one!’
‘And there’s something to be said for progressive men. They don't normally have such thick heads that women need to argue with them! They have learned to listen to what women have to say.’
‘I pity them thoroughly!’
Angrily, I turned my head away. He was impossible! Why I made all this effort to get accepted by him was becoming more and more of a mystery to me. He obviously would never learn to see me as more than a temporary annoyance.
Why was I doing this? Why was I in this coach? I could be going home right now, looking forward to another boring, safe day at the office tomorrow. Instead I was in this miserable little chaise with him, on my way to God only knew where, to deliberately put myself in danger. And for what? The acceptance of a man! Bah!
‘So… are you really?’
The question was out of my mouth before I knew it.
‘Am I what, Mr Linton?’
‘Interested in her. Romantically, I mean.’
I sneaked a look at him out of the corner of my eye. He, too, wasn’t looking directly at me. He was pretending to stare out of the window. But his dark pupils betrayed him. They were watching me out of the corner of his eye, just like mine were on him.
He said nothing.
Why the dickens did I ask that? Why would I even be interested in Mr Ambrose’s romantic life or, more likely, the lack of it? The man was as romantic as a block of wood! A very attractive block of wood, certainly, but still a block of wood! He wasn’t interested in anyone.
And still, the thought of him being in love with that Hamilton wench…!
I shook my head, trying to ignore the heat that was rising in my cheeks.
Still I had gotten no answer.
‘Well, Sir?’ I repeated my question. ‘Are you interested in her?’
This time, I hadn’t sounded angry. For some reason, my voice had been low, and softer than I had ever heard it.
Slowly, he began to turn towards me. His sea-coloured eyes met mine, and they seemed darker than usual, the colour of storm.
‘Not in her, no.’
What? What was that supposed to mean?
Wetting my lips, I opened my mouth. It suddenly felt very dry. ‘Mr Ambrose… Sir…’
‘Sahib?’
Karim’s face appeared only inches away from us. Let me tell you, it’s rather disturbing to be staring into Mr Ambrose’s eyes and then suddenly have a bushy black beard shoved into your face.
‘It’s rude to interrupt!’ I snapped. ‘Can’t you see we’re having a conversation?’
Karim didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Yes, I can. I just thought you would like to know…’
The Mohammedan pointed straight ahead. Only then did I realize something which I hadn’t noticed before because I had been so intent on Mr Ambrose: the coach had stopped moving.
‘We’ve arrived,’ Karim said. As he swung down from the chaise, I could see he had his hand at his belt, around the hilt of his sabre. ‘Shall we go?’
I Mash and Bend Myself
‘This is it?’ I stared incredulously at the building down the road which Karim had pointed out. ‘This is where the wealthiest man of the British Empire keeps a document that is so important he has killed people for it?’
‘Second-wealthiest,’ Mr Ambrose commented coolly. ‘I am the wealthiest man of the British Empire, not that reprehensible individual who calls himself a lord.’
‘Oh, who cares?’
‘I do.’
Rolling my eyes, I turned to Karim, ignoring my employer. ‘This is it?’
With both hands, I gestured towards the house. It was a two-story brick building, slightly slanted, with dark stains on the front wall. The noise of cheap piano music came from inside, and over the door hung a sign which designated the establishment to be The Plough and Anchor.
Karim simply shrugged. Lord, I just had it up to here with men who couldn’t open their mouths to give me a straight answer!
Looking around again, I got a fuller impression of my surroundings. The place might not look like what I expected Lord Dalgliesh’s fancy headquarters to look like, but it certainly seemed evil enough to be the lair of a lord of the criminal underworld. The houses around us were dilapidated. Black smoke hung over the area, although none of it actually came from the houses' chimneys, which were cold empty. Washing lines criss-crossed between the roofs, or at least I assumed they were washing lines. The things that hung from them didn’t look much like clothes to me, but I didn’t think anybody would bother hanging old rags up