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‘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.’[4]
‘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.’
