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‘Sahib?’
‘Why, thank you.’ Giving him a broad smile, I slid out of the coach. ‘So kind of you.’
Karim muttered something in a language I - and thankfully everyone else, too - did not understand. Ignoring him, I stretched, breathing in a lungful of fresh air and eying the staff who, in turn, were regarding me with wagonloads of veiled curiosity. I heard whispers, too low to understand but loud enough to send a shiver down my back.
The looks, the whispers - it all stopped the instant the door of the coach creaked behind me and Rikkard Ambrose stepped out into the open in all his chiselled, austere beauty. His face was as impassive as ever. He surveyed the scene in front of us as if he was looking at a cheap two-storey pub in the East End of London. Deadly silence reigned.
‘Who is in charge here?’ he demanded.
A man in a butler’s uniform that looked ten times as new and shiny as Mr Ambrose’s tailcoat tentatively stepped forward, clearing his throat.
‘Mr Elsby, as steward, is the highest-ranking member of the staff, My Lord. But I handle most of the day-to-day running of the house. I’m the butler. Hastings is my name, My Lord. Welcome home. May I introduce the staff to you?’
‘No,’ Mr Ambrose told him. ‘And do not call me “My Lord”.’
‘Um…’
‘Karim will show you where our luggage is kept. I expect everything to be in my room and unpacked in ten minutes maximum. There are some very important papers I must go through before noon. Understood?’
‘Y-yes, My Lor- Your Lo- Sir. Yes. Definitely, Sir.’
‘Adequate. Come, Mr Linton.’
And we strode past the line of now openly gawping servants, towards the portico. The two figures waiting in its shadow now moved for the first time, shifting, leaning forward. I looked up and, yes, it was indeed her. Samantha Genevieve Ambrose, the mother of Rikkard Ambrose and mistress of this house. Although the tall, raven-haired young woman standing beside the little lady in the pink dress looked far more like she was in charge than her mother.
His sister.
Mr Ambrose had a sister. And a mother. And a father, too, if things had worked the normal way when he had been brought into this world. It was still a difficult concept to wrap my mind around.
The marchioness stood there on the top step, trembling, hardly able to stand still. My heart ached for the mother clearly desperate to enfold her son in her arms. The instant we were past the servants, she rushed forward, down the steps, straight towards us, and threw her arms around -
- me?
Sweet, innocent little me! What had I done to deserve this? And what was I supposed to do now? I hadn’t been hugged by any creature that was remotely motherly since my own mother had died when I was five years old! Panic shot through me. What in God’s name should I do? How did one respond to a motherly hug? I hardly doubted that the response I gave when hugged by my friends - a pat on the back and a friendly jab with my parasol - would be suitable in this situation. Anyway, I didn’t even have my parasol, and I was being engulfed in all this warm, soft, motherly pinkness and…and… oh, what should I do? Where should I put my hands? And what, oh what had I done to deserve this?
‘Thank you!’ she sobbed into my peacock vest. ‘Thank you for bringing my son home.’
Oh. That. Right.
‘I have legs and a brain, Mother,’ came a cool voice from outside the cocoon of pinkness that engulfed me. ‘I can move without Mr Linton’s assistance.’
Letting go of me - Thank you, merciful God! I’ll start going to church again! - Lady Samantha whirled on her son and stabbed an accusing finger into his gut. ‘What took you so long?’
‘I had business in town to conclude. I-’
Not letting him finish, she threw her arms around him, too, smothering his words with motherliness. ‘Oh, Rick, I…I can’t believe that finally…!’
He stiffened, disapproval practically oozing out of his ears. ‘Marchioness! You forget yoursel
f.’
‘Don’t you marchioness me, boy! You are my son, and I am your mother. Oh, thank the Lord you’re finally back again! We’re going to hold a big ball in honour of your return. Everyone will know that the heir of Battlewood, my son, has returned.’
He tried to squirm out of her grip, but Lady Samantha seemed to possess supernatural strength when in mother mode. Her slim arms remained firmly fixed around him. ‘That’s really not necessary, Mother. I don’t think that-’
‘Poppycock! This house hasn’t seen a proper feast for over a decade! And who else deserves a celebration if not my only son? Besides, it’ll be Christmas soon. Who doesn’t celebrate Christmas?’
Mr Ambrose opened his mouth - presumably to start listing people who didn’t, beginning with him - but was cut off when his mother pulled him into another hug.
