I worked as hard as I could throughout the day. Yet the longer I worked, the more my thoughts wandered from my work and to Ella and my own men-problem. Well, man, really, not men. I probably wouldn't be able to think straight anymore if I had more than one of those creatures hounding me. Lieutenant Ellingham was quite enough.

 How the devil am I supposed to get rid of him? I demanded of myself, while puffing under the weight of a hundred heavy files.

He didn't seem to mind that my family didn't have much money, or that I didn't have ladylike manners. He only seemed to care for my family's respectable name, which would help him in his advancement in the military.

Hm... Can you get rid of respectable family name?

Well, short of changing my name or committing suicide, neither of which seemed a very good idea, I could only do something so humongously stupid and dishonourable that it would disgrace my entire family.

Then why not do that? Sounds easy enough for someone as talented as you.

True, I had no trouble of thinking of possibilities – I could ride through the marble arch, which only the Queen was allowed to do. I could dance naked on top of the marble arch, which not even the Queen was allowed to do. I could make a handstand in Hannover Square and start singing the French National Anthem. I could rob the bank of England.

The last idea sounds nice. Then you can quit this bloody job and go lead a life of adventure, going to see the Rain Forests and the Great Wall of China!

But, Alas, I was afraid that even dressed up as a man, nobody would take me serious as a bank robber.  You probably had to be six foot five for that, with a mask and a pistol.

Plink!

Surprised, I looked down and saw that three messages lying in front of me on the desk. I had been so consumed with my own thoughts that I hadn't noticed them coming in. The first two were the usual missives from his mightiness, reminding me to bring him file number 35X119 and hurry up about it. The third one was different.

Mr Linton,

Taking into account your negligence in answering my messages, I must assume that something is the matter with you. Is it the same business as earlier today, the business we are never ever going to talk about anymore?

Rikkard Ambrose

I couldn't suppress a grin as I answered:

Dear Mr Ambrose,

No, that business we are never ever going to talk about again is not a problem – at least not yet. I am sorry for my negligence. I will bring the files immediately.

Yours Sincerely,

Miss Lilly Linton

But before I could rise, another message plopped onto my desk.

Mr Linton,

If it is not that problem bothering you, what is the matter?

Rikkard Ambrose.

My jaw dropped. Was I reading correctly? I reread the message. Then I turned on its head, and tried to read it like that, thinking I might be able to put a different construction on the words. Finally, I closed my eyes for ten seconds, yet when I opened them, the impossible words were still there.

My hand shaking slightly from the shock, I quickly composed an answer.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

Careful, Sir. People might start to think you actually cared if everything goes well in my life.

Yours Sincerely,

Lilly Linton

The reply to that came just as quick.

Mr Linton,

Care? Do not be ridiculous. I simply need you to work efficiently, without distractions.

Rikkard Ambrose

Of course. And there was I, thinking that maybe he had asked just to make me feel better. Ha! I had forgotten who I was talking- err, writing to.

Yet, regardless of his motivations, he wanted to know what was the matter. Panic began to well up inside me. How could I tell somebody I was being pursued by a man I detested? More terrible still, how could I tell that to Mr granite-face-all-business-like Ambrose? The concept alone filled me with unimaginable horror! And what about Ella? I could never tell him about Ella's secret romantic rendezvous. To mention the word 'love' in his presence would be like trying to explain bicycles to an eel.

It's really nothing, I scribbled on a piece of paper. Really, really nothing. Don't concern yourself with the matter. I am sure you have more important things to do.

Hurriedly, I shoved the message into a container and the container into the pneumatic tube – only then realizing that I had forgotten my usual teasing salutation. Well, that could only be good, right? He had complained of my teasing him all the while, after all, and right now I wouldn't want to rile him up any more.

Twenty seconds later, a message returned.

It consisted of two simple words.

Tell me.

Oops. Maybe I had been wrong. Again, I took up pen and paper.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

As I said, it is nothing. Please do not concern yourself with my petty troubles.

Yours Sincerely,

Miss Lilly Linton

I shoved the message into the tube, pulled the lever, and waited anxiously. When after a minute or so, no reply had come, I dared to breathe again. He was going to let it go. So now I'd just have to find those files he wanted...

I was just about to get up when a noise from the room next door froze me in mid-movement: The scrape of chair legs over a stone floor. Then, quick, hard steps approached the connecting door, and a key turned in the lock.

Holy Moses! He was coming over!

