Storm over the Caribbean

48. The Puppet Master's Plans

I smiled, noting his word choice. When. When, not if.

That's my man.

I extended a hand to him. He took it.

"How long?" I asked. "How long do you think you need to prepare?"

"Hm..." He stroked his chin. "A week or two to assemble my forces and gather information, another week to gather ships to escort us to France...all in all, a month or so." His gaze lowered to my belly. "We should probably wait till a certain important event has passed."

"True." Grinning, I cracked my knuckles. "I want to be in top condition to punch whatshisname in the bollocks!"

"DeMordaunt," Mr Ambrose reminded me. "His name is Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de—"

Abruptly, he cut off.

And then his face went pale.

This was Mr Rikkard Ambrose. The man had been shipwrecked, shot at, punched, threatened, blackmailed and almost blown up—and none of it had fazed him. Yet now, all of a sudden, he went pale as a ghost.

"Mr Ambrose? Is everything all right?"

He didn't answer. Without a word, he whirled around and dashed off, away from the cell and up the stone ramp.

"Mr Ambrose!" Cursing, I rushed after him—or at least did the best imitation of rushing I was currently capable of. After only a few steps, I was already huffing and puffing.

Darn extra pounds! Haven't babies ever heard of dieting?

By the time I reached the entrance hall, no trace of my dear husband was to be seen. Hurrying over to the receptionist's desk, I gestured at the man behind it. "Hey, Sallowfa—ehem, I mean Mr Pearson! Did you see Mr Ambrose anywhere?"

The sour-faced man sent me a look that quite clearly said, Maybe I did, but I most certainly don't wish to tell you!

"Yes," he stated, showing that, despite his personal preferences, he did have some self-preservation instincts. "He went up to his office, Madam."

"Thank you."

With a curt nod, I marched straight to the elevator.

Never would I have thought that there would come a day when I'd want the monstrously rapid murder machine also known as Mr Ambrose's elevator to go faster than it already did. But here I was, impatiently tapping my foot as I waited for the elevator to reach the top floor. When I finally arrived, I still didn't find Mr Rikkard Ambrose—but, what I did find was the door to his office at the other end of the corridor standing wide open.

Worry rose inside me. Mr Ambrose never let his office door stand open.

...unless someone was trying to throw money into his office. Something which, right now, was most definitely not the case.

"Mr Ambrose? Mr Ambrose!"

I threw open the door and stormed into his office—only to come to an abrupt halt as I spotted my husband, standing at his desk with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

"Mr Ambrose?" My voice was no more than a whisper. Yet it echoed eerily in the large stone room. "What is it?"

"I knew it." Looking up, he stared straight at me. Yet I didn't think he truly saw me. Not really. He was looking through me, far into the distance. "I knew I'd heard that name somewhere recently. Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de Saint-Celeste. I knew! And now I just remembered where."

"Where?" I demanded.

Wordlessly, he held up the piece of paper. I stepped forward, intending to grab and read it—when I abruptly froze in place.