The day started out so nice. I woke up at a reasonable hour and knew immediately that I didn’t have to go to work. Even Mr Ambrose could not force me to work while I was a lady guest in the house of his parents over the Christmas season. (Not that he didn’t try, but sometimes Lady Samantha could be admirably firm.)
So I just lay there in bed that fine morning and listened to the birds sing for a while. When the maid arrived to help me dress I was well awake and eager for breakfast.
Breakfast, too, was nice. I was seated next to Mr Ambrose (Lady Samantha, besides being firm, could sometimes also be very lacking in subtlety) and together, we enjoyed the first meal of the day in semi-companionable silence. Everyone was smiling. Everyone except Mr Ambrose, of course, but even he seemed to be not quite as stony as usual. There was a light in his eyes that, with any other man, might have produced a smile. Captain Carter was smiling, too - positively beaming, actually, for some reason! It was all so nice. Which made what happened next even more of a shock.
The moment breakfast was over, Captain Carter strode over to me. ‘Might I have a brief word with you, Miss Linton? There’s something I’d like to tell you.’
He was smiling so broadly, it was hard for me not to smile back. My fear that yesterday would lead to awkwardness between us instantly evaporated. He was still the same wonderfully strange Captain James Carter. Something really amazing had to have happened to put him in such a good mood.
I held up my half-finished glass of hot chocolate. ‘I’ll be with you directly. Wait for me in the small green drawing room, will you?’
‘Certainly, Miss Linton.’
When he was gone, I threw a sly sideways glance at Mr Ambrose. I wasn’t going to do anything like asking his permission, of course. That would be absolutely unfeminist. But there was nothing to say against checking to see his reaction, right? Just to see if I would have to deal with full-blown arctic rage, or only mild frostbite.
Apparently, however, my sly glance wasn’t sly enough.
He nodded. ‘Go.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
Again, a nod. ‘As I said - whenever the two of you cross paths, I shall not interfere.’
Odd…those were the exact same words he had used yesterday. Only now it occurred to me how strangely that sentence was phrased. My eyes narrowed. I opened my mouth to demand answers - but then, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Captain Carter disappear into the small green drawing room.
Mr Ambrose could wait. Whatever devious plan he was pursuing would surely take at least a few hours to be ready. More than enough time to have my little chat with Captain Carter, go back and squeeze all the necessary information out of Mr Stone Face. So I gulped down the last bit of hot chocolate, put down my cup, rose and followed the good captain into the next room.
We weren’t alone - a few older ladies, friends of Lady Samantha, were sitting in a corner chatting over their needlework - but the other occupants of the room didn’t bother us, and besides, Captain Carter looked excited enough to have blurted out his news even if French and Russian spies had been in the room with us. And so he did, promptly and without ceremony.
‘I’ve been promoted!’
I blinked. ‘What?’
Out of all the possibilities, this was not what I had expected. Not that I didn’t think Captain Carter a very capable officer - on the contrary. But why now? Why here? After all, the English countryside around Christmas does not offer very many opportunities for rapid military advancement. Unless…
‘I got a letter from General Graham this morning, telling me how pleased he was with my performance during the strike in Newcastle. So they’re making me a major-’
‘Oh, Captain - I mean, Major! That’s wonderful!’
‘-if I take the mission to Uruguay.’
The broad smile that had been about to spread over my face decided it preferred to be thin and went on a strict diet instead.
‘What?’
The captain beamed. ‘They’re making me a major!’
‘I heard that. What was that about Uruguay? For that matter, what is Uruguay?’
‘Oh, it’s a country down in South America that recently declared its independence. The leaders of the independence movement seem to have a little disagreement.’
‘What kind of disagreement?’
‘One tried to assassinate the other.’
‘Oh. That kind.’
‘And now, it appears, Britain is getting involved. Army headquarters has decided to send a detachment to South America to help defeat the Biancos. And they want me to head a task force to spy out enemy positions and attack key targets behind the lines. Isn’t that wonderful?’
I considered my answer for a moment. ‘Um…to be honest, it sounds rather dangerous to me.’
‘Yes!’ He clapped his hands, like an excited schoolboy who had just found out he was going on a trip abroad with his favourite uncle. ‘Plenty of adventure, lots of opportunities to fight for Queen and country and prove myself. With any luck, this could make my career.’
