Storm of Bells

By Robert Thier

Never do what you’re told, never boil your own head in vinegar and, most important of all, never ever marry a man—those have always been Lilly Linton’s principles for a happy, carefree life. So, how the heck did she end up engaged to multinational industrial magnate Rikkard Ambrose?
Welcome to the wedding of the (nineteenth) century!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Thier
• Release date: Dec 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9783962600891

Robert Thier

Robert Thier is a German Historian and writer of Historical Fiction. His particular mix of history, romance and adventure, always with a good deal of humor thrown in, has gained him a diverse readership ranging from teenagers to retired grandmothers. For the way he manages to make history come alive, as if he himself had lived as a medieval knight, his fans all over the world have given him the nickname “Sir Rob”.For him, Robert says, becoming a writer has followed naturally from his interest in history. “In Germany,” he says, “we use the same word for story and history. And I've always loved the one as much as the other. Becoming a storyteller, a writer, is what I've always wanted.”Besides writing and researching in dusty old archives, on the lookout for a mystery to put into his next story, Robert enjoys classical music and long walks in the country. The helmet you see on the picture he does not wear because he is a cycling enthusiast, but to protect his literary skull in which a bone has been missing from birth. Robert lives in the south of Germany in a small village between the three Emperor's Mountains.

Book preview

With Bells On!

The death knell rang out with resounding finality. I raced forward, my heart pounding, my hands clenched into fists. Please! It couldn’t happen like this! It just couldn’t! I had to reach it in time, before—

Ba-dum ba-dum-ba-dum!

With deafening drums and brass, the black-clad marching band rounded the corner and blocked the street.

Crap!

Screeching to an abrupt halt, I bent over, panting. On either side of me, everyone trying to cross the street stopped and respectfully stepped back, removing their hats in sympathy, as the bearers of the coffin appeared. I, for my part, snatched my hat off my head and hurled it to the ground in frustration. Bloody hell! Now the street was blocked! I was going to be late for work!

Everyone said death waits for no man. But I knew better. Mr Rikkard Ambrose waits for no man, and would demand I postpone my appointment with death till the weekend and take care of it in my free time.

Hm… I eyed the funeral procession thoughtfully. I wonder, is it socially acceptable to practice pole vaulting over coffins?

Probably not.

Fishing out my watch, I tapped my foot in time to the sombre music as the funeral procession passed by at a brain-meltingly slow pace. Two minutes…three…drat! Couldn’t they move any faster? And why was that weeping woman at the front insisting on collapsing every few feet and sobbing onto her fellow mourners’ shoulders?

‘He’s deahahahaaad!’ Stumbling, she clutched one of the innocent bystanders. ‘Deeaad!’

‘Ehem…yes ma’am.’ The elderly gentleman cleared his throat. ‘I can see that.’

‘Where will I ever f-find someone like h-him again?’

‘Um…the graveyard?’

The woman abruptly stopped weeping, whacked him with her fan and strode on. Mentally, I gave the gentleman a high five. Unfortunately, even though the woman in the lead was moving slightly faster now, the coffin in the middle of the procession was only just passing by me.

Shielding my eyes from the sun, I peered down the street, trying to make out how popular Mr Six Feet Under had been. To judge by the mellifluous multitudes marching after the coffin, including everything from musicians over funeral guests to several black, plumed carriages, I was going to be stuck here for quite a while. Unless…

‘’scuse me.’

Before anyone could shriek, I smiled at the coffin bearers, ducked underneath their load and dashed across the street. Behind me, I heard a yelp, but I was already around the nearest corner. Yay! Coffin parkour number one finished!

Not slowing down for a minute, I took another turn, and another—and finally, there it was! The huge building towered right in front of me, on the other side of the street: Empire House. Tallest building in this part of the city, place of employment for hundreds of unfortunate, oppressed, underpaid souls, home to a multinational financial and industrial empire, and headquarters of my husband-to-be.

Who, by the way, still hadn’t given me a raise.

Suppressing the eager leap of my heart in my chest at the thought of him (or possibly at the thought of a raise), I dashed across the street and pushed open the front door. The patter of hundreds of busy little feet greeted me the moment I stepped inside. As always, people were rushing about, carrying cartons full of sample goods and stacks of documents. In the centre of the hall, like a particularly sallow-faced idol on the altar of overwork, sat Mr Pearson, the front desk clerk. Everything was just as always.

Except soon, all of this would be mine.

The thought made me slightly dizzy. Sure, in our deplorably chauvinistic world, a wife wouldn’t have real power over all her husband’s money, as he had over hers—but then again, I wouldn’t be a typical wife. I had lived and worked in a man’s world for over two years now, and I knew where to go and what to do to achieve what I wanted. Did that mean I could have actual influence on what happened here? Did it mean I could give the employees here a day off, or even—God forbid—Christmas holidays?

The mere thought made me tremble in awe. As did the thought of what Mr Ambrose would do to me in retribution, incidentally. Grinning, I let my gaze wander through the hall. Ah, the possibilities…

Suddenly, a frown formed on my brow.

I had been wrong.

