A baronet! She had actually managed to find a blasted baronet! And as if baronets weren’t rare enough in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, she had found one who apparently wanted to marry me! And even worse: an hour spent in my company had not been enough to change the man’s mind!

What the bloody hell was I going to do? Aunt Brank had been eager enough for me to get married before, but now? When there was a noble title involved? She would move heaven, earth and hell to pull this wedding off. If need be, she would drag me to the altar by my hair. The only way I would be able to escape was if I fled England!

‘Good morning, Mr Linton,’ Mr Stone greeted me cheerfully as I stomped down the hallway on my way to my office.

Then he caught sight of my face.

I threw him a glare. ‘Who said anything about good?’

‘Um…’ He swallowed. ‘My mistake. Mr Ambrose is waiting for you.’

I bet he is! But right now, that doesn’t matter! I have to think up a way to get out of town, a way to get away from my aunt. I don’t have time for Mr High and Mighty Ambro-

My thoughts cut off abruptly as an idea struck me. It wasn’t gentle about striking me, either. It gave me a hefty wallop in the head.

Mr Ambrose! That was it. The last two times I had left England - the only two times, in fact - it had been in the company of Mr Ambrose, to take care of problems presented by the many and varied business interests that he possessed all over the globe. The two of us had invaded the secret headquarters of Lord Dalgliesh, had sailed to France, traversed the deserts of Egypt and fought robbers and hired killers together! Surely he could come up with some more robbers to kill in some desolate corner of the earth, preferably more than five hundred miles away from my dear aunt?

‘Mr Linton, I can hear you breathing out there!’ a familiar cold voice cut through the door of Mr Ambrose’s office. ‘Get in here! You are already twenty-seven seconds late.’

‘Work calls,’ I informed Mr Stone and, pushing the door open, sauntered into the office with a broad smile on my face. ‘Good morning, Sir! It is a wonderful morning, is it not?’

Cold silence greeted me.

I don’t know whether you’ve ever been greeted by cold silence before. In case you haven’t, let me tell you - it doesn’t make for a great welcome party.

‘The perfect weather for a walk in the park,’ I added, trying to keep the bright smile on my face. ‘Or a trip to the country. Or maybe, I don’t know…even a longer journey?’

A pair of dark, sea-coloured eyes found my face. ‘Get the balance sheets, Mr Linton!’

Not a very promising start, I had to admit to myself as I hurried to do his bidding. I would have preferred ‘Of course, Mr Linton! Let’s go to Honolulu!’ But if Mr Ambrose ever made things easy, he wouldn’t be Mr Ambrose - or would have stopped breathing. Though, on second thought, I wouldn’t put it past his corpse to try and order me around.

‘You know,’ I mused, putting down the balance sheets in front of him, ‘You look a little pale, Sir.’

Those dark eyes met mine. ‘Your point being, Mr Linton?’

‘A journey to sunnier climes would do you a world of good,’ I said encouragingly.

‘I’ll take this half. And you-’ Mr Ambrose lifted half of the balance sheets off the stack and slammed them down in front of me on the desk, ‘take this.’

‘France is very beautiful at this time of year, I hear.’

‘I expect you to be finished in no more than two hours.’

‘So is Italy. I’ve heard that in the Toscanan-’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Work through balance sheets, Sir.’

‘And what are you not going to do?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Waste time talking about Italy, Sir?’

‘Exactly. Get to work.’

And I got to work.

Half an hour later I was through about one fifth of the pile and hoping sincerely that Mr Ambrose’s accountants had done their job properly. I had leafed through the balance sheets, but I hadn’t exactly read anything while leafing. Well, how could I? How could anyone? If you were being threatened by a marriage to a rich British nobleman, you would have been just as crazy with worry as poor little me!

My mind was frantically going through possible ways of trying to get Mr Ambrose to leave the country and take me with him.

Inventing an imaginary business conference in Belgium?

Forget it! He’d see through it in an instant!

Just asking him politely, with a nice ‘please’ at the end?

Are you crazy?

Telling him I loved him passionately and wanted to elope with him to Gretna Green?

You really are crazy if you think that’ll work!

There really was only one thing I could do to get him to take me out of town: get him to make a trip that would be financially profitable. Profit was Mr Ambrose’s god and patron saint. For profit, he’d walk a thousand miles, or probably even sacrifice his firstborn son, if he had one.

Clearing my throat, I glanced over at Mr Ambrose - who was already finished with about twice as many papers as my good self.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

He didn’t look up. ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

‘I’ve been thinking…’

‘What an astounding feat.’

‘I was thinking about-’

‘Let me guess. Italy?’

