Heads turned when Kitty strode through the ballroom doors. Fashionably late, of course. The rich emerald green of her satin gown caught the light at all the most attractive angles as she walked. A tuxedo-clad man old enough to be her father — and almost certainly a past client, by the look of him — nearly missed his mouth with his hors d'oeuvre, so bewitched was his gawk.

Kitty graced him with a knowing smile, but kept walking. There was only one man she desired to see react like that tonight.

When she spotted Liam, he was in the midst of an intense conversation with some red-headed tart. By his close proximity and the incline of his head, he was either trying to intimidate her or coax her into bed. Kitty's gut twisted with envy at the thought of the latter, but after a few more tension-filled seconds, the tart walked away. Her parting with Liam was cordial but chilly.

Good. So, she was no one. Despite her impressive rack.

Kitty's footsteps were muted into silence by the music from the small orchestra as she approached Liam from behind. Resisting the urge to touch him, she paused immediately to his right. “'Evening, Liam,” she murmured.

He gave her a brief sidelong glance, his focus on the horde of attendees. “Kitty,” he said.

“Brilliant turn out,” she remarked. “And I doubt this'll be the end of it. The night's still young. Plenty of time for more guests to arrive.” She leaned in closer and lowered her volume to a purr. “Plenty of time for all manner of happenings.”

“Aye,” Liam said in monotone.

Kitty's eyebrow twitched at his disinterest. What did she need to do to get his attention? Cartwheels? In the nude?

This is an important night, and he's on edge thanks to James Gallagher, she silently chided herself. Cut him a bit o' slack.

“So…” she said, a subtle amount of suggestion coating her words. “What d'ya think?”

“What do I think?” Liam repeated. He still had not looked at her.

“Aye. What d'ya think?”

“'Bout what?”

Kitty let out a little sigh. “The dress, Liam. My dress? O'course, formin' an opinion will require ya to actually look at it.”

She swished the floor-length skirt and pivoted this way and that, striking a pose she felt was quite vogue.

With a tilt of his chin, Liam gave her an impassive glimpse, then his eyes returned to the ballroom at large. “Ya look nice, Kitty. Green's your color.”

Nice? Kitty frowned. She'd hoped for something far more provocative than ‘nice.’ But then again, it wasn’t like Liam to shower her — or anyone else — with compliments. Especially in public. Especially at a stuffy affair like this.

“Saw the coat room on my way in,” Kitty remarked conversationally. “Bigger than I expected. But could use a good christening, if ya ask me.”

She reached out to loop her arm through his, but he took hold of her wrist and returned her arm to her side. Surprised by this definitive decline, she followed the line of his gaze to see what had him so damn distracted from her.

Of course. It was Rose. Rose Sinclair, Liam's ‘errand girl,’ looking every inch the princess in a crimson and gold gown that likely cost five times what Kitty's had.

“Liam…” Abashed, Kitty groped for his arm again, but he pulled away.

“Not now, Kitty,” Liam murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “The guests are still sober and there's solicitin' for donations to be done. Maybe later, eh?”

Before Kitty could find a single word with which to respond, Liam walked away, leaving her at the edge of the dance floor, feeling very alone, and very green.

【♖】

After a hasty escape from Kitty, Liam strode across the ballroom, casting a polite, practiced smile at each guest who caught his eye. As cathartic as a romp in the coat room would be, he couldn't afford to get distracted tonight.

He snatched a glass of champagne from a server's tray and took a gluttonous gulp. What he craved was a cigarette, but this wasn't the ideal time. He knew from past experience that the wealthy were more inclined to approach him when he wasn't blowing smoke — in the literal sense, at any rate.

No sooner had he set the empty glass down on a nearby table, then an arm snaked through the crook of his elbow, demanding his attention.

“Here you are,” purred a familiar high-pitched, feminine voice.

Liam sighed and tried not to grimace. “Hello, Tuppence,” he said to the girl who now held him fast.

“I've hardly had the chance to exchange a word with you all night,” Tuppence complained in a tone of voice he assumed she thought was seductive. It wasn't. Adopting a little pout, she took her time sipping from a champagne coupe. “Where have you been hiding?”

With as much subtlety as he could manage, Liam pulled his arm free of his sister-in-law's grasp and turned to face her head on. “I'm hosting this benefit, Tuppence. Y'know that. Been makin' the rounds.”

Tuppence's eyes carried a glassy sheen and she swayed on her feet. The bubbly liquid in her glass made a precarious attempt to escape its confines. She was already drunk. Brilliant.

“My goodness, you cut a handsome figure in that set of tails,” she drawled, her gaze roaming over him from his face to his shoes in a way that was far from sisterly. “You were born to wear a tuxedo, Liam.”