Everything in the hall was not just as always. A tarpaulin was covering a big chunk of the wall on the right side of the room, right next to the stairs. Now that my ears had gotten used to the hustle and bustle inside, I could make out mumbled conversation from behind the mysterious curtain. Eyes narrowing, I took a step towards it—then stopped, as I felt a pair of eyes on me.

Turning, I gave Sallow-Face a great big smile.

‘Ah, Mr Pearson. So nice to see your cherubic features again after such a long time!’

‘Mr Linton.’ He gave me about half a nod. I gave him back a quarter.

From behind me, I heard a clang and half-turned to glance at the mysterious tarpaulin once again. It shifted, and there was another clang—then everything fell silent once more.

I jerked a thumb towards the tarp. ‘Say, Mr Pearson…you don’t perchance know what that is all about, do you?’

This encouraged Sallow-Face to gift me with an actual smile. ‘I do.’

I waited.

And waited.

Nothing came.

‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘And?’

His smile widened. ‘And Mr Ambrose has already informed all the most important members of his office staff of this important change. I’m sure he’ll see fit to let you know at some point, Mr Linton.’

Miserable little slimy son of a…!

‘Thank you so much.’ I gave the man my most brilliant, friendly smile. ‘I’ll make sure to remember how helpful you were in a few weeks or so.’

Sallow-face frowned. ‘Why? What’ll happen in a few weeks?’

Reaching into the pocket of my tailcoat, I fingered the large golden betrothal ring that rested there, safe and sound. I smiled.

‘Oh, you’ll see. You’ll see.’

And without wasting any more time on him, I made my way towards the stairs. In passing, I couldn’t help try and glimpse past the tarpaulin—but it was fastened too closely to the wall. I didn’t have a chance of seeing anything beyond. What the heck was worth going to so much trouble to hide?

Unable to come up with a reason to linger any longer, I started upstairs. Several stories up, at the very top of Empire House, I stepped out of the stairwell and rushed down the corridor, giving the nice young man at the upper desk a smile and a nod in passing. ‘Morning, Mr Stone.’

‘Good morning, Mr Linton.’

I pushed open the door to my office—and hesitated.

‘Mr Stone?’

The receptionist, who somehow had managed not to become emotionally stunted after years and years in Mr Ambrose’s service, looked up with a friendly, open smile. ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

‘You don’t perchance know what all that ruckus downstairs is about, do you? You know, that big tarpaulin?’

He blinked up at me. ‘You didn’t get the memo?’

I tried to remain calm. I really tried.

‘No. I didn’t get the memo.’

‘Oh. Um.’ He blushed. ‘Well, I suppose it did say confidential.’

My eyes gave a fiery flicker. ‘It did, did it?’

‘Err…yes, Mr Linton.’

‘I see. Well, thank you for your help, Mr Stone.’ Giving him a smile, I pushed the door to my office the rest of the way open. ‘Is Mr Ambrose already in?’

‘He’s in the building. But I think he’s not in his office at the moment. He’s taking care of some problem in the archives department. But he’ll be back any moment now.’

‘Excellent.’ I rubbed my hands. ‘I look forward to having a little chat with him.’

And I stepped into the office, closing the door behind me.

My eyes swept around, taking in the familiar little space. My space. Mine. I had worked hard to get it, and even harder to keep it. After all my adventures in distant lands, all the fabulous sights I had seen, and all the dirty gags that had been stuffed into my mouth by assorted bandits, revolutionaries and god only knows who else, still nothing quite took my breath away like this little office right here in good old London.

And soon, you won’t have to pretend anymore, Lillian. Soon, you’ll be married to the man in charge, and then you can forget about this ridiculous male costume and just be your fabulous self.

I could hardly wait.

The thought put me in such a good mood that I had almost forgotten about the mysterious tarpaulin downstairs by the time the door to Mr Ambrose’s office creaked, announcing his arrival. Rising from my desk, I headed towards the connecting door—but before I had even taken a step, I heard a very familiar noise.

Plink!

I looked down at the desk—and grinned. A tiny metal cylinder was lying on the desk. Ah, what fond memories that brought up…

Reaching for the missive from Ambrose the Mighty, I pulled open the metal capsule, unrolled the message and read:

Mr Linton,

You’re late.

Rikkard Ambrose

I closed my eyes in bliss. Ah. The loving words of my future husband. Wasn’t he a darling?

Plink.

Lifting one eyelid, I peeked at the desk, where another capsule was lying, ready to be opened. What, two messages in a row? Apparently, Mr Ambrose was feeling quite extraordinarily verbose today. It had to be the approaching nuptials. I had heard an event like that could completely emotionally derail a man, and turn him into a quivering wreck.

Mr Linton,

Bring me file 39XV225.

Rikkard Ambrose

I nodded sagely. Yes, utterly emotionally derailed. I could see he was positively dissolving in pre-wedding panic. He urgently needed the comforting, encouraging words of his future wife and love of his life. Sitting down at the desk, I wrote:

My dearest and most beloved Mr Ambrose,

Why don’t you get it yourself, lazy bones?

Yours Faithfully

Miss Lilly Linton

Then I dispatched it, put my feet up on the desk and started whistling. I didn’t have long to wait for a response.

Plink!

