ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴇʀ

Eight | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

The following morning, the ring of the telephone was shrill and unwelcome to Rose's exhausted ears. The high-pitched repetitive trill ground at her nerves through the closed door of the en suite. She was in the midst of arranging her hair, the curls held precariously and awaiting pins.

“For pity's sake, Daphne!” Rose called to her cousin through the door. “This is your flat! Answer the telephone!”

At last the insistent ringing ceased. Rose could hear her cousin murmuring to whomever had called. In truth, the call didn't interest her. She had more pressing matters on her mind; such as Dmitri, what had been done to him, and whether or not to go to the authorities. The two hours of sleep she had finally managed to get in the wee hours of the morning had caused a fog in her brain that refused to dissipate.

Daphne knocked on the door of the loo just as Rose put the final pin in her hair.

“Come on in, Daph,” she called.

The door opened and Daphne peeked inside. “It's for you,” she said to Rose, her expression one of intrigue.

“For me,” Rose repeated blankly. “What is?”

“The telephone,” Daphne answered. She bit her lip. “It's a man. And he's asking for you by name.”

“Really?” Rose found that to be very odd indeed. Who would be calling for her?

“Yes, really. And I don’t think it's Elton Willoughby.”

Rose pulled a face and swatted Daphne's arm. “You are insufferable.”

Daphne danced out of range, wiggling a teasing finger. “Do you have a suitor you neglected to tell me about? Unacceptable, Rose!”

Rose ignored the cheeky comment and made her way across the parlor to the telephone where it sat upon the desk. “Hello?” she said into the handset. “This is Rose Sinclair.”

“Mornin', Miss Sinclair,” a masculine voice on the other end greeted her.

Rose let out a little gasp and nearly dropped the receiver. Her hand flew to her mouth, every trace of exhaustion gone.

“You there?” the voice asked. “Haven't lost ya, have I?”

Her initial curiosity over the call quickly transformed to shock when the exaggerated vowels and dropped ‘H’s of the Manchester accent allowed her to place the voice on the other end.

William Mercer.

William Mercer was ringing her. At Daphne's flat.

He knew the number.

It had been less than sixteen hours since her visit to his home, and he'd found a way to reach her. Which meant, if he wanted to, he could reach Daphne.

Rose swallowed. “I'm here,” she said. Her voice sounded shaky to her ears, and she hoped he couldn't hear it on his end. “What do you want?”

She heard a sniff on the other end, which may have been a scoff or a chuckle. She couldn’t tell which.