His head jerked up and around to look at me, but I didn’t see him. Instead I saw a dozen images, whirling in my head, connecting together for the first time:

Mr Ambrose shaking Lord Dalgliesh’s hand with enough force to whiten his knuckles.

Mr Ambrose staring across the ballroom to a table where only two people stood - Miss Hamilton and Lord Dalgliesh.

Mr Ambrose cutting a lock of hair from Simmons' head in the dark cellar beneath Empire House.

Lord Dalgliesh opening the envelope that contained a single lock of golden hair - hair of exactly the same shade and texture as that on Simmons' head.

‘But…’ I steadied myself against the wall. ‘But he’s one of the peers of England! One of the most wealthy and respected gentlemen of the Empire! He wouldn’t be involved in something like this!’

‘He?’ Mr Ambrose asked, his face expressionless. ‘Who?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me!’

‘Mind your language, Mr Linton!’

‘Fine! Don’t play dumb with me, Sir! You know exactly who I am talking about.’

The only answer to this was silence. That is, outside of my head. Inside, a multitude of voices and pictures were clamouring for attention. Rapidly, I went through everything I had seen that night at the ball, when I had first met Lord Dalgliesh.

‘You went there to meet with him,’ I whispered. ‘That’s why you came to the ball! To meet with him and let him know that you knew what he was up to. To warn him off!’

‘I went to the ball to court Miss Hamilton,’ he said with a facial expression that was about as passionate as a piece of dried cod. ‘I went to be with the pearl of my heart, the girl for whom I feel the most ardent love which ever a man has experi-’

‘Oh, put a sock in it!’ I cut him off with a hand gesture. ‘We both know you have no romantic interests whatsoever!’

‘Do we indeed?

‘Yes! They would waste too much of your precious time and money.’

He almost nodded in agreement but caught himself and suggested, almost defiantly: ‘Love could have overwhelmed my defences and made me weak with longing.’

‘No it couldn’t.’

‘Yes it could!’

‘No it couldn’t!’

‘You don't know that for certain. I could feel the most ardent passion-’

‘No you bloody well couldn’t! Not for her, anyway!’

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘And why is that, Mr Linton?’

‘Well… she… she… she’s obviously not the right girl for you! Much too impractical and time-wasting. She’s probably after your money, too.’

‘Thank you for the warning.’ I might have been mistaken, but I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. It wasn’t a smile. It wasn’t even half a smile. He was far too miserly with his facial expressions for that. It was about a quarter of a smile, at the most, but it was there. ‘Though I seem to remember that back at the ball, Mr Linton, you seemed quite convinced of my attachment to Miss Hamilton, in spite of her many defects. If my memory serves me right, it was even you who originally suggested the idea that I might have feelings for her.’

I flushed guiltily.

‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘you seemed quite extraordinarily interested in the subject - and not very pleased by it. Very interested indeed…’

‘I wasn’t interested!’ I snapped. ‘I was being impolite and nosy, which is normal for me!’

‘That is certainly true.’

Wishing desperately to get off this subject as quickly as possible, I made a dismissive hand gesture.

‘Anyway, we weren’t talking about Miss Hamilton! We were talking about your reason for going to the ball!’

‘She was the reason.’

‘No!’

His eyes narrowed another fraction of an inch. Impressive! Together with the miniscule motion of his mouth, this was the closest he had come to having a facial expression since I had known him. He had to be boiling inside.

‘Strange, Mr Linton, how you seem to know my motives and feelings better than I.’

‘Yes it is, isn’t it? But if you don't know them, somebody has to. You went to the ball to confront Lord Dalgliesh. It was you who sent him that letter!’

‘What letter?’ His voice was so smooth, so cool, I could almost have believed he didn’t know what I was talking about. Almost.

‘That letter. It had a lock of Simmons' hair in it, as a sign that his man had been caught. Remember? You cut off a lock of hair from Simmons' head when we were down in the cellar with him. I didn’t understand that at the time, but now I do.’

Silence. Frozen, ice-hard silence from the centre of the arctic wasteland.