Mr Linton,

If you are labouring under the delusion I shall tolerate such behaviour merely because we shall in the near future be entering matrimonial relations, you are sorely mistaken. Cease wasting ink this instant, and fetch file 39XV225!

Rikkard Ambrose

Sighing in bliss, I hugged the little paper to me. Just like the good old times!

Snatching up a pen and a piece of paper, I penned my eloquent reply.

My most ardently and unceasingly passionately beloved Mr Ambrose,

I’m on my way.

Lalala Abracadabra, Hokuspokus taterata! I fandangle the slipslopy tootle down into the marvellous malarkey. Insert more ink-wasting here.

Yours Most Faithfully

Miss Lillian Linton

Shoving my masterpiece of prose into the pneumatic tube, I pulled the lever and jumped up to dash towards the shelves of file boxes before he had the chance to shoot back a reply. Only half a minute of searching later—Dear Lord, had I become that efficient an employee? I would have to see what I could do about slacking more!—I returned to the other side of my office, and knocked on the connecting door that lead to Mr Ambrose’s private sanctum, where he was breathing in the smell of money and dreaming of world domination.

Well, probably not just dreaming. Most likely also working on getting it.

‘Sir? I have the requested documents. Would you like me to slide them under the door?’

There was a moment of silence, and then…

‘No. Come in.’ I raised an eyebrow. Now here was something that hadn’t happened in the old days. Mr Ambrose wanting to see my face when he could avoid it? ‘I have something to discuss with you.’

He wanted to talk?

Well, well. Wonders never cease.

Cautiously, in case it was an Ambrose-impostor with murderous intent beyond the door instead of the original, I pushed open the door. Mr Ambrose was sitting behind his desk, writing. And it was the real Mr Ambrose, no doubt. The reason I knew was because he was working with both hands at once, his eyes flitting from left to right and back again.

‘Err…Sir?’

‘One moment, Mr Linton. I have to finish these two letters. There!’

He put a neat dot at the end of each letter he was writing, then gazed down at the result. ‘Adequate.’

‘Sir? What are you doing?’

‘Writing, of course. Too bad I cannot do it when writing checks. For some mysterious reason, the Bank of England refuses to accept checks I sign with my left hand, even after I explained to them in detail how much time I will be able to save simply by signing two checks at the same time. Wastrels, the lot of them.[1] But that is neither here nor there. Let us get to the matter at hand, Mr Linton.’

Pushing the letters aside, he steepled his fingers and regarded me over their tops. With the kind of look he gave me, I didn’t doubt he could send (and had sent) striking workers running for the hills, freeze a water-tank at fifty paces, or make a king quiver in his boots.

I, for my part, just grinned, walked over to the closest chair and sat down, dangling my feet over the armrest.

‘You may sit,’ Mr Ambrose informed me in a voice frosty enough to give a polar bear a cold.

I inclined my head. ‘Why, thank you so much, Sir.’

‘I called you in here to discuss an important matter, Mr Linton. As you must be aware, we have some important plans to make, and significant events to schedule.’

I raised an eyebrow—just because it felt great knowing there was something I could do far better than my future husband. Bless you, versatile facial expressions!

‘I thought we were going to leave the planning of the wedding to our relatives?’ I enquired.

Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘Which pack of them? Mine or yours?’

I shrugged. ‘Oh, I thought we’d let them battle it out and pick whoever is left standing.’

‘An idea not without merit, Mr Linton. However, you misunderstood me. I do not wish to discuss the schedule of the wedding at the moment. I wish to discuss a matter of more immediate importance: the schedule of your resignation.’

‘My resi—’

My voice cut off abruptly. I stared at him, not quite able to believe I had heard what I thought I’d heard.

‘My…resignation?’ I repeated, just to make sure I had heard correctly.

‘Yes. Now that we shall be entering matrimonial relations, you will naturally wish to resign your position in order to assume your wifely duties. I have a meeting with the directors of my advertising department next week, and it will be difficult to obtain the services of a new secretary before then. So shall we say that you’ll stay on for another two weeks? That would give you ample time to resign before the wedding.’

My eyes narrowed. ‘So considerate of you, Sir.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And may I ask…what exactly are these wifely duties you would like me to assume?’

He gave a small twitch of the shoulders, what passed for a shrug in the land of stone statues. ‘Oh, nothing much. Just preparing meals for me and any of the few dozen business partners I might host dinners for, keeping the fifty-one rooms of the house clean and orderly, washing and mending the clothes and dishes—’

‘Mend the dishes?’

‘Certainly. Porcelain glue is a marvellous invention. Kindly do not interrupt again, Mr Linton.’

‘Certainly not, Sir. Please do go on.’

‘As I was saying, washing and mending dishes and clothes,—incidentally, you shall have to be careful with that, since I do not intend to discard my tailcoat after it has served me so well this last decade—keeping the housing accounts in double-entry accounting, in a manner that will not displease me at my quarterly expenditure review, ironing my suits, acquiring all necessary supplies from nearby shops at the minimum possible price, sewing new clothes for yourself and me to wear, keeping all creditors, alms-seeking clergymen and members of charitable organizations from entering the house, oh, and, of course, directing the servants who will be assisting you in your duties. The latter, you will be happy to hear, will not be a difficult task, because there most likely won’t be many.’

