‘Well what?’ The retort was abominably rude, but that was all right since it came from me.
Those dark, sea-coloured eyes of his were still fixed on my face. I made the mistake of looking into them and was caught. Blast!
He held out his hand for me to take. ‘Miss Lillian Linton, will you do me the honour of dancing with me?’
My mouth fell open slightly. Was he joking? But then I remembered who this was. No, he wasn’t joking. Dear Lord in heaven, how was I going to get out of this?
And then something utterly incredible happened - something more horrible than the Napoleonic Wars and the Black Plague put together.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I heard myself say in a shy, breathy voice.
What? What the heck was the matter with my vocal cords? How could they betray me like this? It wasn’t fair!
A hand closed around mine. It was both lithe and muscular, and the grip it exerted was a little too hard for someone asking you for a dance.
For a dance! Argh, no! Not with him!
There was a slight tug on my hand. Not harsh, but insistent. Dazed, I started to move and followed Mr Rikkard Ambrose as he led me onto the dance floor. In my stunned state, I still noticed he moved very differently from Lord Dalgliesh: not like a born dancer, but with a harsh, precise force that went beyond dancing. They were the movements of a born fighter. It almost felt like marching beside an elite soldier on a victory parade.
No! Don’t let this happen! Flee, you fool, before doom is upon you!
My insides were writhing in panic. But before I could turn and run, before I could do anything, we suddenly were in position on the dance floor, and I felt arms around me. Mr Ambrose’s arms.
Blast! Why do they have to feel so hard and firm and… right? It’s not right!
My heartbeat picked up, and I hardly dared to look up. I felt like an elephant who had been ordered to dance with the ringmaster. Would I squash his feet? Would I fall over? And what would happen when this madness was over and we returned to our normal routine of work, if that ever happened?
The music began. The four-four time lent itself to Mr Ambrose’s way of moving. He went towards and away from me as the music required, grasped me when the music demanded, and let go when the music said so. Not once did he look at me or speak to me.
We turned. And turned again. And again. And again.
Blast, this is maddening! Isn’t he going to say anything at all?
Apparently not. Nobody could be silent like Mr Ambrose. Not even a grave, or a whole graveyard for that matter, could compete with him. And as for looking at me, he didn’t seem to have any intention of doing that either. Oh no. He was staring fixedly at something in the distance. When we turned again, in time with the music, I saw where his gaze led.
Of course. Her! He is looking at her!
The crow was standing near a window in the east wall, an infuriating smile on her face, chatting with Lord Dalgliesh, who stood right beside her. Rage, mixed with an infuriating curiosity, rose up in me.
Who the devil is she? The writer of the pink letters?
The possibility gripped my heart like a claw of ice. And Mr Ambrose still wasn’t saying a single word! God, the silence was killing me! Somebody would have to say something. And if it wasn’t going to be him, it would have to be me.
‘I thought you didn’t like social functions,’ I blurted out.
There was a momentary pause.
‘I don't,’ came his curt reply, finally. Still he was staring into the same darn direction. ‘But this one was special. I had to come. I needed to spend some time with an old acquaintance whom I had not seen for some time.’
I sniffed. ‘So you’ve known the lady long?’
Is it she? Is it she who wrote you those letters? What did she say? What does she mean to him? And why the heck are you asking yourself that question?
‘The lady?’ His voice was absent and a little confused. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me at all. Gritting my teeth, I nodded in her direction.
‘What? Oh, Miss Hamilton?’
Hamilton. So finally, I had a name to put to the evil temptress! I relaxed infinitesimally as I realized that her name was not that of the writer of the pink letters. However, that relaxation vanished the instant I saw again the way he looked at the crow beside Lord Dalgliesh: so intently you might have thought there existed nothing else in the world for him but her.
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Miss Hamilton. You’ve known her long?’
He actually deigned to glance down at me then. If his face hadn’t been carved from stone, I was sure there would have been a frown on it. His eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘No. Whatever gave you that idea? I’ve only known her for a couple of days.’
Why the heck did you call her an old acquaintance then?