I froze in place. Beside me, I could feel Mr Ambrose stiffen, his eyes zeroing in on the man in front of us. Even standing in the shadow of the manor as he was, I could see he was a tall man, his sleek black hair tied back into a ponytail, and his form was clad in sumptuous attire that looked as if it had been plucked straight from a Paris fashion show. Except...
Models at a fashion show didn't come with a rifle over their shoulder. Or an armed escort of half a dozen men, for that matter.
"Vicomte."
The single word from Mr Ambrose's lips was not a query. It was a statement. I wasn't sure if he had ever met the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste before. I certainly hadn't. But there was no question in my mind as to who this was. That aura the man gave off...
"Ah, such a loquaciousness! Such a courteous greeting. Just like I would have expected from a man of your reputation." With a light clap of applause, the man in the shadows stepped out into the light—and I stared. I stared right into two piercing blue eyes set into a stunningly handsome, aristocratic face. The second-most handsome face I had ever seen on a man.
Leaning over to Adaira, I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, "Are you sure you don't want to marry him?"
"Yes!"
That was a rather firm answer. As was her foot coming down on my toes.
"Good."
I turned my eyes back on the vicomte, resuming my study of his face. After all, if you wanted to kill a man, you had better commit his face to memory, no?
So...that's him, whispered a little voice at the back of my mind. That's the man who tried to kill you, Lilly. To kill your husband. To kill Berty.
And now he was standing here in front of me. Smirking.
"Can I shoot him?" I whispered to Mr Ambrose.
"He has six armed guards with him."
"And I have six bullets in my revolver."
"That still leaves one."
"Not if I manage to shoot through two with one bullet."
Before he could come up with a response to that argument of impeccable logic, the dead man walking, also known as the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste, started towards us. Instantly, our whispered conversation ceased. Seeing the confident smirk on his face, I seriously considered forgetting about my revolver and just punching him in the face.
"It is such a pleasant surprise to see you here, Monsieur." Spreading his arms, the tall Frenchman stopped a few feet away from us, his guards spreading out behind him. Only now did I notice that they were all carrying bloody animal carcasses. I swallowed. "Here I was, enjoying an innocent little hunt in the forest with a few friends of mine, and when I return to present the trophies of my hunt to my lovely wife-to-be, I find her brother has arrived to celebrate with us!" He swept into an elegant bow, coincidentally pointing his rifle our way for the briefest of moments. "What an honour that you would personally come to celebrate my engagement to your sister. I have always respected you greatly and would love nothing more than to share this special moment with you."
"What a coincidence," Mr Rikkard Ambrose answered, his voice dropping to absolute zero temperature while his hand moved towards the place he kept his gun full of bullets. "I have some things I would like to share with you as well."
"How splendid! And, if I may ask..." His gaze landed on me, and I had to force myself not to shudder. "...who is this lovely lady?"
I was still holding onto Mr Ambrose. Thus, I felt the jerk go through his body, followed by perfect, deadly stillness. Deep in the marrow of my bones, I knew that he was only a hair's breadth away from hurling himself at DeMerdaunt and wrapping his hands round the man's throat.
I couldn't have that, now, could I? If anyone was going to kill that bastard, it was me!
"You want to know who I am?" Stepping forward, I gave the Frenchman a smile. There was not an ounce of warmth in it. "I'm the one who is going to wipe that smirk off your face."
"Oh? Vraiment?" The Frenchman cocked his head. "And how, if I may ask, Madame, are you going to accomplish that? I am about to be engaged to such a beautiful mademoiselle..." He gestured towards Adaira, who was staying behind her brother and me, eyes narrowed. "I do not think there is anything that would make me stop smiling anytime soon."
"Oh?" I cocked an eyebrow. "Then you wouldn't mind giving up on your engagement to Adaira?"
The Frenchman's smile froze in place. "Pardon?"
"You heard me."
The vicomte shifted his grip on his rifle. "The marquess is most impressed with me. I very much doubt he will abandon his plans because of a random woman."
"Perhaps not," Mr Ambrose agreed. "But he might because of my wife. Or rather, because of her brother."
"What?" Saint-Celeste's eyes narrowed into slits. "What brother?"
"Oh, you haven't heard?" I blinked up at him innocently. "You're not the only one vying for Adaira's hand anymore."
What the heck are you doing, Lilly? A few hours ago, you were ready to bash your dear husband's head against the wall because he came up with this idiotic ruse! And now you're actively promoting it?
True. But I had to admit...the smirk on that far-too-bloody-handsome bugger's face really made me want to slip into a pair of trousers and show this bastard who was the better man!
"Pardonnez-moi? What did you say?"
"Oh yes, you heard correctly." I gave the Frenchman my most beautiful smile. "It seems that my brother is also interested in pursuing Lady Adaira. In fact, he is heading northwards as we speak. Quite the coincidence, isn't it?"
"Oui. Quite the coincidence indeed." The frozen smile disappeared from the Frenchman's face—only to reappear a moment later looking far more dangerous. "How fortunate, then, that I have taken steps to impress upon the marquess that I, and I alone, am qualified to compete for his lovely daughter's favour."
"Oh?" Mr Rikkard Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "What steps, pray?"
"I think," the hard, vaguely familiar voice of an older gentleman came from up above, "I would like to know that as well."
Abruptly, I glanced up—and there he stood, at the top of the stairs that led up to the manor's entrance: William Alexander Ambrose, Fifteenth Marquess Ambrose. His wife was right behind him, watching the scene with anxious eyes. An emotion with which I could thoroughly empathise. My eyes flicked back to the vicomte. What had this devil from across the Channel cooked up now?
"Why, it is simple. Whoever this beautiful Madame's brother might be," he nodded in my direction, "I doubt very much he can compete with me, a vicomte of the French Empire. Not where it really matters. Namely, supporting Lady Adaira in the style to which she is accustomed. And to prove this, I have already taken the necessary steps."
Behind me, I felt Adaira shrink in upon herself. I didn't blame her. I could feel it, too. Whatever was coming, it would be a devastating blow to our plans.
"As we are speaking," Saint-Celeste continued confidently, "a baggage train full of gifts for my beloved is heading towards Battlewood. The latest fashion from Paris, jewellery that can make a lady's heart stop, works of art from around the world... I have gathered all kinds of presents to please my wife-to-be. In fact, it is quite likely that Mr Ambrose might have encountered them on the road north without realising what he was seeing."
My jaw nearly dropped to the ground.
Oh.
Oh my.
In a blink, the oppressive feeling of fear lingering over me disappeared. One corner of my mouth twitched and I had to fight very hard to keep my face straight.
"Ah yes," stated Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who seemed to have no such problem. His face was perfectly smooth and unmoving. But in the depths of his eyes, there was an icy sparkle that could almost be called amusement. "I seem to remember something of the sort. Weren't you the one to spot them, Karim?"
I slammed my hand in front of my face to contain the snort that was threatening to explode out of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Adaira eyeing me strangely.
"Ah, yes, Sahib." Karim cleared his throat. "I got quite a close look at them, in fact."
Oh, frig it!
Unable to resist any longer, I bent over, coughing and spluttering in an effort to conceal my giggles.
"Um...Lilly?" Adaira placed a cautious hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right?"
"P-perfectly," I wheezed. Somehow, I managed to get back control over my face and straighten up. "J-just something that went down the wrong pipe. Nothing to worry about." Plastering an appropriately apprehensive expression onto my face, I turned towards DeMordaunt. "Vicomte...your presents can't truly be as impressive as you say, can they?"
"Oh, they most certainly can, Madame." A confident smirk played around the vicomte's lips. Pulling out a pocket watch, he let it snap open and glanced down. "In fact, they should arrive any minute now."
It was only then that I noticed the rattle of coach wheels on gravel. We all looked towards the gate in the cast-iron fence that surrounded the property. It creaked open, and...
...a gardener walked in with a sack of fertiliser slung over his shoulder.
"Ehem." The vicomte cleared his throat. "Maybe they've been delayed a little."
Atop the steps, the marquess raised one eyebrow about half a millimetre. "Indeed?"
Goddammit. He was really Mr Ambrose's father, wasn't he?
"Oui, but I'm sure they won't be long now. If we just wait a little bit..."
So we waited. And waited. And waited. One minute. Five. Ten.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose cocked his head. "Are your men using invisible carriages?"
This time, I didn't even try to hide my snort. Glancing over, I saw the vicomte tightening the grip on his rifle, a vein at his temple throbbing.
"No. They. Are. Not."
"Oh." I gave him a disappointed look. "Pity. Those would have been a nice present."
The look on the man's face alone was worth coming to Battlewood.
"Any minute now..." the vicomte repeated, his expression rather ugly. "Any minute now."
We waited.
And waited some more.
Taking a step towards Mr Ambrose, I leaned over towards him and whispered, "I know that foreign people sometimes have a different understanding of time, like...New Yorkers have the New York Minute, right? Do Frenchmen also have the French Minute? How long is that?"
"Three to four hours," Mr Ambrose informed me with a face as deadpan as a pot that had died three hundred years ago.
"Ah, thank you very much for telling me." I hugged him close. Wasn't it awesome to have a wise and experienced husband?
The vicomte, who seemed to have overheard our little conversation, didn't seem quite so appreciative for some reason.
"I must say, Monsieur Vicomte, I am less than impressed," came the soft voice of Lady Samantha from the steps of the manor house.
"I concur." The marquess's eyes narrowed. "Do you intend for us to stand here all day?"
I almost wanted to say, Please say you do! Please say you want us to wait all day to Rikkard Bloody Ambrose and his father.
The reaction would probably be...interesting.
"They will come," the vicomte promised through clenched teeth.
Although I heard what he was really saying: They had better come—or else!
In the end, they truly did come. We didn't even have to wait for a French Minute, although it was rather close. When the gate in the cast-iron fence finally swung open, everyone leaned forward in anticipation—only to be greeted by a wreck that might once have been a carriage. A horseless wreck that was currently being pushed by four men from behind.
Just then, Adaira finally seemed to understand that something wasn't going according to her French suitor's script. At least judging by the snicker I heard from behind me.
"Sacre Bleu..." The vicomte's voice was like a stiletto, ready to slip between the ribs of anyone who might want to talk back to him. "You there! What. Happened. To. The. Carriage?"
I noticed he did not ask what happened to them.
"M-m-monsieur Vicomte!" The liveried servants staggered out from behind the carriage, trying their best to bow before their lord. The fact that they could hardly stand on their two feet wasn't exactly helping matters. "Our sincerest apologies, Monsieur Vicomte, but it is not our fault! We...we encountered something on the road. A fierce beast! A terrible monster!"
Was it possible to die from holding your laughter back?
I wasn't sure. But if Karim's face was anything to judge by, the man who was currently complimenting him was about to die rather abruptly and bloodily.
"...it had teeth as big as my forearm, and a maw that stank of rotten flesh! Even though I only caught a glimpse of it in the black of night, I still shudder every time I think of the sight of that hairy muzzle—"
"Silence! Tais-toi!"
The vicomte's shout cut the other man's words off. Good thing, too. Karim was already fingering his sabre.
"I do not care what manner of creature you crétins encountered on the road! What I want to know is what happened to your cargo!"
"Um, well..."
Not waiting for his servant to finish talking, Saint-Celeste stalked past the man and, reaching the coach, threw open the door. I only got the briefest glimpse of the shadowy interior before he blocked the entrance and ducked inside. A moment later, he resurfaced, a crumpled white box in his hand. Once upon a time, it might have been fine and fancy—but that was before it had been slashed into pieces and stained brown.
"So..." The vicomte stared at his subordinates. "Wild beasts eat chocolates nowadays?"
"Um..." The servant swallowed. "Chocolates are tasty?"
Once more reaching into the coach, the vicomte pulled out a sumptuous silk dress. Or rather, what was left of it. About half of it had been ripped off.
Saint-Celeste cocked his head. "And dresses are, too?"
---------------------------------------------------
My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
Oh my, what a dangerous monster must have been responsible for that attack ;-)
By the way, for those among you who are not familiar with the American expression "New York Minute", it is a phrase that means "a moment". Although, unfortunately for New Yorkers, New York companies do not calculate their working hours in New York minutes.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob