Mr Ambrose didn't lead me to the marquess's office as I had expected, or even anywhere else in the manor. Instead, he strode directly down the stairs into the entrance hall and, pushing open the front door, strode out onto the courtyard.
"Ah. You have finally arrived."
The others were waiting for us on the meadow beyond the courtyard. And by "the others" I didn't just mean the marquess and his family. A whole crowd had gathered to watch our little performance. Apparently, not everyone had gone home after the ball, and the ones who hadn't were now gathered around the edges of the meadow, whispering to each other.
Gossipmongers. Bah!
Although...
My eyes suddenly narrowed. Judging by the fact that most of the crowd were female, and kept throwing glances at my husband, I got the impression they weren't just here for rumours. I recognized those glances, and I most definitely did not appreciate them.
Then why don't you go over to them and protest? I'm sure everyone here would love to hear all about how Mr Rikkard Ambrose is married to Mr Victor Linton who is also trying to marry Miss Adaira Ambrose and start his own harem.
My inner voice really deserved a whack over its non-existent head.
But that would have to wait for later. Right now, we were fast approaching the marquess and his family, as well as the vicomte behind him, who looked all too smug for my liking.
"Father." Stopping several yards away from his sire, Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod. "We're here."
"You took your time."
"I have a habit of taking what is mine." Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally as they flicked between his father and Adaira. "And not letting go of it, no matter what other people demand. Now...shall we begin?"
"What an excellent idea, mon ami!" With a smile on his handsome face that drew admiring whispers from all around, the vicomte stepped forward. "The servants have informed me that everything is already prepared."
"Then let the contest begin," I declared and, stepping forward, sent the slimy frog a smile filled with confidence I wasn't feeling. "And may the best man win."
Ignoring the choked snort by Adaira in the background, I strode forward and tried my best to project manly confidence.
Maybe, Lilly, you should have bought an extra pair of socks.
With narrowed eyes, I let my gaze sweep over the assembled crowd. "So...how is this going to work?"
"Simple." The marquess gestured to myself and the vicomte, an expression on his face I definitely did not like. "For the first part of the challenge, both of you will provide statements regarding your income and possessions, and I shall judge the results. Naturally, the more affluent gentleman will carry the day."
"Naturally." About as expected. My eyes met the vicomte's, and the man smirked. Before I could say a single word, he stepped forward and snapped his fingers.
"Vayssière!"
A tall, almost skeletal man with salt-and-pepper hair detached himself from the crowd and moved forward with measured steps. He wore a pristine custom-made tailcoat and an expression as if he could calculate the number of hair follicles on your nose with a mere glance.
"This, everyone, is Olivier Vayssière, steward of all my lands and properties," the vicomte introduced him with a superior smile. "As a nobleman, I have better things to do than to take care of the day-to-day operations. Thus, I have called him here to give an accounting of all the worldly possessions I would bring into a marriage. Vayssière, if you would?"
"Certainly, Monsieur Vicomte." Coming to a halt in front of us, the middle-aged Frenchman lifted the briefcase in his hand and, placing it atop a table that had been prepared nearby, opened it to reveal its contents. My eyes narrowed at the sight of the several-inches-high stack of important-looking documents. "Now, let us begin, Messieurs, non? First of all, we 'ave the list of all the various estates in the possession of 'is Excellency the Vicomte. In France, we have the Château de Véllant, the Chateau d'Ormand, a manor just outside Paris, several houses on the Cote D'Azure—"
What followed was a list of more French stuff than I could ever remember the names of. Not that I tried to, really. Castles and manors might be all well and good, but what really counted was the land under and around them. Land, and the rent gained from the tenant farmers who were ploughing it, was the only income really recognized in the eyes of noblemen—as if they were still knights in shining armour collecting tithes from lowly peasants, and other people did not matter.
The question now was: just how much land did the vicomte have?
"...concludes the list of manors and castles. As for the associated landed properties..." The steward's sharp gaze swept over the crowd. "These total one point three million acres of land. They come in various forms, but the most significant portions consist of agricultural land, rental housing in various cities across France, Italy and Spain, as well as—"
One point three million acres of land...
