The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Ten | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

Susan MacClare was an elitist, privileged, heartless harpy who delighted in her own absolute abhorrence of every other human being on the face of the earth. That included her husband and her youngest daughter. The Marchioness would most certainly disown Rose if she learned the true reason behind her daughter's presence in Birmingham. She would likely do far worse than that. And she would enjoy every horrid moment of it.

The lump of ice in Rose's stomach was now attempting to shatter and cut up her insides. She now knew, without having to ask, exactly why Mr. Shelby had requested they meet. Entrapment. Although, he likely preferred the more common and straightforward term "blackmail."

Her face must have revealed her comprehension, for Mr. Shelby nodded as though he were impressed by her wit.

"Unless I keep quiet about Dmitri, you will contact my parents," she stated.

"As I said, you're clever," Mr. Shelby remarked. "Now, if ya wouldn't mind confirmin' a bit o' information for me..."

With an expression of satisfaction, he retrieved a small piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it, and slid it across the table to her.

Rose leaned in to inspect the paper, and her insides twisted into a knot. There, in the haphazard scrawl of a man's handwriting, were the words:

Hugh "Shrimpie" MacClare
Susan MacClare
Marquess and Marchioness of Flintshire
Duneagle

Scribbled beneath the names and titles was the telephone number that rang her parents' manor.

Rose made a helpless strangled sound. Her haunted gaze migrated from the paper back up to Mr. Shelby's face. In his eyes, she saw the gleam of triumph.

"All of that's correct, I take it?" he asked with a smirk.

"Please don't ring that number," Rose whispered. "My mother— She would— Just...please."

Mr. Shelby folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. He studied her face, his eyebrows slightly elevated, a thin smile on his lips.

He was enjoying this.

"I'd prefer not to telephone your parents," he said. "But that all depends on you, Lady Rose."

"Don't call me that!" Rose hissed.

Mr. Shelby cocked his head to the side. "Miss MacClare, then?"

"Yes!"

"Alright. It all depends on you, Miss MacClare," he amended. "I won't have to make that call if I have your word you'll keep your mouth shut."

It took Rose several seconds of agonizing inner turmoil before she found her voice.

"Keep my mouth shut?" she repeated, disgusted by the words. "My silence regarding Dmitri for my reputation among the peerage. Is that what you're offering?"

Mr. Shelby nodded. "Your silence for mine."

"I'm not sure I believe you'll drop this at so simple an arrangement, Mr. Shelby," Rose said. Her voice was tight. Pinched. Wobbling. The timbre of confidence had abandoned her. She swallowed and pushed on. "How can I be sure you won't use this threat over me in the future? I have no intention of giving up my work with the refugees. Even if I were to agree to your terms today, what's to stop you from telephoning my parents next week? Or the week after?"

"As of right now? Nothing," Mr. Shelby said. His shoulders rose and fell in a nonchalant shrug and he reached for his glass. Taking a long pull of the whiskey, he licked his lips and set the glass back down. "However, I may have a solution that would be mutually beneficial."