Chapter 15: 15. Steamy Scenes

'I really can't thank you enough, Mr Linton,' Mr Stone sighed in contentment, moving the iron from left to right, steam wallowing all around him. 'This is such a nice holiday from all the exhausting office work.'

'Um, yes...holiday.' Doubtfully I eyed the giant piles of laundry rising behind Mr Stone, almost to the ceiling of my office. I had a sneaking suspicion that Mr Rikkard Ambrose had dumped the laundry of his entire office staff into my lap. 'Are you sure you don't mind?'

'Mind? Are you joking?' Mr Stone gazed lovingly at the ironing board, his gaze drifting off into the distance. 'This reminds me of the good old days with Ma. I'll have to visit her again soon.'

'You'll do that. I'll be at the front desk. By the way...is it all right if I organize your notes a little bit?'

'Would you?' He threw me a worshipful look. 'Thank you, Mr Linton! Thank you so much! I can never make head or tail of Mr Ambrose's filing system.'

'You're welcome.'

I stepped towards the door and was just about leave when, with a thump, a small metal container landed on my desk. The reason why it was a thump and not a plink, was because my desk was padded by a dozen layers of gentlemen's waistcoats. Picking up the capsule, I popped it open, unfolded the paper and read,

Mr Linton,

Another load of laundry shall arrive soon. Be ready.

Rikkard Ambrose

Picking up a pen, I scribbled:

Dearest most beloved Mr Ambrose,

Bring it on!

Sincerely yours

Lillian Linton

Then I left the room, whistling, and stepped out into the hallway.

I had been sitting outside at the desk for some time, reading a fascinating scene in Mr Stone's little book that was giving me some interesting ideas for my wedding night, when I heard the paternoster rattling. My interest piqued, I glanced up. From within the shaft, I heard muffled banging, accompanied by, 'Bloody hell, bloody, bloody hell! What infernal machine is this? Brother dear, when I get my hands on you...!'

Grinning, I lowered the book, already knowing who it would be. Moments later, a fabulous, raven-haired fury stumbled from the paternoster and, before the mechanism had the chance to move on, gave it a resounding kick. 'Damn invention of Satan!'

'Well, hello to you, too, Adaira.' I waved to her, and she turned towards me.

She gave me a smile—which quickly turned into a frown. Hands on hips, she advanced on me. 'Hey, what's this? Has my prospective sister-in-law been demoted from secretary to receptionist?'

From next door issued the hiss of steam escaping from a boiling hot iron.

'I prefer to think of it as a strategic promotion,' I told her with a grin. 'Besides...this job is a piece of cake, really.'

'It is?'

'Oh yes.' Reaching into a certain drawer of the desk, I pulled out a platter of homemade chocolate cake after Mr Stone's ma's recipe. That woman knew how to bake! 'There's still quite a bit left. Want some?'

'My, my! You do know how to live here at Empire House. If I'd known my brother was this generous with his employees, I'd have considered joining, myself.'

I gave a little shudder.

'A piece of friendly advice: don't. At least not here.' If Mr Ambrose was a chauvinistic office tyrant in regard to me, I couldn't imagine how bad it would get when it came to his little sister.

We settled around Mr Stone's desk, and, over tea, whiskey and chocolate cake, exchanged gossip on current events, Mr Ambrose, the newest wedding fashions, Mr Ambrose, my adventures in Paris, Mr Ambrose, how things stood back at Battlewood, and Mr Ambrose.

It was amazing how, every time he came up, we seemed to be in agreement.

'By the way...' My brow furrowed, I leaned forward and lowered my voice. 'Do you have any idea what Mr Ambrose meant about having a home? Besides this place, I mean? An estate in the country?'

She shook her head. 'I have no clue. This is the first I've heard of it. And if it wasn't you telling me this, I'd be laughing my head off. My brother, spend money on an estate in the country? You might as well expect Count Casanova to invest money in a chastity belt.'

'That's what I was thinking.' Thoughtfully tapping the top of the desk, I stared off into the distance. 'I have no idea what to expect. I only know that I smell something fishy.'

'And I smell something chocolaty. Can I have another piece?'

'By all means, help yourself.'

'Thanks. I really—'

Adaira cut off when, from behind her, came a noise. Our eyes swept to the paternoster.

'Were you expecting anyone else?' Adaira enquired.

'Not really. But Mrs Emeline Windham-Wendroth from the Society for the Protection of Homeless Tomcats drops by now and again.'

'Mrs who?'

I was just about to answer when the latest paternoster cabin arrived, and out stepped a portly man with a head shaped like a tree stump and a marvellously bankish bowler hat. He practically had the word 'banker' printed on his forehead. On stumpy legs, he waddled towards us, and inclined his head.

'Good afternoon, Sir, Miss. I—'

'Your Ladyship,' I corrected.