‘Duties?’

‘No. Servants.’

‘Ah.’ I nodded, smiling sweetly. ‘Then why not get rid of them altogether? After all, I could just reduce my sleep to four hours a day like you did and do all the work by myself.’

‘What an admirable suggestion, Mr Linton. I can see you will do very well in your new role.’

‘And perhaps I could also grow two extra legs and arms so I can work twice as fast.’

Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

‘Do I detect a slight note of sarcasm, Mr Linton?’

‘No, of course not, Sir.’ I leaned forward, still displaying a cheerful smile on my face. ‘You detect a shitload of sarcasm!’ My smile abruptly disappeared, and fire sparked in my eyes. ‘You can take your porcelain glue and use it to glue shut your tight ar—’

‘Mr Linton! Mind your language!’

‘Just one language? No problem, I have several at my disposal. Que te la pique un pollo![2] Tuki kalay kutay kahn![3] Vous avez le cervau d'un Soufflé.[4]‘

‘If my brains do indeed taste of soufflé, I’m sure the dogs would be delighted to.’

I threw him a dirty look. Damn the man! You couldn’t even insult him in three foreign languages without him understanding every single word and firing back a broadside! How were you supposed to live with somebody like that?

Happily, because you love him.

Bloody hell! I hoped very, very much he had not read that part of my inner dialogue in my eyes. Raising my chin, I stared him down.

‘You stingy son of a bachelor! You just want to marry me to get an unpaid house slave!’

‘That is an unjust accusation, Mr Linton.’ He gave me a cool look. ‘It is by no means the only reason, just one of the more significant ones.’

One thing you had to give Mr Rikkard Ambrose—he was honest.

Another thing you should probably give Mr Rikkard Ambrose—a good kick in the butt! For now, however, I refrained, mostly because he was currently still sitting on it. It would give me something to look forward to tomorrow.

‘I am not a biddable flower in the house, to be ordered around at your convenience! I am an independent woman!’

‘Yes, you are.’

I opened my mouth to refute his words—then what he’d actually said reached my brain, and I closed my mouth again. Pardon? Had he just agreed with me?

‘You are an independent woman. For…’ he glanced at his calendar. ‘For about three weeks.’ Raising his eyes again, he gazed at me. The intensity of his arctic eyes sent a shiver down my back. And not a bad one, damn him! ‘After that, you will be mine.’

I swallowed.

‘And you seriously expect me just go along with this? You think I will be all right with all of this? You think I will happily run around performing my ‘wifely duties’?’

Leaning across the desk, he stroked one powerful finger over my cheek, sending another hot-cold tingle down my spine. ‘Not really. But those are not the only duties of a wife. I intend to make sure that the good outweighs the bad.’

Oh holy moly…that didn’t actually sound so bad. Maybe I could just try it out his way, and see how things went and…

No! Bad Lilly! Bad! You’re an independent woman with a working brain, remember?

Oh, right. I did have one of those. Somewhere in my head it was, right?

Grabbing his hand, I pulled it away from my face, hard—then placed a gentle kiss on his palms.

‘The good will always outweigh the bad between the two of us,’ I told him. ‘Which is why I will continue to work here, at your side, doing what I do best.’

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Disagreeing with me, you mean?’

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. ‘That, too. But I was more thinking of serving as your faithful secretary and assistant. After all, if I am not here, who will answer all your pneumatic missives?’

‘You will soon be a married woman, Mr…Miss Linton. A married woman’s place is in the house.’

With admirable patience, I still didn’t give him the kick in the butt he deserved. But neither did I bend, or look away when I told him, ‘A married woman’s place is wherever the heck she wants it to be! But above all, it’s at the side of the husband she loves.’

Mr Rikkard Ambrose opened his mouth—and closed it again.

Well, well, will you look at that? Mr Ambrose was lost for words. Not surprising, really, considering how few of them he probably had stored up to begin with.

I rose to my feet.

‘Anything else, Sir?’

His left little finger twitched. ‘Not that I can currently think of. Is this your last word on the subject?’

‘It is.’

‘You will not assume your place as the mistress of my house?’

‘I will not. I intend to stay right where I am.’

Nodding, he reached for a nearby pile of documents and began perusing them, a clear sign of dismissal. ‘I see.’

I see?

Suspiciously, I gave him a look.

‘That’s all? You won’t try and convince me? You don’t have anything more to say?’

His eyes stopped moving. Slowly, they rose from the page to fix upon me. So cold. So dark. So indomitable.

‘Throughout my life, Miss Linton, I have found that deeds can be considerably more convincing than words.’

Returning his eyes to the document, he flicked a finger, dismissing me. I retreated, his last words echoing ominously in my ears.

What the hell is he going to do?

The Battle of the Bride

The moment I opened the door of my uncle Bufford’s modest townhouse, I heard them.

‘…white lilies, of course! Both for the decorations and bouquets. I mean, how could that not be obvious? Her name is Lilly.’

‘I know what her name is, thank you very much. I’ve only been best friends with her since she’s been so high! And I tell you, white flowers are completely ridiculous. We need something red! Something fiery! Something to reflect her character and the fact that, as everyone knows, red is much prettier than white.’