Liam graced her with a tight nod, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Kind o' ya to say.”

Tuppence tip-toed her fingers up the length of his arm. “Although...I imagine you look even more fetching in nothing at all.”

And there it was. “Tuppence…” Liam warned.

Her fingers curled around his bowtie, and she gave it a playful tug. “Won't you give me just a peek? It can be our little secret.”

Grabbing her hand, he pulled Tuppence in close and saddled her with an icy stare. “You're married to my brother, Tuppence. Ya can't be sayin' things like that to me.”

Tuppence blinked at him. Then blinked again. “At night, in bed, when Jackson's inside me, I close my eyes and pretend it's you,” she stated, not a scrap of shame in her words. “What do you think about that?”

Inhaling a sharp breath, Liam's nostrils flared in an attempt to keep his temper. What the fuck was it with women asking him what he thought tonight? The implications behind the questions were never innocuous.

Liam squeezed Tuppence's hand harder, until he elicited a little squeak of protest from her. “What do I think?” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I think that you've had enough booze for one evening.” Releasing her, he snatched the champagne coupe from her other hand and downed the remaining liquid in one gulp. He pointedly set the glass aside, then leaned in and whispered directly in her ear, “I also think you couldn't handle bein' fucked by me, love. Not for a second. I'd leave ya broken. Remember that the next time ya feel like offerin' yo'self up to your husband's brother, eh?”

With a parting look of derision, Liam turned on his heel and marched away. It'd be damaging for appearances if any of the guests had seen that exchange, but Tuppence needed to be put in her place. If she was that forward after a few glasses of champagne, what would she be saying by the end of the night? Why couldn't she just behave? Like Rose?

Employing much effort, Liam resurrected his expression of professionalism and returned his attention to the guests, offering polite smiles, nods, and greetings.

Rose caught his eye as he maneuvered through the crowd. She was still conversing with Mr. Pembrook, only now three other pompous gents wearing expensive tuxedos had gathered around the pair. Mates of Pembrook's, and all members of a pretentious little gentlemen's club the likes of which Liam would never join. Nothing but smooching each other's backsides and bouts of poorly-disguised infidelity involving each other's wives. Tuppence would relish it.

Pembrook and his pals broke into riotous laughter, presumably at something Rose had said. They loved her. She was made for this.

Liam felt himself smile.

An abrupt clap on his back forced the smile to fall from his lips.

Jackson was suddenly at his side. “Will!” he exclaimed. “Here ya are!” He slung his arm around Liam's shoulders, but Liam immediately shrugged it off.

“What'd I say about excessive drinkin', Jackson?”

“Haven't been!” Jackson proclaimed. “Swear on me life!”

“It's the truth. Honest truth,” Ransom declared, appearing on Liam's other side. “Been with him since the first guest. We've been choir boys, Will. One glass each. Swear it on mum, God rest her soul.”

“Then you both can lower your voices,” Liam said. “No reason for that kinda volume in a ballroom. And Jack, keep your bloody wife in line, will ya?”

Jackson groaned. “Oi, what's Tuppence done now?”

“All but propositioned me next to the refreshment table,” Liam said. “If any of the guests had heard that…” He gave Jackson a pointed look.

“Ya ain't gotta tell me, Liam,” Jackson said, holding up his hands. “I'll have a talk with her. Might be time for her to visit her cousins in Cornwall.”

“Yes. Good,” Liam stated. His gaze migrated away from his brother and settled once again on Rose where she stood across the room. “She's cut off, too. No more champagne.”

Ransom burst into chortles. “Say what ya want about Italians, but at least my wife knows how to act proper!”

He gave Jackson a swift punch to the shoulder which Jackson immediately returned.

“Knock it off,” Liam instructed without taking his eyes off of Rose. “I said no fighting, remember?”

Ransom snickered. “Right, right. Sorry, Will.”

Jackson turned his head in the direction of Liam's distracted gaze and let out a low whistle. “That Rose is somethin' else, Will. Witty. Gorgeous. Bit of a prude, by the looks of her, but in a classy way, y'know? Can't believe ya got totty that beautiful workin' for ya.”

“Some blokes got all the luck,” Ransom agreed. “Where'd ya find her, eh? And where can I get one?”

Liam turned his head and gave Ransom a stern stare. “Not an appropriate question for a black-tie party, brother. Clean it up, alright?”

“I got an inappropriate question for ya,” Jackson announced, thrusting his hand in the air. “You fuckin' her, Will?”

Liam sniffed. “No. I'm not.”

“Why the hell not?” Ransom scoffed. “I would be.”