I stood there, listening with mounting trepidation as the list of properties grew longer and longer. Glancing sideways at Adaira, I saw Adaira's face go pale. And I couldn't really blame her. I was just a simple secretary. Could I really compete with this?
But then I met the firm, unyielding gaze of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, and I remembered one important fact: this was about money. And I yet had to encounter a monetary problem where Mr Rikkard Ambrose didn't have an ace up his sleeve. Or three.
"...and five vineyards in southern France, famed for their excellent vintages since the seventeen hundreds," the steward finished. "This, Messieurs, concludes my accounting of all the various possessions of 'is Excellency the Vicomte."
For a moment, silence reigned. Then...
"Excellent," the marquess's voice echoed over the autumn meadow. His eyes settled on the vicomte, and he inclined his head. "Excellent indeed. I am quite satisfied."
"Why, thank you, Monsieur Marquis." The vicomte bowed deeply. Deeply enough so his smirk was not visible to anyone but me, who was paying close attention. "Merci beaucoup."
Arsekissers!
"You are welcome, Your Excellency. And now..." His gaze sharpening, the marquess's eyes flicked away from the vicomte.
Three guesses on whom they landed.
"Now...it's your turn!"
Lucky me.
"Well? What are you waiting for, Mr...what was your name again?"
"Linton." I lifted my chin, giving him my practised macho man stare. "Mr Victor Linton."
"Well then, Mister Linton..." He spoke the word 'mister' as if it were a slur. For him, it probably was. "Go ahead."
Swallowing, I stepped forward, a thick envelope in my hands. On our way here, Mr Ambrose and I had discussed how to proceed, and he had handed me this thing. I hadn't asked what exactly was inside it. I didn't really need to. If there was one thing you could trust Mr Rikkard Ambrose with, it was money matters. Unless, that is, your debts with him were overdue. In that case, you couldn't trust him at all and should run for your life.
Luckily, I was one hundred percent debt-free. Though I did wonder what plans he could possibly have come up with to make me, a humble secretary, appear richer and grander than a vicomte with a mountain of money and more than a half dozen chateaus. Curious, I pulled open the envelope and glanced down at the topmost piece of paper—
And my eyes went wide. Wide as bloody wagon wheels.
"What's the matter?" Frowning, the marquess held out his hand. "What are you waiting for?"
"N-nothing. Nothing at all."
With considerable effort, I managed to keep my face straight as I held the documents out to his Excremency the Marquess. And no, that was not a mistake I made with his title. "Here you go, Your Lordship. See for yourself."
"Harrumph." Snatching the papers, the marquess sent me a dismissive look. "As if there were anything to see."
Then he looked down at the papers.
Immediately, his mouth dropped open.
I smirked.
"What the—!" His face pale as a pail full of milk, the marquess looked up from the documents. "You can't honestly be serious, young man!"
"Of course I am." Beaming, I patted Mr Ambrose's shoulder. "My employer is very generous."
Mr Ambrose looked like he had swallowed a bucket full of lemons. The crowd, curious as to what the heck was going on, closed in on the marquess, trying to catch a glimpse of the documents in his hands. While everyone was busy with their attempts to try and get a peek at the papers, I leaned over towards Mr Ambrose and whispered, "Is what's written on those documents true?"
To judge by the way the muscle in his cheek twitched, I had just added a few lemons to his bucket. "Naturally."
"Where exactly did you find a cheque with enough room for that many zeroes?"
That muscle of his twitched again. "It was not a simple matter."
"I bet." I sent him a sceptical look. "And you are really giving me this much money?"
"Indeed. Although..."
"Yes?"
He threw me a glance. "We are married. What's mine is yours, remember?"
"Yes?"
"Which, conversely, also means that what's yours is mine. Giving myself money feels quite enjoyable, I have to admit."
That sneaky, stingy son of a...! Dang it! He was right!
"You..." The croak coming from the marquess put an end to our whispered conversation. Glancing over at him, I saw him staring at my husband with wide eyes, as if he had just seen a dung heap inhabited by skunks. "You give this kind of money to your secretary?"
I gave the man a big smile. "My employer is the epitome of generosity and kindness."
The muscle in Mr Ambrose's cheek twitched again.
Leaning over towards him once more, I whispered, "What are you acting up for? Didn't you say you are just giving money to yourself?"
"Can't help it." Another twitch. "Reflex."
"Oh."
"Mr Linton?"
"Yes?"
"Stop. Smirking."
In answer, my smirk was about to widen—when I caught sight of the marquess, who did not seem to appreciate my current facial expression. Especially since he seemed to think it was directed at him.
Oops.
The older man's hands clenched into fists, crinkling the documents.
"Something funny, Mr Linton?"
"Um...no, Your Lordship. Not at all, Your Lordship."
"Good. Now, let me finish with this." And, sending me a last glare, he once more returned his attention to the documents in his hands, apparently intent on discovering something to find fault with. Judging by the look on his face, he was not having much success. He turned a page. And again. And again, and again. Faster and faster he read, his grip tightening all the time, until finally, he reached the very last page and once more looked up at his son.
"This? A secretary's salary? Really?"
Mr Rikkard gave him a deadpan look. "Inflation."
"Sacre bleu, what can be so astonishing about a measly little secretary's salary?" the vicomte demanded and snatched some of the documents. "It can't possibly be that...merde!"
"You were saying?" I enquired sweetly.
"This...this..." Looking up from the papers, the vicomte narrowed his eyes at us. "This is a sham. This can't possibly be true."
It was at this point that I lifted the one other thing besides the envelope that Mr Ambrose had handed me on our way here. A briefcase. Flipping open the lock, I lifted the lid and thus revealed the massive pile of banknotes inside, right next to the even larger pile of title deeds.
"Just a small sample," I stated humbly.
"Oh, Rikkard!" My performance was abruptly interrupted by a pink missile. A moment later, Lady Samantha Genevieve Ambrose slammed into her son, enveloping him in a fluffy pink hug that made him stiffen as if he had been petrified. "I had no idea you had become so generous! And all this for Adaira? You truly are becoming a wonderful, wonderful man."
I nodded earnestly. "Indeed. Must be his wife's influence."
Over the shoulder of his mother, Mr Rikkard Ambrose shot me an arctic look.
"Oh, you really think so?" Half-detaching herself from her son, the marchioness beamed over at me. "Such a darling girl! I always knew she was good for my little Ricky."
At that, a certain muscle in the cheek of "little Ricky" gave another twitch. And I didn't even ask him to spend money this time! If things go on like this, he might show actual emotions one day. The horror!
"I'll have to go and thank dear Lilly later. I knew that darling girl would be good for the family." Lady Samantha's smile widened as she gave me a meaningful look. "As I'm sure you will be, young man."
"Now, dear," the marquess cut in with an expression like a constipated blobfish, "let's not be hasty."
"Why?" Her Ladyship enquired, giving her husband an innocent look. A very dangerous thing to receive from a wife. "Is his performance any worse than the vicomte's?"
"Well, not exactly, but..."
"I see! Then there's no problem, right?"
The marchioness batted her eyelashes at her spouse, who swallowed and seemed lost for words for a moment. Instantly, she batted her eyelashes again.
I should do more of that. It seemed to be very effective on husbands.
Clenching his jaw, the marquess took a deep breath. "No. No problem at all, dear."
"So," I demanded. "I won?"
For a moment, I could see rage flashing in his eyes.
"I wouldn't go that far, young man. It seems there is a..." he paused, as if the next words would cause him actual physical pain, "...a tie in this phase of the contest."
I narrowed my eyes.
A tie? Between Mr Rikkard Ambrose's fortune and someone else's?
"We can only let the shooting competition decide," the old sod hurriedly continued before I could call him out on it. With a clap of his hands, he gained the attention of the servants waiting at the edge of the meadow. "Bring the targets!"
Immediately, they rushed to do his bidding. If I'd been in their shoes, I would have as well. He did not look particularly patient.
"Your Lordship!" One of the lackeys dashed over to bow and gesture at the others, just as his colleagues had finished arraying the targets side by side. "Everything is prepared as ordered."
