas growled.
“That is a question better left to you, is it not?” Hinton stroked his bulbous nose, scratching a nail against one oozing sore.
Silas held the man’s gaze for several long moments, attempting to read his intent. Comprehension finally dawned. Hinton did not want money.
That left only one thing he wanted from Silas.
Hinton appeared to hold his breath as he waited for Silas’s response, anticipation bright in his eyes. “Well, Masters? What will it be?”
Silas nodded once, briskly, resolutely. “Very well. It is yours.”
“Say it,” Hinton directed with great relish. “I need to hear you say it, Masters.”
“The Rogue’s Den is yours.”
The old man rubbed his hands delightedly. “What a splendid turn of events this is. We will meet in London, of course, at my solicitor’s office to sign all the necessary paperwork. But for now . . .” Hinton held out his hand. “A handshake will suffice to seal the agreement.”