‘I beg your pardon? I always wear white!’

‘Exactly.’

I grinned. When I’d told Mr Ambrose I would let my relatives and friends do battle over who would be in charge of the wedding planning and pick whoever was left standing, I hadn’t been joking. My friend Eve had jumped on the chance, spurred on by the fact that no one else among our friends would ever be mad enough to let her anywhere near their wedding planning. Before I knew what was happening, she was browsing exotic locations anywhere between Jamaica and Johannesburg, designing dresses that looked like a salad had eaten itself and regurgitated itself up again, and composing a wedding march for the event in five-seventh time.[5]

But then something happened. Something neither I, nor my aunt, nor Eve would ever have expected: Ella. My sweet, little, demure, sister Ella, who normally couldn’t be made to argue with someone if you threatened her with an iron axe, had marched up to Eve and told her: ‘No! You are not allowed to ruin my sister’s wedding! I won’t let you!’

Eve had blinked.

And blinked again.

‘Ruin? I don’t intend to ruin anything! I’ll make it the most wonderful day of her life!’

Ella snatched the drawing Eve was working on out from under her fingers. ‘With this? What is this even supposed to be? The wedding cake?’

‘The groom’s attire,’ Eve admitted, lips pursing.

‘He’ll be wearing much whipped cream, will he?’

‘That’s not supposed to be whipped cream! That’s—oh, give that here! You’re hopeless!’

‘Me?’ Ella drew herself up to her full height of five foot three inches. ‘You’re the one who’s hopeless! And so will Lilly’s wedding be, if someone doesn’t start to take this seriously! So from now on, I will be taking over all wedding planning matters.’

‘You? Ha! In your dreams!’

‘Want to bet?’

It had been a most interesting scene, particularly since I was the one who could lean back and just enjoy the circus. I couldn’t wait to see who would win the second round—particularly once a certain pair of ladies from northern England arrived…

Smiling, I tiptoed past the room containing the wrestling wedding furies and made my way into the dining room, where Leadfield had already prepared our usual sumptuous dinner of cold porridge and potatoes.

‘Good evening, Leadfield.’

‘Good evening, Miss Lillian.’ Bowing so deeply his back creaked, the aged butler teetered on the spot for a moment, then managed to right himself. ‘May I be so bold as to express my congratulations on your forthcoming nuptials?’

I gave the old fellow a smile, which he of course didn’t return. He was a butler, after all. But his ears wiggled in a very friendly manner.

‘You may.’

‘Most gracious, Miss.’ He glanced down the corridor, from where ever-louder voices were issuing, followed by a crash, and what sounded like the tear of fabric. Ah. Another wedding dress design down the drain. ‘Ehem…I would not usually suggest this, Miss, but would you like me to serve your dinner now, before the rest of the family and your guests arrive? I have a feeling it will yet be some time until the others arrive.’

‘You are most astute, as usual, Leadfield. Yes, by all means, serve. We wouldn’t want the cold porridge to become warm again from the heat of the argument, now would we? That would totally ruin the familiar taste and texture.’

‘Quite so, Miss Lillian.’

Limping over to the closest chair, he pulled it out for me. I settled down and filled my plate, knowing that if I waited for Leadfield to do it, Tantalus would get to eat before I did.[6]

Footsteps approached down the corridor and, just as I looked up, my dear aunt entered the dining room, her usual cheerful expression of dyspeptic distaste on her face. The moment she saw me, she froze in place, and her face began to twitch.

I quickly lifted my napkin to cover my smile.

‘Good evening, Aunt. So lovely to see you.’

A vein in her temple pulsed. Her bony jaw worked. Finally, against massive resistance, she pried her teeth apart and rasped: ‘Yes. It is very…very…’

‘Wonderful?’ I suggested.

Her hands clenched into fists.

‘Nice?’ I put forward as a less offensive alternative.

‘…nice to see you, too,’ she finished. Quickly, she strode over to the table and snatched a plate.

Poor Auntie…Lately, she did not know exactly how to treat me. On the one hand, I was an insolent young chit with the manners of a rampaging rhino, the dress sense of a parrot, and—horror of horrors—with opinions of my own, a mouth even smarter than my brain, and a tendency to use it in public. In short, I was everything Hester Mahulda Brank despised in this world and more, wrapped up in one neat, well-padded package.

On the other hand, it appeared that, of all people, I would be the one to make the dearest wish of her crumpled little vulture’s heart—marrying a member of her family into the upper echelons of the British aristocracy—come true at last. When this had become clear, my aunt had gone through the following stages of niece-to-be-weddedness:

1. Denial

2. Delirious happiness

3. (having taken a good look at Mr Ambrose, and compared him to me) More denial. Lots more.

4. (after inspecting Mr Ambrose’s birth certificate, estimated net worth, and his entry in Debrett’s Peerage) More delirious happiness

5. Slow, dawning horror at the realization that she would, technically, have to be grateful to me. Worse than that, she would have to pretend to like me.

