The blood drained from Rose's face.

Elton Willoughby? Had she actually heard the name Elton Willoughby come out of the mouth of William Mercer?

Stricken, she sank down onto the chair in front of the desk, short of breath like she'd been punched in the gut. How? How could William know about Elton Willoughby? No one knew! Rose had kept her illicit affair with her father's solicitor an iron-clad secret. She'd been discreet. She'd covered her tracks. She'd told no one and neither had her married paramour.

In aghast muteness, Rose stared at William across the desk. What could she say? What words, in statement or in question, could she possibly utter that wouldn't make this precarious situation worse?

“Still married, isn't he?” William remarked, returning to his seat. His cavalier expression and tone of voice were proof that he already knew the answer to his question, and then some. “And I'm guessin' Mrs. Willoughby would still be royally pissed that such a pretty young ingènue was shaggin' her husband behind her back. Probably run her mouth to everyone who would listen, if she found out.”

“How do you—?” Rose began. She struggled to swallow against her parched throat and tried again. “How do you know that name?”

William studied her from across the desk. “How do you think I know it?”

Rose pressed her palm to her forehead. Her thoughts were a muddled, fretful mess. “Elton isn't mentioned in my diary,” she mumbled toward her lap. “Not once. And I know your mystery source couldn't have discovered us. There's no proof. No clues…”

But what other explanation could there possibly be? Rose could think of none.

Well, one. But it was impossible.

“Does it matter?” William asked. “The point is, I know.”

“Yes, William,” Rose snapped. Her head jerked up so that she could meet his eye. “It most certainly matters. How do you know about Elton?”

He simply stared at her, maddeningly stoic, as if he were contemplating the weather rather than threatening to ruin her life.

As the seconds ticked by, the impossible scenario Rose had dismissed moments ago became more and more plausible. But it couldn't be. Could it?

“How?” she repeated, the word of query more breath than voice.

With a slight tilt of his head, William replied, “Ya really want the answer to that, love?”

“Yes,” she whispered, even as her heart screamed, No!

William's eyebrow arched by a fraction. “Think ya already know.”

Rose felt numb and faint. Her heartbeat echoed so loudly in her ears that the repetitive boom drowned out all other sound. At last she said, “...Daphne?”

A ghost of a nod from William confirmed her worst fears. “Aye.”

Rose's hands shook and she grabbed fistfuls of her skirt in an effort to steady them. “You're lying,” she challenged.

“Lying? Why would I bother?” William parried. “And if she didn't tell me, then how would I know?”

“Daphne would never voluntarily tell you such a secret,” Rose reasoned. A deep frown marred her features as she willed the statement to be true.

“Took a bit o' convincing,” William conceded with a shrug. “But told me, she did.”

Rose was beside herself, arrested by a myriad of emotions she'd hoped never to feel in congregation. Disbelief, shock, anger, heartbreak, and infidelity. There was more to this. There had to be. “Daphne isn't capable of anything so treacherous. Not in relation to me. She's my cousin and my dearest—”

“Your dearest friend,” William recited, cutting her off. “Aye, so you've said. Many times. Yet the fact remains, I know that ya willingly gave up your virginity to a married man over twice your age. I know you two carried on at his town house in London, in his bed, while his wife was in the country visiting relatives. I know he bought ya expensive gifts and promised to divorce his wife for ya, Rose. And I'm guessin' you'd prefer no one else know what I know.”

Rose tried to swallow, but discovered she was unable. “Daphne told you all of that?”

“She did. And about the unseemly drinkin' and dancin' ya got up to at the Blue Lagoon.”

A prickle came to Rose's eyes. How could this be? “No. No, she wouldn't. Daphne would never betray me.”

“That's the trouble with betrayal, love,” William said. “It never comes from our enemies.”

Rose choked on her breath. Such an ugly, ugly sentiment. So wretched. So fatalistic. And so true.

Truth was capable of great ugliness. And the truth was: Daphne had betrayed her.

Rose could scarce believe the words. They seemed jumbled and profane, galavanting around in her mind like a collection of symbols that didn't add up to a coherent idea.

She turned to William, her posture deflated. “So...you're sharing your newly acquired insider knowledge with me...to what end?” she asked. “I do what you want or you'll tell Mrs. Willoughby, and my parents, and whomsoever else you choose, about my past indiscretions? Is that the game?” Her voice broke. “We're right back where we started, then?”

