Silence No More

47. Having Words and Giving Words

"Stop right there!"

"Oh?" Without stopping, Mr Amborse glanced back. "Do you still have something to say?"

The marquess narrowed his eyes. "If you do this, if you truly abandon your heritage, I will marry Adaira off!"

Still, Mr Ambrose didn't bother to stop.

"Haven't you listened to a word I said, father?" My husband nodded at the piece of paper still clutched in his father's hand. "You cannot marry Adaira to the vicomte. Not if you want your line to continue as part of the British peerage."

"Is that so?" The marquess cocked an aristocratic eyebrow. "Who says it has to be the vicomte?"

Mr Ambrose froze.

So did I.

A sudden chill went down my back.

"What do you mean?" Mr Ambrose demanded.

"There are plenty of respectable, if not very wealthy, gentlemen among the British gentry. Most of them would jump at the chance to give up their name in return for becoming a marquess's son-in-law."

"Is that...legal?" I enquired, my voice sounding far too uncertain for my liking.

He shrugged. "Legal is a matter of perspective, young man. The perspective of important people. And I know a lot of those."

"So do I!" growled Mr Ambrose, whirling to fully face his father once more.

"Rich upstarts." The marquess made a dismissive gesture that somehow clearly conveyed the unimportance of ninety-nine percent of the world population. "We both know what kind of people truly make decisions in this country."

"Snobs?" I enquired sweetly.

He glanced over at me. "I see your dog still hasn't learned how to stay silent, son."

In response, I gifted him with a saccharine smile. "Ah, but he has learned how to punch people in the face. Would you like to see?"

The bastard completely ignored me. Turning his gaze back towards his son, he stared him down with a stony expression on his face.

"You will have to decide, son. What is more important to you? Your sister's happiness, or the money you've collected over all these years with your miser's ways. Make your choice. And if you make the wrong one, don't blame me for selling her to the highest bidder."

That son of a...!

I was just about to make good on my earlier promise and demonstrate my face-punching skills when, from behind me, I heard a sudden sound. Almost like...a gasp?

Instantly, I whirled around—and there she stood. Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose, standing at the top of the stairs, a hand in front of her mouth. Had she been there the whole time? Had she heard everything?

One glance at the marquess out of the corner of my eye told me: yes, she had been. And he had known it.

Bloody spawn of a bastard's rotten bollocks!

I glanced back at Adaira again, who, by now, had started to tremble ever so slightly. Taking a quick step towards the poor girl, I reached out a hand, even though I couldn't hope to reach her.

"Adaira, you—"

Before I could get out another syllable, she whirled around and dashed away.

"Adaira!"

She must have heard my shout. She definitely must have. But she didn't stop. She didn't even seem to register anything. In a blink, she was gone.

"You...!" Spinning to face the cause of all of this, I sent a death-glare at the marquess. Only the restraint cultivated through years of being Mr Rikkkard Ambrose's secretary, gofer and all-around errand boy stopped me from lunging at him. I opened my mouth again to rail, to yell, to shout abuse at him—and then closed it again, for the first time in my life unable to find a bad enough insult.