His eyes were dark, the dark green-blue of the sea, and totally unreadable. Still, I had a feeling he knew exactly what I was talking about. I, for my part, hovered somewhere between exhilaration, doubt and fear. I had figured it out, finally! I knew who was behind the theft, without a doubt. Everything fit together.

And yet… and yet… it couldn’t be. It was insane. Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh was, by all accounts, one of the wealthiest men of the British Empire. He didn’t have need of petty theft. He had armies at his command, an entire subcontinent under his control. What would he want with one miserable piece of paper?

‘The only thing I don't understand,’ I continued, my eyes lit still by my epiphany, ‘is why the lock? Why send him a lock of hair, not just a simple letter warning him off?’

I expected him to deny it again or to once again be silent. He actually was silent for some time. But then, just as I opened my mouth for the next attack, he raised his chin and said:

‘A letter could have incriminated me. A paper in which I accused him of theft, even in the vaguest terms? He would have found some way to use it against me! A lock of hair on the other hand - that was a message only he would understand. A message that needed no words or signature.’

A wave of cold swept over me. He had admitted it. He had finally admitted it. My exciting theory was no longer just a theory.

‘It can’t be him.’ How come my voice suddenly sounded so small? ‘It simply can’t. I mean… He’s so wealthy. So powerful. And it’s just a piece of paper. It’s not important.’

He regarded me coolly. Not for the first time, I had the feeling that he was assessing me. And not for the first time, I had no idea what the result was.

‘The American Declaration of Independence was just a piece of paper, Mr Linton. It lost us most of our American colonies. In retrospect, do you think it was “unimportant”?’

‘Um… well… no, I suppose not.’

‘Indeed.’

I lifted an eyebrow. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword? Is that what you’re driving at?’

‘It very much depends on the context. I would prefer a sword to fight a duel, but a pen to plan a war.’

He said ‘to plan a war’ as if it were something he did on a regular basis. Looking into his calm, emotionless face, I could believe he did. Another shudder ran down my back. But it was no shudder of revulsion. Oh no. I remembered his powerful body pressed into me, all that tightly contained energy only a fraction of an inch away. What could he unleash, if he wanted to?

More importantly: what would be unleashed when he pitted himself against his arch enemy?

‘Lord Dalgliesh,’ I muttered. ‘Lord Dalgliesh is a thief.’

Before I could blink, Mr Ambrose had crossed the distance between us. He didn’t grab me this time. He just stood very close in front of me, one finger touching my lips. The feeling was electric, sending tingles from my mouth all through my body.

‘Don’t ever,’ he mouthed, ‘say that aloud again. Not ever. Not if you want to live to see your next birthday. Do you understand me?’

That did it. Anger welled up inside me, pushing my fear to the side.

‘No, I don't understand!’ I snapped, nearly biting off his finger. ‘You two are businessmen, or financiers or whatever you call yourselves - not cold-blooded killers! If he is guilty of this theft, why should I be afraid of him? Why shouldn’t I simply go to the police and tell them what I know!’

‘Which is?’

‘That he’s guilty!’

‘Based on what evidence?’

‘Based on… well…’ For a moment I floundered, but it wasn’t long. ‘Based on Simmons' word, for one. We could make him a witness!’

In answer, Mr Ambrose simply turned and walked away from me. I was about to protest, when he stopped and snatched up a newspaper from his desk. A paper? I frowned. What did he want a paper for?

He came back and held out the paper, opened at a particular page. One section was outlined in blue ink.

‘Read it.’

‘What is this?’

‘Read it, Mr Linton!’

Grumbling to myself, I took a closer look at the paper. It was open to the obituaries page. My eyes travelled to the outlined section.

Died, at London, 15 September 1839

Mr Walter Simmons

After having been most brutally attacked by two members of the criminal classes and robbed of all he possessed, he succumbed to severe wounds in St Christopher’s Hospital. Our hearts go out to his poor parents, whose only child he was.

I read it, and I read it again. Then I read it a third time. Still, I couldn’t quite process it.

‘Dead?’ I whispered. ‘Simmons is dead?’

‘Why so surprised, Mr Linton? I told you this would happen.’