He blinked. 'Pardon?'

'Your Ladyship,' I repeated, gesturing in Ayla's direction. 'You, Sir, are in the presence of Lady Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose.'

'Oh.' His face reddening, the man bowed so deeply that, for a moment, he was in danger of toppling over. 'My apologies, My Lady. My name is Willaby Chadwick, of the bank Chadwick, Millerstone and Chadwick. Please forgive me for the interruption of your conversation, but I have some urgent business matters to discuss with this gentleman and his superior. Perhaps you would be kind enough to withdraw?'

Translation: We want our money! Get out of here so I can get nasty.

'Well, now you've piqued my curiosity. You have business with my brother? Now I have to stay.' Batting her eyes oh-so-innocently, Adaira gazed up at him. 'Do tell, what is this about?'

'Um, well...' Clearing his throat, the Mr Chadwick glanced awkwardly from Adaira to me and back. 'The thing is...it is a distasteful business matter. I'm not sure such matters are suitable for a young lady's ears.'

Adaira gave the man a censorious look.

'Now, now, Sir. You wouldn't be so ungentlemanly as to refuse a lady's request, would you? Please, I would love to know what your business with my dear, dear brother is.'

Grinning, I leaned back in my chair. Golly, she was good.

A pained look crossed Mr Chadwick's face. He squirmed under Adaira's charming, ladylike smile.

'Well, you see, My Lady, a certain difficulty seems to have arisen regarding the sale of some of our property to your brother. He and our head of finance seem to, um...disagree about the appropriate amount of money necessary to purchase the property, and the speed of payment.'

Translation: It's easier to squeeze lemon juice out of a coconut than money out of Rikkard Ambrose.

Boy, I was good at this. If Mr Ambrose fired me after all, I should get a job as a translator.

'Well, now, Mr Chadwick,' Adaira beamed up at him. 'All problems can be solved with good will, a slice of cake and a cup of tea. Won't you sit down?'

'I don't think that would be appropriate...'

She narrowed her eyes at him. Her smile became slightly more...intense. 'Won't you sit down, Mr Chadwick?'

'Of course, My Lady. Right away, My Lady.'

Ten minutes later, Mr Chadwick of Chadwick of Chadwick, Millerstone and Chadwick left, considerably fuller of chocolate cake, but empty of money or answers. Leaning back in my chair, I gave Adaira an admiring smile.

'Heck, you've got the stuff, girl! Maybe we should hire you after all.'

Adaira grinned. 'Glad to hear you're satisfied with my service, Mr Linton. Do I get another piece of cake?'

'Take as much as you want. In fact, you—'

A plink from next door interrupted me. Glancing around, I pushed back my chair. 'Excuse me. Duty calls. Well, actually it wrote a note, but who gives a fig.'

Hurrying over into the steaming sauna of hell that used to be my office, I threw just one glance at a happily whistling Mr Stone, who was just ironing his twenty-second pair of trousers, before I reached down and picked up the latest missive from Ambrose the Mighty.

Mr Linton,

Ready to give up yet?

Rikkard Ambrose

Picking up a pen, I smiled and scribbled:

Dearest most beloved Mr Ambrose,

Oh, I think I can still stand the hellish torment for a while.

Yours sincerely,

Lillian Linton

Then I hurried back outside and plopped myself back into the chair.

'Now...where were we?'

'Want another piece of chocolate cake.'

'Ah, yes! Exactly.'

***

The next few days were some of the most amusing days of my life. Mr Rikkard Ambrose unleashed the full fury of housewifely duties on poor Mr Victor Linton. Baking, dusting, tidying up, cooking, washing up, sewing, steam cleaning, and last, but certainly not least, steamrolling.

Well...regarding the last one, he definitely tried. However, no matter what kind of fiendish, impossible tasks Mr Ambrose came up with for Mr Victor Linton to accomplish, for some reason, Miss Lillian Linton was not particularly bothered.

Plink.

Lazily, I opened one eyebrow. With a yawn I pulled my legs off Mr Stone's desk and ambled over into my office. A new message awaited me there.

Mr Linton,

A new load of my laundry has arrived. Be prepared.

Rikkard Ambrose

Swiftly, I penned a reply.

Dearest most beloved Mr Ambrose,

So far, I have counted two hundred and forty-three shirts, an equal number of trousers, sixty-seven tailcoats, eighty-five vests and twenty handkerchiefs. It is interesting to note that all were of varying sizes. It is not healthy to gain and lose weight that fast. Perhaps you should see a doctor. Or...could it possibly be that they are not, in fact, all yours?

Your loving fiancée,

Lillian Linton

I shoved the message in the tube and waited. Soon, the reply arrived.

Mr Linton,

Would I lie to you?

