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Letting myself be pulled down the hallway, I gathered enough courage to ask the question I really, really didn’t want to ask.
‘Mrs Fotheringay… What did he give as his name?’
Please, Lord, let it be him! Let it be him!’
Mrs Fotheringay gave a good-natured snort. ‘He hasn’t told us his name! In fact, the gentleman hasn’t deigned to speak so much as two words strung together. When I asked who he was, he looked at me as if it were an insult that I didn’t recognize him at first sight!’
‘Well, that definitely sounds like the one I’m looking for,’ I muttered, hastening my steps. Please, let it be him! Please! ‘What does he look like?’
‘Well, entirely too cool and collected for a man who had seaweed in his hair not half a day ago. He’s tall, and dark, and… tall. Even when he’s lying down, if that makes sense.’
‘Handsome?’
‘I suppose you could call him handsome, if you do not mind that cold glower following you around the room.’
Thank God!
My lips twitched upwards without meaning to. ‘I don’t think I’d mind.’
Opening the door at the end of the hallway, Mrs Fotheringay led the way into the sitting room, where to my surprise a girl, about my age, sat in an armchair. She was doing her needlework, and it took me only one glance to see that the work was perfect, and there wasn’t a single bloody puncture wound in her fingers. I disliked her immediately.
‘Miss Linton, may I introduce my daughter, Violet?’ Mrs Fotheringay gestured to the girl with a smile. ‘Violet, my dear, this is Miss Linton. She was on that ship that went under, and thinks she might know our guest. If she does, she’s going to take him away with her.’
The girl’s hands twitched, and her eyes flashed to my face. Oh. Apparently, my dislike was reciprocated - fervently!
I curtsied. Slowly, Miss Violet Fotheringay rose from her seat to return my curtsy, making it quite obvious she took pleasure in the fact that hers was about ten times as graceful as mine.
‘So pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Linton,’ she lied.
‘As am I,’ I lied right back at her.
‘Violet has been nursing our guest,’ Mrs Fotheringay supplied cheerily, blissfully unaware of the lightning bolts crackling through the air in her sitting room.
Nursing him, hm? So that was it. I bored my gaze into the girl, trying to drill my way through her brain. Keep your hands on your needlework, where they belong, Missy!
‘So…’ Young Miss Fotheringay’s eyes slid over me from head to wet toe, obviously not impressed by what she found. ‘You want to take him away with you, do you?’
‘Yes. And I will.’
She gave a condescending smile. ‘Of course. Forgive me, I’m sure my mother mentioned it and I just didn’t catch it, but… What is your connection to him, exactly?’
Her eyes drilled into me as mine had into her. Even Mrs Fotheringay looked at me with interest. My connection… My connection with Mr Rikkard Ambrose…
In the fraction of a second, myriad images flashed past my inner eye:
Mr Ambrose, glowering at me from across his desk. Mr Ambrose, threatening me. Mr Ambrose beside me, fighting, ducking gunshots in the dark.
God, what could I say to explain my presence here? That I was his dogsbody? His secretary? It was true, but I’d be damned if I let her look down on me!
Mr Ambrose glowering at me again, his eyes glinting with cold danger. Mr Ambrose rushing towards me…
Just for a moment, I considered telling them that I was his sister - but the moment the idea entered my brain, my mind, body and soul mutinied and kicked me in the metaphorical backside. No! No, no, no, no!
But why not? Why wouldn’t I use a perfect explanation for being here?
Mr Ambrose’s lips crushing mine while he pulled me against him…
I pulled a face. Probably that was why not. Blast that man! Why did he have to do that?
