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‘I have a feeling we’re going to have a memorable Christmas.’
‘Err…well…’
That was the moment when Lord Dalgliesh moved forward.
‘Excuse me!’ Shoving Miss Bardley aside, I darted forward. Without paying any attention to the startled yelp behind me, I began to work my way through the crowd. How fortunate I had well-practised elbows. ‘Sorry, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, secretary coming through! Sorry sir, I’m in a hurry! I have to-’
Despairing of coming up with a convincing excuse, I just shoved the startled gentleman aside and dashed forward, one hand sliding into my tailcoat, gripping my gun. If push came to shove, I wouldn’t hesitate. Not an instant!
Lord Dalgliesh took a step towards Lady Samantha. The hand around my gun tightened. He opened his mouth.
‘What a beautiful home you have, Your Ladyship. I must congratulate you. It must have been quite a bit of work to restore it to its former glory after…certain unfortunate events.’
I almost collapsed with relief. Panting, I came to a stop. My hand relaxed - but then tensed again. The words were perfectly harmless. Perfectly normal. But Lady Samantha paled as if he had slapped her across the face. And Mr Ambrose…
The chair he was clutching groaned as Mr Ambrose’s hand tightened like a vice around the back. In a flash, I realised what Dalgliesh was doing.
He’s trying to provoke Mr Ambrose. He’s trying to make Mr Rikkard Ambrose angry.
And what was really disturbing: it seemed to be working. Mr Ambrose’s perfect granite mask was still in place, still unbroken, but it had grown thin. Through his eyes, I could see the emotions roiling underneath. And suddenly, I was terrified of what would happen if that mask would shatter.
‘Thank you, My Lord.’ Lady Samantha’s voice was so cold it could almost have rivalled her son’s. ‘That means so much, coming from you.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Lord Dalgliesh’s smile widened. ‘I might be coming to visit your delightful home more often in the future. Now that you have such beautiful blossoms decorating these halls…’
His eyes slid over the flowers all around - and then landed on Adaira.
There was the crack of wood, as something snapped under Mr Ambrose’s hand.
Adaira groaned behind me. ‘Now we’re in deep crap.’
Mr Ambrose was just about to take a step forward and plunge the whole room into war when the door behind us opened. Glancing around instinctively, I jumped when I saw an unfamiliar, liveried servant with a long staff in hand enter the winter garden.
‘Attention please, ladies and gentlemen.’ The servant cleared his throat, and struck his staff against the ground in an ominous manner. He certainly had my attention - and that of every other person in the room. ‘Please rise for your illustrious host. It is my pleasure to announce-’
Oh no. Don’t say it. Not now.
‘-His Lordship The Most Honourable The Marquess Ambrose.’[12]
And, as the servant stepped aside, a dark figure marched into room, clad in a pristine black tailcoat and searching the room with piercing, cold, sea-coloured eyes I had only ever seen on one other person. They found what they were looking for, halting on Mr Ambrose and hardening into stone.
Adaira had been wrong. Things had been rosy before. Now we were in deep crap.
A Promising Start
Breakfast. So significant for a healthy life. The most important meal of the day, they said.
Or maybe the most deadly?
The Marquess Ambrose stepped into the room, accompanied by utter silence. He was a tall man - nearly as tall as his son - and might, long ago, have been as perfectly beautiful. But long years had eaten furrows into his face, and his waistcoat bulged over an impressive paunch. Still, his eyes…
His eyes were exactly the same as those of Mr Ambrose.
>
The same ice.
The same darkness.
