I stood there, frozen for a moment, staring after the escaping coach. Mr Rikkard Ambrose, however, was not similarly afflicted by paralysis. He dashed forward, eyes narrowing in determination.

What the heck is he doing? Does he think he can catch up to a carriage on foot?

Only then did I hear the clip-clop of hoofbeats. Not those of the carriage horses racing away down the street, but ones that were approaching fast from around the corner.

"Ha!"

With a shout, Mr Ambrose leapt out into the road. The horses that were just about to come around the corner reared up, nearly stumbling over themselves in an effort to avoid the brand-new obstacle. Before the coachman could react, my dear husband was already at his side and, grabbing hold of him, hurled the man across the street like a football. In the blink of an eye, my dear hubby was on top of the box and was extending his hand down towards me.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

I cocked an eyebrow. "The law that makes stealing coaches legal?"

"I shall suggest it to the Queen when we are back in England." He grabbed me by the arm and tugged. "Now come!"

Suddenly, I found myself up on the box, right beside him. There was a whip crack and, a moment later, the coach jerked forward into motion.

A distinctly female squeal erupted from within the carriage, followed by a thud of a body hitting a wooden wall.

"Please sit down and hold on tight!" I shouted back at whoever was unfortunate enough to be in there. "Thank you for driving with the Kidnapper Coach Service. We hope you'll enjoy the trip!"

"What in God's name are you blathering about, you villains!" came an answer in the form of a female shriek. "Blaggards! Stop this instant and get off my carriage!"

Mr Ambrose's response to this was as unique as it was novel: silence.

I decided to emulate this excellent strategy.

"You out there, whoever you are! Are you listening to me? I said stop this at once!" A middle-aged, rather voluminous lady leaned out of the coach window, clutching a feathery hat to her head. "Stop at once or...or..." That was when she spotted the tall, ravishingly handsome figure of Mr Rikkard Ambrose on top of the box. She stared at him for a long moment, open-mouthed—then closed her mouth and swallowed. "...um, never mind." Her eyes sparkled as she practically devoured my husband with her gaze. Leaning a little farther forward, she batted her mascara-covered eyelashes. "Oh my. Please forget what I said just now. Do continue with the kidnapping, good Sir. To think that I would encounter a handsome highwayman out here. It must be fate! Do you by any chance plan on ravishing me?"

"No."

"Oh." She looked despondent for a moment—then perked up and tugged at her neckline. "Are you sure?"

I felt my eyebrows twitch. "You know," I muttered, leaning over towards Mr Rikkard Ambrose, "the coach would be much faster without so much dead weight."

"Correct. We should really remove the heaviest person from the coach." And then he turned towards me, and glanced at me meaningfully.

That son of a...!

I was so going to get back at him for that! That was completely uncalled for! That was—

—a completely true statement?

Dang.

Why on earth did I have to weigh myself at our hotel room back in town? Right here and now, I made a firm resolution to never do it again until I had given birth.

"Sir?" enquired the old hag—and no, I was definitely not being petty by calling her that. "May I enquire what your name is?" Then she batted her eyelashes again.

"No."

Bless Mr Ambrose's lack of manners.

"Oh, a nameless bandit!" she exclaimed. "How mysterious and romantic! Say, just out of curiosity...do you prefer older women? If so, I—"

"Can we please get back to the carriage chase here?" I cut in, trying my best to sound sweet and utterly failing. "That bloody frog is getting away!"

"Acknowledged."

An instant later, I regretted my words. Mr Ambrose cracked the whip once more, and the carriage shot forward, rushing down the street at breakneck speed. And that was not a euphemism. Only the rock-hard arm around my waist kept me from flying off the swaying carriage and breaking every bone in my body.

Wait, arm?

How the heck was he holding me with one arm, swinging the whip with another, and holding the reins with another?

On second thought, better not ask. I might not like the answer.

Maybe you should ask him to go a little slower?

Just then, a panicked squeal came from within the carriage, followed by a painful-sounding thump.

Nah. I shook my head. Fast is good.

Besides...

My eyes landed on the vehicle ahead of us. The one we were chasing. Our prey.

We need to be fast right now. Faster than ever before.

And it was working. We were catching up. I had no idea how we were catching up, since a carriage with three people inside should probably not be moving faster than one with just a single passenger, but we were. Most likely it had something to do with our horses being scared shitless of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. It certainly wouldn't be the first time his mere presence would make his minions run to work like their life depended on it.

"Yee-ha!" he shouted. "Yee-ha!"

Oh yes, we were definitely catching up! Fast! Something the Frenchman on the distant coach also seemed to have noticed. In a frenzy, he started whipping his horses—to little effect. And now that we were catching up, I realised why exactly that was.

An evil chuckle escaped my mouth as I noticed the large, bold letters on the back of our prey's carriage.

