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I didn’t let him finish. ‘The day before that, we took a trip to that farm out in the country to check whether the furrows were straight enough for your liking. The day before that, we spent breathing smoke to determine the best plant for a tobacco plantation you might be planning to open in two years, once the land it’s supposed to be on is cleared of forest, rocks, and the occasional mountain. The day before that-’
‘All right, all right!’
He sent me another one of those looks meant to deep-freeze his conversational partner. I sent back another smile.
‘You want a date? You can have a date. We’ll leave the day after tomorrow.’
Yay! Victory! With effort, I resisted the urge to punch the air. With even more effort, I resisted the urge to punch him, which would have been much more fun.
‘Our little excursion tonight will be the last piece of business I have to take care of before we leave. Tomorrow, we will pack, and you will make all the necessary arrangements. I expect you to be ready and waiting with an inexpensive coach in front of Empire House at six a.m. the day after tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘Any delay in travel due to a lack of appropriate travel arrangement will be your responsibility, and I will deduct its cost from your wages.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And no coachman will be necessary. Karim will be driving.’
‘Ah. I should get a sturdy coach, then.’
To that, Mr Ambrose did not deign to give a reply, instead sinking back into the arctic fortress of himself.
Outside, street lamps whizzed by at a prodigious pace. It was too dark to see exactly where we were going, but since I knew we were heading east, there was relatively little chance that we were going to a spectacular ball or a thrilling theatre performance. Nothing good was ever to be found in the East End, unless you were looking for a good stab in the back or a good punch in the face.
Well, at least that was my opinion. But to judge by the light and laughter
drifting from the three-storey house we were heading towards, other people had different views. A high-pitched shriek, followed by a giggle, escaped through one of the upper windows. A moment later, a bed started squeaking.
Turning to Mr Ambrose, I lifted an eyebrow. ‘Just out of curiosity, Sir - what kind of “business” will you be conducting here tonight, exactly?’
When his dark eyes met mine, they were as unreadable as a coded dictionary at the bottom of the sea.
‘Private business.’
No.
No, he wouldn’t, would he?
Not while I was there? He wouldn’t dare!
Of course he would. Mr Rikkard Ambrose would dare anything in the company of anyone.
But, on the other hand…
Again, a grin spread across my face. Mr Rikkard Ambrose might have no problems ignoring my presence and doing whatever the heck he wanted, but he would die before he would pay a woman for nothing but lying on her back all night. He found it galling enough to pay me, and I worked for him like a slave.
Secure in my knowledge, I leaned back in my seat. Nothing would happen. He would be perfectly safe.
And so, whispered a little voice inside me I did my best to ignore, will your heart.
With a squeal, the carriage came to a halt in front of the bawdy house.[1] Immediately, Mr Ambrose jumped out and strode towards the open door, and I followed, hesitantly. I had no particular desire to see this den of iniquity. The mere idea of women having to sell their bodies to men to survive made me shudder. I got enough of that feeling every morning when my sisters devoured the Times page with the wedding announcements. I didn’t need any more of it.
But I was a world-class secretary, and so I stomped after my employer, although what I really wanted to do was set fire to the pants of every man within that building and paint ‘Feminism Forever’ in big, fat letters on the front door.
Inside, I was not greeted by the stench of chauvinism but by a mix of sweet-smelling perfumes. Flickering lamps on the wall illuminated a dingy salon, where hosts of unfortunate, fallen women sat on plush sofas, looking annoyingly content with their fate. As soon as they caught sight of Mr Ambrose, they looked even more content - like a cat who had just gotten a big, juicy mouse for Christmas. One of them actually licked her lips.
Hands off, ladies! He’s mine!