‘But how… how did this happen? Why did two people attack him? You took his money away, why would they want to rob him?’

His steady, cool gaze was unnerving.

‘Do you really need to ask that question?’

The way he said it, it sounded like there was an ‘I had thought you were cleverer than that!’ attached at the end - which was silly, of course. Mr Ambrose didn’t think me clever at all! He thought I was a girl, and that all girls were stupid and weak.

Well, my bones certainly agreed with him on the last part right now. Stumbling over to the chair in front of the desk, I fell into it and put my arms around me in an unusually vulnerable gesture.

‘And if we went to the police…’ I managed to say.

‘… they would probably not be very eager to investigate a personal friend of the home secretary and relative of Her Majesty the Queen on an unsubstantiated allegation of murder,’ he finished my sentence. ‘In fact, one might even say they would be strongly averse to the idea.’

‘And if we just brought up the theft, Sir?’

‘The one for which you’ve just lost your only witness, Mr Linton?’

‘Oh.’

‘Quite.’ Mr Ambrose shook his head, looking down at me. ‘You have to believe me when I tell you that there’s more to business in the British Empire than signing papers and building machines. Oh, here in the metropolis it’s all glamour, smiles and handshakes. But behind the façade, things are not so pretty.’

‘So… what will we do now?’

‘We?’ He gave a little derisive noise. ‘We will return to our original discussion: the subject of your impending dismissal.’

My head shot up, and I stared into his eyes disbelievingly.

‘What? You really meant that?’

His eyes were very dark.

‘I do not say things I do not mean, Mr Linton! You made a fool of me in front of the entire city. I do not take such things likely. And you’re mistaken if you think you can sidetrack me. Who stole the file, whether it was Lord Dalgliesh or Queen Victoria or Father Christmas for that matter is no concern of yours!’

There were noises from outside the room - the footsteps of a heavy man, coming closer. But neither of us paid attention to them. We were too intent on each other.

‘But… of course it is of concern to me if I’m going to help in the search for the file,’ I protested.

He made a move towards me - then stopped himself in mid-movement. Slowly, as if he had to drag himself back, he removed himself from my vicinity and retreated behind his desk, where he sat down so he was on a level with me and could stare directly into my eyes.

‘No.’

The footsteps were still coming closer. They were as loud as drumbeats now, pounding down the hallway outside. But still, neither of us cared.

‘Yes, Sir, I will!’

‘No, you won’t.’

Behind Mr Ambrose, over the city, the sun was setting. Its last red remnants of light streamed directly into the room, casting Mr Ambrose’s shadow towards me and making him look more like a stony, sinister statue.

‘You,’ he said, slowly and precisely, ‘will not have anything to do with the search for the file, whether you stay or go, and let me tell you, at the moment the latter is far more likely. You will not come within a hundred leagues of Lord Dalgliesh! You won’t even hear a whisper of any trail or clue my men and I will discover! I’ll make sure to keep you far, far away!’

The footsteps outside came to a sudden halt and the door was thrown open. We both turned to stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rebuke form on Mr Ambrose’s lips about how anyone could dare to disturb him without knocking - but his lips froze when he saw who stood in the doorway.

Karim was breathing hard, leaning against the doorway, triumph flashing in his eyes.

‘We have found it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sahib, we know where the file is!’

*~*~**~*~*

‘Why did you do it?’ I demanded. ‘Why did you try to make me believe that you were in love with Miss Hamilton?’

Silence. Icy silence, which filled the space around us completely and absolutely.

There wasn’t much space to fill, in any case. We were stuffed into a chaise, Karim, Mr Ambrose and I. Or rather, Mr Ambrose and I were actually in the chaise, while Karim’s huge form sat, perched precariously at the edge. He was propelling us forward, yelling and wielding the whip, making the little chaise jolt and swerve insanely.

Why? Why have we taken such a miserable little ride?

I had dared to ask that question before we got in, and it turned out that this, apparently, was the only coach actually owned by the unimaginably rich Mr Ambrose: a creaky old chaise, drawn by one shaggy little grey beast of a horse.

