"I'm going to stab you." Patsy's voice wasn't threatening. She simply sounded as if she were announcing an unchallengeable truth. "I. Am. Going. To. Stab. You. If not with my parasol, then with the first pointy object I can get my hands on."

"Are you sure about that?" I enquired, fishing a needle out of a sewing box on a nearby shelf to offer it to her. "I have to admit, getting to watch you do needlework would almost be worth the perforation."

Her eyebrows twitched, and a muscle in her cheek as well.

Yay! Any minute now, her little finger will start twitching! I'm getting really good at this!

Thankfully ignorant of my thoughts, Patsy turned back to the table in front of her—which just so happened to be a diaper changing table. With narrowed eyes, she stared down at the desktop, and the little squirt on top of it.

"You. Behave!"

In response, a cloud of noxious, poisonous fumes rose into the air.

"Waah? Waaah waah!"

I beamed with pride.

Well done, Berty! That's my boy!

"Do I really have to do this?" Patsy enquired as she tried to simultaneously wrinkle her nose and hold it shut. "Can't I just hold him under a tap or something?"

"Sure you can," I agreed, cheerfully. "If you want me to tell Lady Samantha that you watered her grandson like a dried-up petunia."

Patsy blanched. Then she immediately started pulling open the knots of Berty's diaper.

"Oy!" she barked. "You over there! Yes, you, hiding behind the chest of drawers! Get over here and help me!"

Cautiously, Eve and Flora peeked out from behind the piece of furniture they were using as a hiding spot. "Um...do we have to?"

The glare they received was answer enough. Slowly, reluctantly, they rose to their feet and approached the happily giggling gas bomb. Together, the three arrayed themselves in front of the little fellow like one would in front of a firing squad and, their faces set in grim determination, reached out to—

A knock came from the door, and it opened just far enough for Ella to stick her head inside. "Um, excuse me, is Mr Victor Linton well enough to receive visitors? I'd like to—Oh my goodness! Who spilled a vat of liquid manure in the room?"

I sent my little sister an affronted look. "Now listen here! The stench of liquid manure can in no way compare with the deadly olfactory danger that is my Berty's dirty diaper!"

"Um..." Eve raised a cautious hand. "I'm not really sure that's something to be proud of?"

"Hey! That's my son, and I'll be proud of him in whatever way I want, thank you very much!"

"Son? Son?" Ella's face lit up at the words, and, rushing over to the table, she promptly forgot all about looking for her severely wounded brother. "Oh, my little nephew is here! And he made a little poo-poo? What a good boy! So smart!"

I sent a smug look at Eve, who acknowledged her defeat with a nod. "I stand corrected."

Then she hastily backed away from the table. Patsy and Flora were quick on the uptake, following her example and retreating. Ella, blissfully ignorant of what was happening around her, continued tickling little Berty, making baby noises and pulling funny faces. Then, without hesitation, she opened the door to hell—also known as "diaper"—and the unholy stench of the abyss permeated the room.

"Do you think she'll notice if we leave?" whispered a voice that was definitely not mine. Definitely. After all, how could I wish to flee from my little darling?

"Nope." Still backing away, Patsy shook her head. "She won't notice at all."

"Then what the heck are you waiting for? Go, go, go!"

We were out of there fast enough to impress Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

Who, by the way, was smart enough not to follow us up here. Dang it!

"Phew!" Dragging in a huge breath of clean air, I leaned against the door. "You know, I love my son, but..."

"...but not what comes out of 'im?" Amy smirked.

"Exactly!"

"Then just wait till 'e starts ta talk."

I sent her a glare. "His first word will be 'mama'."

Her smirk widened. "I think 'er baby daddy might 'ave something ta say about dat."

"His opinion on the matter is not relevant." Lifting my nose, I sniffed. "That bugger is trying to marry me off to his sister. I do not care about what he says or thinks."

Her smirk widening to horizontal banana proportions, she patted my shoulders. "You keep telling yourself dat."

"Oy! I mean it!"