‘As a matter of fact, no, Sir.’

I waited for him to ask what I had been thinking about, if not Italy. He didn’t.

‘Don’t you want to know what I was thinking about, Sir?’

‘Not particularly, Mr Linton.’

‘Well, I’m going to tell you anyway!’

‘Indeed.’

‘I was thinking about whether we might be taking another trip soon.’ Now he did glance up at me. The temperature of his gaze was enough to cause frostbite on the tip of my nose. ‘Not a pleasure trip,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘Strictly business, of course! It would be an absolute strictly one hundred per cent business trip!’

‘I see. And what, Mr Linton, would be the purpose of this absolute strictly one hundred per cent business trip?’

‘Um, well…business. Making money. Lots and lots of money. Stuff like that.’

‘And how had you envisioned making lots and lots of money on a trip the destination of which you do not seem to know yet yourself?’

‘Err…I don’t know, Sir.’

‘I thought not.’

He sent me another nose-freezing look. ‘There is no reason to leave the metropole at the current moment. All my business operations around the globe are running smoothly.’

‘Are they?’ Bloody, stinking hell! ‘I’m so happy to hear that, Sir.’

‘Indeed?’ Spearing me with a gaze that was far too perceptive for my liking, Mr Ambrose lifted a fresh pile of balance sheets. ‘According to my new calculations, we will still need three days to finish with these. If we are not interrupted, that is. We will not leave London in the near future. The closest scheduled business trip is in a month.’

Damn! That wasn’t nearly quick enough. If everything went the way Aunt Brank wanted it, I’d be married and have five squalling brats by then. No matter how biologically unlikely, if I stayed in London, she’d manage it somehow!

‘We’ve wasted enough time. Get back to work, Mr Linton!’

‘Yes, Sir. Immediately, Sir.’

I threw myself mindlessly back into work. My mind was off calculating contingency plans. Was there some way I could possibly prevent this marriage? Puke on my fiancé? Proclaim to be an anarchist and mass-murderer? Drug my husband-to-be with opium and ship him off to the East Indies?

No. Nothing would work. Aunt Brank would make me clean up the vomit. She already knew I was an anarchist, and if I shipped a baronet off to the East Indies, the British Government was sure to take exception.

I had to get out! And I had to do it now. Mr Ambrose was my only hope.

Crap.

Abruptly, I rose to my feet. ‘Excuse me, please, Sir. I have to get new ink.’

All I received in reply was a curt nod. Quickly, I turned and dashed out of the room - but not to refill my inkwell. In moments, I was through the door from his office into mine and had started pulling down files from the shelves. In a frenzy, I started leafing through them, desperate to discover something, anything that would help me! These were the pages where Mr Ambrose had recorded all his ventures and adventures, all his profitable journeys all around the world. There had to be something in some remote corner of the earth that could still spit out enough money to arouse Mr Ambrose’s interest! There simply had to be! Had to! Had to…

Ah!

*~*~**~*~*

‘Mr Ambrose?’

Silence.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

More silence. Freezing silence.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir, I’ve been thinking…’

‘Again?’

‘Yes, Sir. Indeed I have, Sir.’

‘Try to control the urge, Mr Linton.’

I tried to control the urge all right - the urge to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine! It was only with great effort that I remained seated and continued leafing through the balance sheets, feigning a casual attitude.

‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll be quiet. I just thought you’d maybe like to know about…well, let’s forget it. I’m sure the gold will be found by somebody sooner or later.’

The last sentence hung in the air, the word ‘gold’ thrumming ominously in the silence. In my head, I counted the seconds.

Three…

Two…

One…

‘Gold? What gold, Mr Linton?’

Bingo!

‘Oh, nothing.’ Not looking up from the balance sheets, I waved my hand dismissively. ‘Just something I thought you would be interested in - but no matter. You said leaving town is out of the question, so it doesn’t signify.’

‘What gold, Mr Linton? Tell me, now!’

I tried my best to hide my smile behind a page full of banana sales proceeds. ‘Well, there’s this thing I found among your old files - just a little business opportunity that you might want to reconsider taking on. But if you’re too busy here in London…’

‘I’ll decide when I’m too busy, Mr Linton!’

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘Give me that file! Now!’

‘Of course, Sir! Right away, Sir!’

Approximately half a second later I had whipped out the file in question and was over at his desk, proudly presenting the result of my ceaseless searching. With bated breath I waited as Mr Ambrose opened the file and started to study the contents. This was it! My chance to get out of the country and out of the clutches of my aunt, the apocalyptic monster of marriage.

