Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

Which was pretty much how I liked it. They were welcome to all the balls and all the men they could get. They could have thousands and thousands of men, and have illicit affairs with them or marry one or all of them, or cook them for dinner if they really wanted to. I would wish them the best of luck. But why oh why did they have to bore the rest of us to death by talking about it?

‘…and the Earl of Farthingham is supposed to be engaged to Lady Melrose.’

‘Really, Anne? I hadn’t heard that.’

‘Yes, Maria. You see, it’s a frightful secret because…’

I ignored them to the best of my ability and concentrated on my salted herrings, while they kept gossiping about the famous Admiral this and the rich Mister that. My thoughts were neither on my food nor on society, however. They were on a certain tall, dark-eyed individual and on one question that kept coming back to the forefront of my mind ever since he had given me his card: Should I go there?

I didn’t even know why I was still thinking about it. A normal lady wouldn’t even consider trying to get a job.

Ah yes, that snarky little voice in the back of my mind said, but then, a normal lady wouldn’t try to go voting dressed up as a man, would she? Ladies simply weren’t supposed to be independent. They were expected to marry, sit at home and look pretty. And that’s not exactly what you have in mind for your life, is it?

I threw a glance at Anne and Maria. They obviously were content with this lot in life. And why not? They were pretty, they could sit still very well, and to judge from the effort which they put into their social exploits, they would marry well, too. The young men of London were, from what I could gather, full of praise for their beauty and accomplishments, and were only quarrelling about which of the two to praise more. Quite a hard decision, since they were twins and identical to the last lock of their golden hair.

Indeed, Anne and Maria would make very fine ladies. I, on the other hand, had always had a rather stormy temperament that didn’t lend itself well to the idea of marriage. Not as long as the vows included an oath of obedience to a man, anyway.

I definitely wanted to do more with my life than exist as an appendix to some chauvinist blockhead. So why did I hesitate, now that this golden opportunity had presented itself?

Maybe because I remembered with crystal-like clarity the darkness in Mr Ambrose’s eyes. I remembered how that muscled mountain, Karim, had dragged off the fat man at his master’s command. Mr Ambrose was no friendly or gentle man. There was a good chanc

e that going there would cost me dearly. Still, his offer was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Now the question was: for this opportunity, was I prepared to enter the lion’s den without knowing if an open maw awaited me?

In my mind, I again saw an image of his dark eyes - dark eyes so deep you could drown in them. They seemed to draw me towards them. Suddenly, I didn’t feel as hesitant about going as I had a moment ago.

His offer, I reminded myself. That is the only reason you’re thinking about him, the only reason for going to see him again. This man is your ticket to freedom. Remember that, and while you’re at it, forget about his hard, chiselled face and those deep, dark eyes…

But somehow I couldn’t seem to manage. His eyes seemed to stare at me constantly out of my memory, burning holes into my mind. In those eyes I saw ruthlessness, arrogance, anger and more icy cold than in an arctic blizzard.

Why couldn’t I stop thinking about them? About him? I had never thought much about a man before. The way they behaved themselves, regardless of their looks, had always been enough to make me want to give them a good kick in the backside. But there was something about Mr Ambrose, something about those dark sea-coloured eyes, his granite face and the way he held himself, ramrod-straight and immovable, which I couldn’t get out of my head. I had a feeling that if I tried to kick him, I would end up breaking every single one of my toes.

I wanted to go to him, to grab this golden opportunity, and at the same time I wanted nothing so much as to run away to hide in some corner where his dark eyes couldn’t find me. If I only knew more about him, knew who or what he was and what I would be facing, maybe I could work up the courage to go to his office. But how in the world could I find out anything about him?

‘…and Sir Ralley was so taken with the French Countess, I doubt he’ll be able to resist another week. If he doesn’t propose soon, I know nothing about London society. And I’m an expert, trust me. It’s a marvel that…’

My hand froze in mid-air, half a herring hanging from my fork. Anne’s words, which I had only heard by accident, had struck me like a thunderbolt.

I’m an expert. Trust me.

That was it! I just might find out more about him simply by asking! After all, I had a veritable fountain of information about London’s society at my disposal. Two of them, in fact, or even three if you counted my aunt, who, although she wasn’t able to go out as much as Anne and Maria, was just as addicted to the gossip of the high society. And to the high society, I was sure by now in spite of his simple attire, Mr Ambrose belonged without a doubt.

It was still unlikely that they would know of him. There were thousands of upper-class people residing in London, the capital of the world. But asking couldn’t hurt.

‘Err… I have a question,’ I said, laying down my fork and bisected herring.

Maria waved a hand. ‘Oh, leave us alone with your talks of politics and adventure stories and God knows what else, Lilly. We’re too busy with serious talk to be bothered with your nonsense.’

‘A question about society.’

The table went silent. All eyes were on me, even those of Gertrude, who normally was content to stay in her own little world.

I cleared my throat. ‘Um… Does anybody know a Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’

Holding my breath, I waited for an answer. If he was nothing but a simple government official, they wouldn’t know of him. But if not, if he was somebody more important, or rich, or powerful…

Maria laughed a high, nervous laugh, somewhere between hysteria and giggling.