Humphrey & Sons

Heavy Cargo Transport at Reasonable Prices

"Mr Ambrose?"

"Yes, Mr Linton?"

"In my professional opinion, once we're back in London, you should invest in cargo companies."

"Agreed."

It didn't take long for the distance between us and our prey to start shrinking dramatically. By the time we reached the edge of town and the cobblestone street turned into a gravel road, there were no more than a dozen yards between us. I saw the Frenchman throw a glance back, and his eyes widened in panic. Even over the clatter of the wheels and pounding of hooves, I heard a low curse in French. It was music to my ears.

"Faster!" I growled. "Faster!"

"Are you telling me not to waste time, Mr Linton?"

"Married couples should share interests."

That caused another squeal to come from inside our appropriated carriage. "M-married? You're married to a fat man?"

We ignored her.

"Ready yourself, Mr Linton. Any moment now."

"Yes, Sir!"

"Why oh why?" a ghostly wail came from within the coach. "Why did my highwayman have to be a queer? We could have been so happy together!"

We ignored her again. Pulling out my gun, I checked to see if it was loaded. It was.

I took aim.

"Remember," Mr Ambrose told me, "don't kill him. We need him alive."

I grinned. "Oh, I know."

And I shifted my aim ever so slightly.

Bam!

The road in front of the coach exploded. The horses reared up as gravel sprayed in all directions, bringing the carriage to an abrupt halt.

"Now!"

At my shout, Mr Ambrose moved. He didn't even wait for our carriage to stop. He just leapt, sailing through the air for a moment before slamming into the side of the other coach, one hand clamping around the brass luggage rack, the other reaching for the man on the box.

"Get your hands off me!" the Frenchman hissed. "Get away, you fils de pu—agh!"

That was when Mr Ambrose's hand was closed around the other man's throat, and the bloody Frenchman flew off the coach, crashing into the road. Mr Ambrose leapt down after him, and landed on the road in a crouch. The carriage rolled on for a few more yards, then the horses started to slow and finally came to a stop.

However, I wasn't really looking at the horses at that point. Instead, all my attention was focused on the man sprawled on the road. The key to the safety of my family.

Yes! We've got him! We've finally got—

Just then, the seat beneath me jerked ominously.

Uh-oh.

Only then did I realise that I was now alone on top of the box of a fast-moving carriage that nobody was steering anymore.

"Oh shitshitcrap!"

Grabbing hold of the bloody reins, I tugged hard, trying desperately to bring the wildly swaying coach back under control. Another screech and thud came from inside the carriage, filling me with a brief burst of satisfaction before I realised that, no, it would not be worth it to break my neck just to annoy an old biddy who had flirted with my husband.

Probably.

It took three more tugs on the reins and some really inventive cursing at the horses in five separate languages, but finally, I managed to bring the carriage to a halt. With shaking legs, I descended from the box, just in time to hear retching noises from inside the coach.

Oh, my! Is someone not feeling well?

My heart went out to her. Really.

On the plus side, our involuntary passenger seemed to be distracted for the time being. We probably weren't going to be bothered by her for a while.

I glanced over at Mr Ambrose and the man he had by the collar.

Good. The two of us have work to do.

***

The man with many names blinked, slowly awakening from unconsciousness.

Wait. Unconsciousness? Why was I unconscious?

Just now, he'd been on the road, being chased by those two sacrément anglais! And now he was suddenly in a dark room, tied to a chair? How long had he—?

Pain suddenly shot through his head. His stomach roiled, and he felt like he was going to vomit. Taking deep breaths, he just managed to keep his lunch down. The last thing he needed to do right now was to throw up all over the place. He needed to remain calm and composed if he wanted to get out of whatever situation he had gotten himself into. Yes, calm and composed. Slowly, he turned his head to more closely inspect his surroundings—

—and came face to face with Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

"Eaaaaah!"

Merde! Merde! Merde!

"Now," the monster in every banker's nightmares, began. "Let's have a talk, shall we?"

"Nglwngl," the Frenchman said. Right now, he was really regretting his life choices.

"Tell me..." Cocking his head, the towering, stone-faced mogul gave him a stare cold enough to freeze blood and bone. "What in the world made you think that going up against me was a good idea?"

The man of many names, who was currently fervently wishing that he had no names at all so he could stop existing and vanish into thin air, licked his dry lips. Desperately, he glanced around for a way out—and was faced by blank, dusty walls and nailed-shut windows. Merveilleux.

"P-please, Monsieur Ambrose, let me, um...let me assure you that, had I known I would be working in opposition to an esteemed personage such as yourself, I would never have—"

"Silence!" That single word was enough to convince him that maybe, shutting up was the best idea. Although it might also have had something to do with the way the English crétin suddenly had a hand around his throat, trying to strangle him.

