‘Well, that went rather well, Mr Linton.’

‘Huh?’

I blinked. I was in a coach? How had I ended up in a coach? I could have sworn I was in a chapel a moment ago, holding the hand of-

‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, are you listening to me?’

‘Eerr…well…’

Slowly, I raised my head, looking up into the face of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. It was emotionless as ever, hard and cold. No trace of what we had shared just a moment ago was visible in his features.

What you shared? You shared a bit of skin contact! He probably just did it to look good in front of Prince Albert, for whatever sinister plan he has cooked up in that ice-cold head of his!

Yes, that was undeniably the most logical explanation. But then…why did my hand continue to tingle as if it had spent an hour in a jar filled with enchanted fairy dust?

‘Mr Linton!’

I jerked my eyes away from my hand and up to him again. ‘Yes, Sir? What is it, Sir?’ Belatedly, I remembered that I was still wearing a dress. ‘And it’s Miss Linton to you,’ I added.

‘Not anymore. The wedding is over.’

‘What? You are going to call me Mr, even while I’m wearing a dress?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘You…!’

‘If you want to spend time insulting me, Mr Linton, do it after hours. We have work to do.’

And with that, he tapped his cane against the roof of the coach. ‘Driver? Back to Empire House!’

I glowered at him the whole way back to the office, asking myself how I could ever have let him hold my hand. Right now, my hand was itching to make contact with another part of his body, and not quite so gently.

But there were questions I needed answered. And from what I had learned so far of male psychology, he was unlikely to tell me anything I wanted if I slapped him across the face first. With great effort, I managed to keep my hands at my sides. I even managed to restrain myself when, instead of stopping in front of the front entrance, we drove around to the back and through the gates into the courtyard, in spite of the fact that, deep down, I knew the reason why. My eyes flashed like a cutthroat’s favourite razorblades. ‘Why are we going in the back? Is it because you don’t wish to be seen with a female by your staff?’

‘Exactly, Mr Linton. Impressively perceptive, for your standards. Now strip.’

My eyes went wide. Did he just…?

Yes. He did.

Don’t! I told my right hand, which was twitching and aching to begin its swift journey up to his face. Don’t! It’s not worth it!

Amazingly, unlike during the wedding, it actually did what I said.

‘I hate to break it to you, Mr Ambrose, Sir, but if I divest myself of my dress, it’s going to be rather more obvious that I am female, not less.’

‘Correct.’ Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a bundle of clothes. ‘Which is why you will put these on before you leave the coach.’

Open-mouthed, I stared at the clothes. Not because they were anything to write home about. A plain black hat, black trousers and tailcoat. The vest was the only thing fancy. No, it wasn’t the fact that the clothes were special which had me gaping. It was the fact that they were mine! Bloody mine! Paid for with my own money!

‘How did you get your hands on those?’

Your hands that have held mine…

I squashed down the thought.

‘Karim gave them to me,’ Mr Ambrose told me, unconcernedly.

‘And how did Karim get his oversized paws on my clothes?’

‘He took them from your uncle’s garden shed at my instruction.’

My jaw wanted to drop - then remembered it was already wide open. Blast!

‘You had Karim break into my uncle’s garden shed?’

‘Karim has broken into at least seven British-Indian forts, two palaces and three prisons while in my employ. Believe me, your uncle’s garden’s shed did not present a problem to him.’

‘I don’t doubt it! My incredulity was related to the fact that he broke British law by committing breaking and entering.’

‘Ah. Well, that does not present a problem to him either.’

I took a deep breath.

Calm, I told myself. If he can stay calm, so can you.

‘And how, if I may ask, Sir, did you know that I had an emergency set of clothes stashed in my uncle’s garden shed?’

‘You may not.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You may not ask. Get dressed.’

And, dumping the pile of clothes into my lap, he climbed out of the coach, firmly shutting the door behind him.

For a moment, one blissful, feminist, rebellious moment, I considered going after him and fulfilling my homicidal fantasies. Then I remembered that he was the man signing my pay cheque at the end of each month, and without that signature, my agenda for independence would go down the drain faster than you could say ‘Not fair!’ Pulling down the blinds with a muttered curse, I started the arduous process of squirming out of a dress.

Fifteen minutes later I emerged from the coach, quite literally a new man. Stopping two feet in front of Mr Ambrose, I gave a mock salute.

‘Mr Victor Linton reporting for duty, Sir!’

‘You took your time.’

‘Would you have preferred it if I took yours?’

‘Wit is not something I pay you for, Mr Linton.’

‘Unfortunately, Sir.’

I suppressed a grin as I saw his left little finger twitch. ‘We have work to do. Follow me!’

‘Yes, Sir!’