"Good." With a curt nod, the marquess stepped back. The crowd followed his example, whispering in eager anticipation. "If you would take your places, gentlemen?"
"Certainement, Monsieur Marquis." His face filled with confidence, the vicomte gave a swift bow and strode towards the line that had been painted on the meadow.
"As you wish," I agreed, taking up a position beside him. My hand went down to the holster hanging from my belt and came up again holding a loaded pistol.
"Here are the rules of the contest," the marquess announced, unable to keep the anticipatory glitter out of his eyes. "As you can see, the targets are divided into ten sections from the bull's eye to the outermost ring, giving ten to one points. Both of you have three shots. At the end, the points will be added up, and the one with the most points wins. Any objections to those conditions, gentlemen?"
"Non, Monsieur Marquis."
"None at all, Your Lordship."
Except maybe that I don't get to shoot you in the balls.
Well, maybe, at the end, I would still have ammunition left. They do say that good things come to those who wait.
"Well then, Monsieur Linton..." The vicomte glanced sideways to meet my eyes. "As you said earlier, may the best man win."
"Oh, that won't be a problem," I told him. "I'm sure I'm twice the man you are."
The vicomte's eyes narrowed. "Is that so, Monsieur?"
"Yes. Even without an extra pair of socks. My uncle's feet are big."
The vicomte blinked. Then he cocked his head, apparently going through the words he had just heard once more, to check if they made more sense in a different order.
"Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur...English is not my mother tongue, but...what did you just say?"
In response, I just smirked.
"Ready?" the marquess' harsh voice sounded.
I nodded firmly. "Yes!"
"I, um...oui, Monsieur Marquis." Narrowing his eyes again, the vicomte shot me glare. "Don't think you babbling nonsense will distract me, Monsieur. I am a superb shot and have been hunting since I was old enough to hold a rifle. I know you cheated during that hunting contest, but now we're not alone, Monsieur. There is no way for you to hide the ugly truth anymore: you are nothing but a lowly secretary. A servant. A useless city-boy. You are going to lose."
"Oh, really?" I flexed my fingers around the handle of my pistol. "Let's see, shall we?"
"Three." The marquess called out. "Two."
I took aim.
"One. And...fire!"
A double-crack echoed across the meadow and, a moment later, two holes appeared in the targets at the other end of the shooting range. Immediately, my eyes flicked from my own target to the vicomte's, and—
"Nine! Nine points for the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste!" one of the servants announced, and a victorious grin spread over the vicomte's face—until, that is, his gaze fell on the other target.
"And, um...t-ten points for Mr Victor Linton."
Deathly silence descended over everyone. And, for once, it was not Mr Rikkard Ambrose's fault.
"What?!" The single word came as a hiss from between the vicomte's lips.
"Well?" Cocking my head, I sent him a triumphant look. In the background, I spotted Adaira doing a fistpump. "How's that for a useless city-boy?"
The look the Frenchman sent me in response told me he wanted to stew me in garlic with wine-sauce.
Not interested, sorry.
"Very well," the marquess stated stiffly. "Round two."
Sending each other a last macho glare, the vicomte and I once more took up our stances.
"Three, two, one...fire!"
Bam! Bam!
The two gunshots sounded almost simultaneously.
"Ten points for the vicomte!" the lackey shouted excitedly. "And...nine for Mr Victor Linton!"
Crap, crap, crap!
Cursing under my breath, I stared daggers at the target. I didn't even have to look at Saint-Celeste to know what kind of expression was on his face.
"You haven't won yet!" I growled. "Wipe that cocky smirk off your face!"
"Ah, but Monsieur, the cock is the French national symbol."
"Really? That must be awkward for French ladies."
It took a bit, but after a moment I could see comprehension dawn on his face, followed by heat flooding his cheeks.
"Not that kind of...! You scélérat! That is outrageous! And you think yourself worthy of gaining Mademoiselle Adaira's hand?" He sent me a haughty look that made me almost believe he was actually trying to defend Adaira's honour. I had to admit, he was a good actor. "You are not deserving of any woman."
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that." I lifted an eyebrow. "I know at least five who seem to be quite fond of my company."
His mouth dropped open.
