Chapter 9: Can’t Be a Fool  

At first glance, the man’s words seemed fine, but upon closer inspection, they felt oddly provocative.  

Was this guy just socially clueless, or was he deliberately stirring the pot?  

“Mr. Rhys.”  

A steadier voice sounded from the other side. 

Rosie’s gaze moved past the black-haired man, landing on the figure illuminated by the torchlight.  

As if mirroring their group, the other side was also a four-person team—three men and one woman.  

The speaker was a middle-aged man wearing a top hat and a black suit, holding a wooden cane with a bluish-gray brass handle, looking quite refined.  

“May I take over the conversation?”  

The black-haired young man, called Rhys, smiled and stepped aside.  

“Of course, Mr. Nell.”  

Mr. Nell stepped forward, lifted his hat to his chest, and bowed slightly.  

“Ladies and gentlemen, we mean no harm.”  

“If we’ve unintentionally offended you, please allow me to apologize.”  

The stoic bodyguard didn’t respond, but the other side’s willingness to talk was a good sign.  

Hannah stepped forward, taking the lead for their group.  

“You’re too kind, sir. May I have your name?”  

“Dwight Nell.”  

“Hannah Carter.”  

“Hannah Carter? You’re Baron Carter’s daughter?”

Dwight Nell asked, surprised.  

“You know me?”  

Dwight’s tone grew more respectful.

“I’m a furniture merchant and regularly read financial newspapers. 

One issue featured an interview with Baron Carter that mentioned his family.”  

“Baron Carter is not only an excellent noble but also a shrewd businessman.”  

Rosie couldn’t help but marvel—celebrity status made things easier, no matter the era or world.  

“Is that so? As fellow businessmen, you and my father must have much in common.”  

Hannah hinted at introducing him to her father, then shifted the topic.  

“May I ask, Mr. Nell, do you know where we are?”  

Dwight Nell’s lips curved into a slightly bitter smile as he shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Carter. My companions and I woke up in unfamiliar rooms, just like you, and we don’t know where this is.”  

Another group of victims?  

Eight people—no, nine, including Hannah’s maid Janice.

So many missing people would surely attract attention. 

Why would the “culprit” take such a risk, “kidnap” them, then leave them to roam freely? 

It didn’t make sense logically.  

What was the motive, the purpose—what did the “culprit” want?  

Rosie subtly observed both her group and the newcomers, trying to identify a common thread among the eight to deduce the “culprit’s” intentions.  

“Miss Carter, what about your situation…?”  

Dwight didn’t finish, but his meaning was clear.  

“My situation is the same as yours.”  

They were all lambs awaiting slaughter.  

The atmosphere grew heavy.  

“There’s strength in numbers. If we help each other, the God of Fate will surely guide His faithful.”  

Dwight finished, touched his forehead and chest, and placed his palm on his left shoulder.  

The misunderstanding resolved, the groups began introductions.  

The “low-EQ” man who spoke first was Herman Rhys, a journalist. 

No wonder his tongue was so sharp. 

Rosie gave him a second glance—not because he was handsome, but because his black hair and softer features felt familiar. 

The others, with their blonde or red hair and deeper, more European-like features, stood in contrast.  

The other two were Jesse Holmes, a young clothing store clerk, and Bev Hardy, a strikingly beautiful young woman who worked in Dwight Nell’s shop.  

Honestly, remembering so many names in a new language made Rosie’s head spin.  

Notably, Dwight was more enthusiastic after learning she was a viscount’s daughter, while the two younger men kept glancing her way—one boldly, the other subtly.  

It seemed “Rosie” was quite attractive.  

After exchanging names, the group was still a bit reserved but far less tense than before.  

Donahue pointed at the candelabra Herman held, curious.

“You have candles—why walk in the dark?”  

Herman raised an eyebrow, twirling the candelabra’s handle.

“Light brings comfort but not safety.”  

Meaning it could expose their position? 

This guy’s sharp.  

Perhaps because Rosie stared at the sharp-tongued man a bit too long, Herman suddenly turned to her.  

“We were so far away and hadn’t lit our candles—how did you spot us?”  

Why not ask Bobby, your chat buddy? 

Can’t resist a pretty face, huh?

Rosie grumbled inwardly but maintained her noble lady persona, replying politely in her soft voice.  

“It was…”  

Crap, what’s the bodyguard’s name?  

“It was?”  

Herman mimicked her tone.  

“…It was that gentleman, Hannah’s bodyguard. He gave an early warning.”  

Rosie helpfully clarified the man’s role.  

A noble lady couldn’t possibly be a fool who forgets names!  

Herman followed her gaze to the bodyguard, nodding. 

“Mr. Dennis Sandbek, right? Impressive, as expected of a noble’s bodyguard.”  

Dennis Sandbek—gotta remember that.  

Rosie nodded, echoing, “Yes, Mr. Sandbek is a highly capable bodyguard.”  

“Ahem.”  

Donahue, who’d been listening, coughed lightly and corrected, “It’s Mr. Sandek, not Sandbek.”  

“Oh, so it’s…”  

Herman paused deliberately, then continued, “Mr. Sandek.”  

“I’m terrible with names, always mixing them up.”  

He explained casually, his gaze playfully landing on the viscount’s daughter.  

Herman’s candor put Miss Rosie in an awkward spot.  

She’d earnestly agreed with the wrong name.  

“It’s normal. I often mix up names too.”  

“Then let’s try again. Donahue Bobby—that’s my name.”  

Rosie: “…”  

Mr. Bobby, you don’t have to look at me while talking to him.