The following day, Rose arrived at Warwick Hall. She was uncertain what she had expected, but the beautifully classic façade of red brick, picture windows, and pointed turrets caused her breath to catch. Though no Thornewood Park, the Mercer residence was quite spectacular in its own right, boasting a more modern, streamlined appearance, while still managing to exude an atmosphere of old money prestige.

The mid-May afternoon was pleasant and warm as Rose glided up the wide front walk and rang the bell at the massive wooden door. As the seconds passed, a repugnant odor wafted past her nose on the breeze, but she waved a hand to dispel it and continued to wait.

It was bad manners to visit the private residence of a stranger without an invitation, but her curiosity over Dmitri trumped her etiquette, and here she was. Her mother would be aghast by her lack of decorum, which made Rose all the more eager to stay.

The front door opened and a thin, middle-aged woman with dark hair greeted her. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, madam,” Rose said. She took in the woman's pristinely pressed black dress and gave her a smile. “Are you the lady of the house?”

The woman let out a polite laugh. “‘Madam’?” she repeated. “My goodness! You're much too kind. No, no ‘lady’ of anything, I fear. I'm the housekeeper. Eleanor. Can I help you, Miss..?”

“Rose Sinclair,” Rose supplied. “I'm so sorry for the unannounced disturbance, Eleanor, but a friend of mine gained employment here a couple weeks ago, and he promised to tell me how he was getting on. However, I haven't heard from him. Not a word. I was hoping to...have a chat with him, I suppose.”

Rose knew the whole ordeal must sound quite silly to a third party, and she offered the housekeeper a sheepish smile.

“I see,” Eleanor said. “And his name?”

“Dmitri Kuragin,” Rose replied.

“Ah! The Russian gardener.”

“Yes,” Rose said, quite pleased at the instant recognition. This woman was far more astute than her parents' housekeeper at Thornewood Park. “Just so. Have you seen him?”

“Oh, I'm afraid I have little to do with the grounds staff,” Eleanor told her. “I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. But that's hardly unusual. I'd be happy to check with our employer. Why don't you come in, Miss Sinclair?”

“That's very kind. Thank you.”

Dipping her head in gratitude, Rose crossed the threshold into the expansive foyer. She noted the spacious design and vaulted ceiling with a sense of awe. Daphne's flat, welcoming as it was, couldn't hold a candle to this.

Eleanor was halfway through offering to take Rose's lightweight coat when a man's voice cut in:

“Can I help you?”

Startled, both Rose and Eleanor whirled around.

Standing ten feet from them was a tall man of commanding presence. He sported a shock of dark hair cut in a style Rose had seen on many men in the area. The icy blue of his eyes seemed in direct contrast with the enviable long lashes that framed them. He wore an impeccable suit of deep blue that had clearly been tailored specifically for him by a skilled professional.

“Oh! Mr. Mercer!” Eleanor exclaimed, a hand over her heart. “I was just about to call on you, sir. This is Miss Rose—”

“Sinclair,” Mr. Mercer finished. He lowered his hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked Rose up and down. “Aye. I heard her.”

The skin of Rose's cheeks burned a bit under the weight of his stoic appraisal, and she momentarily wondered how long he'd been listening. Likely since Eleanor answered the door. But as this was his house, that was his prerogative. She dipped in a brief curtsy. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mercer.”

“Likewise,” came the monotone reply.

“Miss Sinclair was hoping to speak to one of your gardeners, sir,” Eleanor continued. “A new hire. Mister—”

“Dmitri Kuragin. Yes. I heard,” Mr. Mercer repeated.

“Dmitri, that's correct,” Rose said with a polite nod of her head. “He's a friend. I'm the one who found the advertisement in the Daily Post that led to him applying for a position here. I've been curious as to how he has settled in. Do you know where he is at present? I won't keep him but a moment, I promise.”

Mr. Mercer stared at her in silence for several seconds, his expression unreadable. Beneath his pinstriped suit jacket, his shoulders were squared and powerful, and he bobbed them in a shrug. His posture somehow managed to be both militant and lackadaisical at once, a contrast Rose found most curious.

“I believe he took off,” Mr. Mercer said. “Told me he no longer wanted to work for me.”

His voice was smooth, low, and sported the conspicuous Manchester accent as he spoke. No hint of emotion or urgency. Rose found she was caught between being lulled to sleep and suspicion.

