In the Eye of the Storm (Storm and Silence 2)

Favours and Fires

It took the two of them a moment to notice me. Quite impressive, considering the noise I was making, stomping into the room. But then, they appeared to be busy. Very, very busy.

I cleared my throat.

Neither Mr Ambrose nor the female, who, if I wasn’t very mistaken, was the daughter of the French ambassador I had seen him dance with not too long ago, paid me the slightest attention. Just when their lips were about to touch, I decided it was time for more drastic measures. Grabbing a nearby side table I pushed, hard, and it toppled it over. The table and everything on it landed on the floor with an almighty, satisfying crash.

Disengaging from each other, they both turned to look at me. The girl’s eyes were blinking rapidly in confusion. Mr Ambrose, the devil curse him into all eternity, was looking just as cool and collected as if he had just been sipping tea!

‘Hasn’t your mother ever taught you to knock before coming in?’ he enquired.

The girl looked from me to him and back again. ‘Who is sat, ’enry?’ she demanded in a heavily accented voice.

‘No one of consequence, chérie,’ Mr Ambrose assured her.

Chérie?

If it hadn’t been before, that was the point at which my blood started boiling. Trying not to look at the two of them or at their rumpled clothes, I stepped forward and picked Mr Ambrose’s tailcoat up off the floor.

‘Here.’ I hurled the thing at him. I was hoping it would hit him in the head, but he caught it, effortlessly. ‘Put that on. And you…’ Turning to the girl, I pointed a finger at the door. ‘Out!’

She stared at me, then turned her gaze to Mr Ambrose. ‘Who is sat?’

‘I’m his wife,’ I informed her coldly. Well, why not? It was true, damn it! Well, sort of.

That made her look at me again, longer this time. It also made her eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. She looked back at Mr Ambrose once more.

‘Sis one? Your wife?

‘She is,’ he allowed. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Oh. Alors, if sat is se case…’ She untangled herself from Mr Ambrose, and curtsied to me. ‘I ‘ope I ‘ave not inconvenienced you, Madame.’

My mouth dropped open, stunned. She didn’t seem to suffer from any such problems in dealing with the situation. She just laced up her half-open gown and left the room, not without blowing a kiss to Mr Ambrose in parting.

When the door had closed behind her, I marched up to my so-called husband, who, I saw to my great relief, was completely dressed again by now.

‘What was that?’ I snapped.

‘That? That was Mademoiselle Bertrand, the ambassador’s daughter.’

I had been tempted to murder him before, but that was nothing compared to the temptation I had to withstand in that moment.

‘I know who she is,’ I whispered. ‘I want to know what you were doing with her!’

‘We were engaged in preparations for a process known, I believe, as “osculating”.’

‘Osculating? Indeed?’

‘Yes. Though sometimes, in a less formal context, one might also use the term “kissing” or “smooching”. In any case, the words all denote a common human mating ritual and precursor to congress.’

‘You mean you were whoring?’

‘Certainly not.’ He almost looked indignant. Indignant! He! ‘You have to pay a woman to be whoring. She didn’t get one penny from me, I can promise you that. What do you take me for?’

I was shaking. I didn’t even know why I was so angry - bloody hell, I had no right to be! I wasn’t married to him; it was all just a disguise; one, moreover, that I had done my best to fight, subvert and shatter! But…

That was just the problem. But.