William Mercer stood at Daphne's threshold, the sharp brim of his fedora pulled low over his eyes and his hands hidden in the pockets of his trousers.

“G'evening, Miss Lancaster,” he greeted her, his voice and expression somber. “May I come in?”

Daphne gawked at him. In her partially inebriated state, she had no presence of mind to censor her reactions. “You're asking?” she scoffed. “When and where did you acquire manners?”

He ignored her question, instead asking one of his own, “Is that a yes?”

Daphne's hand twitched with the desire to slam the door in his face, but that would only inspire him to force his way in. And to spend any more time conversing in the open doorway would draw unwanted attention. Her best option for swift resolution was to let him inside. She seethed at the realization.

“I have nothing more to share with you,” she informed him, her tone terse.

“I've got no more questions about Rose,” he replied with a shrug.

Her fingernails rapped against the wood, a nervous tic. At last she released a little huff and held the door open to let him pass. “Fine,” she said. “Come in. It's your flat, anyway. Right, Mr. Mercer?”

He walked past her over the threshold and removed the hat from his head, then proceeded into her small parlor and sat down on the sofa. Stretching his legs out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other, he studied her in silence as if waiting for her to join him.

Daphne rolled her eyes. Turning her back to him, she closed and locked the door. What in the name of all that was holy was William Mercer doing back here? Did his audacity know no bounds? Well, if he was going to impinge on her time again, he was going to get an earful.

Squaring her shoulders, Daphne spun back around and marched across the room to where he lounged on her sofa. Without the slightest care regarding whether or not he could tell she wasn't sober, she stood before him with her hands on her hips, hoping the stance gave her a look of authority.

“Since your last lovely visit, there have been three developments of some interest,” she stated. “One, Mr. Hughes made me a senior editor. Two, my landlord telephoned to say that my rent for the next two months has already been paid in full. And three, Rose will not return my calls or speak to me. I'm guessing all of the above are your doing?”

Mr. Mercer tilted his head off to one side and continued to study her. He was silent for so long that Daphne nearly began to fidget. What was he looking for? And did he have to be so bloody calm and enticing while he looked for it?

Finally, he said, “Don't s'pose I could get a drink? Before your interrogation really begins?”

Exasperated, Daphne threw up her hands. “A drink? Really?”

“A drink. Really.”

“Drinks are for guests,” she snapped. “Guests are invited. I didn't invite you. I don't want you here.”

“Let me in, though, didn't ya?” he countered. “That makes me a guest. I'd like a drink.”

Daphne emitted a sound of disgust. That was his logic? Insufferable prig. Well, she had no desire to chat with him, so perhaps if she gave him a drink he'd shove off.

But then she'd be alone. Again.

She sighed in frustration. “What do you want?”

“Whiskey. If ya have it.”

She raised and dropped one shoulder in a disgruntled shrug. “Come into the kitchen.”

With a minute nod, Mr. Mercer got up from the sofa and followed Daphne into the adjoining room.

“I'd offer you wine, but I plan to finish that bottle off myself,” she said, padding over to the kitchen counter in her stocking feet. “Yes, I have whiskey. It's rubbish. Not the top-shelf single malt you're used to. But since you're slumming it with the commoners tonight…”

Behind her, Mr. Mercer made a sound of amusement. “The ‘commoners,’ eh?”

Ignoring his words, she rummaged around in miscellaneous cupboards until she found what she sought: an old, discarded, yet unopened bottle from two years ago. Hattie had given it to her as a gift when one of Daphne's stories made the front page of the Manchester Daily Post for the very first time.

“How do you take it?” Daphne asked.

Mr. Mercer sat down at her table, in the same chair he'd occupied during his first unwanted visit. “Neat.”

Of course. No ice, no water, no chaser. Such a man.

Daphne poured his drink, topped off her wine glass, and joined him at the table.

“Should we toast?” he asked.

The question caused her to jolt in her seat. What? Were they to be drinking mates now?

“Toast to what, Mr. Mercer?” she demanded. “Perhaps you haven't heard a word I've said since you came through the door, but I'm devastated. My dearest friend refuses to speak to me.”

He grimaced, his eyes on the glass in front of him. “Think we're far past this Mister-Mercer-Miss-Lancaster shit," he said, letting out a little sigh. "Call me Liam. Or William, if ya prefer.”

Daphne frowned. This offer of unorthodox camaraderie was the last thing she'd expected from him. “Rose calls you William.”

“When she's talkin' to me, aye,” he confirmed. “She hasn't called me much of anythin' for the past couple days.” He circled the rim of the glass absently with the pad of his index finger. “Doubt it'll ease your mind, but Rose ain't speakin' to me either.”

“Rose isn't speaking to me because of the information I gave you,” Daphne said slowly. “If I had to guess, I'd say she isn't speaking to you because you chose to use it.”

William wagged a finger at her. “Got it in one.”

Daphne's shoulders drooped. “What a pair we make,” she remarked, staring into the crimson depths of her wine. With a ginger touch, she held the glass aloft by the stem. “Then, to...loneliness?”