‘Or break your neck.’
But Captain Carter wasn’t listening to me. He was much too busy tugging on the speck of beard on his chin, going aloud through a mental list of things he’d need for a lengthy journey into the jungle.
‘Captain? Captain Carter, are you in there? Anyone at home?’
‘…rope, twine, wax-coated matches, a good horse used to uneven ground…’
Men! I snorted. Even the best of them had a little loony spot in their brains stamped ‘Caution! Masculinity! Do not enter!’ How could anyone be excited about going to war? I had seen enough bloodshed myself to know that I never wanted to see what real war looked like. Skimming by its edges during my adventures with Mr Ambrose had been more than enough.
I froze.
Mr Ambrose?
No. No, it couldn’t be.
‘…I’ll ask Her Ladyship to lend me a horse. If I change horses regularly, I can be in Dover in a week, and-’
‘Captain?’
‘-should be no problem getting all necessary supplies there. Plenty of shops with-’
‘Captain!’
Blinking, the captain resurfaced from his planning. ‘Yes, Miss Linton?’
‘Tell me, is it usual for officers to be called in from so far away when, surely, there are troops stationed closer at hand?’
‘No. It’s quite out of the ordinary. But General Graham apparently wanted me specifically for this mission.’ He grinned broadly. ‘Do you know what that means?’
Oh, I have an idea…
‘Someone high up is pulling strings. Whoever it is, he must really be impressed with me.’
You can say that again. Oh, when I get my hands on him…!
But no. He wouldn’t, would he? No one could be that cold and calculating?
Really? Think about that sentence again, and then think about Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
Blast.
‘Tell me,’ I said to the captain, trying to keep my voice light and only mildly interested, ‘did you expect this promotion?’
He shook his head, grinning a broad, boyish grin. ‘No. I had no idea. Then, this morning, suddenly this letter arrives, not even a day old. Whoever pulled the strings to get it done must want me down there badly, and he has to be pretty powerful.’
Oh yes, he is.
How had he done this? How? It was the British Army, for God’s sake! The bloody British Army! He didn’t have command over that, too, did he?
Maybe not command. But influence? Certainly.
Suddenly, I felt a hand grasping mine. Looking up, I saw Captain Carter’s eyes had lost their excited gleam. Instead, he was looking at me now, if possible even more intently than when he had been dreaming of adventure in far-off lands. As if the real adventure were standing right in front of him.
‘This doesn’t change a thing between us, Miss Linton. Queen and country call, and I must go - but I stand by what I said. I want you. If you ever change your mind…’
He let the end of the sentence hang in the air, full of possibilities. I tried to part my lips and answer, tried my very best - but couldn’t.
‘Think about it.’ Gently, he squeezed my fingers. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to think, now. Whoever the other man is - he’s not your only choice.’
Yes, he is, blast him! Because I love the cold-hearted son of a bachelor!
Which wouldn’t prevent me from tanning his hide when next I got my hands on him.
The captain gave me a roguish grin. ‘Will you wish me luck?’
The words hit me in the stomach like a fist. I looked up into his cheerful face - the face of a friend who had been there whenever I needed him. And now he was going off adventuring a thousand miles away, and there was nothing I could do about it. What could I possibly say?
‘Good luck.’ The words were a whisper, but he heard. A smile spread across his face.
‘Thank you, Miss Linton.’ Lifting my hand to his lips he pressed a gentle kiss on the back of it. ‘I shall be thinking of you every time someone in Uruguay steps on my feet during a waltz.’
I swallowed, somehow managing to smile. ‘How romantic.’
He flashed me a boyish grin. ‘I know. I’m a regular Casanova, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, you are. Do me a favour?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t get yourself killed.’
That smile flashed again. ‘Anything to oblige a lady. Goodbye.’
And, with a last gentle squeeze of my hand, he turned and strode out of the room.
*~*~**~*~*
I was not an enthusiastic reader of romance novels, but even I knew how this kind of scene was supposed to go:
• Girl discovers that romantic interest A has sent romantic B to what will probably be a painful and violent death.
• Girl becomes ballistic.
• Girl marches to romantic interest A and proclaims him a vile villain, black-hearted beast and dastardly devil.