Rikkard Ambrose

I contemplated the question for a moment—then reached for another piece of paper.

Yes.

Yours sincerely,

Lillian Linton

A few moments later, his response fell onto my desktop.

Mr Linton,

Then why do you waste my time asking?

Be ready for the laundry.

Rikkard Ambrose

Smiling brightly, I stuck my head around the corner of the nearest file shelf.

'Hello there, Mr Stone. Are you up for another load?'

The young man beamed as if I'd offered him manna from heaven. 'Of course, Mr Linton! I'd be delighted!'

Gazing at him quizzically, I shook my head. 'Just out of curiosity...did you fall on your head as a small child?'

'No.'

'Oh.'

'I did stub my toe on a door once, though,' he offered, helpfully. 'Why?'

'No reason. You go on...having fun.'

'I most certainly will. Till later, Mr Linton.'

Marching back to my desk, I scribbled another note to my dear employer.

Dear Marvellously Starched Master of Laundry,

I shall await your delivery with bated breath,

Yours sincerely,

Lillian Linton

Fifteen and a half seconds later, his reply arrived.

I shall expect you not to leave a single burn or crease.

Rikkard Ambrose

My brow furrowed, I tipped my pen against my lower lip. Hm...how best to reply?

Oh yes. Excellent idea.

Leaning forward, I scribbled

Dear Sir,

Burn? Crease? You must think quite a lot about a lady's housewifely duties. Are you sure you aren't a girl in disguise? If so, you can trust me. I won't tell..

Your (somewhat concerned) fiancèe,

Lillian Linton

This time, his response only took him seven point three seconds to respond.

Mr Linton,

You of all people ought to know better. But, if your memories of our night together have faded so quickly, I shall have to remind you. Soon.

Rikkard Ambrose

A delicious shiver went down my back. There really was only one possible reply to that.

Dear (and hypothetically male) Mr Ambrose,

Soon. Knowledge is Time is Money, after all.

Yours impatiently,

Lillian Linton

Not long after, I was just sitting at the front desk eating another piece of cake (Mr Stone really was a talented fellow) and sipping a cup of hot chocolate when, from the paternoster, emerged a mountain of laundry.

'Halt!' I proclaimed. 'Art thou friend, foe or smelly underpants?'

A familiar, and not very amused, bearded face emerged from behind the giant pile.

'Where,' Karim enquired with as much dignity as a man from whose turban dangled an embroidered handkerchief can manage, 'should I put this?'

'Err...in my office,' I told him hesitantly. I had just realized that maybe it had not been the best idea to let him see me sipping chocolate out here when I was supposed to be in my office, sweating my lungs out. Before I could think any further on the subject, he stomped past me and into the office. A moment later he was back, heading straight past me and Mr Ambrose's office door, towards the paternoster.

'You're not going to rat me out?' I demanded.

He stopped. Slowly, he turned. What little was visible of his face behind the huge beard was unreadable.

'I do not like rats.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Hm.' Tapping the pommel of his sabre, he regarded me critically for a moment, then shook his head. 'No. I will not.'

I frowned. 'Why not?'

The poor dear looked as if he had just swallowed an especially sour lemon. Glaring at me haughtily, he told me:

'I do not have to explain my reasons to you. Suffice it to say that my people have an old saying. Naraka! Usa nē tuhānū lōṛa hai, isē karakē.'

With that, he turned and left.

Over the next few days, I watched Karim intently, as he carried mounting amounts of laundry into my office. But never once did he mention a word to his employer. Smiling to myself, I took another bite of chocolate cake. Well, how did Mr Ambrose express it? Silence is golden. Surely, he would be proud of Karim and me for so thoroughly adhering to one of his favorite principles.

'Done? How can sh- he be done?'

Or...maybe not.

Rising from my chair, I sidled towards the office door. Hm...would listening at one's future husband's keyhole be wrong? Probably, according to my aunt. So, instead, I knelt and pressed my eye to the keyhole. She had never said anything about watching.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose was marching up and down in his office, his long legs eating up the ground, his arm behind his ramrod-straight back.

'Are you sure you've delivered all the laundry to her as per my order?'

Karim stood in the corner, his beard bristling with efficiency.

'All was delivered to her office, Sahib.'

'But how? How could she deal with all of this?'

'I could not say, Sahib.'

'Get another load!'

'I must point out, Sahib, that all the laundry stored in the staff locker room has already been brought up. I cannot—'

'Then fetch more from one of my laundry shops! Now!'

'As you command, Sahib.'

By the time Karim stepped out of the office, I was sitting in my chair again, my feet up on the desk, whistling an innocent little melody.

The tension in the office grew. With our date of departure to the country fast approaching, Mr Ambrose pelted me with more and more work, up to and including such interesting tasks as polishing door knobs with a toothbrush, removing cobwebs from the corners of six-yard-high rooms with a one-yard stepladder, and last, but definitely not least, preparing midday meals for the entire staff of Empire House.