“Aye,” William agreed, raising his glass. “And may it end.”

“Cheers.”

They touched their glasses together, then drank. Daphne took a long pull, all the while watching William as he downed half of his whiskey in one gulp.

“You wanna ask me somethin',” William said as he set down his glass.

Daphne felt her eyebrows knit together. “What makes you think that?”

“Your face,” he replied with a shrug. “You're not nearly as aloof when ya drink.” He chuckled to himself and pulled out his slim cigarette case. Removing a single fag from the row, he held it up for her to see. “Ya mind?”

“No,” she said. She got up and retrieved the ashtray from the counter. “I'm also not nearly as particular when I drink.”

William nodded in thanks and lit the end of his cigarette. “So?” he prompted, pausing for a few seconds to take a drag. “What d'ya wanna ask me?”

“Honestly?” Daphne said. “What made you decide to be a racketeer, Mr. Mercer? Or, William, rather.”

The corner of his lip curled up in a small wry smile. “What made ya decide to be a journalist, Miss Lancaster? Or-Daphne-rather.”

A question to answer a question. Again. Daphne tutted, unable to fathom how Rose could tolerate this man.

Lies, her mind hissed in accusation. She could, and she did. Perhaps it was only by the aid of her semi-intoxicated state, but she could see it. The appeal. Even when William Mercer was behaving as a deplorable condescending chauvinist, there was something undeniably magnetic about him.

“I asked you first,” Daphne said, an eyebrow quirked.

“What are we? School children?”

Daphne expelled a breath of irritation. “My occupational choices cannot possibly be of any interest to you, William,” she said.

“But they are,” he insisted, taking a drag from his cigarette. “It's unusual for a woman to choose such a controversial career.” He motioned around the small flat, indicating her collection of framed articles that decorated the walls. “You clearly have a talent for it. So, yeah, I'm interested. Tell me.”

Daphne pursed her lips. This was a trick. She didn't know the how or the why, but it had to be a trick of some kind. But what did that matter? She had no one else to talk to at the moment. A real conversation would be nice; even if it was merely a ruse for the collection of information.

“What made me want to be a journalist..?” Daphne mused in contemplation. She knew the answer, but it had been so long since she'd thought about it that she wondered if she'd become distracted from her objective. At last she said, “The news informs, educates, persecutes, and creates opinions. The news shapes the people that read it and hear it. And like all words that carry a message, the news carries a bias. The bias of the person who wants the news made public. When information is owned, it can be bent, manipulated, and mutated. Would you not agree?”

“I would, aye. Go on.”

“Because of that, I believe a journalist must have integrity and a loyalty to truth,” Daphne continued. “The news is what makes collective memory. Collective memory becomes history. History becomes fact. For far too long the world has been governed by men who speak too much and do too little. I look to change that. One word at a time, if need be.”

William flicked cinders from his cigarette into the ashtray and took a swig of his whiskey. “An eloquent, vetted answer,” he observed. “Somethin' a politician would say. But I believe ya. You're a smart one, Daphne, I'll give ya that. Good thing most women aren't like you, or men wouldn't be runnin' things.”

“The future of the workplace will be fifty percent female,” Daphne stated. “Not right away, but eventually. And I want to be part of the catalyst that spurs that future into existence.”

William regarded her with a look of appraisal, as though he'd just decided she was a Rembrandt rather than a child's finger-painting. With a practiced twist against the ashtray, he extinguished his cigarette. “I agree with ya. I look forward to that future.”

Daphne blanched. “You do?”

“I do. I think women are capable of fixin' things men have a tendency to break.”

“That's...surprisingly refreshing to hear,” she murmured. His words pleased her, and the cognizance of that shook her. “So, why become a racketeer? Don't they tend to break things?” she asked, returning to her earlier question.

William chuckled. “Not gonna let that go, are ya?”

“As we just discussed, I'm a journalist, William,” she said with a shrug. “I'm inquisitive by nature.”

“Hmmm.” He stared at the wall for several seconds before responding. “S'pose I didn't like the idea that other men had more than me, simply because of their ancestry. Their name. Their birthright. A man needs to prove he's better than me, rather than tell me his inherited title. See, I don't have a title, Daphne, but I do have more determination, ambition, and cunning than any well-born man I've ever encountered. So, why shouldn't I make a name for myself? Why shouldn't I move up in the world? There a reason?”

Daphne sipped her wine, her eyes narrowed in contemplation. “No,” she said. “There's not. No reason at all.”

“I agree,” William said. “But it's men from your world, peerage men, who would try and have me believe otherwise.”

“Humph,” Daphne scoffed. “I know those men. The truth that none of them want to face is that the peerage are relics from a bygone era. There is no place for them in this modern world. Like ancient civilizations, they will wither and die.”

“Quite a post-modern lass, aren't ya?”

“Time only moves in one direction, William,” she said with a firm nod. “We can embrace it, or let it crush us. Both are risks. But I choose to embrace the changing times.”

“I can see that,” he quipped. “You embrace change to the point of denying you're aristocracy.”

Daphne swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Do you find that odd?”