We left the yard and entered through large double doors into the main hall. All eyes snapped to us the moment we entered, and let me tell you, there were a lot of them. Eyes, I mean. Clerks, accountants and messengers were hurrying hither and thither, and probably also fither and lither, making absolutely sure that they had performed every minutest task to Mr Ambrose’s perfect satisfaction. The moment the great master himself entered the hall, a hush fell over the hurrying crowd, and though they did not dare to slow down, they veered off to the left and right, avoiding Mr Ambrose like panicking chickens as he strode through the hall, me following in his wake. The instant we vanished into the stairwell, an audible sigh of relief sounded from the hall behind us.

Mr Ambrose was the first and last person I had ever met who had mastered the art of marching up a staircase. I guarantee you, even if trained soldiers tried this, they’d break their neck at the second step. But Mr Ambrose did it as if there were nothing to it, and was quicker than I when I was flat-out running. He was at the top long before I was.

Did he wait for me?

I’ll give you three guesses.

Thud!

The sound of his office door slamming shut greeted me as I reached the top landing, panting and out of breath.

‘Good morning, Mr Linton,’ Mr Stone, the receptionist, greeted me with a timid smile. ‘In a good mood today, is he?’

‘Excellent!’ I panted. ‘We’ve just come from the Royal Wedding.’

‘Ah. That explains it. Here.’ Mr Stone bent to retrieve something from a drawer, and when he came up again, held out a stack of letters to me. ‘The correspondence of the day.’

Immediately, a large, scented pink envelope with a coat of arms stamped on it caught my eye. Mr Stone, who had noticed the direction, nodded.

‘Yes. One of those again.’

‘They’ve been coming more frequently, lately, haven’t they?’

‘Almost every day.’

‘Hm.’ Taking the envelopes, I studied the pink intruder carefully.

‘What do you do with them, if I may ask, Mr Linton?’ Mr Stone enquired shyly.

‘What can I do? It’s not as though he wants to see them. I stuff them in the lowest drawer of my desk. It’s full to the brim already. I wonder how I’m going to fit this one in.’

‘Well, in case you need space, I still have one or two free corners in my drawers.’

‘Thanks.’ I was about to reach out for the doorknob and follow Mr Ambrose into the office, when I hesitated. ‘You don’t happen to have any idea whom they’re from, do you?’

‘What?’ Mr Stone popped a breath mint into his mouth and reached for a pile of documents on his desk. ‘The pink letters?’

‘Yes. Does he have a wife? A friend overseas with a strange predilection for pink? A mistress whose services he didn’t pay for because she didn’t perform to his satisfaction?’

Mr Stone coughed and, with a ping, the breath mint ricocheted off his paperweight and disappeared somewhere in the labyrinth of papers on his desk.

‘Err…um…well, Mr Linton, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr Ambrose. Though I’m sure that all of Mr Ambrose’s connections are perfectly respectable and proper.’

‘Are you? Well, good for you.’

Tucking the stack of envelopes under my arm, I followed my perfectly respectable and proper employer into his office, where he was busy studying the plans for a new, improved steam engine his men had managed to steal from the offices of his main rival, Lord Dalgliesh, only a few days ago.

‘Ah, Mr Linton, there you are. What have you got there?’

‘Letters, Sir.’ Hurriedly, I covered the pink one with my arm. ‘Nothing to be worried about. I’ll sort through them later.’

‘Acceptable.’ Reaching over, Mr Ambrose pulled a bell pull and, a few moments later, a panting messenger boy appeared at the door.

‘Send this down to Mr Maddison in the technical department.’

‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’

‘Tell him the valves still need a little bit of work, but otherwise, the prototype seems sufficient.’

‘Yes! Right away, Sir!’

And he was off.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you are involving the young and innocent in your nefarious deals now?’

Mr Ambrose took a seat behind his desk and fixed me with his cool gaze over steepled fingers. ‘I do not know what you mean, Mr Linton.’

I closed the door behind me. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me! I’m your personal secretary. Your closest confidante. I always know what you are really up to.’

‘Oh, really?’ Behind his desk, Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘Then pray, enlighten me, what was I doing at the wedding ceremony? Why was I wasting my time on a German princeling with too big a head and too small a moustache?’

I opened my mouth - and closed it again.

‘All right,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘Maybe I don’t always know what you’re up to.’

‘Indeed you don’t.’

‘So tell me!’ I took a step forward. ‘What was that all about? You…’ I hardly managed to bring the word over my lips, the idea was so outlandish! ‘You…smiled.’

‘Indeed. I am reliably informed that contortion of facial musculature is customary at nuptials.’

‘It is customary in everyday life, too. But that didn’t mean you saw fit to make use of it.’

‘True.’

‘And you gave three thousand pounds to charity!’

‘True.’

‘Why?’

In answer, instead of saying anything, Mr Ambrose bent down and retrieved something from a drawer within his desk. With a whisper of air, a large sheet of paper landed in front of me on the desktop.

‘Read,’ he ordered.