"Really?" In an innocent manner that wouldn't have fooled a five-year-old, Amy cocked her head, her gaze wandering over my still slightly dishevelled hair. "If he's so unimportant, then what were you doing just before you came down to greet us?"

Taking a page out of my husband's book, I deigned not to answer that. My quickly reddening ears might have been answer enough, though. Thank God Mr Ambrose isn't here! I can't imagine how much worse this would be if—

"Ah, Mrs Ambrose!" came a familiar, chilly voice from right behind me. "There you are."

Oh crap.

Whirling, I found myself face-to-face with a certain stone-faced business magnate.

"Oh. Um...hello there."

"Mrs Ambrose...why are your ears red?"

Trying my best to ignore Amy's cackle from behind me, I plastered my best wifely smile onto my face.

"It's nothing, darling. So, what is it, husband dear? What can I do for you?"

"Follow me back down to help with the ball preparations."

There went my wifely smile.

"I'm not quite certain I can help you, dear." With a tired sigh, I rubbed my legs. "I'm still quite exhausted from the pregnancy, and especially my legs are rather—"

"It is good then that your task does not require much leg work," he interrupted me smoothly. "In fact, it would be downright detrimental."

In one swift move, he captured my arm with his hand and, before I could even think of protesting, started dragging me off down the corridor. Over my shoulder, I threw a desperate, pleading glance at Amy—and only received a smirk in return.

Traitor!

So much for having come here to help me.

Just you wait! I'm going to get my revenge the moment Berty does his next big poo-poo.

For now, though...

"Where the heck are you taking me?" I demanded out of the corner of my mouth.

"To a place where you can't get in quite as much trouble as in a bandit-infested forest."

"Oy! I was just spending some time with my friends."

"And what would have happened if my mother hadn't confiscated the steel-reinforced parasols that belong to your friends?"

"That's..."

...a good point, actually. Not that I was going to admit that. Quickly, I suppressed the mental image of Patsy chasing the marquess across the yard, the local law enforcement hot on her heels.

Hm...that image is actually rather tempting.

Maybe Mr Ambrose had secretly developed telepathic powers, because the grip on my arm immediately tightened.

"As I said, I'm taking you somewhere safe. Far away from your friends, and especially far away from any forests."

I swallowed. The way he said that...

Glancing up at him, I met his eyes. The look in his eyes almost stopped me in my tracks.

"Never again. Do you hear me, Mrs Ambrose? Never. Again. We're going to spend some time together in a nice, quiet place."

I would have been flattered by the clear concern in his voice—if the way he said those last few words didn't give me a certain foreboding feeling.

"And what, pray," I enquired, "am I going to do in that nice, quiet place?"

Considering this was Mr Rikkard Ambrose we were talking about, the fact that he didn't answer shouldn't have been ominous. But it was. Oh, how it was.

"Mr Ambrose. What am I going to do?"

Just then, he opened a door to my left, revealing a small room with a cheerful fire crackling in the fireplace and a desk standing against the wall. A desk on top of which rose a mountain of white cardboard that could easily compete with Mount Everest.

"My mother has humbly requested that you help her with the invitations," Mr Ambrose stated coolly. "Handwritten invitations."

***

"Aaaaah! Oooh!"

"Be careful with those moans, Mrs Ambrose. People might get ideas."

Raising my gaze, I sent a glare at the granite-faced son of a bachelor who was responsible for this torture. "Shut up and get me another glass of cold water!"

It said something about my tone of voice that he strode off without a moment's hesitation and, shortly afterwards, returned with a glass of cool water. Snatching it with my left, I pulled my throbbing hand out of its previous coolant container and dunked it straight into the fresh glass of icy water.

"Aaaaah!"

"Why not a bit louder, Mrs Ambrose? I don't think people in London could hear you."

That got him another glare from me. "Well, they won't have to hear. me Judging by those," I gestured at the massive pile of invites, "your mother wants to invite most of southern England! What the heck does she want to do? Assemble an army to conquer Scotland? Because I sure as hell can't see that many people fitting into this manor! And if they did..."

Suddenly, an image appeared in my mind. The biggest, most ostentatious ball ever. A never-ending night full of dancing and mindless small talk and simpering lickspittles trying to climb up the social ladder while stepping on everyone in the way...

"Oh crap. I think I've just discovered what my version of hell looks like."

"Indeed?"

I sent him a pleading look. He was my husband, right? He would understand. "Are you sure we can't go with Patsy's plan? We can ambush your father in his office. I'll even persuade Patsy to lend you her steel-reinforced parasol so you can be the one to whack him over the head!"

The look he sent me in return was distinctly unamused.

"Oy, don't look at me like that! It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Anything is reasonable if it gets me out of this horrible hell of an eve—"

Just then, the door opened and Lady Samantha stuck her head into the room. "Ah, there you are, Lilly dear! I see you've gotten started on the invitations. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Ehem...very much so, Your Ladyship. I was just telling my dear husband here how very much I am looking forward to the ball."

God! What was it about this woman that made me unable to disappoint her?

Whatever it was, Mr Ambrose had clearly known about it, judging by the smug glint in his eyes. Darn son of a bachelor!

"Really?" The marchioness clapped her hands in delight. "Lovely!"

"Um, yes...lovely." Only then did it sink in what she had said before. "Um...excuse me, Your Ladyship...but what did you mean I've 'gotten started' on the invitations?" I gestured at the desk and the piles of invitations on top of it. "I'm finished, right?"

"Ah!" Her face lighting up, the marchioness pushed the door open the rest of the way, thus revealing the massive basket full of blank invitation cards in her arms. "About that, I forgot to bring those earlier. Sorry for the delay."

I felt my hand in the water glass twitch spasmodically.

"No problem, Your Ladyship. No problem at all."

"Splendid! Should I bring the third basket as well, then?"

There was a ding-ding-ding sound as my hand shook in its watery bath, rattling the glass.

"Yes, by all means, Your Ladyship." I gave her a bright, happy smile. "I'll be looking forward to it."

One thing to know about Lady Samantha Genevieve Ambrose, the Marchioness Ambrose, was that she had absolutely no talent for understanding sarcasm.

"Wonderful!" Dumping the basket full of finger torture right in front of me on the desk, Her Ladyship dashed back towards the door. "I'll be right back!"

"How...spiffing."

I managed to keep the smile on my face till after she was out of the room. Then I looked over at Mr Rikkard Ambrose in the corner.

"Not one word. Not. One. Word."

Fortunately, he was Mr Rikkard Ambrose. So that was a rather easy request to fulfil. Unfortunately, he was Mr Rikkard Ambrose, so he wouldn't allow me to flee through the window before I had finished my work.

"Here I am!" Beaming broadly, Lady Samantha flung open the door again, another basket in her arms. "Have fun, dear!"

***

The very next morning, a wagon arrived at Battlewood Hall. It didn't bring any cargo, however. No, it was here to take the literal wagonload of invitations to the nearest office of the royal mail. As for me...by that time, I was in my bed, my arm resting in a vat of iced water.

Although, a little while later, I realised that I should probably have been out there, trying to stop the wagon from departing.

Why, you may ask?

Well...

It was simple, really. I had expected for the invitations to evoke a rather enthusiastic reaction. That much was a given for a ball invitation from a marquess with an unmarried daughter, regardless of the two marriage candidates that were already lined up. But there was one thing I had not reckoned with: There was something that could attract people more than an invitation to a fancy party from a rich noble.

Curiosity.

Rumours travelled faster than the royal mail, and, soon enough, the entire county, nay, the entire country had heard the latest, hottest news—Lady Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose, sister to the Mr Rikkard Ambrose, multinational industrialist and richest man of the British Empire, was being pursued. Not just by one suitor, but by two! And, most astonishing of all, Mr Rikkard Ambrose had made neither of them disappear so far!

