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I had difficulties holding that powerful, dark gaze of his. Still, the corner of my mouth twitched up in an involuntary smile. ‘My office is freezing cold, Sir. All the rooms in the building are, because you don’t want to pay for gas or firewood.’
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. I could feel the tension in the air between us, crackling. ‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Be silent!’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘And follow me!’
‘As you wish, Sir!’
Going downstairs on Mr Ambrose’s heels was always a remarkable experience. He was the only man I’d ever met who had mastered the art of striding arrogantly down a staircase. How he managed it without knotting his legs or breaking his neck was beyond me.
Today, however, I was more than a little distracted from the show by the fact that we were, very possibly, going to have our brains bashed in.
You’re going to have another adventure! Admit it, you’re excited!
Well, possibly, part of me was. Still, there was this other part that was the unspeakable T-word to which I would never admit.
Blast him! Why did he have to do this just to get rid of me?
But deep down, I knew he would do exactly the same if I weren’t there. He was that kind of man: ruthless, and not afraid to march headlong into danger. Blast him thrice to hell and back!
Somewhere on the way down, I expected to be joined by others. If not by many people, at least by Mr Ambrose’s personal bloodhound Karim. But no one came. Was Karim still alive at all? I realized I hadn’t seen him since we had separated on Île Marbeau. I really hoped the grumpy bodyguard hadn’t gotten himself shot or drowned or dismembered. I would miss his disapproving glares. They made such a nice change from the disapproving glares I got from Mr Ambrose.
But Karim was nowhere in sight. Mr Ambrose couldn’t really mean for us to do this all alone, could he?
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
‘Where’s Karim?’ I burst out. ‘Isn’t he going with us?’
Is he alive?
He looked over his shoulder, his cold gaze bored into me. ‘Karim won’t be coming. He is trying to clamp down on that scandal at Speaker’s Corner, before any more rumours get spread all over London.’
He’s alive! He’s alive! He - wait! What did he say?
‘Excuse me?’ I pictured the huge bodyguard, nearly seven feet tall even without his towering turban, a mountain of muscle and armed with a sabre that could easily sever limbs. ‘You employ Karim as your public relations man?’
‘No. I employ him as the man who scares people into keeping their mouths shut.’ And with that, he strode across the hall and out onto the street.
Outside, I stopped to wait for a carriage. Mr Ambrose, however, strode off down the street. After a moment, I hurried after him.
‘Wait! Where’s the cab?’
‘Do you honestly think I would waste money on that?’
‘What? You mean we’ll have to walk all the way?’
Without turning back to me, he waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s not far. And with the streets as crowded as they are we’ll be faster on foot in any case.’
After about twenty minutes of brisk, silent marching, it had started to sink in that Rikkard Ambrose and I had very different ideas of the meaning of the words ‘not far’. My feet hurt worse than after hours of dancing, but I trudged on without complaint.
You probably should be grateful he didn’t make you walk back all the way from Dover!
Well, maybe so. But at the moment, gratitude was at the bottom of my things-to-feel list.