Before he could find an appropriate response, however, if there even was one, the marquess's voice once more interrupted our conversation. He did not sound pleased.
"Both of you have nineteen points. Again, a tie. So, the third and final round will decide everything."
Excited whispers rose from everywhere around. The crowd moved closer, trying to get a better look.
"Silence!" the marquess commanded. "Are you both ready?"
"Yes."
"Oui."
No honorifics this time. No flowery language. Neither of us were in the mood for that. And, judging by the anxious look on Adaira's face, neither was our most important audience. I took up my stance, and the vicomte did likewise.
For the third and final time, the marquess began to count down. "Three, two, one, and...fire!"
Once more two harsh cracks sounded at the same time and, almost instantly, bits of wood flew up from the targets, revealing two dark holes.
"Ten!" The lackey announced excitedly. "Ten points for the vicomte! And..." His face froze abruptly. "...also ten points for Mr Victor Linton?"
I blinked.
Well...that was unexpected.
"Oh, well..." Reaching up, I scratched my head—only to hurriedly lower my hand when I realised I was using the one that was still holding the pistol. "I guess we could always share her."
"W-what?"
I had never seen a vicomte sputter. It was quite the interesting sight.
"Share her? You know, both marry her."
"I...you...what?!"
"What do you mean, what?" I cocked my head at the Frenchman and, glancing past him, threw a meaningful look at Mr Rikkard Ambrose and Adaira. "I hear reverse harems are in vogue these days."
Mr Rikkard Ambrose's head jerked towards me. I winked at him, which made his little finger twitch. As for Adaira, she stood there with an open mouth, looking like I'd just dropped a wet rat down the back of her dress.
Hah! Payback!
Not that the point of this was to annoy my husband and sister-in-law, no matter how amusing it might be to get back at them for their harem scheme. No...there were more important concerns at play here. My competitor and I were once again tied. The result of the contest now rested on a knife's edge. I had no idea how it would be decided—but anything I could do to throw the vicomte off his game would be welcome.
And, guess what?
If I had wanted to shock people, I had rather admirably succeeded. Several people were whispering, sputtering in outrage or staring at me. The marquess's face was turning more and more red with rage. The marchioness, on the other hand, looked rather contemplative.
"You...!"
The voice was venomous. Looking away from the marchioness, my eyes once more landed on the vicomte, whose expression was...oh my.
Apparently, he did not appreciate the suggestion of a reverse harem.
"You are quite the...adventurous young man, Monsieur Linton, n'est-ce pas?" He took a threatening step towards me. "Then why not use an adventurous way to bring matters to a conclusion. After all, it seems the contest has yet to be decided." A positively venomous smile appeared on the vicomte's face, and he glanced over at the marquess. "Non, Monsieur Marquis?"
"Quite so, Vicomte. May I ask what you are implying?"
"Oh, nothing much." His venomous smile widened. "I just have a little suggestion..."
Suddenly, I had a very, very bad feeling.
---------------------------------------------------
My dear Readers,
The matters regarding British nobility stated in the above chapter are not a joke or a misrepresentation. As previously mentioned, English nobility during this time period in general looked down on anyone who performed manual labour, or engaged in trade and industry. Living off of the rent from land you inherited from your ancestors was apparently the only "honourable" way to earn a living for noblemen. An attitude that probably stemmed from how much of the land belonged to them through much of history. Even today, roughly one third of all land in England and Wales is still owned by a small circle of aristocrats.
By the way, in case you are wondering why Lord Dalgliesh is allowed to earn tons of money that doesn't come from rent - as the majority shareholder of the East India Company and the de facto ruler of India, he has an official position recognized by the government, which would make earning money totally fine. It wasn't really that nobles couldn't get involved in business ventures, they just had to cover it with a mantle of "propriety".
On another note, the cockerel being a French national symbol is indeed a fact. The reason for it lies in antiquity. France used to be called Gaul back in Roman times. In Latin, the language of the Romans, the word "gallus" happens to mean both "cock" and "person who lives in Gaul". Thus, over time, the cockerel became associated with Gaul and, later, France.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob
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GLOSSARY:
Scélérat—French for "scoundrel".