A love triangle? A rich, overbearing older brother? Drama galore? Yummy!

There hadn't been a juicier piece of gossip in Great Britain since that ninety-year-old lady confessed to murder while working as a part-time prostitute. That little piece of gossip had spread like wildfire all through London. This time, the news spread all over Britain like an unstoppable, raging inferno.

But after only a few days, a flood came to extinguish the fire. Lucky, right?

Huh, sure!

A flood came, but it was a flood of bloody acceptance letters.

"Look at this, Mr Linton!" Gushing, Lady Samantha came rushing into my room, her hands full of fancy letters. "So many acceptances! Oh, I can hardly believe it! So many people are going to watch you sweep Adaira off her feet and win her heart!"

"Will they now?" I muttered, cracking open one eye where I was lying on my bed. "How wonderful."

"It is, isn't it?" Clapping her hands, Her Ladyship twirled through the room. "Ah, I can't wait! It will be so splendid! Everything I ever dreamed of for my little girl and, err...Mr Linton?"

"Yes?"

"Why is your arm in a bucket of water?"

Because I just spent the last six hours as my alter ego writing invitations till my hand started cramping!

"I, um...I was wounded while bravely defending my companions from the attacking bandits. This is a bath with special herbs to treat my injuries."

"Oh my! So courageous!" Her Ladyship nearly swooned. "And such good luck that it's your hand that is injured and not your leg, otherwise you might not have been able to dance at the ball."

Suddenly, I felt intense regret that I didn't fill an additional vat of water. Why oh why couldn't I have thought of that?

"So, um...how much longer till the preparations for the ball are concluded, Your Ladyship?"

Please say a month! Or better yet, a year!

"Oh, a day or two. Less than that if I have my way."

I shuddered. God! Why do you do this to me?

Well, Lilly, my inner voice suggested, the fact that you are planning to besmirch the sacrament of marriage by inviting your sister-in-law into your future harem might have something to do with it.

With all my strength, I willed that bloody inner voice to shut up. Because no matter what it said, that did not count! After all, I didn't have a harem yet. And if I got my way, I was never going to.

"Ah, I can hardly wait! My apologies, I have to go now! I must double-check the decorations!" Beaming, her Ladyship gave a twirl and dashed toward the door—then abruptly stopped, and threw a hopeful glance back towards me. "Hm...I wonder if, since I'm already at it, I should order the decorations for the wedding...?"

I buried my face in my cushions.

I was going to kill Mr Ambrose for this.

***

"Merde! I going to kill that salaud!"

"Which one, if I may be so bold as to enquire, My Lord?" Mr Everill's voice came from the corner where he was currently folding his employer's freshly-cleaned hunting outfit.

"Both of them!"

"I see, My Lord. Will you be requiring your rifle to be cleaned?"

"Bah!" Snorting, the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste made a dismissive gesture. "Do not mention firearms! I have had my fill of those!"

"Your experience in the forest, My Lord?"

The vicomte's face darkened. "If I ever get my hands on those crétins, I am going to—" He descended into a flood of French curse words that Mr George Clifford Everill decided to ignore as any good butler should. When he was finally finished, he sent Everill an imperious look. "This time, there will be no firearms involved. The next stage requires a...different approach."

"So, should I prepare melee weapons for the ball, then, My Lord?"

"That will not be necessary, Everill. It will be a frozen day in hell before I need weapons and violence to charm a lady at the ball. I am Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de Saint-Celeste! That girl shall be putty in my hands." His eyes narrowed, and he turned to stare out of the window, at the distant light that came from Adaira's bedroom in the manor's other wing. "I shall have to resort to more...extreme methods."

----------------------------------------------

My dear Readers,

By the way, regarding the rather scandalous geriatric mentioned above - according to some historical reports, there was indeed an old lady who committed murder while working as a lady of the night in her 90s. So much for the famed strict morals of the Victorian age... ;-) Just goes to show that fiction can never really compare with reality when it comes to wackiness.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob