The rich emerald green of the dress accentuated Kitty's eyes in the most alluring of ways. Her irises seemed to glow with radiance as she gazed at herself in the vanity mirror.

“Yes, that will do,” she murmured to her reflection as she smoothed the green taffeta down her hips. “Pretty as a picture. Let's see Princess Rose top this.”

The floor-length skirt was comprised of multiple yards of flowing fabric, ideal for dancing — or any other physical activity that required unobstructed access to one's legs. The bodice was snug, the neckline low, the straps wide and off-the-shoulder, displaying her enviable long neck and sharp collarbone.

Yes. Thirty pounds well spent. Just as she'd told Liam.

Liam. Just imagining his reaction to her in this dress caused a swell of arousal between Kitty's thighs. The memory of his hands and mouth on her body the other night still lingered in the forefront of her mind, so strong that her skin hummed with anticipation for another romp. He had taken such time with her, such care. He'd made certain she was as satisfied with their office encounter as he was. Twice. Other men had never bothered themselves over her pleasure. It had always been take, take, take. Now. Hurry. Quick. Before the Missus comes back.

Of course, her performance with all the others had been exactly that: a performance. And completely lacking in sincerity to boot.

With Liam it was different.

Kitty smirked at her reflection as she donned her pearl earrings. A gift from Liam. Every beautiful thing she had was given to her by Liam. Every sordid thing, too. But such was the way of things for any woman who knew William Mercer in an intimate capacity. Kitty knew the risks involved. She'd always known them. And she accepted them.

A bit of red lip color and a dash of rouge to her cheeks completed the visual temptation. Now to the olfactory. Every bit as important.

Taking her bottle of perfume, she spritzed the inside of her wrists, rubbed them together, and dabbed them delicately against the sides of her neck. One of Liam's favorite areas of her body. After a moment's consideration, she lifted the skirt of her gown and spritzed the perfume on the skin of her thighs, just above the hem of her stockings. Another of Liam's favorite areas.

With a coy smile, Kitty released her skirt and gave herself a final appraisal in the mirror. Yes. T'would serve. Let the party begin.

【♖】

Daphne tucked her notepad and pen into her clutch and did up the gold clasp. A perfect fit. She could be stylish and discreet. No sense advertising her status as a journalist before her arrival.

The clutch was the perfect complement to the royal blue gown she'd chosen. Her goal while selecting a dress had been to avoid drawing attention, but the deep blue hue of the material brought out the vivid auburn of her hair, and the swooping decolletage above the empire waist modestly showcased her impressive bosom.

A little cleavage never hurt anyone, Daphne thought, chuckling to herself. It may even inspire more of the male attendees to speak with me. A cheap and exploited ploy perhaps, but nothing they wouldn't pull themselves if they had the tits to carry it off.

The telephone rang.

Taking note of the time, Daphne was tempted to ignore it, but it might be Rose. Or Mr. Hughes, her editor and chief.

Daphne picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she greeted the caller.

“Hello? Miss Lancaster?” inquired a jovial man's voice from the other end.

“This is she,” Daphne replied cautiously. The voice was not one she recognized.

“Oi, glad I caught ya!” the man declared. “Sid Dawkins here. Formerly o' the Manchester Daily Post, currently o' the London Scribbler. Ya penned me a letter?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, suspicion turning to exuberance. “Mr. Dawkins! Yes, of course!”

“Called the Post first, and they said you were on your way to cover a party,” Mr. Dawkins explained. “Hattie Kohl gave me the number to telephone your flat. Hope ya don't mind.”

“Mind? I'm thrilled,” Daphne amended. “Thank you for getting back with me so quickly.”

“Just got your letter this afternoon,” Mr. Dawkins said. “Wanted to ring ya as soon as I could. Hattie tells me that the party you're attendin' is hosted by William Mercer.”

“Yes, that's correct,” Daphne confirmed. “For the Clementine Mercer Institute. And I must confess, Mr. Dawkins, I wasn't entirely forthcoming and earnest in my written narrative. I made light of some particulars, in case the letter was intercepted while leaving Manchester.”

“You're a smart lass, Miss Lancaster,” Mr. Dawkins said, his voice turning solemn. “Very smart. Can't take any chances. The reach of the Mercers is without limit. I know that from experience.”

Daphne tutted, at a complete lack of surprise. “I'm sure you do,” she said. “Hattie mentioned to me that their family may be part of the reason for your departure from town.”

“That's the nice way o' puttin' it, but aye,” Mr. Dawkins remarked. “I'd likely still be in Manchester, writin' for the Post, if not for the Mercers. That family never did like me pokin' around in their business, goin' back so far as when Callum Mercer — that's William's da' — was runnin' the Deansgate Streeters. Didn't last long, mind ya. Bloke was a sodding pillock, and a drunk to boot. Vanished all the time, he did. Sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months.”

“Is that right?” Daphne asked, her eyebrows lifting toward the ceiling.

