I pondered the question for a moment—then sighed. Of course.
I turned around the letter. And there, on the formerly empty back of the page, in Mr Ambrose’s clear, neat handwriting, stood the words:
Mr Linton,
Stop wasting ink.
Rikkard Ambrose
Warmth spreading inside of me, I pressed the letter to my chest. He replied! He replied! Didn’t he write the most wonderfully romantic love letters?
But the wonderful, warm feelings inside me were tainted with something dark. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget the reason why Mr Ambrose and I had to write letters to each other instead of being face-to-face, of holding each other, of never letting go. He had left me behind. Had left me behind because he was going into danger.
There wouldn’t be any need for love letters if the bloody idiot had just taken me with him! Damn and blast! He was in danger! He was in danger, and I was helpless to do anything about it! What should I do? I…I…
I needed to talk to someone.
But to whom? My sweet little sister Ella? If she knew that I really had an illicit love affair with a ruthless business mogul and wanted to go join him on his latest dangerous endeavour, smack-dab in Paris, the city of sin, she would faint and not regain consciousness until I’d sworn a vow of chastity. If I told Patsy and my regular crew of friends that I had fallen in love with a man, they’d try to tie me down and exorcise the spirit that had taken possession of their friend. Who else was there? Who could I possibly trust to understand and—
Suddenly, a grin spread over my face.
Two minutes later, I was down the stairs and out the door. Outside, I hailed a cab, jumped inside and stuck my head out the window to tell the driver where I wanted to go. When he heard the address, the man’s eyes went wide, and he blinked down at me.
‘Um…Miss? Are you sure that’s where you want to go?’
‘Yes, of course. Is there a problem?’
‘Well, err, it’s exactly, um…well, I…’ He gave up. ‘No problem, Miss. I’ll take you there directly.’
‘Thank you.’
Retreating into the interior of the cab, I leaned back and sighed. The cab started to roll and, only about a quarter of an hour later, came to a halt in a familiar dingy street. Exiting the carriage, I pulled out my purse to pay the driver. He glanced up at the façade of the house in front of which we had come to a halt.
‘Err…are you really sure this is where you want to go, Miss?’
‘Certainly.’ I smiled. ‘I come here all the time.’
‘Y-you do?’ The driver’s eyes bulged. ‘Well, I never…! Um…sorry, Miss, I…well, that is to say, I have to go.’
Grabbing his money, he wheeled his horses around and raced off as if the very devil were behind him. Shaking my head in bemusement, I tucked my purse away.
‘What in the name of shayatan are you doing here, woman?’ growled a voice behind me. I turned around to be confronted with the familiar scowl of Karim, my round-the-clock, beard-bristling watchdog. ‘This is the East End! Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for a lone woman to be here? What could you possibly want in a place like this?’
‘Calm down.’ Patting him on the shoulder, I pointed at the
sign over the door of the nearest building, which proudly proclaimed:
The Pussycat Palace—A Gentleman’s Paradise
‘I’m just going to visit a friend.’
And with that, I started towards the brothel door.
Plans for the Future
It took a bit longer to get inside than I anticipated, due to the fact that my bodyguard dragged me off and tried to stuff me into the nearest cab. Apparently, he for some reason took the ‘guard’ part of ‘bodyguard’ to include guarding his employer’s lady friend from strolling around seedy East End brothels. Eventually, by use of logical arguments and a sharp-tipped parasol, I managed to convince him to let me go—but not before I had found a place to change from my lady’s garb into the trousers of my male alter ego.
I guess I could see his point. It might create a bit of a stir if an underage girl marched into the Pussycat Palace and demanded some special time with the lovely Amy.