“Mind if I do?” Jackson asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, Jack,” Liam said. His expression turned frigid. “I mind.”

“Oh-ho-ho! Savin' that one for later, are ya?” Ransom goaded him, digging his sharp elbow into Liam’s ribs. “Don't blame ya! Lass is like a heapin' bowl o' dessert, ain't she?”

“I'd lick the spoon, no question,” Jackson declared.

“Both o' ya need to shut the holes in your faces,” Liam stated, his voice low. “This ain't the time or the place for that kind o' talk.”

Jackson and Ransom shared a look and a hearty guffaw. Liam didn't join in.

“Oi, we're just fuckin' with ya, Will,” Jackson said. “Rose seems a brilliant lass. Perfect for co-hostin' this party.”

“She's got moxie!” Ransom added. “I fancy her.”

“I fancy her, too,” Jackson said. He shook his head and grinned at Rose where she stood surrounded by admirers. “You sure know how to pick 'em, Liam.”

Liam's eyebrows lifted and he nodded in agreement. “Aye. That I do.”

【♖】

Daphne wove her way through the sea of attendees and servers, her most professional Journalist Smile fixed on her face. She'd practiced the smile to perfection, and she knew exactly how it made her appear. Friendly, but not overzealous. Approachable, but not a pushover. Intelligent, but not intimidating.

Taking a glass of champagne from a cordial server, she perused the guests for prospect interviewees. Amidst her search, she allowed her gaze to migrate to William Mercer every thirty seconds or so, keeping him in her sights for only an instant before focusing elsewhere. He was engaged in conversation with two men Daphne recognized from past Post articles as his brothers, but he soon broke free of them and began chatting with a pair of middle-aged gentlewomen in garish ballgowns. The latter appeared positively smitten with him. And of course — he was whatever he needed to be in any given situation. A chameleon of smoke and mirrors. Simultaneously the performer and the man behind the curtain.

A smartly dressed server in a burgundy cummerbund and matching bow tie materialized by her side. “Hors d'oeuvre, madam?” he asked, showcasing the contents of his tray with a flourish.

Daphne inspected the dainty works of edible art. They looked French and very decadent, but after her verbal spar with Mr. Mercer she wasn't sure she could stomach even the blandest of food.

“Not just now,” she politely refused. “Thank you all the same.”

The server tipped his head and continued on to the next guests.

Daphne caught a glimpse of Mr. Mercer in her peripheral. He had exchanged his female audience for a group of tuxedo-clad gentry. Each man greeted him animatedly, as if they were old friends. Daphne knew better. A man like William Mercer didn't have friends. He had tools.

She felt a scowl forming on her face and quickly replaced it with her signature smile.

So, he had found Rose's diary. Daphne knew better than anyone that the diary did not contain anything especially salacious or damning. Still, Mr. Mercer was now privy to the fact that she and Rose were from prestigious peerage families, and that information alone could hurt them. In a place like Manchester, it was always safest to remain invisible.

But the playing field was far more level than Mr. Mercer knew. If he thought he could intimidate Daphne by objectifying her, belittling her, or staring at her cleavage like it belonged to him, he was in for a nasty surprise. Men had been ogling her breasts and bum for years, and she was still standing tall. In lieu of her enlightening conversation with Sid Dawkins earlier that evening, Daphne was now in possession of an information arsenal of her own.

As she continued her stroll around the ballroom, an ostentatious woman of about sixty with regal posture and a round face fluttered her hand to gain Daphne's attention. “I simply adore your gown, my dear. So stylish!” She patted the arm of the amicable gentleman next to her. “Isn't she lovely, darling? Looks like our Mary, doesn't she?”

The gentleman gave Daphne a genteel tip of his head. “She does indeed, dearest.”

Daphne smiled and graced them with a swift curtsy. “Daphne Lancaster of the Manchester Daily Post,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you both.”

If possible, their expressions brightened even more.

“The pleasure's ours, Miss Lancaster!” the woman announced. “We're Lloyd and Margaret Westaway. How do you do?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Westaway, of course,” Daphne said, feigning recognition. “Charmed! Could I trouble you for a short interview regarding your thoughts on the Clementine Mercer Institute? Mr. Mercer mentioned the pair of you were among this evening's most influential attendees.”

Lies. Mr. Mercer had said no such thing. Nor would he have. And Daphne had never before heard the name Westaway. However, lips tended to loosen when egos were stroked.

“Trouble us?” Mr. Westaway echoed, his booming voice jovial. “It's absolutely no trouble! We insist!”

“You're too kind,” Daphne flattered him. Retrieving her notepad from her clutch, she readied her pen. “So, to begin: what is your opinion of William Mercer?”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ!

ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ VOTE! ☆