ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴇʀ

Nine | ʟɪᴀᴍ

“Half past twelve,” the voice of Miss Sinclair confirmed on the other end of the telephone line. Her tone carried a haughty quality that Liam would've detested under normal circumstances, but from this young woman it was so obviously a performance that he found himself amused. “Lovely. Looking forward to it. Bye, then.”

The line went dead.

Liam stared at the receiver in his hand, nonplussed. She'd hung up. That prim, proper little toff had hung up on him. Him. William Mercer. The gall of her. She either had no regard for her own safety, or she had a backbone of steel. Perhaps both.

With an incredulous chuckle, Liam returned the handset to its cradle. “Cheeky girl,” he remarked under his breath.

He lit a cigarette and stood up from his desk, crossing the polished wooden floorboards of his office to the wide second-story windows that overlooked Deansgate. His office in town wasn't as comfortable as his study at Warwick Hall, but the view was certainly more intriguing. Still so early in the morning, and already the street was congested with motor vehicles and pedestrians alike. So many people, so many places to go. Money to make, money to spend, goods and services to exchange. Most of those transactions would occur here, at one of the Mercer family's many businesses. Nearly every business located on Deansgate was owned or operated by the Mercers — though few people in Manchester knew which, how many, or under what names and titles.

That was how Liam liked it. The long arms of his family's influence were felt everywhere, but there was still an air of mystery palpable enough to keep people guessing. Never show all your cards, Liam's father had habitually recited, before he took off for good. Keep 'em wonderin' if ya got that royal flush.

A compulsive gambler of fate as well as money, Liam's father had accomplished fuck all since his accidental formation of the Deansgate Streeters all those years ago. Not a man to be looked up to. Still, his advice had stuck. As a result, Liam preferred to show as few of his figurative cards as possible. Not even Ransom and Jackson knew about every ace up his sleeve.

Leopold Rothschild had provided one such ace the previous evening. A very telling ace. Rose Sinclair was in for a surprise.

A sharp knock sounded on the door.

“Aye?” Liam called out, puffing on his cigarette.

The door opened and the sight of a tall, leggy brunette greeted him. She tossed her head and strode across the threshold, a pile of notes in hand. “G'morning, Liam,” she said in her typical brusque voice. “Enjoy your impromptu day off yesterday?”

“Mornin', Kitty,” he greeted his secretary. He shook his head at her choice of words; her brash mouth knew no limits. “Didn't ‘enjoy’ it, no. Had some business to attend to.”

“Business that had to be conducted away from your businesses?” she questioned, not bothering to mask the judgment in her tone. “You're takin' the piss. That's a day off.”