‘Why do you own this? Why not a proper coach?’ I had asked.

‘Because it’s cheap and fast. But if you prefer to wait for the Queen’s carriage, by all means, stay here.’

Ignoring him, I had clambered into the chaise and Karim, not paying the slightest attention to the light rain that had begun to fall, had swung himself onto the precarious strip of wood that, in a bigger coach, would have been a real box to sit on. Besides being his loyal bodyguard and sabre-carrying scarecrow, Karim appeared also to fulfil the function of Mr Ambrose’s coach driver.

Now we were rattling through the darkening streets of London at an alarming speed, swaying from right to left in a way that never let me forget we only had two wheels under us, and the beast of a horse at the front was all that was keeping us upright. I hoped with all my heart it wasn’t as mean as it looked.

The chaise swerved around a corner, and a shower of rain hit me in the face. I shuddered. The thing had only half a roof and one wall. It was meant for driving through the park on a nice Sunday, not racing through the pouring rain in the middle of the night! But did that stop Mr Thick-headed Stinginess Ambrose? Of course not!

‘Why did you try to make me believe that you were in love with Miss Hamilton?’ I asked once again. I had already asked that question about half a dozen times since we left Empire House. So far, I hadn’t gotten an answer. Mr Ambrose just sat in his corner of the chaise and brooded, silently. Say what you will about his other traits, but he was an expert at silent brooding. Disapproval at my incessant questions, and at my presence, gender and existence in general radiated off him like heatwaves. Unfortunately, unlike heatwaves, it did nothing to warm my soaked clothes.

‘Tell me!’ I insisted. ‘You’re about as likely to be in love as the doorknob of my privy door back home! Why did you pretend to be in love with her?’

With a cold look in my direction, Mr Ambrose leaned out of the window. ‘Karim!’

The big Mohammedan shifted, turning around. His weight made the little vehicle lean to the side in a dangerous way, and I had to work hard to stifle a scream. Only the knowledge of the way Mr Ambrose would look at me if I screeched like a silly damsel in distress kept my teeth firmly clamped together.

‘Yes, Sahib?’ our driver enquired calmly, not at all bothered by his master’s cold look.

‘Karim, is there any particular reason why this… individual is accompanying us?’ He pointed to me.

Karim shrugged. ‘She wanted to get in the coach. So, she got on into the coach, Sahib.’

‘Just in case you didn’t notice, I’m sitting right next to you,’ I pointed out, staring daggers at Mr Ambrose.

He ignored me.

‘I know she got into the coach, Karim. I want to know why. Did I give orders for her to accompany us?’

‘No, Sahib.’

‘In fact, I remember distinctly saying that she was not to be involved in the search for the file, correct?’

‘Yes, Sahib.’

‘So, I repeat, and trust me, I won’t do it again: why is she here?’

‘It is rude to talk about people as if they weren’t there!’ I snapped. ‘And even ruder not to answer their questions! What about Miss Hamilton?’

Again I was ignored. Karim shrugged, and it was a mystery to me how he managed to do that without falling out of the coach. The chaise swayed again, and the horse whinnied.

‘A shrug?’ Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘That’s all? Why didn’t you stop her?’

‘Why did not you, Sahib?’ Karim asked, deadpan.

Silence.

‘She wanted to get in the coach,’ he repeated. ‘She is the woman that is worse than Ifrit. I do not disagree with a woman that is worse than Ifrit.’

Mr Ambrose gave his servant another cold glare, which the Mohammedan dutifully ignored. From Mr Ambrose’s stonier-than-stone face, long past granite and transcended into the realms of fossils, I gathered he didn’t like to be ignored.

Well, neither did I!

‘Excuse me!’ Impatiently, I tapped on his shoulder. ‘Will you answer my question now? Why the heck did you pretend to be in love with that shrew?’

Immediately, Mr Ambrose switched targets. His frostbite-inducing stare, before directed at Karim, now turned to me.

‘Have you forgotten what I told you, Mr Linton? As long as you are in my employ, you will speak respectfully to me and refer to me as “Master” or “Sir”.’

