☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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Petunia Sinclair was an elitist, privileged, heartless harpy who delighted in her own absolute abhorrence of every other human being on the face of the earth. That included her husband and her youngest daughter. The Marchioness would most certainly disown Rose if she learned the true reason behind her daughter's presence in Manchester. She would likely do far worse than that. And she would enjoy every horrid moment of it.
The lump of ice in Rose's stomach was now attempting to shatter and slice up her insides. At this point she knew, without having to ask, exactly why Mr. Mercer had requested they meet. Entrapment. Although, he likely preferred the more common and straightforward term ‘blackmail.’
Her face must have revealed her comprehension, for Mr. Mercer nodded as though he were impressed by her wit.
“Unless I keep quiet about Dmitri, you will contact my parents,” she deduced. “You'll tell my mother about my work with the refugees.”
“As I said, you're clever,” Mr. Mercer remarked. “Now, if ya wouldn't mind confirmin' a bit o' information for me…”
With an expression of satisfaction, he retrieved a small slip of paper from the lapel pocket of his suit jacket, smoothed it, and slid it across the table to her.
Rose leaned forward to inspect the paper, and her insides twisted into a knot. There, in the haphazard scrawl of a man's handwriting, were the words:
Lord Hugh Sinclair Lady Petunia Sinclair Marquess and Marchioness of Huntsbury Thornewood Park North Yorkshire
Scribbled beneath the names and titles was the telephone number that rang her parents' manor.
Rose made a helpless strangled sound. Her haunted gaze migrated from the paper back up to Mr. Mercer's face. In his eyes, she saw the gleam of triumph.
“All of that's correct, I take it?” he asked. With a smirk, he snatched the paper, folded it, and tucked it back inside his lapel pocket.
“Please don't ring that number,” Rose whispered. “My mother— She would— Just...please.”
Mr. Mercer folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. He studied her face, his eyebrows slightly elevated, a thin smile on his lips.
He was enjoying this.
“I'd prefer not to ring your parents,” he said. “But that all depends on you, Lady Rose.”
“Do not call me that!” Rose hissed.
Mr. Mercer cocked his head to the side. “Miss Sinclair, then?”
“Yes!”
“Alright. It all depends on you, Miss Sinclair,” he amended. “I won't have to make that call if I have your word you'll keep your mouth shut.”