Worse yet, she had discovered that a small part of her shrivelled black soul actually did not, currently, hate me with every fibre of her being. So, at the moment, her feelings were rather ambiguous. Sometimes she hated me. Sometimes she loved me. When she was particularly confused, she lated me, or maybe hoved me. And every time I saw the struggle on her face as she tried to decide whether to strangle me, hug me, or do both at the same time, I had to work hard to keep a grin from my face.

But then again—hadn’t I just worked a full ten hours? I deserved a little break.

Aunt Brank gazed at my deplorably cheerful face with an expression of mingled disgust and anticipation.

‘I see you’ve been spending time with your fiancé?’

‘Indeed I have.’ Carrying files, taking down business correspondence and organizing the schedule for next week. But she didn’t really need to know that.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Are you sure you aren’t spending a little bit too much time in his company? You were gone all day.’

I gave a romantic sigh. ‘That’s how much he loves me. He can’t bear to be parted from me.’ Not without cutting my wages in half, that is.

The suspicion doubled. I could see the unfamiliar thoughts in my aunt’s eyes as clearly as if they’d been written on her forehead: A man and a woman…alone…there wasn’t that much they could do without going out, except…

‘You do have a chaperon, don’t you?’ she demanded sharply.

‘Certainly.’ Reaching for the potatoes, I shovelled a goodly portion onto my plate. ‘The loveliest chaperon anyone could imagine. Charming, sweet…’ …seven feet tall, turban-wearing, masculine. ‘The poor dear has a bit of a problem with facial hair, though.’

Instinctively, Aunt Brank’s hand went up to her own modest moustache on her upper lip.

‘Facial hair is perfectly normal from a certain age! I’m sure whoever she is, she is a lovely lady.’

I gave her a bright smile. ‘I’ll be sure to pass that along, word for word. I’m sure your words will make a big impression.’

Somewhere from down the corridor, we heard a crash. Ah. The Battle of the Bride had apparently reached its climax. Luckily, the bride herself had better things to do. Nibbling on a delicious cold piece of potato, I leaned back and sighed. Life was good!

‘Miss Lillian?’ I glanced up to see Leadfield hobbling closer, carrying a letter on what looked like a silver tray, but, knowing my Uncle Bufford, was probably just tin. ‘My deepest apologies for disturbing your meal. This telegram has just arrived for you.’

‘Telegram?’ Aunt Brank demanded. ‘Who on earth would send you a telegram?’

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

Snatching up the missive, I tore open the envelope, and read:

Coming next Friday STOP Will stay at best suite in Brown’s hotel STOP and send bill to my brother.[7]

Looking forward to seeing you STOP

Adaira

‘And?’ Aunt Brank demanded.

I just grinned. Life was about to get even better.

***

The rest of the week drifted by in relative peace—except for the living room of my uncle’s house becoming a deadly battleground. I mostly tried to stay far away from there, but occasionally, I caught a peek of the ravaged remnants of a dress design or the tatters of a seating arrangement. R.I.P., wedding plans. You shall live on in our memory.

Some people might wonder why I didn’t take a more active part in the proceedings. But really, in my opinion, there were only three essential components to the wedding day:

1. Me

2. Him

3. The vows

Taking that into account, I didn’t really see the point of getting involved. Plus, it was just so much fun watching my little sister turn into a bloodthirsty wedding monster. I made sure to keep her fiancé Edmund entertained with tails of her atrocities, so he would have something to look forward to.

However, not all of my life could be fun and games. Some had to be fun and work instead.

‘Good morning, Pearson.’

‘Good morning, Mr Linton.’

It was a few days later. I gave Sallow-Face a nod and, as slowly as humanly possible, sauntered past the mysterious tarpaulin still affixed to the wall beside the stairs. The noises coming from behind it had become more and more mysterious. My nosy instincts were clamouring to know the truth. My mouth was already open to stop one of the clerks hurrying around the big hall and demand to know what was going on—when I caught sight of Pearson’s smug face and closed my mouth again.

‘Well…I’ll be on my way upstairs then, Mr Pearson.’

‘Yes. I believe that would be best, Mr Linton.’

Damn him! And damn Mr Ambrose, too! I’d like to grab him and strangle him until—!

‘Ah,’ a familiar cool voice came from right behind me. ‘There you are, Mr Linton.’

I nearly fell over my own feet. Whirling around, I caught sight of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, standing not ten feet away, tall and proud like a granite monument. Around us, a hush fell over the grand hall.

‘What are you doing down, here?’ I demanded—then hurriedly tagged on, ‘Sir.’

‘Have you already forgotten, Mr Linton? Today, the meeting with my advertising directors is scheduled. And you are coming with me.’

My face lit up. ‘I am?’

‘Yes. You shall be taking notes while I will evaluate their proposals.’

‘So, tell me if I understand this correctly…they are going to, completely metaphorically of course, try and sell you their ideas, and you, how shall I put this, have to buy them?’

‘Indeed.’

I grinned. This was going to be fun.

‘When do we leave?’

‘Right now. Karim?’

At the snap of a finger, the huge Mohammedan emerged from a nearby door, making the clerks all around retreat a couple of steps. I didn’t know why exactly. I myself had to work hard to resist the urge to give the big, bearded mountain a hug.

‘There you are! I haven’t seen you in weeks. Where have you been?’