He lifted his hand and let it fall in a gesture of indecision. “A bit, I s'pose. My brothers and I have spent our whole lives trying to climb up the proverbial ladder. And here you are, you and Rose, pretendin' to be commoners.”

“You wouldn't find it so mysterious if you knew our mothers,” Daphne told him. “Rose's especially. Petunia Sinclair makes you look kind.”

“Really somethin' wicked, then, isn't she?”

“You have no idea,” Daphne baited. She scrutinized her guest for several seconds over the rim of her glass. “Though, there is a kindness to you, no matter how fleeting or small. It appears, every now and then.”

“Does it?”

Daphne shook her head. She hated how handsome he was. “Why are you really here, William?”

He met her gaze with his own. “Same reason you let me stay. Rose is angry at both of us.”

“Yes, she is. And?”

“And we've both come to live in a world where somethin' is missing if Rose isn't there. You feel it, same as me. The silence. The void. And it aches.”

A heavy sadness tugged on Daphne's heart. “Yes. You're right. It may be the only thing we have in common, but life is infinitely more melancholy without Rose.”

William finished off the last of his whiskey, his eyes fixed on Daphne's face. “Y'know,” he mused, setting the empty glass aside, “you remind me of her. Posh way about you. Outspoken. Curly hair. Pretty. Just like her.”

“Well, we are cousins.”

“Yeah. You are cousins.”

The weight of his stare suddenly became too much, and Daphne stood from the table, her movements jerky and abrupt. “I'm being a bad host,” she said, taking his glass. “Let me get you another.”

As she rounded the table and returned to the kitchen counter, a dizziness caused her to sway. She grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself and noticed that the amount of wine left in the bottle was shamefully little. A few meek inches of crimson liquid remained. The rest was in her. Swirling around, making her impressionable, impairing her commonplace sound judgment.

With a shake of her head, Daphne reached for the bottle of whiskey. She was sober enough to pour without spilling. She was an adult and a professional, for pity's sake. Fermented grapes would not be her undoing.

The squeak of William's chair sounded in her ears. Her stomach tightened. Why was he getting up?

Without warning, he was behind her, his chest against her back. He reached around her and gently eased the bottle from her hand, setting it back down on the counter.

“I've had my fill of whiskey for one evening,” he murmured, his lips against the shell of her ear. “Want somethin' else now.”

Daphne inhaled a sharp breath. “Do you?” she asked, her voice coming out airy.

She felt his hands grip her waist, then travel down to her hips, his touch both a demand and a caress.

“I do,” he affirmed. He brushed her hair aside before pressing a ghost of a kiss to the back of her neck.

A ragged breath wracked through Daphne's body, causing her chest to shudder as it rose and fell. Her eyes drifted closed. What was she doing? This was wrong. Wrong. In every way. She barely knew William. But she did know his reputation. And to allow him to continue would be to hurt the person she loved most.

But even as her mind bombarded her with rational reasons why she should stop him, her back arched against his torso, and her body ached with desire. It had been so long. So very long since a man had touched her.

As William's strong hands continued to stroke her hips, she let her head fall to the side to allow him easier access to her neck. She felt his lips tease the delicate skin below her ear, and a shiver ran through her.

“You smell like her,” he whispered into the crook of her neck.

His arm encircled her waist, and he spun her around so that they were face to face. Pinned between the counter and his firm body, Daphne felt her insides flutter in amorous anticipation.

Their eyes met.

Then his mouth was on hers. Hungry, passionate, and demanding. She returned the kiss with like urgency, her lips moving against his with a fervor she didn't recognize. Without conscious consent, her arms wrapped themselves around his neck, pulling him closer still. His mouth tasted of her cheap whiskey, and the cheap wine that currently puppeteered her mind and body craved it.

William coaxed her lips apart with his tongue, and it was only due to the solid counter behind her that Daphne was able to remain upright. She gripped the back of his neck for both support and leverage.

Responding to her carnality, he deepened the kiss, his body pressed flush against hers. His hand migrated around to the small of her back.

Suddenly, an image of vivid clarity invaded her mind, sobering the heady wave of arousal. William and Rose, dancing at the benefit. His hand on the small of her back. The way he had looked at her. The way she had looked at him...

Daphne jerked her head to the side, ending the kiss. She placed both palms against William's chest and pushed, employing just enough force to separate their bodies. “Stop,” came her breathless command. “We have to stop.”

He looked surprised for a moment, but quickly recovered, stepping toward her again. “Why?” he asked. With a gentle touch, he lifted her chin until their eyes met. “Why do we hafta stop, love? Because you don't like it?” He smoothed the pad of his thumb softly across her lower lip. “Or because you do?”

Daphne swallowed. She couldn't answer that question. Not in earnest. If she did, they'd end up in her bed, drenched in sweat and regret come sunrise.

She placed her hand against his chest once more, as much to prevent him from advancing closer as to touch him one last time. “That's irrelevant, I fear,” she murmured, gaze locked on his beautiful, haunted eyes. “We have to stop because this would hurt Rose. And that's the last thing either of us wants.”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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