Swallowing the answer I would have liked to deliver, I gave him a tight smile.

‘Yes, of course, Sir. I thought you said earlier, Sir, that you had decided to dismiss me, so I no longer considered a formal address necessary. I am so glad you have changed your mind and will allow me to continue to work for you, Sir.’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘I’ve changed my mind. Be as rude as you want to me. You’re dismissed.’

‘Oh no, Sir. I couldn’t possibly forsake you in your hour of need.’ I pointed out the window at the wet houses rushing past in the gathering darkness. ‘Besides, we’re already on our way to get the stolen file back. You can’t stop now, when that might mean that it could slip through your fingers.’

He studied me, his eyes narrowing the fraction of an inch.

‘I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘I am the master here! I can decide to dismiss you whenever I want.’

‘You gave your word, remember? Your word that I would get this position.’

‘Get it, not keep it.’

‘Did I do anything to deserve to lose it?’

Silence.

‘Well, Sir? Did I? Really, honestly? On your honour as a gentleman?’

Silence.

Then, speaking as if every word was a painfully pulled tooth, he said: ‘No! Congratulations! You managed to disobey me and ridicule me by following my instructions to the letter! I cannot dismiss you!’

With a happy little smile on my face, which I made sure he couldn’t see, I snuggled into the moth-eaten old upholstery of the chaise bench, creating my own little corner of warmth.

‘I’m very gratified to hear it, Sir,’ I mumbled. ‘So I suppose this means I’m still in your employ?’

It was impressive how he managed to sound both displeased and grudging, while at the same time maintaining a perfectly cool, aloof voice. ‘I suppose that is correct.’

Maybe I even heard a little admiration there. But no, I was probably mistaken.

‘Good. Then perhaps now you can answer my question: Why pretend to be in love with Miss Hamilton?’

His left little finger twitched minutely. For him, that was the equivalent of an impressive scowl.

‘You don't give up, do you, Mr Linton?’

‘No, Mr Ambrose.’

He sighed. It was such an unusual thing for him to do that it made me come out of my little protective corner of warmth and turn towards him. But he had turned away from me and was looking out of the chaise window. For a minute or two he didn’t say anything. I had almost opened my mouth to ask once again when he suddenly began:

‘When I spoke to you at the ball - you remember, when we were dancing?’

‘Oh yes, I remember.’ I suppressed a snort. Rotating around the ballroom with the granite statue of London’s richest businessman holding me close - I wasn’t about to forget that in a hurry! It surely had to have been one of the most awkward moments of my life. And yet, I realized suddenly, in retrospect, a moment oddly dear to me. Strange.

‘When I first saw you at the ball, I was… quite disturbed.’ His jaw twitched, betraying the roiling tension under his stony façade. ‘To see you like that, so feminine and vulnerable, in the same room as him, the very man I had tried to keep you away from as much as possible - it was… not pleasant.’

He paused for a moment, then continued.

‘Why were you there? I had no idea, and the question didn’t stop hounding me. I decided I had to get you alone, to find out how much you knew - get you to leave, if possible. So I asked you to dance and struck up a conversation. And then you told me that you knew why I was attending the ball.’

He shook his head.

‘I would never have thought that you would guess Lord Dalgliesh’s involvement in this dark affair and my resulting interest in him. It meant that you were in considerably greater danger than I had previously imagined. I was starting to run through emergency plans, when you continued to speak, and I realized that you thought I was there not for Lord Dalgliesh but for Miss Hamilton.’ He gave a derisive noise that made it quite clear how absurd he thought such an idea. ‘I was… quite relieved.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question! Why pretend to be in love with Miss Hamilton, Sir?’ Nobody would be able to accuse me of not being focused on my target.

‘I am coming to that, Mr Linton,’ he snapped.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Don’t interrupt me again!’

‘No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.’

I waited.

He took a deep breath.

‘As soon as I realized your misconception, my mind was dominated by the thought of trying to keep you from realizing the true reason for my presence. I could only keep you out of the path of danger by keeping you from seeing the true identity of my enemy. The best way I could think of doing that was to further foster your fallacy and pretend a romantic interest in Miss Hamilton.’

