Much against the warnings of Mr. Cavendish, and her own better judgment, Rose marched across the street and entered Gallagher Automotive Factory via the main entrance. She received strange looks of curiosity from countless men in coveralls as she made her way to the foreman's desk.

“Pardon the intrusion, sir,” Rose said to the harried employee.

He glanced up at her from his clipboard, startled. “Yes? Can I help you, Miss?”

“I hope so,” Rose answered. “I heard there was a job opening herein. I'd like to apply.”

The foreman openly gawked at Rose's sophisticated attire and prim posture. “No job for a lady like you, Miss. Hard labor, this is. Not suited for ya.”

Rose gave him a patient smile. “It is actually the secretarial position after which I'm inquiring,” she said. “For Mr. Gallagher?”

“Ah!” the foreman exclaimed. “Ya saw the advert in the paper, did ya?”

“Just so,” she fibbed.

“Brilliant, that,” he declared. “Mr. Gallagher will be pleased to have a serious candidate. Follow me. I'll introduce ya.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you so much,” Rose said.

She smiled to herself as she followed the foreman up a narrow flight of metal stairs toward a row of second story offices. All too easy. Perhaps she was, as William had said before the benefit, cunning.

【♖】

“Gotta keep me employees in line.”

The verbalized motive behind Mr. Mercer's visit stunned Daphne. Had he lost his mind?

“So, you're sussing out dirt on Rose? Coming from you, that's almost laughable,” she declared. “If there were dirt, you would have found it. You've done your research, and you surveil her. Don't deny it. I know you were listening in on our telephone conversation the night she invited me to the benefit. I heard you on the line.”

Her unwanted guest merely shrugged. “My house, my telephone, my employee. If I want to listen in, I'm at liberty to do so.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Mr. Mercer, Rose is my cousin. The dearest to me of the whole throng. If her past contained ‘dirt’ of any kind — and I'm not saying it does — I would protect it, not share it with vultures like you.”

Mr. Mercer appeared unfazed. “Vulture, am I? Hm. Speaking of feathered creatures, a little birdie tells me you wanna be a senior editor at the Manchester Daily Post,” he said offhand.

“Oh?” Daphne asked, her expression wry. A leading change of topic. Lovely. “A little birdie named Rose?”

“That's the one. Aye,” he replied, pointing at her like she was an especially bright toddler. “I told ya: she speaks of you often. Now, I know your employer very well, Miss Lancaster. Very well. We have an understanding, he and I. One telephone call from me, and you will be a senior editor. Just like that. Likewise, one slightly different call from me, and you'll be sacked.”

At his crass words, her heart began to pound in her chest. It was just like a crooked businessman to toss his power and tawdry influence around to get what he wanted. Well, she would have none of that.

“So, you think, because you know some inconsequential facts about me, that you can blackmail me into giving you ‘dirt’ on Rose?” Daphne scoffed. “Really, Mr. Mercer, I'm disappointed. I know some facts about you, as well, and they're quite a bit more incriminating.”

Mr. Mercer smirked and shook his head. “And what is it ya think y'know?”

Daphne's smile turned snide. “Rose speaks of you often, too. As do many others. So many people, all atwitter with curiosity as to your goings-on. Your dealings. What you do behind closed doors. All so intriguing. What is it that you do, Mr. Mercer?”

“Oh, I do all manners of things,” he supplied without missing a beat. “Some good. Some not so good... But you already know that.”

“Yes. I know.” She paused, recalling with smug satisfaction a few of the tidbits she'd learned from Sid Dawkins in combination with a little slip of the tongue made by Luisa Mercer at the benefit. “I also know that you're up in arms because Gallagher Automotive Factory is taking your business and stealing your workers with promises of better wages. Seems a bit hypocritical, don't you think? As that's a con you've been running yourself for quite some time now. Isn't it? Varying pay rates to lure in more workers between different factories.”

“Different factories, different rates,” he said with a shrug.

“Yes,” Daphne drawled. “But unbeknownst to those workers, all the factories are owned and operated by you. Not in your own name, of course. You're much too clever for that. But they're your businesses nonetheless. The most well-known of the lot is Bridgewater Car and Van Factory, which you own under the name Deansgate Company Limited. But it's in direct competition with your Trafford Factory, which is operated under the title Warwick Hall Holdings. ‘Warwick Hall’ is also the name of your manor, isn't that right, Mr. Mercer?”

At this point, a smirk that appeared both culpable and cheeky formed on Mr. Mercer's lips, and he began nodding along with each item Daphne listed.