• Romantic interest A falls to his knees begging for forgiveness.
• Girl leaves him hanging a little bit for the fun of it.
• Girl grants forgiveness on condition that there will be an immediate marriage, the diamond on her ring will have at least twenty carats, and love interest B be rescued (if possible).
Needless to say that, with Mr Rikkard Ambrose, things did not go quite like that.
I marched into the breakfast parlour under full steam, smoke practically curling out of my ears. No Mr Ambrose. But Adaira was sitting at a window, a cup of hot chocolate in her hand, gazing out over the snowy landscape.
‘Where is he?’ I demanded.
She cocked her head. ‘What has my brother done now?’
I told her.
She nearly dropped the cup of chocolate.
‘He didn’t!’
‘He did.’
‘That poor man!’
‘Poor?’
I had some words in mind to describe Mr Rikkard Ambrose - but that was certainly not one of them. Seeing my face, Adaira waved a hand.
‘Not my brother! The captain!’
‘Oh.’
‘He seemed like such a nice man.’
‘He is.’
‘And now he’ll be crawling through the South American jungle, hunted by wild animals and bloodthirsty soldiers!’ She shuddered. ‘Can you imagine living like that?’
I kept diplomatically silent. Because if I had answered truthfully and said ‘Yes, I did it a few weeks ago’, that would probably have led to a few questions I did not have the patience to answer right now. Instead, I took a step forward and repeated the question that was still hammering against the inside of my skull. ‘Where. Is. He?’
Adaira raised an eyebrow. ‘Where do you think?’
Five minutes later, I kicked open the door to Mr Ambrose’s room. The space had been transformed into an impromptu office. Files decorated the bed in orderly piles, a table had been pushed away from the wall to serve as a desk, and behind the desk sat a familiar figure, busily going through page after page after page of documents.
‘You…!’
My whispered accusation got his attention. Slowly, he looked up.
‘I am working, Miss Linton.’
‘I wouldn’t care if you were dancing tango with a monkey on the moon! I’m going to have a word with you!’
‘Indeed?’
Stepping inside, I slammed the door shut behind me. ‘Oh yes indeed, Sir!’
‘What, pray, is it that you wish to discuss?’
‘You broke your word!’
His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Never.’
‘You said you wouldn’t have Captain Carter killed or kidnapped!’
‘Yes. And?’
‘And? What do you mean, and? You…’
My mouth worked as I searched for the right words - but they would not come. Damn and blast! I had been so busy being enraged that I had completely overlooked the fact that, technically, he hadn’t broken his word. Technically, he had done nothing but exert a little bit of influence so Captain Carter would get a job he was trained to do, and would most likely have been doing sooner or later anyway. He had managed to keep his word, get rid of his rival, and achieve the satisfaction of knowing that the aforementioned rival was probably going to return bullet-riddled and mosquito-bitten - all in one swoop.
I raised a trembling finger. ‘You’re a despicable, sneaky son of a bachelor!’
He cocked his head. ‘Indeed. Was that all, Mr Linton?’
‘I hate you!’
And I love you, too!
‘Indeed.’
‘Go to hell!’
And before he could say ‘indeed’ again and give me reason to strangle him, I stormed out of the room.
*~*~**~*~*
The days that followed were definitely not the happiest of my life. The tension crackling between Mr Ambrose and me was nearly unbearable. Every time I looked at him, I couldn’t help thinking about Captain Carter hacking through the South American jungle. Mr Ambrose might have sent him to his death!
And, whispered a treacherous little voice in a hidden corner of my heart, he did it for you.
And then I felt warm inside.
Warm!
That damnable son of a bachelor actually managed to make me feel good about having sent someone into deadly danger because of me! If that wasn’t a sign that he was dangerous for my sanity, I didn’t know what else it could be.
I avoided him as much as possible. When we did have to enter the same room, I avoided his eyes, his voice, his touch and any other part of him I could evade. It didn’t go unnoticed. The hyenas sent smug smiles my way, and Lady Samantha and Adaira exchanged anxious glances. I couldn’t bring myself to care about either.
It got progressively worse as Christmas drew nearer. With everybody coming together to put up more decorations, practice carols, and generally be merry to a mind-numbingly maddening degree, I seemed hardly able to look at Mr Ambrose anymore. The season of love and good cheer? Ha! Not where we were concerned.
