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‘Of course.’
In a very gentle and loving way, I stomped on his foot.
‘Drop that smug tone, mister!’
‘I have not the slightest clue what you could possibly mean, Miss Linton.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
He offered me his arm, and I took it as the peace offering it was. Arm in arm, we continued down the corridor.
‘So, Miss Linton—what exactly in regard to our strategy was it that you were considering?’
I thought quickly—or as quickly as I was capable of at the moment, with my mind still fogged. What to say? Well…there was actually one point I had meant to ask about, a daunting possibility that had preyed on my mind for some time.
‘What if the assassination is already planned for tonight?’ I whispered.
‘Assassinating the King of the French on the very first night after inviting him to his private opera house? I don’t think even Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh would be so bold. If there is anything that man prizes more than power, it is his public image. He would not risk suspicion falling on him for such an inane reason as haste.’
I smirked up at him. ‘You would. You’d want to get it over with as quickly as possible.’
‘True.’ He looked over at me, and his eyes were so cold it sent a delicious shiver down my back. ‘But if I wanted to start a war between two countries, I wouldn’t have to kill to do it.’
I wasn’t quite sure which was worse—the fact that I believed him, or the fact that his words, horrifying though they might be, ma
de me want to grab him and kiss him senseless.
‘Monsieur? Madame?’ At the sound of the strange voice, I glanced up and saw a man in uniform. My heart filled with ice-cold fear—until I realized it wasn’t a uniform of the presidency armies. It was a French uniform. Sagging against the wall, I gave a sigh of relief, probably the first any English man or woman had uttered at the sight of a French soldier since that little matter with Napoleon.
‘Yes?’ Mr Ambrose cocked his head at the soldier.
‘Oh. Vous etes…English? Anglais, oui? I am sorry, Monsieur. But I cannot let you pass ‘ere. This ‘allway leads to se royal box of ‘is Majesty. I cannot let anyone srough.’
‘Maybe you’ll make an exception for us,’ Mr Ambrose told him, handing him the note. The soldier’s eyes flicked over it, and quickly, he bowed. ‘Yes of course. Pardon me, Monsieur. I was unaware you had been invited. Jaques!’
He snapped his fingers and another soldier appeared around the corner, this one with fewer stripes on his uniform and more pimples on his face.
‘Jaques, conduct sis lady and gentleman to ‘is Majesty se king immediately, please.’
The young man saluted. ‘Immediatement, mon colonel!’
‘My thanks, colonel.’ Mr Ambrose nodded at the officer. ‘A young associate of mine may drop by to deliver an important memo sometime during the evening. Monsieur Claude is his name. Would you mind letting him through?’
‘Well…’ The Frenchmen hesitated. ‘Is sis memorandum of interest to the king? Otherwise, I would not very much like to disturb him unnecessarily.’
‘Trust me,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as deadpan as a whole collection of suicidal cooking pots. ‘My business here tonight is of great interest to His Majesty.’
‘Very well, sen. I shall send him srough se minute he arrives.’
The colonel stepped aside and we proceeded farther down the corridor, past several more soldiers, until we finally reached an ornate door. The soldier beside it snapped his heels together.
‘Names, please?’
Mr Ambrose pulled out a card and silently extended it.
‘Very well, Sir. And your companion?’
‘Miss Lillian Linton.’