“Let's see...then there's the Copthorne Machine Tools Factory under the company name Tifton Engineering,” she continued, quite enjoying herself. “Castlefield Pressings and Forgings, under Riverside. And who could forget Bolts Warehousing by the canal, under the name Mercer Industries? Not to mention, you own half of Ginovesi Textiles, half of Holcroft Distillery, four pubs including the Broken Crown, nearly every shop on Deansgate, three gambling dens, a fleet of shipping boats and the North Bay dockyard… Oh! And sixty-five streets of back-to-back housing. What an empire! Moreover, a perfect formula for keeping wages low all over the city. Workers won't receive a raise, unless they go to Gallagher.”

Mr. Mercer chuckled under his breath. “Very good, Miss Lancaster. You'll never be able to prove any o' it, but that's very good.”

“Thank you,” she said, her eyebrows bobbing up and down. “I am a journalist, after all. We tend to get the scoop.”

“Ya got the scoop on my businesses, alright,” he relented. Picking up his cup, he polished off the last of his coffee, then set the cup aside. “I wonder... In all your research, did ya happen to come across the fact that one of the streets of housing I own is this one?”

Daphne felt her brow furrow slightly. “Not specifically,” she admitted. “But the possibility had occurred to me.”

“Right. Well, it is,” Mr. Mercer stated. “I own every dwelling on this street. Including this building of flats. And the next. And the next. Ya like livin' here, Miss Lancaster? Livin' here unbothered, despite the fact that every man in this town would give his eye teeth to fuck a peerage girl? Supply me with some information on Rose, and your little ruse of bein' a commoner can continue, unabated and unharassed.”

Daphne's stomach clenched. As she struggled to keep her expression impassive, her heart rate climbed and her palms became clammy. That was no empty threat. This battle of intelligence, which had seemed so in-hand just moments ago, was now taking a bleak turn.

She'd been suspicious for some time that the Mercer family had a direct connection to her place of employment. Perhaps even owned it. However, the Post made such a miniscule profit that she'd thought she was safe from their manipulation.

The news that her flat was one of many in a building owned by the Mercers was worse. Far worse.

Rose was not the only one with a reputation that could be ruined by a single undesirable rumor. If the men of Manchester knew she was aristocracy, Daphne would never be safe again. She wanted to protect Rose. She loved her cousin more than anyone else in the world. But she must also protect herself.

Under Mr. Mercer's scrutiny, Daphne began to fidget. She felt her confidence drain away. “Rose has been squeaky clean for years,” she murmured, looking down at her hands. “I don't know what you expect to learn.”

Mr. Mercer gave a little quirk of his head and his eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “Then tell me about her before she was ‘squeaky clean’,” he instructed. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled a small leather notebook. “Tell me about this girl.” Leafing through the pages, he found the one he desired and began to read aloud: “‘Before I met August, my taste in men was a bit questionable. Spontaneous. If I allow myself to be governed by desire rather than reason, I could be besotted with Mr. Mercer before the week is out. He is exactly the kind of man my nineteen-year-old self would have fallen for: handsome features, boundless charisma, dangerous and forbidden’.”

Daphne's head snapped aslope and her spine became rigid. “Is that..?”

“A passage from Rose's diary? Aye. Verbatim,” Mr. Mercer confirmed. With a satisfied smirk, he snapped the notebook shut and returned it to his pocket. “I want to hear more about that Rose.”

Her throat dry and stomach churning, Daphne attempted to keep her composure. “Sounds to me like you already have all the information you could possibly need.”

“I want specifics.”

“What makes you think I have them?” She winced at the unsteady quality of her voice.

Mr. Mercer expelled an impatient sigh. “Do I gotta fuck it outta ya?”

Daphne tossed her head and glowered at him. “I cannot believe you would dare say such a thing to me in my own flat.”

“You mean my flat,” Mr. Mercer corrected her. “It belongs to me. Remember? You're on my property, Miss Lancaster. And you could easily be evicted. So, it's a simple choice. I'm proposing a trade. Your job, your home, and your safety for information on Rose.”

“This isn't a real choice, Mr. Mercer.”

“Sure it is,” he countered. “The difference between the likes of you and everyone else in Manchester is that if you end up homeless and jobless, you can just run back to your family's estate in the hills, to your mummy who's the Countess of some-such-fucking-shire, and marry an Earl before your next birthday. You are privileged. Your kind always has a choice.”