More than once, Lady Samantha threw me questioning glances, as if burning to ask what was wrong, but not daring to. Then, slowly, her intent looks changed to sad ones. Even she thought things between Mr Ambrose and me were heading downhill fast - and I couldn’t blame her. In my desperation, I switched from female to male costume. Miss Linton had several bad migraines during those days, and Mr Victor Linton sat in her place, blessedly unmolested by the sad looks of the lady of the house and the scathing stares of her guests.
Only…he didn’t look at me either. He was silent and cold as the grave.
At least there was one positive aspect to the whole disastrous situation: things couldn’t possibly get worse.
‘Pardon, Your Ladyship?’
It was a few days later. The whole company was sitting at lunch, discussing such marvellously interesting subjects as whether to put a star or a golden-winged angel on top of the Christmas tree, when the butler entered and alerted everyone to his presence with those words.
Lady Samantha cocked her head. ‘Yes, Hastings?’
‘A coach is approaching, Your Ladyship?’
‘Now?’ Lady Samantha’s eyebrows rose. ‘So late?’
‘Are we expecting any more guests?’ Adaira asked with a little frown.
‘No. No, I’m quite sure of it.’
The butler cleared his throat in that dry, delicate manner that only butlers know to perfection. ‘Begging your pardon, My Lady, but it appears that the approaching carriage bears the coat of arms of the Howard family.’
‘The Howards?’ A broad smile spread over Lady Samantha’s face. ‘They said they couldn’t come because Sir Howard was sick. But maybe he has recuperated enough to join our festivities.’
‘Let’s welcome them.’ A jolly gentleman in pinstriped trousers and a too-tight tailcoat rose to his feet with a smile, holding the door open for Lady Samantha and her daughter. ‘Shall we?’
‘Oh yes.’ Getting up, Lady Samantha stepped outside, and the rest of the company followed, eagerly chattering about the newcomers, with two glaring exceptions. The first was me, and the second…
Well, you can probably guess.
I trudged after the rest of them, not really interested in any Lady Holland or Howler or whatever her name was, but too indifferent to my meal to want to continue. Hastings hurried ahead and opened the front door as the ladies and gentlemen stepped into the entrance hall. Cold air rushed into the house, and through the open doorway, I saw a beautiful coach approach in the late afternoon light, drawn by a team of fine white horses.
‘It’s really them!’ Lady Samantha smiled. ‘Oh, I’ve been so looking forward to seeing Lady Howard again.’
She moved down the steps, Adaira beside her. And, I noticed, they weren’t the only ones. Mr Ambrose stepped up beside them, almost instinctively, it seemed. The son of the house, greeting guests. I felt a tug at my feet, wanting to follow him. Clenching my teeth, I suppressed the urge and stayed right where I was. My place was not beside that man.
With a crunch of gravel, the coach rolled to a stop in front of the steps. The footmen jumped down, extending the steps for the lady passengers and opening the door.
‘Ah, Lady Howard!’ Stepping forward, the duchess smiled fondly and curtsied in front of the other middle-aged lady, who was just descending out of the coach. ‘Such a pleasure to see you again - especially since this must mean your husband has recovered.’
‘Alas, no.’ The lady gave a sad smile. ‘Rupert is still languishing in bed. But he was so sad to see my daughter sitting alone at home with Christmas approaching, and when an old friend dropped by and offered to escort us, he insisted that we come without him.’
‘Oh, that’s just like him. He was always such a generous soul. And there is little Rebecca! My, my, how you’ve grown!’
‘And here’s our escort, who was kind enough to offer us his noble company,’ Lady Howard beamed, gesturing at a shadowy figure in the carriage. Suddenly, I felt a prickling sense of unease. But why? ‘I hope you do not mind an additional guest?’
‘Not at all, not at all. Come out and be welcome, Sir.’
‘Sir?’ Lady Howard giggled. ‘Pardon me, Marchioness, but I have to correct you.’ At that moment, the door of the coach swung open, and in the sinking winter sun, golden light shimmered on golden hair. Behind me, I could feel Mr Ambrose go stiff as a rod of iron. I sucked in a sharp breath. ‘It is “my Lord”. May I introduce our friend, Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh?’
Blast!