Karim gave me the look of reluctant respect a warrior might give a pack mule, because while the warrior might be far superior to it, at least they’re both equally stubborn.

‘Busy.’

‘Too bad. But now that you’re back, you can help out with the wedding.’ I gave him a charming smile. ‘How would you like to be the flower girl?’

‘If you try, I shall eviscerate you with my bare hands.’

Ah, the sweet sentiments of friendship… How comforting to know that some things never changed.

‘Enough time wasted,’ Mr Ambrose ordered. ‘Come, both of you!’ Pushing open the front doors, he stepped out into the cheerfully damp and overcast London morning. I pulled my tailcoat more tightly around myself and followed. Outside, Mr Ambrose’s little excuse for a chaise waited, strapped to the grumpy grey horse that had reluctantly towed us around on previous occasions. Karim climbed on the box while Mr Ambrose squeezed into the small space at the back.

‘You know,’ I mused, snuggling against him and sliding an arm around his shoulders, ‘I used to get annoyed by the fact that this bloody thing is so small. For some reason, I don’t mind anymore. Funny, isn’t it?’

Under my touch, Mr Ambrose stiffened. ‘Mr Linton! We are in public!’

‘Why, yes we are, Sir. So observant of you to notice.’

‘And you are wearing your…work attire. Masculine attire.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘What if someone should see us?’ he hissed, lowering his voice. ‘Remove your arm this instance!’

‘And where else would you like me to stash it?’ I enquired sweetly, looking around the miniscule space. ‘In the luggage rack? Well, I suppose if you don’t want it around your shoulders, I could always slide it a little lower, and—’

He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. ‘Karim! Put the top up!’

‘Yes, Sahib. Immediately, Sahib.’

With a snap, the cover of the chaise unfolded over us, shielding us from prying eyes. Snuggling closer into Mr Ambrose, I rubbed my nose against his neck and breathed him in.

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Hmm?’

‘Desist!’

‘Nobody can see us.’

‘That’s not the point. I…you…’

I smirked up at him. ‘Afraid I’ll steal your virtue before the wedding night? That’s already taken care of, remember?’

A muscle in his cheek twitched. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then…

His hand touched my cheek. ‘I’m not likely to forget.’

I leaned into his touch. Neither am I. ‘So…what are you thinking about, Sir?’

‘Classified business matters, Mr Linton.’

The smirk returned. ‘In other words, you’re considering how best to fire me before the wedding.’

The little finger resting against my cheek twitched just a little. ‘No comment.’

I glanced up at him. ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind.’

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘You don’t?’

‘Why should I? You’ve tried firing me before. Did it work?’

For a moment, there was only silence. Then…

‘No.’

‘In fact, you tried it multiple times. Have you ever had the slightest bit of success in that regard? Did I ever lose?’

Another silence, this one considerably more arctic than the one before. Finally…

‘No, Mr Linton.’

‘Exactly.’ I grinned up at him. ‘I’ve won every single time. I rather enjoy winning as it happens, so I’m looking forward to getting another chance.’

A storm began to gather in his eyes. With the force of his gaze alone, he pinned me to the seat, and goosebumps appeared all over my body. ‘You do, do you?’

‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’

He gave me a look so intense I swear I could feel the carriage tremble beneath me.

‘Well…then I shall do my best to make things challenging for you. I would not wish my bride-to-be to be bored.’

I am Dope!

Bored?

At his last word, I choked back a fit of laughter. ‘Trust me, there are a few things that have worried me when considering the idea of spending the rest of my life with you—but being bored was never one of them.’

Leaning forward, he captured my face between both of his hands. ‘Good to know. Tell me—if not boredom, what is it that you are worried about?’

His eyes were swirling, storm-coloured pools of darkness. A girl could drown in those eyes.

‘Losing myself,’ I whispered before I could stop myself.

His grip tightened. ‘A valid concern. But don’t worry.’

‘No?’

‘No. If you ever do, I’ll find you again.’

And he kissed me.

In broad daylight. Out in the street, in the middle of London. Holy Moly!

Holy hell! Yes, the cover of the chaise is up, but someone could see us anyway! Maybe we shouldn’t…maybe…we…

Or maybe I should. Yes. Yes, upon reconsideration, and consultation with my lips, I definitely should.

‘Ehem…Sahib?’

Was someone talking?

‘Sahib!’

‘What is it Karim?’ Mr Ambrose growled.

‘We have arrived, Sahib.’

It was only then that I realized the chaise had come to a stop. By the time I had recovered from my surprise, Mr Ambrose was already out of my arms and out of the chaise.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, Mr Linton? Knowledge is power is time is money!’

Throwing Karim a dirty look, I followed Mr Ambrose and made a mental note to have my dressmaker prepare a flower girl dress in size XXL.

The building Mr Ambrose and I were approaching was by no means as big as Empire House, yet it still was an impressive behemoth. Three stories high, it had an elegantly painted façade, with cheerful flowerbeds stretching in front of the entrance, and a fountain tinkling in the front yard. A doorman in a shiny blue-and-gold uniform stood at the front door.

I threw Mr Ambrose a look.

‘Are you sure this is one of your offices?’

A muscle in his cheek twitched. ‘My advertising directors assured me it was vital to project a positive image.’

