CHAPTER 12
“This shouldn’t be too difficult,” Evan muttered to himself.
He was in a private meeting room at Whitehall Club. His dark eyes swept lazily over the assembled men, his fingers idly toying with the rim of his glass.
He gave nothing away—not irritation, not eagerness, not even a hint of interest. He let the silence stretch, his expression unreadable, until the other men grew restless.
Silence unsettled people. Evan had learned that long ago.
And it worked.
Mercer, a rotund man with thinning hair and a nose that was perpetually red, dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief as he faced Evan. He was an old-school businessman—the kind who had always relied on his title to protect him from failure.
The problem, of course, was that titles could not buy competence. And Mercer had very little of that to spare.
“You were saying, Mercer?” Ambrose prompted, his voice smooth. He had accompanied Evan to make the deal as he often did.
Mercer cleared his throat. “Yes, yes—well, as I was saying, the investment opportunity is… substantial.”
Evan did not even blink.
“And yet, you have failed to give me a single figure that suggests so.”
“I—well—” Mercer blanched.
Evan set his glass down with a soft clink, the first real movement he had made in minutes. He leaned forward slightly.
“I do not do business on vague assurances, Mercer. Do you understand that?” His voice was low.
“It is a developing property—” Mercer swallowed.
“That is another way of saying it is worthless until someone fixes your mistakes,” Evan cut in smoothly.
“Now see here, Marwood—” Mercer’s face darkened.
“I do see,” Evan interrupted. When in a situation like this, he preferred to always maintain the upper hand.
Ambrose sighed, rubbing his temple. “Mercer, you knew before you came here that Marwood does not tolerate incompetence.”
“The mill is profitable, I tell you. Given time—” Mercer scowled.
“Time is something a wise man accounts for in his dealings. You, on the other hand, are asking me to shoulder the time it will take for your mistakes to become profitable,” Evan replied.
Mercer’s cheeks were nearly purple now.
“It is an opportunity, Your Grace. You know this surely.”
Oh he did.But conceding that would be no way to cut a deal. He hadn’t gotten his reputation for ruthlessness over nothing.
“No. It is an attempt to make your problem my problem,” he said instead.
A silence settled between them. Mercer’s anger wavered, and in its place, something else took shape—doubt.
Evan watched it happen.
He had seen it a hundred times before—the moment when a man realized he was outmatched. It was theperfecttime to strike.
“I will take the mill,” he said suddenly, his voice so calm that Mercer almost looked relieved.