“Is that right?” Eleanor asked softly. She rubbed her chin and stared at the floor in pensive silence.

Her gaze on Mr. Mercer, Rose blinked in confusion. “You…‘believe’ he took off?” she asked.

Without awaiting permission, she advanced several steps further into the foyer until she stood directly in front of the master of the house. In her peripheral, Rose could see Eleanor gape at her bold behavior, scandalized.

“That can't be,” Rose differed. She hesitated, trying to make heads or tails of what she'd just heard. She knew Dmitri. He would never do what Mr. Mercer had said he'd done. “It makes no sense. He was ecstatic to be given this job. And furthermore, he has nowhere else to go.”

Mr. Mercer shrugged again. “I don't pretend to know his mind or his reasons,” he said. “I only know that ya won't find him here.”

“So, you mean to tell me,” Rose began, each word spoken slowly and pointedly, “that he simply expressed his lack of desire to continue in your employ, and left without notice or a written reference to give a future employer?”

Mr. Mercer stared at her, expressionless, and said nothing.

Rose put her hands on her hips. “With all due respect, Mr. Mercer, I find that quite hard to believe. Dmitri wouldn't have made such a rash decision without some sort of dire catalyst. Is there someone else herein who might—”

She cut herself off mid-question. There was a pungent, horrid odor streaming in through the open door that reminded her of coal smoke and refuse. It was the same stench she had smelled after ringing the bell, but stronger, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. “My goodness! Is there a fire outside?”

“A brush fire, yes,” Mr. Mercer confirmed, his expression unchanged. “In the side yard. Branches, overgrown foliage, grass clippin's, that sort o' thing.”

“That doesn't smell like burning brush to me,” Rose remarked. Taking her handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, she held it to her face.

“It is rather oppressive,” Eleanor concurred, crossing the foyer and shutting the door against the offending odor.

“It's possible some other materials got thrown on the pile,” Mr. Mercer said. “We have horses here, which means manure. Cars, so oil and petrol. All manner of unpleasant smellin' things. Can't run an estate without some decay.”

“As you say,” Rose relented from behind her handkerchief.

Her host continued to stare at her, seeming unaffected by the stench. “Care for a drink?”

The question took Rose aback. “A...drink?” What had a drink to do with anything?

“A sound idea, sir,” Eleanor agreed. She covered her nose as subtly as she could and nodded to her employer. “The foyer is no place for polite conversation. Why don't you show Miss Sinclair to your study? Or the parlor? I have the water on for tea. I'll bring it by presently.”

With her handkerchief still pressed over her nose, Rose's gaze migrated from Eleanor to Mr. Mercer. A conversation was certainly required, given the circumstances. She had no intention of leaving this house without further information on Dmitri. He trusted her. He was fond of her. There was simply no way he would have ‘taken off’ without saying something. Goodbye, at least.

“I would like that,” Rose said. She fixed Mr. Mercer with a tight smile. “Tea sounds lovely. And I have more questions.”

Mr. Mercer tilted his head to the side and exhaled. “What you will. Come with me, Miss Sinclair.” He turned and beckoned her to follow.

“Where shall I bring the tea, sir?” Eleanor asked.

“My study, Eleanor,” he called over his shoulder.

Rose trotted after him, unsure what to make of the whole exchange. This visit, which she had believed would be quite straightforward, was becoming more complicated by the moment.

All those complications momentarily vanished from Rose's mind, however, as Mr. Mercer led her through a spacious parlor and into an adjoining room. Book shelves climbed three of the four walls up to the lofty ceiling, each laden with hefty hardcover volumes. Many appeared to be quite antiquated, by the looks of their bindings, and Rose felt the urge to begin grabbing them from their shelves in an effort to find familiar titles and authors.

She spun in a full circle, enchanted, taking in the large mahogany editor's desk that sat before a vast picture window, the restored settee situated next to an end table complete with whiskey decanter and matching glasses, and the opulent light fixture that hung from the elevated ceiling above them.

“What a handsome study,” Rose declared, turning to her host. “Were this my home, this would be my absolute favorite room. Do you like books? I love them.”

Mr. Mercer glanced up at the collection of volumes as if he'd only just realized they were there. “I don't have much time for reading, I'm afraid,” he replied.