Please, God! Please, I’m not sure whether the heck you exist or not, but please just let him fall for this!

‘What do you think?’ I demanded proudly. ‘Isn’t that an excellent business opportunity?’

He continued to study the file for a few moments. Then, slowly, very slowly, he raised his head and gave me a look. One of those looks.

‘A South American ruin, a seventeenth-century manuscript with coded directions leading to a lost civilization and a hidden treasure in the jungle? Mr Linton, this does not particularly sound like a business opportunity to me - more like the synopsis of a cheap adventure novel.’

‘It is business!’ I protested. ‘And there’s nothing cheap about adventure novels! I should know! I buy at least three every week!’

‘I never would have guessed.’

‘Don’t you like gold and treasure?’

‘I do. Almost as much as I like obedient employees.’

‘So can we go?’

‘No.’

‘But-’

‘What did I just say about obedient employees, Mr Linton?’

‘But think of the opportunity, Sir! The wealth, the profit-’

‘And the opportunity for you to get out of town?’

My ears started to burn. Quickly, I snatched the file back out of his hand. ‘I have no idea what you mean, Sir!’

Blast, blast, blast! How does he know? How the hell can he possibly know?

‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Linton.’

He can’t know! He’s just bluffing!

Well, maybe he was. But if there was one man on earth who had a better poker face than a marble statue, it was Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

I gave it one last try. ‘Are you sure about not wanting to do this? Just think of all the gold! And it won’t be difficult to get at all! I mean, South America is only a few thousand miles away-’

His cold gaze stopped me cold. No pun intended.

‘I have no time to waste on foolish adventure quests into the South American jungle, Mr Linton! I deal in real business, not fantasy!’

‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’

‘Now, get me the next round of balance sheets!’

‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’

I rushed out of the room before I could succumb to my irresistible buttkicking urges. I was just returning with the requested documents, when a cautious knock came from the direction of the door.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ I heard Mr Stone’s voice from outside.

‘Enter!’ Mr Ambrose commanded, snatching the balance sheets away from me before I had a chance to put them down. Mr Stone tiptoed into the room, and held out a small stack of envelopes to Mr Ambrose.

‘These just arrived from the Bank of England, Sir. Quite urgent, I am given to understand.’

‘Hm.’ Grabbing the letters, Mr Ambrose sliced the first one open with a finger and pulled out the paper inside. His eyes flicked across the page in prestissimo. Then he glanced up at me.

‘Urgent indeed. I will have to take care of these myself, Mr Linton. Go to your office and make sure I am not disturbed under any circumstances, understood?’

‘Yes, Sir! Just as you say, Sir!’

‘And, Mr Linton?’

I was already at the door when his call made me turn around. He held out a pile of balance sheets to me.

‘Take these with you. I’ll expect you to be through with at least half when I’m finished.’

My shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’

‘Adequate. Close the door behind you, and do not open it again until I say so.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

I walked out and heard the door shut with a click, behind me.

Settling down at my desk and staring miserably at the balance sheets, I thought: I’m going to be a baronet’s wife.

Was there ever a more depressing thought?

Once or twice, I had glanced into the romance novels that were bread and butter to my younger sisters, Anne and Maria. The heroines of these romances seemed to want nothing more than to marry a rakish lord and spend the rest of their days in delirious lovy-dovyness, popping out babies every nine months, or every six, if they could manage. The noblemen in these books were always tall, dark and handsome and, after initially appearing to be total bastards, they revealed themselves to actually be - surprise, surprise! - kind, loving husbands.

Well, let me just tell you what’s wrong with that picture: the average English nobleman is built like a bent beanpole, with oversized ears and nose. While he is capable of great love and passion, they are generally reserved for racehorses, not wives. And in ninety-nine per cent of the cases, if the nobleman in question appears to be a total bastard, he in the end turns out to be a really absolutely total bastard.

Except to racehorses, of course.

‘I’ll be damned if I let myself be sold off to one of those blue-blooded nincompoops!’ I growled, furiously digging through the pile of documents in front of me, hardly noticing the numbers flying by. ‘No matter what Aunt Brank thinks she’ll be getting out of it! I’ll kill myself first! Or better yet, I’ll kill him! Or burn down the church! Or-’

‘Um…Mr Linton?’

A tentative knock came from the door, and Mr Stone stuck his head in.

‘Yes?’ I barked. He flinched.

‘Um…there’s a lady out here.’

‘Lucky you! Enjoy the company, but don’t make too much noise. I’m working.’

I returned to my numbers, but Mr Stone cleared his throat, and I had to look up again, my eyes narrowed. ‘Yes?’