'You know,' Mr Stone panted, wiping the sweat from his face as he removed the twenty-second pie from the big oven down in the kitchens, 'I knew I said I appreciated Mr Ambrose's new interest in domestic pleasures, but I think he might be overdoing it a little bit.'

'Don't worry.' I patted his shoulder. 'I have a feeling it won't last long.'

'Really? Why?'

A determined knock came from upstairs, followed by a startled exclamation.

'That's why,' I said and, with a wink, started up the stairs. Up in the entrance hall, Sallow-Face was cowering behind his desk, shrinking from the impressive presence that was Lady Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose. The moment she caught sight of me, she beamed.

'Ah, Mr Linton! Perhaps you can help me. This ridiculous fellow is trying to keep me from going up to see my brother.'

I raised an eyebrow. 'And you let that stop you, My Lady?'

'Of course not. I just don't want to damage him if not necessary.'

'Now, look here, young lady—' Sallow-Face began—then abruptly cut off when Adaira flicked her gaze at him.

'Is it time, then?' I asked, my heart pounding hard.

'Almost. The coach will be arriving this afternoon. Just enough time to pack and...' she let her gaze travel over me meaningfully, 'to change.'

My heart leapt. In anticipation. In fear. In fierce, wonderful joy. I just about managed to nod instead of exploding from it all.

'All right.' My voice sounded strange in my own ears. 'Let me show you the way upstairs, Your Ladyship. I'm sure your brother eagerly awaits your arrival.'

We jumped onto the paternoster and, moments later stood in front of the office door of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Raising her parasol, she knocked on the door with the grip.

'Yes!' The voice that came from inside was like a whip of ice. 'Get in here, Mr Linton! Are the trousers folded? The pies baked?'

Pushing open the door, Adaira stuck her head inside. 'I couldn't say, brother dear. But I think your goose is pretty much cooked.'

There was a moment of silence. Then...

'What are you doing here?'

She smiled. 'It's time.'

'No!' The door burst open, and there he stood, fists clenched, eyes burning with cold fire. 'I've got to have more time! I have to...I...I...'

'Have lost?' I suggested sweetly.

In a flash, he was on me. His eyes were searing into mine, his rock-hard arms encircled me.

'What,' he breathed against my skin, 'did you just say?'

'All right,' Adaira exclaimed, one arm firmly plastered over her eyes. 'My cue to leave. I'll wait in the next room. Or downstairs. Or three universes away, where I'll never ever have to see my brother doing...that.'

She fled. Or at least I thought she did. I wasn't entirely sure and didn't really care. Most of my attention was caught up by the way Mr Rikkard Ambrose was staring into my eyes, with an almost painful mixture of determination and desperation.

I raised my chin.

'I said you've lost.'

'No,' he told me, his eyes fixed on me as if I were the most valuable treasure in the world to him. Or at least the second-most, after that unknown DaVinci painting in his vault. 'I've won. I've won our bet. I've won you.'

Before the truth of those words could take my breath away, he did it by claiming my mouth with his. He kissed me harshly, fiercely, with iron determination.

'Damn you!' he whispered against my lips. 'Why won't you let me keep you safe?'

'Because I really, really don't like doing laundry?' I suggested.

A growl erupted from his throat and, pressing me back against the wall, he clasped my face between his hands.

'And I,' he whispered, 'really, really love you.'

Gazing up at him, my heart melted. Mr Rikkard Ambrose had used a superfluous intensifier? A useless additional word, just for me?

He really does love me.

Rising on my tiptoes, I pressed a light kiss on his lips.

'Then let's get married,' I whispered.

Just then, the door opened, revealing a broadly smiling Lady Samantha.

Making an indistinct noise in the back of his throat, I jumped back.

'Oh, don't!' Lady Samantha directed her delighted smile at me. 'I think it's so sweet, giving a congratulatory hug! Men usually have such difficulties expressing their emotions, Mr Linton. My son could learn a lot about being a real man from you.'

A gaze cold as ice burned the back of my neck. Clearing my throat, I took a step away from him, just for precautionary purposes. 'I, err, doubt that, Your Ladyship.'

'So modest, like always. Come, you two! Let's go and fetch Miss Linton. It's time!'

I cleared my throat again. 'By "it's time", you mean...'

'Yes!' Her motherly smile widened. 'The big event is here! And we'll all be travelling together. Isn't it wonderful?'

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I hope you can forgive me for the slightly misleading title of this chapter, my dear lords, ladies & Gentlemen. I just couldn't resist ;-)

Now I'll be going back to preparing for the big event! I'll have to buy a fictional tuxedo for the wedding!

Yours Truly

Sir Rob