“No, I'm sure you're much too busy,” Rose said. Some of the magic drained from the room as a result of his disinterest. “Speaking thusly, please pardon my impromptu visit today.”

“That's alright,” Mr. Mercer said.

Rose wondered if it was. She couldn't tell by his tone.

Unable to help herself, she continued to assess the room. On the wall opposite the door hung a photograph featuring three men adorned in military uniforms. Curious, Rose approached the framed black and white portrait to get a better look. The man posed in the center of the trinity was Mr. Mercer — younger, by appearances, but no less daunting with his erect posture and steely eyes. Upon closer inspection, Rose noted that the two men who flanked him had suspiciously similar features, though one was handsome in a boyish manner, while the other's visage looked as though he'd gotten into fisticuffs on frequent occasion.

“You were in the military?” Rose asked, turning back to her host. “During the war?”

“Aye,” Mr. Mercer confirmed, his cold gaze traveling past her to the photograph on the wall. “I was. As were me younger brothers. Stationed in France, all three of us.”

Rose nodded, pensive. She'd heard a great many tales of the war, none of them pleasant. By both spoken and written account, France was where some of the most brutal fighting had taken place. “It was trying and dangerous, I imagine,” she offered, her voice soft with reverence. “But all of you returned home to England? Unharmed?”

“We're breathin', anyway,” Mr. Mercer said, his tone flat. His shoulder bounced in a minute shrug and he stepped closer to her. “But, aye. All three of us.” He raised a hand and pointed to the boyish handsome soldier. “That's Jackson, there, to me left. The youngest of us. To me right is Ransom, older than Jackson, younger than me.”

“Ransom?” Rose echoed, bemused. “Is that really his name?”

Mr. Mercer sniffed a little sound of amusement. “Don't go askin' him that to his face. Unless ya wanna strap on the gloves and box a couple rounds.”

Rose glanced back at the photo, noting that Ransom Mercer's nose looked crooked from a past breakage. “Ah. So he's a boxer, is he?”

“Hobby more than profession,” Mr. Mercer affirmed. “But aye. He could fell the biggest of 'em. Never the strongest, but the most tenacious. Vicious. Relentless. Wouldn’t wanna piss him off, that's for damn sure. But the same thing could be said for any member of the Mercer family.”

Rose didn't doubt it. Glancing over her shoulder at her host's frigid expression, she wondered if that was his subtle way of telling her not to be so nosy. “I'm sure,” she said.

Mr. Mercer gave her a curt nod and motioned to one of the wooden chairs that faced the desk. “Have a seat, Miss Sinclair.”

Rose obeyed. She wasn't in the habit of taking orders from strange men, but perhaps if she played nice he would actually converse with her about Dmitri. She perched on the very edge of the chair, her back rigid, and laid her handkerchief across her lap. Something was amiss in this house, and she would suss it out, with or without Mr. Mercer's conscious cooperation.

There was a gentle knock on the open door, and Eleanor entered the study carrying a silver tray heavy with tea settings. She placed it on the end table next to the decanter and squared the edges. “Shall I serve your guest, Mr. Mercer?”

“No, Eleanor, that'll be all,” he replied with a flippant gesture of dismissal.

The housekeeper dipped her head and bustled from the room, closing the heavy door behind her.

“Right,” Mr. Mercer said, turning his attention back to Rose. “D'ya fancy tea? Or whiskey?” He indicated the decanter. “I'm not much for tea me'self, but it is about that time o' day, isn't it?”

Upon his inquiry, Rose studied her host. His eyes were very intense, even when appearing aloof and disinterested, as he did now. He was handsome and emanated intelligence. A disarming combination.

“If both are offered to me, it seems a shame to turn either down,” Rose answered. “I spent a summer in the States where liquor is illegal, and it taught me that I quite enjoy a bit of whiskey in my tea.”

She noted how his eyebrows elevated ever so slightly. She'd managed to surprise him. Good.

“Woman after me own heart,” he murmured. Removing the glass stopper from the decanter, he poured a little whiskey into her teacup, then set it on a saucer and handed it to Rose.

After pouring a generous glass of whiskey — sans tea — for himself, he rounded the desk, glass in hand, and sat down across from her.

“So, Miss Sinclair. You have questions.”

He raised the glass to his lips and took a long swig of the amber liquid, his gaze never leaving her face.

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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