“Right? Nah. But it's the truth,” Mr. Dawkins told her. “Mercer Senior kept up his disappearing act for years, till one day, he just never came back. Summer 1910: that's the last time anyone saw Callum Mercer in Manchester. William's been runnin' the Streeters ever since. 'Scept for the years of the Great War. Had his sister take over in his absence.”

Daphne drummed her fingertips against her chin as she processed the provided information. “My, my…” she murmured into the handset. “That is fascinating.”

“Well, it's sommat, anyway,” Mr. Dawkins conceded with a wry chuckle. “Won't surprise ya to learn that William Mercer and his sister are even less fond of me than was their da'. Told me if I wanted to be able to keep typin' stories with all ten o' me fingers, I'd best leave town.”

“My goodness!” Daphne exclaimed. “How untoward! I'm so sorry, Mr. Dawkins.”

“Nah, ain't nothin' for it,” he replied. “Turns out, London and me are cozy as two biscuits in a tin. Love it here. My kind o' city. But to hear about me wasn't the reason for your letter. So, let's get back to that. Your cousin is workin' for Mr. Mercer now, is she?”

“Yes,” Daphne replied. “And I'm quite concerned, to be frank. I don't trust him, or his family, and I fear she may be in danger.”

“You're wise to have that fear, Miss Lancaster,” he affirmed, his consonants clipped.

“Quite. Unfortunate, that,” she mused. Her thoughts returned to the old newspaper articles she'd read two days prior. “Mr. Dawkins, based on your thorough and enlightening past pieces for the Post, I gather that the accumulation of information is a talent that you and Mr. Mercer share.”

“Too right you are, Miss,” he concurred. “The amount of bloody muck I have on the Mercers and the Deansgate Streeters would fill a novel, I tell ya.”

“Then I was right to reach out to you,” Daphne reflected, rubbing her chin. “I need cognitive ammunition, if you will. Care to elaborate on any of that ‘muck’ for me?”

“It's dirty business, Miss.”

Daphne expelled a dry chuckle. “I believe it. But like you, I'm a journalist, Mr. Dawkins. I've waded through my fair share of filth. And for my cousin Rose, I'll gladly get dirt beneath my fingernails.”

On the other end, Sid Dawkins guffawed. “I like ya, Miss Lancaster. I surely do. Happy to share what I know. Ya got a notepad and pen handy?”

“Always,” she confirmed.

【♖】

Clara finished lacing up the ribbon of the red gown's bodice and tied the ends into a delicate bow.

“Oh, Miss Rose,” the young maid murmured as she stepped back to survey the final result. “It's exquisite. You are a vision.”

Rose spun in a slow circle before the full-length mirror. Clara was right: she looked exquisite. Perfect. Daphne would be proud. Perhaps even William would like it.

“A gold necklace is a must, I think,” Clara suggested. “Your silver chain doesn't match the golden embellishments of the gown.”

Rose's hand reflexively went to the chain around her neck, her fingers slipping down the tiny links until they encircled her engagement ring. “No, no, I can't be without this. I must have it on my person.” She cast Clara with a look of desperation.

The maid tapped her chin in thought. “I know!” she said. “Wrap it around your wrist. It will be safe and hidden beneath your glove. You'll have it, but there will be no clash.”

“You'll make an excellent lady's maid, Clara,” Rose said, very pleased with the idea. “Mark my words.”

She removed the chain from its place at her neck and wrapped it around her left wrist in cautious loops. Clara presented the elbow-length white gloves and helped Rose slip them on. As a result, the chain and engagement ring were well camouflaged beneath the silky fabric.

“Very kind of you to say, Miss Rose,” Clara said. With great care, she retrieved a three-tiered gold matinee necklace from the vanity top and clasped it around Rose's neck. “I hope you're right.”

Rose adjusted the necklace and turned toward the mirror once more. “Is that really me?” she asked, quite in awe of the elegant lady who stared back at her.

“It is,” Clara said. “Mr. Mercer will be beside himself.”

“No!” Rose countered with a chuckle. “You think so?”

“I'd bet my week's wages,” Clara swore. “You are exactly his—” Her words suddenly cut off, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“What? What is it?” Rose cried. Her eyes darted down in the direction of Clara's startled gaze, and she found Teddy suddenly standing beside her. “Oh!”

“Forgive my outburst, Miss Rose,” Clara said, a hand over her heart. “I didn't hear him come in! One moment he wasn't there, the next, poof, he was!”

“He has a talent for that, as I've come to discover,” Rose granted with a breathy chuckle. She turned to her impish visitor. “Teddy, did you sneak away from your nanny again?”

Teddy giggled behind his hands. “Yes,” he confessed, a mischievous grin on his little face.

Rose and Clara shared a laugh.

“You're a right naughty boy, Theodore Mercer,” Clara teased him. “You'll give poor Miss Pimms a heart attack!”

Teddy seemed to have no opinion on this. Instead, he appraised Rose's ensemble, his pale blue eyes wide in wonder. “You look like a princess, Miss Rose,” he declared.

“Do I?” Rose asked, quite touched.

Teddy bobbed his chin in an enthusiastic nod.

“Thank you, darling!” Rose said. She picked Teddy up and spun him in a slow twirl. “Well, I am attending a ball of sorts.”

“Can I come?”

“I'm afraid not, sweet boy,” Rose said, offering him an indulgent frown. “It's only for adults. Pity, though. I imagine you would be my favorite dance partner.”

Teddy held onto her shoulders as they twirled. “I don't know how to dance.”

“On the contrary, you're doing famously!” Rose differed. She adopted a waltz step and hummed a few bars as she glided around the room with Teddy in her arms. “As to the finer points, I shall teach you. Soon. Just not tonight.”

“Come here, Teddy,” Clara said. She gently pried the boy out of Rose's arms. “You wouldn't want Miss Rose's princess dress to get wrinkled, would you?”

“No,” Teddy said in a solemn tone. “Sorry, Miss Rose.”

“Don't be,” Rose said, smoothing her gloved knuckle softly across his cheek. “I'm glad you snuck in to see me tonight. I'll take your visit as a good omen.”

At that moment, Rose heard William call her name from the foot of the grand staircase.

Maneuvering over to the door — which now stood open, compliments of Teddy — Rose called out, “Won't be a moment! Your son came to visit me.”

“Teddy, let Rose alone, eh?” came William's voice from the ground floor. “We must be off.”

“Go, go!” Clara insisted with a grin and a shooing motion. “I'll see Teddy safely back to Miss Pimms. You enjoy your ball, Princess Rose. Your handsome prince awaits.”

Rose smirked. “More like handsome, begrudging, stoic warlord. But point taken. Goodnight. Wish me luck!”

“Good luck, Miss Rose!” Teddy chanted.

Clara shook her head. “In that gown, you won't need luck.”

【♖】

Blue eyes locked on his reflection, Liam adjusted his bow tie in the mirror below the staircase. “Rose!” he called, his voice projecting through the cavernous space and reverberating off the two-story ceiling high above. “Ya ready?”

A few seconds later, her response met his ears: “Won't be a moment! Your son came to visit me.”

In the mirror, Liam saw his reflection smile. The interactions between Rose and his son the past few days had been a blessing among the strife. As he'd hoped would be the case, Teddy was completely taken with Rose — holding her hand, sitting next to her at dinner, insisting that she, rather than his nanny, read him his bedtime stories, playing ‘hide and seek’ in the house and ‘pirates’ in the garden, all manner of things. The boy's instant attachment to her was a weight off of Liam's tormented mind amidst the continual parade of problems.

“Teddy, let Rose alone, eh?” Liam scolded, though his voice was far from cross. “We must be off.”

He brushed down the sleeves of his black tuxedo jacket and stowed the letter he'd received from James Gallagher in the inside pocket of the lapel. His brothers should read it, especially since they were cumulatively mentioned.

Movement in his peripheral inspired Liam to glance up. The glance became a stare.

Rose descended the staircase in a resplendent gown of red silk. Her blonde curls were piled high on her head and secured with a jeweled comb. Posture regal, she took the stairs with light, graceful steps, and smiled at him as she neared the bottom.

As he watched Rose's descent, there came a foreign tightening in his chest. An ache of longing he'd all but forgotten. Suddenly, all the woes and struggles of the past week evaporated. The dead Russian in his garden, the stolen signet ring in his desk, James Gallagher's factories, the theft of his employees, the stress of the benefit, his sordid reunion with Kitty...all of it. Everything. Gone.

A scarlet gown, warm brown eyes, and a smile. For a few precious, fleeting seconds, that was all that existed in Liam's world.

“What do you think?” Rose asked as she reached the bottom step. She made a balletic sweeping motion to showcase her ensemble. “Does it say ‘high society fundraiser co-host’?”

Liam inhaled deeply and released the air in a slow, silent whoosh. “And then some,” he murmured.

Her smile widened. “I'm glad,” she said.

She made to move past him toward the foyer, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“Let's see a spin,” he said.

“Beg pardon, a ‘spin’?” Rose repeated, her expression comically befuddled.

“Spin around,” Liam instructed. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and relaxed his stance. “Slowly. I wanna experience the full effect.”

Rose arched a dubious eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “Don't we want to arrive before the guests? You said we must be off.”

With a ghost of a smile, Liam shook his head. “For you, in that dress, they can wait.”

Rose smiled at the floor and bit her lip. Then she began to turn in a languid, graceful circle, making sure he caught the gown's every angle. The light from the chandelier above reflected off the silky fabric, causing the dress to glow with radiance.

Liam's eyes swept over her, capturing every detail, and he smiled in appreciation. “Red is your color, Rose. Fitting, that. You look lovely.”

The skin of her cheeks turned a dainty shade of pink. “You clean up pretty well, yourself,” she told him. “For a gangster. Tell me: do you have your revolver tucked beneath your set of tails?”

“Ha, bloody, ha,” Liam deadpanned. He held open the lapels of his tuxedo jacket so that she could see his holster-free sides. “No, I don't. My gun ain't comin' with us. Tonight, it's just you and me.”

He held out his hand to her. Much to his surprise and pleasure, she took it.

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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