‘And a costly one?’

‘Let’s just say that I will not be pleased if they do not deliver on their promises of success.’

We strode towards the doorman. Stepping in our way, the man let his eyes drift haughtily over the thinner spots in Mr Ambrose’s ten-year-old mint-condition tailcoat.

‘You seem to have lost your way, Sir. Can I help you?’

‘Yes. You can get out of my way.’

‘I’m afraid I cannot do that, Sir.’

Oh dear. R.I.P., dear doorman.

‘Indeed?’ Two dark, ice-cold eyes wandered over the doorman’s figure. ‘I’m sure Mr Humphreys and Mr Byrd would have something to say about that.’

‘Mr Humphreys? Mr Byrd?’ The doorman’s Adam’s apple bobbled. ‘How do you know the names of the directors of—’

Mr Ambrose didn’t say a thing. He just reached into his pocket, pulled out his card and handed it to the doorman. The poor fellow took one look at the thing, blanched and jumped aside.

‘I-I’m s-so sorry, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Of course you may go in immediately, Sir. Mr Humphreys and Mr Byrd are expecting you, Sir.’

‘Adequate. Card?’

The doorman blinked. ‘You…you want my card?’

‘Of course not! I want mine back. Do you have any idea how much it costs to print these things nowadays?’

‘Of course! Here you are, Sir! So sorry for the inconvenience, Sir.’

‘Hm.’

Pushing past the doorman, Mr Ambrose marched into the entrance hall. Hurrying to catch up, I enquired: ‘So…what would you say to printing five hundred embossed wedding invitations decorated with gold leaf?’

‘Dream on, Mr Linton.’

‘That’s what I thought. So…how do we get people invited to our wedding?’

‘I was thinking of beautiful, handwritten calligraphic invitations.’

I stared up at him, eyes narrowed. ‘You were?’

‘Certainly. Only the best for our wedding.’

Warmth filled my heart. ‘That’s so…thank you. Just thank you.’

‘You agree?’

‘Most definitely.’

‘Good!’ He patted my shoulder. ‘Then your next task as soon as we return to the office will be to brush up your calligraphy skills.’

He had disappeared into the stairwell before I could think of a reply.

Damn the man!

Sparks flying from my eyes, I rushed after him and up the stairs. When, at the top, I stepped out into a corridor, I just caught sight of the tail-ends of his coat disappearing into a room before the door closed. Marching to the door, I threw it open.

‘Now listen here, you! If you think—!’

My voice cut off.

Mr Ambrose was sitting opposite two middle-aged, very important-looking gentlemen in colourful vests, around a big conference table, a stack of documents in front of him. Turning to gaze at me, he cocked his head.

‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

I clenched my fists, mentally counted to ten, and unclenched them again.

‘If you think this is the right room, I’ll come in now, Sir.’

‘I do. Enter.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ And prepare yourself. Vengeance shall be mine.

Stepping inside, I settled down at a corner of the table. Karim stepped in behind me, closed the door, and stood in front of it with crossed arms, seeming determined to defend it against any invading army that happened to pass through.

‘Where was I?’ the taller of the two distinguished gentlemen asked, throwing me an annoyed look.

Mr Ambrose pinned him with his arctic gaze. ‘You were about to explain why your brilliant advertising campaign has resulted in a sales increase of exactly zero point zero two five per cent, Mr Humphreys.’

‘Ah. Um. Yes, that.’

‘Well?’

‘You see, Sir, you have to understand that under current market conditions…’

Mr Humphreys launched into a long speech that contained words like ‘yield management’, ‘adnorm’ and ‘category development index’. Occasionally, Mr Byrd threw in a comment about ‘collateral materials’ or ‘galley proofs’. It was all a bit hard to follow, particularly since a fly who was buzzing around Karim’s head, contemplating whether to settle down on his nose, held a lot more interest for me. The plucky little insect and he were currently engaged in a staring contest. I could almost hear their unspoken dialogue.

‘Don’t you dare! That is my nose. Don’t you dare sit down!’

‘Ha! I’ll do anything I want to, big one!’

I was rooting for the fly.

Still, a part of my mind tried to follow Mr Humphreys’ speech on advertising. Apparently, there was this new substance on the market, some plant extract or other, which Mr Ambrose’s subordinates had put into various food products, and the firm was having really big trouble getting the average person on the street interested in this strange stuff.

The poor little fly retreated under Karim’s glare and buzzed off to another corner of the room. Disappointed, I turned my attention back to the conversation, and nudged Mr Humphreys. ‘What was the name of this stuff you’re trying to sell again?’

Mr Humphreys threw me a superior look.

‘Please try to follow, young man,’ he scolded me. ‘This is a serious business meeting of important, highly respected businessmen, and we do not countenance interruptions. We must determine a valid business strategy on how to best sell our cocaine.’

‘Cocaine…hmm…’ I rolled the strange name around in my mouth. ‘Have you tried handing out free samples?’

Mr Humphrey rolled his eyes. ‘That’s the oldest trick in the book, young man! That would never work!’

‘Then how about switching the medium for advertising?’ I mused. ‘Instead of just placing ads in newspapers, we could put up giant, brightly coloured posters on