I picked up the paper, and read.

‘Her Majesty Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, in Her gracious consideration for the chiefs and people of New Zealand, and her desire to preserve to them their land and to maintain peace and order amongst them, has been pleased to appoint an officer to treat with them for the cession of the Sovereignty of their country and of the islands…’

My voice faded away. With narrowed eyes, I looked up at Mr Ambrose and waved the paper.

‘What is this?’

He met my gaze with his cold one. ‘I do not need to explain myself to you, Mr Linton. I will tell you what I plan in this case only because I shall need your assistance at a later point.’

‘Understood, Sir. So…what is it?’

‘What you are holding is a copy of the so-called Treaty of Waitangi, signed four days ago by representatives of the British Crown and forty-four Maori chiefs at Waitangi, New Zealand. It establishes British Sovereignty over all of New Zealand.’

My eyes narrowed a bit further.

‘I’ve read about sea journeys. A journey to New Zealand would take at least sixty days.’

‘Seventy-five, to be exact. But, depending on the weather, it can last as long as one hundred and twenty.’

‘If this was signed just four days ago, how do you have a copy of it now?’

‘By acquiring one before the original was shipped, of course.’

‘Of course.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And what has this Treaty of Waikiki-’

‘Waitangi.’

‘-Waitangi got to do with you?’

‘Simple. With British sovereignty established over the islands, it will be much easier to exploit their natural resources. I am opening up new avenues of business.’

‘And what about these Maori you mentioned? What will they say to these new avenues of yours?’

‘Every avenue needs paving stones, doesn’t it?’

I decided it was best not to think too deeply about what exactly he meant by that. In any case, I still had plenty of other things to think about.

‘And what does all of this have to do with the Queen?’

‘I have already exerted considerable influence on the British Parliament to grant me economic benefits in New Zealand. Unlike India, Dalgliesh has not been able to sink his fangs into those lands yet, and I plan to make him pay for his negligence. I am going to get this land under my control.’

‘No matter the cost?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Linton.’ He gave me a censuring look. ‘The cost always matters. One simply has to make sure that it is outweighed by profit.’

That wasn’t exactly what I had meant. But I knew it would be useless trying to explain to him that I had been referring to the natives. So I simply asked: ‘The Queen?’

‘The Queen is the last cornerstone in my plan. True, she has little actual political power, but she serves as an important figurehead. With her blessing for my ventures, rival offers will likely be looked upon with disfavour by Parliament. That is why I decided to win over her husband. Considering the way things stand, if I have Albert on my side, I have Victoria.’

‘Why?’ I asked, frowning. ‘Most royal marriages are arranged for the sake of convenience, or for an alliance. Usually, there’s no more regard between the husband and his wife than between a pin and its pincushion. Why would you think this case is any different?’

In answer, Mr Ambrose pulled something else out of a drawer of his desk. This time, it was a few smaller sheets of paper, filled with neat handwriting. Mr Ambrose cleared his throat.

‘At about half past, I sent for Albert; he came to the Closet where I was alone, and after a few minutes I said to him, that I thought he must be aware why I wished them to come here, and that it would make me too happy if he would consent to what I wished (to marry me)…’

My mouth dropped open. He couldn’t be reading what I thought he was reading, could he?

‘…we embraced each other over and over again, and he was so kind, so affectionate; oh! to feel I was, and am, loved by such an Angel as Albert-’

‘Mr Ambrose!’

He glanced up. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Ambrose! This isn’t…You can’t be-’

‘If you would let me continue, Mr Linton? The pertinent part is still to come.’ He raised the papers to his eyes again. ‘To feel I was, and am, loved by such an Angel as Albert was too great delight to describe! He is perfection; perfection in every way, in beauty - in everything! I told him I was quite unworthy of him and kissed his dear hand…’

‘Mr Ambrose! This…how…how in God’s name-’

‘Will you be quiet, Mr Linton? If you keep interrupting me, this will take all day.’ He gave me another one of his cool looks, then returned to his reading. ‘He said he would be very happy, “das Leben mit dir zu zubringen”, and was so kind, and seemed so happy, that I really felt it was the happiest brightest moment in my life, which made up for all that I had suffered and endured. Oh! How I adore and love him, I cannot say!’

Lifting his eyes from the paper, Mr Ambrose regarded me for a moment. ‘This material would support the theory that their marriage was in fact not simply a marriage of convenience, wouldn’t you say, Mr Linton?’

‘Um…well…’

‘This entry is from Tuesday, October 15, 1839. But if this is insufficient evidence to convince you, let me read you a passage from November 9.’

He turned over a few pages, and then began to read aloud in his cool, distant voice once more, while I listened with my mouth hanging open. Part of me knew that I should stuff my ears, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

‘He looked down into my face, with such an angelic expression in his dear beautiful face. I laid my head on his chest, and he wiped away my tears with his hand and took me and pressed me in his arms, and kissed me so often, as I did him. We then sat on the sofa together, and dearest Albert put his arm round my waist, and leant quite close to me, and kissed my neck and head, and-’

‘All right, all right!’ I held up both hands protectively. ‘I get the picture!’

‘Satisfactory.’ He leaned back and stowed away the papers, not noticing the glare I was directing at him.

‘Tell me you didn’t!’ I demanded.

‘Didn’t what, Mr Linton?’

‘Tell me you didn’t just read me passages from the Queen of England’s private diary!’

