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‘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.