‘Oh.’

I thought for a moment, then asked: ‘And why did you want to keep me out of danger so badly?’

Immediately as I spoke the question, I saw the answer. Holding a hand up I said: ‘No, don't bother to answer that. It was because I’m a girl, because I am weak and I have no business meddling in men’s affairs, right?’

He hesitated, his face still turned towards the window, away from me, so I couldn’t read his expression. What did it matter? He never had one, anyway.

‘Yes. Yes, Mr Linton. That was the only reason.’

‘I see. Well, let me tell you, you didn’t do a very good job. Pretending to be in love, I mean. I could see right through you!’

He turned then and looked at me.

‘Could you indeed? Can you?’

‘Yes!’ I flushed. ‘Of course I could! It was obvious you weren’t interested. She’s such a boring, superficial creature.’

‘Oh really? Some men might find her quite charming.’

‘Nonsense! Did you hear her conversations at the ball? All she talked about was dresses and dancing and the right way to hold fans! She has nothing in her head but stale air and dead flies!’

Mr Ambrose shrugged.

‘What of it? Some men prefer their brides unintelligent. After all, women are supposed to do housework and little else. You do not need much intelligence for that.’

‘Only stupid men would want stupid wives! Marriage is supposed to be a union between two equals who love and support each other, not a master-slave relationship in which the man commands a docile woman.’

‘There’s something to be said for docile women.’ He leaned forward, spearing me with his dark gaze. ‘They don't argue with you, for one!’

‘And there’s something to be said for progressive men. They don't normally have such thick heads that women need to argue with them! They have learned to listen to what women have to say.’

‘I pity them thoroughly!’

Angrily, I turned my head away. He was impossible! Why I made all this effort to get accepted by him was becoming more and more of a mystery to me. He obviously would never learn to see me as more than a temporary annoyance.

Why was I doing this? Why was I in this coach? I could be going home right now, looking forward to another boring, safe day at the office tomorrow. Instead I was in this miserable little chaise with him, on my way to God only knew where, to deliberately put myself in danger. And for what? The acceptance of a man! Bah!

‘So… are you really?’

The question was out of my mouth before I knew it.

‘Am I what, Mr Linton?’

‘Interested in her. Romantically, I mean.’

I sneaked a look at him out of the corner of my eye. He, too, wasn’t looking directly at me. He was pretending to stare out of the window. But his dark pupils betrayed him. They were watching me out of the corner of his eye, just like mine were on him.

He said nothing.

Why the dickens did I ask that? Why would I even be interested in Mr Ambrose’s romantic life or, more likely, the lack of it? The man was as romantic as a block of wood! A very attractive block of wood, certainly, but still a block of wood! He wasn’t interested in anyone.

And still, the thought of him being in love with that Hamilton wench…!

I shook my head, trying to ignore the heat that was rising in my cheeks.

Still I had gotten no answer.

‘Well, Sir?’ I repeated my question. ‘Are you interested in her?’

This time, I hadn’t sounded angry. For some reason, my voice had been low, and softer than I had ever heard it.

Slowly, he began to turn towards me. His sea-coloured eyes met mine, and they seemed darker than usual, the colour of storm.

‘Not in her, no.’

What? What was that supposed to mean?

Wetting my lips, I opened my mouth. It suddenly felt very dry. ‘Mr Ambrose… Sir…’

‘Sahib?’

Karim’s face appeared only inches away from us. Let me tell you, it’s rather disturbing to be staring into Mr Ambrose’s eyes and then suddenly have a bushy black beard shoved into your face.

‘It’s rude to interrupt!’ I snapped. ‘Can’t you see we’re having a conversation?’

Karim didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Yes, I can. I just thought you would like to know…’

The Mohammedan pointed straight ahead. Only then did I realize something which I hadn’t noticed before because I had been so intent on Mr Ambrose: the coach had stopped moving.

‘We’ve arrived,’ Karim said. As he swung down from the chaise, I could see he had his hand at his belt, around the hilt of his sabre. ‘Shall we go?’