‘I didn’t.’

I sagged with relief. ‘Oh, thank God! I thought-’

‘I read you passages from the transcript of the Queen of England’s private diary with which my agents provided me.’

‘What?’

‘The transcript. Meaning an exact reproduction of material originally presented in another medium. From Latin transcribere.’

‘I know what a transcript is, thank you very much! I’ve only made about two hundred of them for you since starting this infernal job!’

‘Two hundred and thirty-seven.’

‘Let’s get back to the subject, shall we? You stole the Queen of England’s private diary?’

‘No. I had it copied. People would have noticed it was stolen.’

‘How?’

‘Apparently, the staff at Buckingham Palace is not particularly reliable. When I sent a few of my people over with excellent, albeit fake, references, the housekeeper nearly kissed their feet, she was so happy to hire them.’

‘And…and you had them copy out the Queen’s private diary?’

‘Yes.’

‘How could you?!’

‘By paying them enough to motivate them.’ Abruptly, Mr Ambrose rose from behind his desk. ‘It was worth the investment. When Prince Albert looks at our Queen with - what was it again?’ he leafed through the transcript. ‘Ah, yes. When he looks at the queen with an “angelic expression in his dear beautiful face” and suggests to her that I should be granted economic benefits, I hazard she will not be able to resist him.’

I sent him the most disapproving stare I was capable of. To judge by the stony cast of his face, he didn’t even notice. ‘And what now?’ I demanded. ‘Why did you tell me all this? It seems you have everything already planned out to the last detail.’

‘Indeed I have.’ Marching over to a secretary in the corner (unlike me, a wooden one), he pulled a blank sheet of paper out of a stack and returned to his desk. ‘But not every step has been put into practice yet. It will not suffice to approach the Prince - I will have to attack the couple from both sides. To that end, I intend to send the Queen a letter. A letter consisting of ridiculously exaggerated compliments for dear, angelic Albert. In her present state of temporary, romance-induced insanity, it is exactly the kind of thing that will influence her to do what I wish.’

I stared at him. ‘You? You know how to write compliments?’

‘No.’ He put quill and paper down on the desk in front of me. ‘Which is why you are going to write them for me.’

*~*~**~*~*

About half an hour later, I emerged from my office and approached Mr Ambrose’s desk. He was deeply engrossed in the study of mining revenues from Sub-Saharan Africa, and didn’t notice my approach. I cleared my throat.

‘Yes, Mr Linton?’ He didn’t look up.

I thrust the paper at him. ‘Here!’

He took it, and, turning, I started to tiptoe away.

‘Wait!’

His voice froze me in place. Slowly, I turned back to face him again.

‘Yes, Sir?

‘You will remain while I review your work.’

Blast! ‘Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir.’

He placed the paper of scrawled notes on his desk and began to study it. After a few minutes, he bent forward, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally. He remained like this for a few more moments - then he picked up the paper and raised it to his eyes until his perfectly carved, straight nose almost touched the paper.

With one, long, elegant finger he tapped the beginning of my notes. ‘Really, Mr Linton?’

I nodded, bravely, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. ‘Yes, really, Sir.’

‘Hm.’

His eyes wandered further down the paper. Just about in the middle he stopped abruptly, and it almost seemed as if his eyebrows rose half a millimetre. Slowly, he looked up at me.

‘Somewhat…extreme, don’t you think, Mr Linton?’

My cheeks got even hotter. Bloody hell, was I glad I was too tanned for it to really show! ‘No, Sir! It is absolutely essential, Sir.’

‘But that part, where you say his d-’

‘Yes, Sir!’ I interrupted him, hurriedly. ‘Trust me. I have five sisters. I know what girls want to hear.’

‘Hm.’ Mr Ambrose lowered his gaze to the paper again. ‘I see, Mr Linton.’

He was just finishing the last paragraph when footsteps sounded outside in the hallway. A moment later, a knock came at the door.

‘Enter!’

At Mr Ambrose’s cool command, the door opened, and a willowy young man with glasses on his nose and a folder under his arm stuck his head inside. ‘Um, please forgive the disturbance, Sir, but I thought you would like to know. A messenger from Miss Brand, the palace maid, just arrived, and it appears that-’

It was just then that the young man caught sight of me and nearly swallowed his tongue. He coughed. ‘Sorry, Sir. I didn’t know you had company. What I meant to say is that so far, operation RWN is progressing satisfactorily.’

‘RWN?’ I enquired, eyebrows raised.

The young man reddened, and desperately looked from Mr Ambrose to me and back again. Mr Ambrose waved a hand. ‘Tell him. Mr Linton is my private secretary, and knows all about RWN.’

The young man cleared his throat. ‘Royal wedding night,’ he explained with a sheepish look on his face. ‘Um…I’ve just remembered, there’s somewhere I should be.’

‘Take this.’ Mr Ambrose handed him my paper with suggestions. ‘Have Plaskett write it up in appropriately elegant handwriting and send it up for me to sign.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ The young man bowed hurriedly. I wasn’t looking at him, though. I was staring at Mr Ambrose, my mouth agape.

The door closed with a click behind the young man, and I was still staring.

‘Operation RWN?’ I demanded, my voice sounding a little bit weaker than I would have liked.

Mr Ambrose cocked his head and gave me a look. One of those looks. ‘Do you still wonder how I knew about the clothes in your garden shed?’