"I do not have the patience to listen to the words of liars," the accursed Englishman informed him, his voice colder than the snowy peak of Mont Blanc in winter. "I saw your face earlier. You recognized me. You know who I am, don't you? You knew from the beginning."

Merde! The man's eyes...how could eyes alone be this terrifying?

The man without a name swallowed. Somehow, an answer was dragged out of his throat against his will.

"Y-yes. Yes, I knew."

"And do you know who I am?" an unfamiliar voice suddenly came from behind him. Then, a figure stalked into his field of vision. It was quite impressive how it could stalk while simultaneously waddling.

He blinked, staring at the odd newcomer.

"A...fat little man?"

The newcomer's eyebrows twitched. He seemed annoyed for some reason.

Behind him, the nouveau riche Englishman took a few rather hasty steps back.

"Ah," the business mogul stated, his voice neutral. "I see you do not know her. But you are soon going to."

Wait a minute, her? Who was the crétin talking abou—

Wham!

The Frenchman wheezed, trying to blink the stars out of his eyes. Where had the train that just hit him in the face come from?

When his sight cleared, the first thing he saw was the fat little man rubbing his knuckles and glaring at him. The man...

No.

Not the man. The woman.

The pissed-off pregnant woman.

Oh merde!

"So, how shall we do this?" the woman enquired. "Good cop and bad cop?"

The cutthroat business mogul cocked his head. "And who would be the good cop in that scenario?"

The woman cracked her knuckles. "You, obviously."

Double merde. He was truly in for it now, wasn't he?

"Now..." Stepping forward, the woman gave him a smile. Somehow, it did not reassure him very much. "Since you do not know me yet, let's begin with introductions, shall we?"

He did not know why, but for some reason, those words made his anxiety skyrocket. Sudden alarm bells started ringing in his head.

"I," the woman told him with a beatific smile, "am the mother of the soon-to-be born child that your employer tried to drown, along with myself and my husband."

Triple merde. Triple merde with a crottin de cheval on top.

He was dead. He could see it in the woman's eyes. He was dead. The only thing he could do now was pray that his employer would notice his absence and send someone to rescue him. But really, how likely was that?

He had just finished that thought when, in the distance, he heard the sound of a door crashing open.

***

I was halfway to the tied-up Frenchman when a sudden sound cut through the air.

Crash!

I froze. It took me a moment to realise what the noise had been. The door. Someone had kicked in the front door!

Thud! Thud! Thud!

And now they were entering the warehouse we'd picked as our temporary hideout. Coming towards us. Fast. I glanced sideways at Mr Ambrose, who had straightened and tensed, his revolver out and ready.

Heck! How had anybody found us? We had set up shop in an abandoned warehouse at the edge of town for a reason, dammit!

"Who the bloody hell is that?" I hissed. "Nobody should know we're even here! Who—"

"No time to waste on thinking about it!" Kicking an empty crate across the room, Mr Ambrose took cover behind it, aiming his revolver at the door and motioning for me to do the same. "Prepare yourself!"

The distant footsteps stopped, and, for a moment, I hoped—only for the hope to be crushed by the sound of shouts and gunfire. Those, too, only lasted for a moment before the approaching footsteps started up again, this time much faster and louder.

Thud. Thud. Thud!

"Ha! Hahahaha!" Laughter exploded from behind us, and, glancing over my shoulder, I could see the French bastard grinning maniacally. "See? That is what comes of meddling in my master's affairs. I knew it! I knew he'd send someone to save me. You're as good as dead, you salauds."

"Can I shoot him?" I asked.

Mr Ambrose seemed to think about it for a moment—then reluctantly shook his head. "No."

"Ha! Not so confident now that you're afraid, are you?"

I turned to the bastard to shoot back a reply in lieu of a bullet—but before I could, the door to the room slammed open. My head whipped back around, and I watched as a gigantic, shadowy figure strode into the room, outlined against the light that fell in through the doorway.

"Finally!" A menacing growl issued from the massive man. "I've found you, you pirate scum!"

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My dear Lords and Ladies,

I said that a "big surprise" wouls be coming, right? ;) Apparently, he's not just big, he's armed, bearded and angry as well. Coming next...my favourite chapter in the entire book!

By the way, I might have mentioned this before, but for those who don't know yet: the word "Frog", in the sense in which it is used in the above chapter, is a less than complimentary term used for Frenchmen in the Victorian Age, particularly by the British. Due to the antics of a certain Emperor—cough cough, Napoleon, cough cough—the French weren't exactly popular in Britain around that time, and pejorative terms were common.

Yours Truly,

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Fils de pute—French for "son of a whore"

crottin de cheval  -  a French word for horse droppings

Salaud—French for bastard / dirty swine