Silas stared down at the old, gnarled hand before accepting it. It felt frail and cold in his grasp, the skin parchment thin. He should be sad. Angry. He just gave up what it had taken him years to build. But he could only feel relief knowing that cold, frail hand would never touch Mercy.
As far as he was concerned, his gaming hell in exchange for Mercy’s freedom was a beyond fruitful arrangement.
Silas started down the corridor, finished with the man.
“Enjoy her in good health, Masters,” Hinton called after him.
Silas paused, battling the rage that urged him to turn back around and plant his fist in the old man’s face. Such a move would likely kill the bastard, and that would not get Silas anywhere. He would likely end up at the end of a hangman’s noose if he surrendered to that impulse. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides as he fought for restraint.
After several breaths, he continued down the corridor to his room, content in the knowledge that Mercy was free. Free as she deserved to be.
By the time Mercy arrived downstairs for breakfast the following morning, everyone was already there. Her sister. Her brother. Gladys and Elsie. Even the detestable Mr. Hinton sat at the head of the table as though it were his right to be there.
The only person who was not there was the one she most wanted to see. Even as senseless as that might be. The sight of him would only make her pain greater.
“Good morning,” she said stiffly, making her way to the food-laden sideboard.
She had no appetite, but somehow she would manage to eat. Or at least she would go through the motions of eating. She needed to put on a brave front. If not for herself, then for her sister and the rest of the staff. She cared very little about what her brother thought right now. This was all his fault, after all. He should feel terrible. Beyond terrible. As wretched as she felt.
Seating herself, she glanced around the table, still battling relief and anguish not to see Silas’s face among the others. Of course, he was not here. Not after last night. Not after their words.
“Mr. Masters has already left then?” She could not help but ask the question.
Gladys cleared her throat. “Oh, yes. He left a short time ago. He seemed in quite the rush.”
Quite the rush to leave here. She could not blame him for that. Mercy nodded miserably and stabbed at a bit of egg on her plate.
She did not miss the bewildered glances Gladys and Elsie sent Mr. Hinton’s way. Clearly they were curious as to this man’s identity and his place at their table. Apparently no explanation had been given for his presence among them. That unpleasant task would fall to her undoubtedly.
He held a scone aloft, smacking his lips in delighted approval. “I must take some of these home with me. They are so splendidly flaky and yet not overly dry.”
Mr. Hinton was leaving then. Mercy looked down at her hands in her lap, a sense of bleakness rising up inside her. Did he think to take her with him? Her fate was in his hands. Desperation came over her and she had the wild urge to escape the room and . . . flee.
Perhaps she was not as strong as she thought. How would she endure this? She reached for her tea with a shaking hand.
“You mean to depart?” Grace asked Mr. Hinton in an overly sweet voice. “Good riddance.”
The old man’s expression turned decidedly peevish at Gracie’s harsh words.
Mercy gasped. “Gracie!”
Grace met her gaze with a shrug. “What? Are we to feign as though he is a welcome guest here? Even he would know that is a lie.”
Gladys and Elsie watched the byplay in rapt interest.
Mercy struggled for words. How could she explain to her sister that it would behoove them to be polite to this horrid gentleman if for nothing more than to ease Mercy’s role as his future wife? She did not want to incur his wrath even before their vows were exchanged.
Apparently Grace understood anyway. “Oh. You are worried he might take exception and vent his spleen on you?” She shook her head. “You need not fear that.”
Mercy closed her eyes in a long weary blink. “Grace,” she moaned. Of course she had to fear that. Fear, among other things, was to become a condition of her existence married to this man.
“What? We need not be nice to him. You don’t have to marry him anymore,” Grace declared as though that were known to all.
Mercy opened her eyes slowly at that.
Gladys and Elsie simultaneously choked on their food at the mention of marriage.
“What do you mean?” Mercy resisted the hope that fluttered as weakly as a baby bird inside her chest at her sister’s words. What could have changed since last night?
“Mr. Masters handled it. Just as I knew he would,” Grace said pertly and rather smugly, popping a berry into her mouth.
Silas?
“Explain yourself, Grace. What did Mr. Masters do?”
“Well. I don’t know all the particulars.” Grace shrugged and nodded to Mr. Hinton. “Ask him.”
“We reached a mutually satisfying arrangement.”
Why was it so difficult to get a direct answer from anyone?
“Let me understand this. I don’t have to marry you anymore?”
“Yes, much to your disappointment, I am certain.” He chortled at that. “Masters made me a better offer.”
“A better offer,” Mercy echoed.
“No offense intended, lass, but The Rogue’s Den is one of the most popular hells in London. I can always find a wife. I can’t find another club like that.”
Mercy stared straight ahead, seeing yet unseeing. “He traded his club for me?”
“Indeed,” Hinton answered amid the sound of him eating.
“Can you believe it?” Bede who had been silent through this entire conversation found his voice to say, “Have you any notion what that club was worth? Far greater than twelve thousand pounds, I’ll tell you.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “And he traded it for you.”
“Enough! Stop it! You should say nothing. You should say nothing ever again,” Grace interjected with hot indignation, slapping her hand down on the table so hard her palm stung. “Mr. Masters is an honorable man. Honor, Bede. Something you would know nothing about.”
His business. His livelihood. His world. All of it gone. Traded.
For her.
She closed her eyes. No no no no.
It was too much. It was not fair to him. He gave too much. She would never be able to repay him for such a debt.
She jerked to her feet, knocking her chair back to the floor. “And he has gone. He left,” she announced rather dumbly.
“Er. Yes. I tried to persuade him to take breakfast with us, but he was most insistent about being on his way home,” Gladys provided unhelpfully.
He wished to go home back to London. Home used to be the third floor of his club. But not anymore because he had sacrificed that for her.
Why?
That baby bird inside her chest started to beat its wings harder, faster, hope burgeoning within her.
She had to see him. She had to . . .
She shook her head. She did not know what she could say or do, but she had to do and say something.
She had to see him.
“I have to go after him,” she muttered, hastening away from the table.
“You do?” Bede queried in bewilderment.
“Oh, shut up,” Mercy snapped at him as she passed him on the way out.