Nausea gripped Daphne's insides, but she forced herself to retort. “And you're not privileged, Mr. Mercer? At this point? Or do you consider yourself exempt from such a label because you were born into poverty?” Her terse words were a last ditch effort to control the spiraling conversation. She knew it, and she could tell by his expression that he knew it. Pitiful, yet her gathered knowledge was her only weapon. “You were born a pauper in a shanty row of terraced housing. Now you're the wealthiest, most powerful man in Manchester. I see much privilege in your tale of ascension.”

Mr. Mercer saddled her with a look that chilled her very heart.

“I'm not a traitor to the workin' class, Miss Lancaster,” he negated. “I'm just an extreme example of what a driven, ambitious man can achieve. Now, I'm bein' very generous. But this offer won't last long. When I go out that door, it goes with me. I'm askin' for a couple of little secrets in exchange for you to keep the life ya want. Small price to pay, if ya ask me. So? What's it to be, love? Give me somethin'.”

Daphne held her breath until she felt faint. What could she do? Mr. Mercer meant business. He was showing restraint for now, but that wouldn't last. And she knew from countless sources that he carried a revolver on his person. She gulped, realizing the weapon was probably beneath his suit jacket at that very moment. In her kitchen. In her flat. Which she could lose if he deemed it so.

Forgive me, Rose, she silently pleaded.

Defeated, she swallowed, her throat raw. “Well,” she said slowly, unable to meet his eye. “Before August, Rose used to frequent an underground jazz club in London. Called the Blue Lagoon. And, as it happened...she didn't go there alone. There was a man. A married man…”

【♖】

Mr. Gallagher, it seemed, was incapable of smiling.

Rose wasn't certain what she'd expected to find upon meeting the infamous James Gallagher face to face, but this thin, silent, serpentine gentleman was not it. Rather than stare, or appraise, or even ogle, he leered at her from behind his large mahogany desk. However, his face was the sort which suggested to Rose that he did not leer to be malicious or intimidating, but simply because he could not help it. Perhaps years of making enemies and then having to thwart them had molded his expression into one of perpetual disdain. It certainly made sense.

His features were sharp, his eyes shrewd, his blonde hair graying, and he wore a permanent sour frown as he grilled Rose about her qualifications.

“You've done secretarial work before?” he questioned in his gruff voice.

“I have,” Rose assured him. “I was quite proficient at it, if I may be so bold.”

“And you have references?” 

“I do,” she confirmed. “Although, I'm embarrassed to say that I did not think I'd be fortunate enough to be given an interview today, therefore they are not with me. I would be happy to bring them by first thing tomorrow morning, if that would be acceptable.”

Mr. Gallagher scrutinized her. “Hmmm. That's fine. Nine o'clock sharp. Be here with your references. I'll look them over then. If everything's in order, the job is yours.”

“Really?” Rose squealed. She was genuinely delighted. She'd gotten a job on nothing but her manners — quite impressive! Even if it was all a ruse. “I mean, thank you, sir. I'll be here.”

Mr. Gallagher leaned back in his chair, his expression softening by a fraction. “You have a nice way of speaking, Miss Rose...er…”

“Appelbaum. Rose Appelbaum,” she supplied with an accommodating smile. In the interest of avoiding another mishap with her surname — as William had been able to track down the Sinclair family far too easily — Rose had provided Mr. Gallagher with what would have been her married name. Not a lie, per se, just not the whole truth.

“Miss Appelbaum, yes,” he said, scratching his cheek. “A nice way of speaking. Very London. Very chic. That's what I've been lookin' for in a secretary, as I'll need her to make calls for me. Looks prestigious, y'know, to have a well-spoken, educated secretary.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Rose declared. “Very wise, sir.”

Mr. Gallagher grimaced, but Rose suspected it was probably supposed to be a smile. “Well, I didn't get where I am today actin' a bloody fool,” he stated.

“No, of course not,” Rose agreed with an enthusiastic nod. She then noticed a framed photograph on his desk. It featured a stone-faced James Gallagher posed next to a skeletal, grim-looking woman of roughly the same age. A younger man, whose very expression and posture oozed arrogance, was seated in a chair in front of them. “Handsome group,” she lied, motioning to the photograph. “Is that your family?”

“Aye,” Mr. Gallagher confirmed. “My wife, Prudence, and my son, James Gallagher II. Insists on bein' called ‘Jimmy,’ the dim lad. He's about your age. Someday, all this will be his.”

“He must admire you so much,” Rose said in an attempt to be diplomatic. In truth, the rodent-esque young man in the photograph looked like he only admired himself. “You've built such an empire for him.”

“You've no idea, lass,” Mr. Gallagher said. “No idea the extent of my reach.”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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