“That's the game, aye,” he confirmed. “That has always been the game.”

Rose shook her head, her expression pained. “Have we not evolved at all? William?” she asked. “All we've been through. You sharing private information with me? Requesting my opinion? Taking me to your favorite retreat on your property? ...Our dance at the benefit? All of that, did it mean nothing?”

The callous stare she received in return for her queries caused Rose's heart to seize.

“Don't know what to tell ya, Rose,” he replied. “You're an employee. Only that. And a dance is just a dance.”

She pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. “I see,” she whispered. “So, it's to be an exchange, then?”

“Aye,” William said. “Feign a courtship with Jimmy, get more information out of him in regards to his father, and the sordid details of your first love affair go with me to the grave. Understand?”

She had no choice but to concede. This secret was far more damning than that of her work with the refugees or anything else William had been able to uncover to date. If her mother found out that she'd voluntarily parted with her precious virginity before ever having received a marriage proposal, well... She would be disowned. That, she already knew. Once again, William had managed to put her in checkmate before she'd even realized they were playing a game.

“I understand,” she surrendered.

“Good,” he said. “Glad ya see reason.”

Reason? Blackmail, more like. Again.

Rose's eyes stung with unshed tears as she looked up and met William's gaze with her own.

“I was nineteen,” Rose said, her words coming out mumbled due to her trembling lips. “I was nineteen years old, and an older man who had everything in the world to offer said that he loved me.” She shook her head in defeat. “Perhaps he meant it, perhaps he didn't, but I was young, and sheltered, and naïve. Nineteen, William. Can you honestly sit there across from me and tell me that you never did something foolish at nineteen? That you never loved someone you shouldn't have loved?”

A strange, costive expression passed over his features, but as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. “We're not talkin' about me, Rose.”

“No. Of course we're not.” She blinked and the welled tears finally fell. “We're talking about me. And I made a mistake, William. An error. Am I not allowed a bit of imperfection without you exploiting it for your own gain?”

The strange expression made another fleeting appearance. Then, gone. “I'm not punishin' you, Rose. This is what I need. For my businesses. For my livelihood. Simple as that.”

Rose didn't bother to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She didn't have the energy. She felt utterly spent. Exhausted. And abused.

“Then by all means,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “maintain a firm hold on your livelihood. There could never be anything more important, after all.”

William merely stared at her.

She stood, her knees shaky. To continue to occupy the same room as William Mercer suddenly seemed an impossible task.

“I'll do as you ask,” she relented. “I'll begin a relationship with Jimmy.” From her pocket, she pulled the list she'd compiled earlier that day during her telephone calls. “Here,” she said, tossing the piece of stationery on the desk in front of him. “This is a list of people who owe James Gallagher money. Since you're so keen on blackmail, I thought you'd find it useful.”

William picked up the paper, his eyebrows elevated. “Useful, yes.”

Eyes downcast, Rose made her way to the door, but at the threshold she paused. Against her better judgment, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Do you know,” she said, her voice very small, “I actually thought I was beginning to thaw that block of ice you call a heart. But that was never the case. Was it, William? No one will ever accomplish that feat, because you don't want to be thawed. You don't want to be bothered with trifles such as kindness, and compassion, and love.” A sob broke from her lips, but she bit it back and plunged on. “All you care about is power. Always power. That is a lonely, dreadful life, and you have brought it upon yourself. You will never be happy. And I pity you.”

Without awaiting a reply, she turned and fled the study as quickly as her trembling legs would carry her, all the while feeling like she was in some kind of trance that made her movements sluggish and her lungs unresponsive.

Once through the parlor and the foyer, Rose entered the main hall on her way toward the staircase. The sight of the telephone in her peripheral gave her pause.

Now was the worst possible time to call, what with her emotions running rampant. But she had to know. She had to hear the words.

Grabbing the receiver with a shaking hand, she rang Daphne's flat.

The line trilled once. Twice. Thrice.

“Hello?”

Daphne's voice. For a moment, Rose couldn't breathe or respond.

“Hello?” Daphne repeated. “Who is this, please?”

“It's Rose.”

The line went silent. Rose counted to five in her mind. She heard Daphne inhale a ragged breath.

“Rose. Hello. I've been meaning to ring you—”

“You told him about Elton?” Rose cut in, her voice forceful and strained.

“Rose, it's not like that. Please understand, I—”

“I didn't ask for an explanation! You told William Mercer about Elton Willoughby. Yes or no?”

“This is not what it seems, Rose,” Daphne began. There was a pleading quality to her voice as the words traveled through the receiver. “Mr. Mercer came to my flat, and—”

“Yes or no, Daphne!” Rose cried, interrupting her cousin again. “Did you tell him, yes or no?”

Several agonizing seconds of silence passed. Rose's ears ached in their attempt to hear something. Anything. Any sound.

At last, a single whispered word came through the handset: “Yes.”

Rose's throat tightened and her vision became blurred with renewed tears. “How could you?” she demanded. “How could you do this to me?”

She slammed the receiver back into the cradle. She had no desire to hear Daphne's answer. The wound was too fresh. It still bled.

Turning on her heel, Rose broke into a run. She couldn't get to her room fast enough. Her only place of reprieve within the walls of a heartless racketeer.

She rushed up the stairs and down the corridor, her tears falling freely by the time she passed through her door.

With a heavy heart, she sank down onto the foot of her bed and put her head in her hands, allowing herself to sob without restraint. Each day she spent at Warwick Hall brought her a little bit closer to destroying the person August had loved. That Rose, the good Rose, was slowly vanishing. Flecks of paint chipping off of a decrepit house. And William Mercer was the one who held the chisel.

How could she allow this to happen? She had lied to those she cared about, spied on a dangerous man, and now she was meant to whore herself to that dangerous man's son. What had she become?

These questions had no admissible answers, and the realization only made her sob harder, until the ache in her chest threatened to crush her.

Amidst her tears and torturous thoughts, Rose felt a soft touch to her forearm. Startled, she glanced up.

Teddy stood before her, his little brow furrowed and eyes wide with concern. His hand migrated down to hers and he gripped her index finger in his tiny fist.

“Miss Rose,” he said, his voice wavering. “Why are you crying?”

Rose attempted to take a deep breath to steady herself, but instead produced a sniffle. She quickly wiped at her damp cheeks to erase the evidence of her distress. Such a sight had to be unsettling for a child so young.

“Well, I... I suppose I'm sad,” she admitted, opting for the truth. “Your father and I had a disagreement, and it upset me.”

Teddy blinked at her. “My da' made you cry?”

“Oh, sweet boy…” Rose murmured, pained by his mournful expression. She held out her arms and Teddy climbed onto her lap. “Yes,” she told him. “Your father made me cry. But that wasn't his intention. He... Well, he is doing what he feels is right, and so am I. But we have differing opinions on what that is, which led to an argument. That happens between grown-ups sometimes.”

“Fights?”

“Yes. Fights.”

Teddy frowned. “I don't wanna be one.”

“One what, darling?”

“A grown-up.”

Rose stroked the little boy's plump cheek with the back of her finger. “You needn't worry about that for a long while, Teddy,” she said. “Though even when you're grown, I imagine you'll be very kind.”

Teddy tucked his head against Rose's shoulder and tightened his hold on her. “My da' makes me cry, too.”

“I know, darling,” Rose said, enveloping him in her arms. “But he doesn't mean to. He loves you very, very much. He just...doesn't know how to show it.”

“Will you go away now?”

“Go away?” she repeated, taken aback. “What do you mean, darling?”

“Because da' made you cry,” Teddy said. “Now you're sad. Will you go away?” He looked up at her and his lower lip quivered.

“No, sweet boy,” Rose reassured him with a gentle shake of her head. “No, I'm not going anywhere. I would never choose to leave you. I promise. Alright?”

“Alright,” Teddy said in a tiny voice. He shifted in her lap and wrapped his arms around her neck. “I love you best, Miss Rose.”

A new threat of tears caused a sting in Rose's eyes as Teddy's words rang in her ears. He loved her. No one had said that to her in a very long time. But she would not cry. Not again. Not in front of him.

“I love you, too, my sweet boy,” she whispered, rubbing soft circles against his back. “Now, it's quite late, and you should be in bed.”

She stood, lifting him with care.

“But I'm not sleepy,” he protested even as he yawned into her shoulder. “Will you tell me a story?”

“Of course I will, darling,” Rose said, making her way to the bedroom door with Teddy held snuggly in her arms. “I'll tell you a story about a cruel, tyrant king, and the kind, brave young knight who fought to save a maiden from heartbreak.”

“Is it a fairytale?” Teddy asked.

Rose felt a pang in her heart. “No, darling,” she said softly in his ear. “No, it's not.”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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