*~*~**~*~*

He stood in the doorway like a statue of some Greek god about to pass judgment on a poor mortal, and maybe throw a thunderbolt or two.

"Tell me," he ordered.

"I'm not obliged to tell you anything about my personal life," I mumbled. and thought: I'm looking down at the floor! Why the hell am I looking down? I'm a strong, independent woman! "That's not part of the job description of a secretary."

"It's also not part of the job description of a secretary to tour the hotels of London in a dress and with a sack full of onions at the ready, but you did it anyway. Tell me. Now!"

I stayed silent.

"If you will not tell me, I'll deduct the time we spend arguing from your wages."

I gasped. That was a low blow.

Well... maybe I could just tell him about me, personally. I couldn't tell him about Ella, of course. That wasn't my secret to share. There was only one thing left to tell. I took a deep breath.

"Well..."

"Yes?"

"I'm being pursued by a man."

"What?" With three long strides, Rikkard Ambrose was at my desk and had grabbed hold of my hands. Startled, my eyes flew up to look at him.

Hey! He was supposed to be calm and immovable as granite! I wouldn't have thought him capable of an emotion such as this. True, his face still was as impassive as ever, but his eyes... His dark eyes were emitting sparks of fury.

"Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?" he demanded.

"Why should I? It was none of your business!"

I tried to free my hands from his grip. It felt disturbing, having him hold my hands in his strong grasp, after the episode in his personal powder-room. I tried to shove that from my mind and concentrate on the moment.

"None of my business?" he repeated, coldly. "A man has been chasing you through London, and it's none of my business? Tell me, is he connected with Simmons? What did he want? Did he mention the file, or threaten to harm you? How far did he pursue you? Was he on foot, or on horseback? How did you escape?"

It all clicked into place then: his reaction, the grip of his fingers on mine, even the cold fire in his eyes. I almost started to laugh. Almost.

"Err... Mr Ambrose? When I said he's 'pursuing' me, I meant he wants to marry me."

Mr Ambrose's grip on my hand slackened, and he blinked.

"What?"

"He's trying to get me as his wife, not chasing me through town with a knife in his hand."

"Oh." There was a pause. "Are you sure?"

"Am I sure?" I glared up at him. "What's that supposed to mean? Of course I'm sure! Even I know the difference between a bouquet of flowers and a butcher's knife!"

"Err... of course you do. Well, that's good to hear. That's really..."

I stared at his face. A muscle somewhere in his cheekbone twitched, and his eyes went from side to side, as if looking for an escape. Dear me. Had I managed to get Mr Rikkard Ambrose flustered?

Suddenly, an unpleasant thought struck me.

"How come that the first thing you thought of when I said I was being 'pursued by a man' was that somebody is chasing me to get information out of me about you?"

"Well, um..."

"Do you think I'm that uninteresting? Do you think I'm a shrivelled old hag, that I could only attract men who want to stab me, not ones that want to marry me?" As hard as I could, I tugged at my hands to free them from his grasp – but his fingers were too strong. "How dare you! Do you really think that I am that ugly?"

"Of course not," he snapped, not looking at my face, which was good, because my glare would have burned holes into him. I was so angry with him, I would have slapped him if the thought of my pay check hadn't stayed my hands. "Of course not, Miss Linton, you're lovely."

"It is abominable that someone like you can call himself a gentleman. You should know better than..."

My voice trailed off.

"Wait just a moment... What did you say?"

Belatedly, my ears registered his last spoken words. The ears delivered them to my brain, where they were turned around and examined carefully. Then they were submitted to an authenticity test somewhere in the dark depths of my mind.

You're lovely... Miss Linton, you're lovely...

The results of the test weren't long in coming. On the whole, it was extremely unlikely that these words could have really, as I imagined, come out of the mouth of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Unlikely? Scratch that. Impossible!

"What did you say?" I repeated, my voice so weak I didn't recognize it anymore. Suddenly, having my hands in his felt completely different, and for some reason I stopped to struggle to get them free. From my sitting position, I looked up at Mr Ambrose, who looked as though he had just been forced to swallow his own top hat.

"What did you say?" I repeated once more, though I remembered perfectly well. I just wanted to hear it again to make sure I hadn't gone temporarily insane. Rikkard Ambrose thought I was lovely? Nobody had ever told me I was lovely! Not even my own mother! And what kind of lovely exactly? The 'oh-that-was-a-lovely-job-mister-secretary'-kind of lovely, or the other kind of lovely? The kind that involved him calling me Miss instead of a Mister.

