Once more, a grim procession proceeded up the stairs towards the office of William Alexander Ambrose, The Fifteenth And Worst Ever Marquess Ambrose. And yes, to me that was his official title, and damn anyone who wanted to argue the point. One thing I noticed, though: this time, the procession just consisted of me, my husband, and a terrified little maid at the front. The way Mr Ambrose's icy gaze bored into the back of the poor girl's neck didn't exactly seem to make her feel better.
"Um...h-here we are, M-my Lord." With a curtsy, the maid stopped and pointed at the door. "Should I a-announce you, or—"
Mr Ambrose answered her question by striding straight past her and pushing open the door. With one hand I gathered up my skirts and, hurrying to follow, waved at her with one hand in passing.
Inside the room, the marquess was sitting behind his desk, working on various papers—or at least pretending to. When the two of us entered, he didn't even bother to look up. He did, however, speak.
"You forgot to knock."
Mr Ambrose sent his father a withering glare. "The time for courtesy has long passed."
"You are right about that, boy." Pushing his papers aside, the marquess raised his gaze to meet that of his son. Then his eyes flicked over to me, where I stood with Berty in my arms. In retrospect, maybe bringing him along hadn't been the smartest idea.
"Hello, my dear. It is good to see you and finally meet your son."
I shuddered.
Mr Ambrose had been right. This old sod was trying to get his grubby mitts on my son.
Over my dead body! Or preferably his!
"Let us dispense with that senseless drivel, shall we?" Leaning forward, the older man narrowed his eyes.
"Indeed. Let's."
"So, tell me, son...what is your decision?"
In answer, there came only one thing...
Silence.
Well, that, and the sound of Mr Rikkard Ambrose's teeth grinding. His entire body was stiff—and not in a good way, like last night. Oh no. This was tension born entirely of rage. Rage that, no matter how much he wanted to, he could not unleash. Not on the man who held his sister's fate in his grasp.
Maybe I should have told Patsy everything after all.
"Well?" The marquess cocked an eyebrow. "Your decision. Now."
He waited, watching my husband like a hawk. And he wasn't the only one. I was staring at him without blinking even once. I knew I had said it would be his decision, but...
Wealth worth a king's ransom, or Adaira's happiness?
Which would he pick?
Everything he has worked for, or the future of his closest family?
What would he choose?
"My..." He hesitated. "My decision..."
I felt my heart drop. Did Mr Rikkard Ambrose actually just repeat himself?
This was bad. Very bad.
"Go on." The marquess steepled his fingers. "I don't have all day."
My husband's fists clenched. I had a good idea what for, but so far he had restrained himself from slamming them into his father's face. Quite admirable, all things considered.
"My decision...my decision is to agree with your—"
That was when the door to the room flew open, slamming against the wall with a thunderous crash. And, there in the doorway, like a fiery goddess of vengeance, stood Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose with a...was that a steel-reinforced parasol in her hand?
Ah. So, no need to bring Patsy into this after all.
"You!" She stabbed the parasol at my poor husband. "I heard through the door what you were about to say! Don't you dare! Don't you bloody dare!"
If there was one thing that Mr Rikkard Ambrose did not take well, it was being ordered around. If there was a thing he took even less well, it was being ordered around by a woman who only reached his chin. He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally.
"Why wouldn't I dare? This—"
"—is not your decision to make! You will not let yourself be coerced into anything, or I will drag you by the ear to the nearest horse trough and dunk your head in it like when we were children, understood? If I have to force you not to be forced, I will! Do as I say, or else!"
"Um..." Clearing my throat, I couldn't quite keep my lips from twitching. Just a little bit. "Adaira, do you know the meaning of the word 'paradox'?"
"Listen here," Mr Ambrose spoke up, ignoring me completely, "you can't just—"
"Watch me!" Adaira cut him off, one-upping him by ignoring the both of us. Stalking towards her brother, she planted a threatening forefinger in the centre of his chest.
"You are not going to sell off your life's work to satisfy that greedy bastard's idiotic ideas of nobility and inheritance!"
"That 'greedy bastard'," came a steely voice from behind the desk, "is your father."
"More's the pity," she shot back without bothering to turn her head. "Did you hear me, Dick? Do not do this! Especially not because of me. If you do this, I will call you Dick for the rest of your life. Even in front of mother. Especially in front of mother."
A muscle in his cheek twitched. "That's below the belt."
Cocking an eyebrow, Adaira lifted her knee ever so slightly, her gaze resting meaningfully on her brother's crotch. "If you want, I can show you something that's really below the belt."
I couldn't help but grin, filled with pride in my student. Good girl! She had learned that move from me.
He took a step towards her. "Mind your manners! Have you forgotten who is the older brother here, Adaira?"
She took a step towards him, until they were almost nose-to-nose. "Oh, I don't think I'll forget who is the brother here anytime soon, Dick. Not so sure about older, though. I seem to remember how a certain someone came running to me when we were children to cry about getting his hand stuck in the cookie jar. That doesn't seem particularly mature to me."
"Says the girl who used to beg me to give her shoulder rides."
"Which you were quite happy to give, if I remember correctly, Mr Pony."
"You...!" He jabbed a finger at her, nearly skewering her nose. "You cannot talk to me like that, do you hear? Stop it immediately, or—"
"Or what? You'll neigh?"
"You...you—!" Mr Ambrose broke off, too enraged to get another word out, instead preferring to convey his displeasure with his sister by boring holes into her with his icy gaze. As for Adaira, she glared straight back at him no less coldly, not planning to be outdone by her brother in this time-honoured family tradition. For a moment, they just stood like that, locked in a staring contest filled with arctic silence—until they moved. Both flew forward at the same time and, an instant later, Adaira was held in a tight embrace, trying her best (and failing) to reciprocate by getting her arms around the marble monument that was Rikkard Ambrose.
"Brat," he growled.
"Twit," she whispered back, her voice trembling ever so slightly, before she snuggled more deeply into her brother's chest and once more subsided into silence. In response, Mr Rikkard Ambrose tightened his grip, as if he never wanted to let go of his little sister and would protect her till the end of time.
From somewhere, I heard a sniffle. However, it most definitely did not come from me, and if anyone said anything to the contrary, I would categorically deny it! Also, I was most certainly not crying from the moving scene in front of me.
"Touching as this may be," the marquess broke the silence, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I have business to attend to. May I assume, my son, that your earlier words signal your agreement to my generous off—"
"No."
The marquess blinked. "Pardon?"
"I said no." Over his sister's shoulder, Mr Rikkard Ambrose met his father's eyes. His gaze wasn't hard as ice, or even steel. It was hard as diamond. "I've changed my mind."
"I see." The older man's eyes settled on Adaira. There was not even a hint of compassion in them. "You understand what this means, yes?"
"Yes." My husband gave a curt nod. "It means I still have a few weeks to find a way to save my sister from you."
I had never been as proud of my husband as I was right then and there. Secretly, I made a resolution: he was getting a reward tonight.
"Are you certain of your decision?" the marquess demanded one last time.
My husband didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
I grinned. That was Rikkard Ambrose. My Rikkard Ambrose. Hard. Fast. And utterly irresistible.
Unfortunately, his father didn't seem to agree with me on the last point.
"I see," the marquess repeated. "Very well."
The way he spoke belied his words. All was not well. Not at all. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out to Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
"The third challenge," he announced unceremoniously. "Your secretary's performance had better be amazing beyond belief, or..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. I was more than familiar with the technique of threatening silences, and had no problem interpreting them.
"It will be," he answered with utter confidence, and I felt a small glow of pride. I would have to show him how very much I appreciated him tonight.
Oh, really, Lilly? You're happy that your husband thinks you can impress people with your magnificent masculinity?
All right, maybe he wasn't getting any tonight after all.
"I trust you will inform Mr...what was his name again?"
"Linton." If Mr Ambrose's voice had been any colder, it would have turned the room into an arctic wasteland. "His name is Mr Linton."
There was that glow of warmth in my chest again.
Dang it! I guess he was getting lucky after all.
"Come on, darling." Extending an arm towards him, I sent an icy look of my own at the marquess. Far be it from me to break a family tradition. "I think we're no longer needed here."
"Indeed."
Taking the proffered arm, my husband turned away from his father and accompanied me to the door. Only...once he had reached the door, he stopped, and I came to a halt beside him.
He didn't turn around.
He didn't look at his father.
All he did was speak two words.
"Goodbye, father."
I had a feeling those words were more than just a polite way of leaving the room. When Mr Ambrose led me out of the office and the door fell shut behind us, it felt very final.
Out in the hallway, he gestured down the corridor that led back to our room. We marched back in silence, and unfortunately not a very comfortable one. The air was thick with tension, and neither of us took our eyes off the piece of paper in Mr Ambrose'es hand, as if it were a poisonous snake that might strike at any moment.
When we finally reached our room, we stepped inside and, without exchanging any words, closed and locked the doors behind us. Only then did we marginally relax. But only marginally.
"Go on." Gesturing for him to proceed, I stared at the folded paper. "Open it."
It said something about the situation that Mr Rikkard Ambrose did not have the slightest objection to his wife ordering him around. It said even more that he followed my order immediately, unfolding the paper and glancing down at it.
The moment he did, his face hardened, and the temperature in his eyes plummeted by a hundred degrees. In a low growl, he uttered a word that I would never have thought to hear from the mouth of Mr Rikkard Ambrose—not so much because of manners, but due to his firm belief that curse words were an utterly atrocious waste of breath and time. Yet here he was. Mr Rikkard Ambrose, cursing.
Without hesitation, I snatched the piece of paper, turned it the right way up, and—
"Stinking camel crap on a platter!"
"Could not have put it better myself, Mrs Ambrose."
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. In them, I could see the same grim determination that I was sure shone in mine. "I'll go tell the others that they need to double down on their research, shall I? I think they're going to have to work overtime."
***
Not far away, in the manor's library, Amy Weston sneezed. Rubbing her nose, she glanced around suspiciously.
"Is it just me, or do ye suddenly get an ominous feeling? Like a dark evil is stalkin' closer, ready to pounce on us?"
Eve snorted. "You've read too many gothic horror novels, girl. We're in what's now essentially one of the homes of our best friend. Lilly is just a few doors away. Who would possibly dare go after us here?"
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My dear Readers,
My brain is malfunctioning from heat once again. Consider this smiley face the best author's note I can come up with under current conditions:
:-)
My humblest apologies.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob