Liam watched in silence as Rose Sinclair stalked out of his study, leaving him alone with her curt parting words and floral scent.

Volatile lass. Too smart for her own good. Full of spirit and gumption. Just as Clementine had been.

Removing his hands from his pockets, Liam picked up the small framed photograph that lay face down on the surface of his desk. The photograph Miss Sinclair had asked after. He'd told her the truth. Yes, he had a sister. But no, the woman featured in the photo was not her. It was Clementine.

Clementine Rothschild. Clementine Mercer. His wife. Late wife. Dead for more than a year.

He smoothed his thumb across the tiny image of her face, a heavy ache in his chest.  She'd told him their marriage would be contested. She'd told him being with her would break his heart. And it had. But not in the way Clementine had predicted. Not because of the opposition of their very different families, but because of a bullet. A bullet meant for him.

The Rothschild family was peerage. Old money. They'd been horrified at the prospect of their darling only daughter marrying a known racketeer and gangster. Clementine's mother, especially, had done everything in her power to see the wedding derailed. But Clem had refused to be swayed. She'd been steadfast. Resolute. Devoted to Liam. A devotion that had ultimately cost Clementine her life.

Liam still grieved. He knew he always would.

And he knew that, just as Clementine's family had in the beginning, Rose Sinclair would undoubtedly cause him a wealth of fucking trouble.

Liam sighed and set the photograph down. When he'd first heard Miss Sinclair speaking in the foyer with Eleanor, he would have bet his fortune it had been Clementine's voice resonating through the house. That posh, sophisticated accent. That well-educated turn of phrase. He'd left his study to investigate, and seeing her in the flesh was just as shocking as hearing her speak. The blonde hair, arranged in tidy pin curls. A blue dress that managed to be both modest and stylish. That constant hint of a smile, even when she was serious or perturbed... She could've been Clementine's younger sister.

“Why is it always the pretty blonde ones that try to fuck up me life?” he asked the empty room.

Kneeling, he retrieved Miss Sinclair's handkerchief where it had fallen on the floor when she'd abruptly stood. With a nimble touch, he unfolded it, taking in the dainty lace edges and delicate embroidery. He held it close to his nose and inhaled. Yes, it smelled like her. Sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. Feminine soap and light floral perfume. Breathing in, he allowed his eyes to close for a few stolen seconds.

He tucked the handkerchief into the lapel pocket of his suit jacket. She would want it back.

The discarded teacup and saucer laid on the floor, further casualties of Miss Sinclair's outburst. Spilled tea dampened the area rug. Eleanor would not be pleased.

Liam snatched the tea things off the floor and tossed a cloth serviette down on the spot in question. He would deal with it properly later.

Walking around his desk, he collapsed onto the chair and stared up at the ceiling. He ran the palm of his hand across his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, expelling a loud sigh.

Could Miss Sinclair have been right? Could this man, Dmitri Kuragin, have been exactly who he'd advertised himself to be? Either way, Liam couldn't allow her to tell anyone about the circumstances surrounding Kuragin's death. If the authorities caught wind of what he'd done, his property would be crawling with coppers. For god knew how long. The ever-present blood on his hands was not meant to be confirmed public knowledge. He wouldn't let his family, his businesses, or himself suffer over some dead Russian.

Liam looked down at the signet ring on his finger, inspecting the word engraved across the face. Курагин. “Kuragin” in Russian. So Miss Sinclair had said. But that made no difference.

Slipping the ring off his finger, Liam locked it in the top drawer of his desk. It had been a mistake to put it on in the first place. She'd seen it. She knew he had it. There was no changing that.

Instead, he needed to focus on changing her mind. About him. About running her mouth to the authorities. About sticking her posh little nose where it didn't belong.

With a quick series of practiced movements, Liam lit a cigarette and took a slow, cathartic drag. Lips pursed, he blew the smoke at the ceiling.

A girl like Rose Sinclair could become a nasty thorn in his side. She had the inner fire to speak out and the educated vocabulary to get people to listen. And he had given her a reason to shout her damning proclamations from the rooftops.

From experience, Liam knew there were three effective methods for handling potential whistle-blowers. The Unholy Trinity: bribery, seduction, and blackmail.

He recalled from past encounters with Miss Sinclair's brand of Justice Crusader that people like her couldn't be bought, so bribery was off the table. And she'd left the distinct impression that she was far too prudent and straight-laced to be seduced.

“Blackmail it is,” Liam murmured to the empty room, exhaling smoke through his nostrils.

The most vexing option of the trinity. Not because he didn't enjoy holding leverage over the heads of those who opposed him, but because leverage required knowledge. Information. Facts. And apart from her name, appearance, and status as a volunteer with the downtrodden, Liam knew nothing about her.

However, he was well acquainted with someone who had the power to know everyone. Although the majority of his late wife's family had cut ties with her after their wedding, Clementine's uncle, Leopold Rothschild, had realized how useful and lucrative it would be to have an ally in William Mercer. After Clementine's death, he'd reached out to Liam with a potential ‘partnership opportunity’. And as Uncle Leo was a member of The House of Lords, Liam had accepted.

Snubbing out his cigarette, Liam reached for the telephone. He dialed a number from memory and listened to the shrill ringing on the other end.

The line picked up, and a professional female voice recited a greeting.

“William Mercer for Baronet Leopold Rothschild,” Liam said into the receiver.

The woman hummed into the mouthpiece, likely going over Lord Rothschild's diary. “Mercer... William Mercer…” she mused. “Hm. I'm not seeing your name listed among his scheduled appointments today, Mr. Mercer. Is he expecting your call?”

“No, he's not expectin' my call,” Liam answered, his impatience mounting. “Just get him on the line, eh? It's important. I'll wait.”

The seconds ticked by, agonizingly slow. Liam drummed his fingers on the desktop, his gaze on the small framed portrait of Clementine.

At last, the slow, rumbling drawl of Baronet Rothschild greeted his ear. “Mr. Mercer,” the stoic aristocrat said. “This is most irregular. Need I remind you that calls between us should be limited to emergencies?”

“Yeah, I know that, don't I?” Liam retorted into the receiver. “This is within the realm of emergent, Mr. Rothschild. I need a favor. Some information.”

“Some ‘information,’ you say,” the gravelly voice on the other end repeated. “Nothing is free, Mr. Mercer. Information least of all.”

“Yeah, well, ya still haven't compensated me for the last bit o' sordid business I dealt with for your office, now have ya? So, consider this me recompense.”

Liam paused, allowing the Baronet time to mull that over.

“Mm. Mm, yes,” Lord Rothschild said at last. “That has the ring of fairness to it. Very well. What information do you require?”

“Appreciated, Mr. Rothschild,” Liam said. He cleared his throat. “So, listen. A girl came to me house just now, and she may try to cause me some trouble. Young, maybe twenty-three or so. Pretty little thing. Blonde. Educated. By the way she spoke and carried herself, gotta be a toff. Maybe even aristocracy. Said her name was Rose Sinclair.”

“Sinclair?” Lord Rothschild repeated. “Sounds vaguely familiar.”

“‘Sinclair,’ that's right,” Liam confirmed. “I need t'know everythin' you can uncover about her. Gotta nip this problem in the bud before it takes root.”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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