"I said..." Mr Ambrose hesitated. Then, straightening, he suddenly let go of my hands and glared at me, his cool expression recovered. "I said bring me file 35X119."

He turned on his heels and marched into his office, slamming the door behind him.

*~*~**~*~*

Luckily, fetching files is not really an intellectually taxing task. If it had been, I would have had enormous difficulties completing the day's work.

I was just about to leave my office at the end of the day, when the door to Mr Ambrose's office opened, and I caught a glimpse of his dark, ramrod-straight silhouette in the doorway.

"Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment, Mr Linton?"

Oh, we are back to "Mister", are we?

Well, I wasn't exactly sure I had heard right that time he'd admitted my real gender earlier today, anyway.

"Yes," I said, curtly. "I would mind."

Ha! You see? I can be rude and cold too, it's not just you who has that extraordinary ability!

"Nevertheless," he persisted, his dark eyes flashing, "I would like it if you came into my office for a moment."

"My work hours are over."

"Consider it overtime to make up for your tardiness today. Come in. Now!"

From the tone of his voice I knew he would brook no further argument. Sighing, I followed him into his office, where he settled down into his chair and regarded me over top of his steepled fingers.

"The man who wants to marry you..." he stated. "You don't like him."

"Oh boy, I wonder how you figured that out," I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Sir," I tacked on at the end quickly, as his eyes flashed again.

"You don't want to marry him."

"No, I don't, Sir. And?"

"And nothing." He looked down at his papers and waved a hand. "You're dismissed. I hope tomorrow you'll show a better performance than today. Good day, Mr Linton."

Bewildered, I left the office. What had that all been about? As hard as I tried, I couldn't figure out the answer. Neither could I figure out Mr Ambrose himself. Impolite, honourable, ruthless, moral, stingy, randomly considerate – filled with all these contradicting attributes, he was the strangest man I had ever met. Hardly anything like society's idea of a perfect gentleman, who was supposed to be moderate in all things. And yet, I realized, as I entered the garden through the back door and snuck into the shed, although he might be the strangest man I had ever met, he was by far not the worst one.

Working for him was certainly not going to be boring. My thoughts strayed to Simmons, locked up in the cellar. Oh no, not boring at all.

Armed with my little clutch purse and parasol, which these days felt more like a disguise than uncle Bufford's top hat, I approached the house. To my surprise, my aunt was waiting in the hall, her bony cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Guess who's just arrived," she whispered so audibly that you could probably hear it three streets away.

Oh no. Not another visit from Lieutenant Ellingham. Please, God! Please let me have at least until tomorrow to recover!

"Sir Philip!" She exclaimed, ecstatic with joy, and I had to congratulate God on his ingenuity in giving me what I wanted and still managing to fill the rest of my day with privations to try the soul. "He and Ella are in the drawing room right now! I've already sent all the others up to their rooms, of course! The two lovebirds must under no circumstances be disturbed."

"Certainly," I said mechanically. "That would be disastrous. After all, it might delay his marriage proposal for another two days or so."

"Exactly! That's exactly my point! So you wouldn't mind going up to your room now, too, and leaving them undisturbed? For your little sister's sake?"

"I'd do anything for my sister," I replied, completely truthfully.

"Good! I have to go now to prepare some snacks in case he stays longer. Be off with you!"

And she hurried into the kitchen.

I sighed. Well, at least I hadn't been obliged to lie to my aunt again. I would do anything for Ella. Including what I was about to do.

Twirling my parasol like a master swordsman swinging his weapon before a battle, I marched up to the drawing room door and entered.

En Garde, Sir Philip!

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

My Dear Lords & Ladies,

For a long time now you have sent missives to Sir Rob's country manor demanding that I bring a little more romantic tension into the relationship of Lilly & Mr Ambrose. Today, after years and years of waiting, I have finally taken the first step.   May I inquire, have I managed to convey Mr Ambrose's interest while still preserving his ice-cold arctic coolness? ;-)

Yours Truly (awaiting floods of feedback on this point of monumental importance)

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Drawing Room: a term still used today, it is not so called because people like to draw pictures in it, but withdraw to it. Some time after the seventeenth century, the "with" in "withdrawing room" got lost on the rubbish heaps of history.

En Garde: The call employed by fencing partners before beginning the duel, to warn their opponent of its beginning. It is French for "Attention!", and generally considered to be the reason why only half as many Frenchmen die in duels as members of other nationalities ;-)