☆ 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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Mr. Gallagher returned at half past three, a fierce glower on his face and a stack of papers in his hand.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Rose greeted him as he stalked past her desk. “Successful outing?”
“They're askin' too much, the bloody thieves,” he growled. “It's an empty lot, for fuck's sake! Nothin' but weeds and rubble.” He glanced toward her, as though only just realizing he was back in the office. “Ahem. Apologies, Miss Appelbaum. Shouldn't have raised my voice like that. Wasn't directed at you. Frustrated, is all.”
“Of course, sir,” Rose said. She'd heard far worse from William, and therefore remained unfazed. “I imagine it's quite difficult to negotiate over property contracts. Were it me, I wouldn't know how to begin.”
Mr. Gallagher grunted, but the noise sounded appreciative rather than irritated. “Gonna hafta talk 'em down. I will have that lot. But never mind. Any messages?”
“Yes, sir,” Rose answered, striving to keep her voice light and casual. “A few. I placed them on your desk.”
“Hm. Yes, thank you,” he said. With a brusque nod, he turned away and entered his office.
Apprehension churned in Rose's stomach. Mr. Gallagher was expecting his commonplace everyday telephone messages, nothing more. Certainly nothing so unusual as a letter from an old flame. His reaction might be...severe.
Rose continued her task of assembling the disarray of notes into a comprehensive order, her ears perked up and attentive even as her gaze was trained on the myriad of papers.
A long, painful minute passed. Then another. Then another.
Suddenly, there was a conspicuous thud and a venomous curse. Mr. Gallagher appeared in his office doorway, his expression aghast.
“Miss Appelbaum!” he barked.
Rose's shoulders tensed. She glanced up at her employer, feigning innocence. “Yes, Mr. Gallagher?”
His eyes were hard and his upper lip twitched. Until this moment, Rose hadn't thought it was possible for a human face to display fury, shock, and elation simultaneously, but James Gallagher was accomplishing exactly that feat. In his hand was Geneviève's letter.
“Where did this come from?” he demanded, brandishing the stationery and ripped envelope.
“From a lady,” Rose answered, honest but vague.
“What lady?”
“Never caught a name, sir.” She shrugged in an attempt to exude a polite indifference. “Dark hair. Pretty, I suppose. I didn't take much notice.”
“She was here?” Mr. Gallagher asked. “In this office? You spoke with her?”
“For a moment, sir,” Rose confirmed. “She came in and asked after you. I told her you were out, and she gave me the letter to pass along. That was the extent of our interaction.”