‘Err…this lady out here…She has come to see Mr Ambrose.’

‘Mr Ambrose gave orders that he doesn’t wish to be disturbed!’

‘I’ve told her that.’

‘And even if he hadn’t given those orders, it’d be more likely that he wanted to see a rotten pile of seaweed than a member of the female sex.’

‘I told her that too, Mr Linton. In, um, slightly more diplomatic phrasing.’

‘How very kind of you. And?’

‘And she still insists on seeing him. So I thought…’

‘…that you could dump her into my lap?’

Mr Stone’s cheek flamed. ‘Well, um, Mr Linton, I wouldn’t exactly say it like that, I…’ His voice trailed off, and he looked at me, desperately.

I rolled my eyes. ‘All right. Send her in!’

‘Thank you, Mr Linton!’

He vanished. Moments later, another knock sounded at the door. I was surprised, for I had expected the hammering of a matron with a temper to rival that of my friend Patsy. I would have thought it would have taken a true gorgon to get past two front desks and penetrate this far into the lair of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. But the sound that came from the door was an almost apologetic little, gentle tapping, like a baby woodpecker trying his beak out for the very first time.

‘Come in!’

The door slowly swung open, and a woman entered. No - not a woman, a lady. Definitely. She was older, in her late fifties or early sixties maybe, with a wrinkled little face that showed the lines of both much joy, and much sorrow. Clad in a pink dress and with a pink parasol clutched anxiously in her hands, she looked so harmless and lost that even in my present mood, I couldn’t help but soften towards her a little. This fragile little thing wanted to see Mr Rikkard Ambrose? The poor dear had no idea what she was in for.

‘I-is this the office of…’ she gulped.

She couldn’t even say his name! Apparently, she did have some idea what she was in for. But she didn’t really understand. Not completely. She couldn’t have. If she did, she would be on a ship bound for the Colonies right now, thanking God for escaping her terrible fate.

‘Yes?’ I probed, cautiously.

‘Is this the office of Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’

‘Yes, it is.’ And it’s not too late, yet. You can leave before he gets hold of you.

The lady swallowed, her little hands clenching around the handle of her parasol. ‘I would like to see him.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. Well…I’m afraid Mr Ambrose is busy at the moment.’

The lady swallowed again, and raised her chin. ‘I would still like to see him.’

Oh-la-la! This little lady had more mettle in her than I’d suspected at first sight - or at second, to be honest.

‘Are you acquainted with Mr Ambrose?’ I asked, cautiously.

You can’t be. You haven’t been frozen solid by his ice-cold gaze.

An expression flitted over her face. It might have been a smile - but it might just as well have been a painful wince. ‘Yes. I know…knew Mr Ambrose.’

What? From where? Where??

‘I’ve never seen you here.’

‘I’ve never been here before.’ One corner of her mouth moved up into a tremulous half-smile. ‘You have probably received some of my correspondence, however.’

It took me a moment to catch on. Then my eyes went wide, and I stared at her, really seeing her for the first time: pink dress, pink parasol, a pink bonnet on her head…

No.

It couldn’t be.

‘No…!’

I didn’t realize for a moment that I had uttered the word aloud. She had noticed though, and her smile broadened a little bit.

‘I see you realize what correspondence I’m speaking of?’

I realized all right. This lady, standing right in front of me - it had to be her! The one I had wracked my brain about all those past months! The one whose letters filled nearly every drawer of my desk by now! The mysterious figure from Mr Ambrose’s past:

The pink letter lady!

But…but this can’t be her!

I stared at the old lady, combining her image in my mind with the theories I had developed as to the identity of the writer of the pink letters.

A friend overseas?

No! She’s bloody well right here, isn’t she?

A mistress?

As if! Mr Ambrose wouldn’t willingly spend a penny on anything, least of all a woman! Besides, isn’t she a little…well…you know!

A wife?

No! No, no, no, nonononononoooooooo!

It simply couldn’t be her. I refused to believe that this was the femme fatale from Mr Ambrose’s past. She looked like Britain’s favourite granny in training, for heaven’s sake! It had to be someone different who had been sending him letters! Maybe one of the many ladies asking for charity, whose letters I had been depositing in the paper container (not the bin, because Mr Ambrose insisted on not wasting paper and wrote his notes on the back of the charity requests he refused to answer) over the last few months. Yes! That had to be it!

‘If you’re here collecting for a charity, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.’ I gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Mr Ambrose has many excellent qualities-’ Although I can’t think of any right now. ‘-but generosity is not one of them.’

‘I know.’ The woman’s answering smile was sad. ‘I’m not here collecting for a charity. I’m here to see my son.’