Mr Ambrose didn't say a single word on the coach ride to Dover – and he did it in a very scary way. Nobody could be silent like Mr Ambrose. It was a grand symphony of silence, punctuated with staccato stares and sinister drumrolls of finger-flexing. In Dover he sprang out of the rickety coach like a raven swooping down on his dead prey and stalked off, motioning for me to follow without a word. I did.

We ended up in front of a shop. In the shop windows, I could see displays of trousers and tailcoats. Over the shop, large metal letters proclaimed in cursive script: Harris & White – Quality Tailors for Gentlemen.

'Well, Mister Linton...' Mr Ambrose regarded me, his eyes glittering dangerously. 'Let's find you a pair of trousers.'

Let's just say that what followed wasn't exactly every lady's dream of a man buying her pretty clothes. When I left the shop half an hour later, clothed in a tailcoat and baggy trousers, and with three shocked sales assistants staring after us, I was feeling ready to kill. And I already had victim in mind.

The only problem was... He looked just about as ready for murder as I did.

'How dare you!' I spat at him, as soon as we were out of hearing. 'How could you do that?'

'You're right,' he growled. 'I can't believe I paid for those clothes out of my own pocket. But I'll promise you, the sum will be deducted from your wages.'

'You...! I wasn't talking about bloody money! How could you do this to me?' Tugging at the fabric of the trousers, I took an enraged step towards him. 'I thought you had finally gotten it through your thick skull that I am a girl!'

'I know very well what you are! I'm simply doing my very best to ignore the fact – ignore it, and conceal it! If your little speech in front of the Anti-Suffragists was enough to cause such a sensation, do you have any idea what kind of scandal it would be if someone found out that a female is working as my secretary?'

'I don't care! How could you put me in these again? After all we've been through, how could you do that to me?'

'I do something to you?' His voice was cold and distant as the peak of some lonely mountain. And yet... The mountain was grumbling. It might just turn out to be a volcano. 'You dare say that to me? You are the one who humiliated me in public!'

'I didn't humiliate anyone! I told the truth and fought for justice!'

Before I knew what was happening, he had gripped me by the arms and I was being swept backwards into a dark alley, until I was pressed against a cold brick wall. It was almost as hard as the feel of the body that was suddenly pressing into my front – the body of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. My heartbeat picked up, and not from fear. Not from rage, either. He was so close, every line of his perfect form pressing into me...

Get a grip, Lilly! You're furious, remember?

'Suffragism has nothing to do with truth or justice!' he growled, his strong hands like vices around my arms. 'Women aren't fit to vote, or work, or think for themselves! And the sooner you get that through your head, the better!'

'Men are a pack of arrogant, power-hungry jackals!'

'Better a jackal than a little, helpless puppy! At least jackals hunt for themselves! Women are too weak to do anything alone!'

My fist slammed into his chest with no effect whatsoever. Catching my other hand before it could hit him he forced it upwards, until I was practically dangling from my upstretched arm.

'Let go!' My free hand slammed my hand into his chest again.

'Make me let go, if you're so strong!' Catching my other hand in his iron grip, he pulled it upwards, too, joining my wrists so both of my hands were pinned against the wall by just one of his. 'What are you waiting for?'

'You bastard!' I writhed and pulled, but my arms wouldn't budge. All I managed to do was to press myself more tightly up against the hard barrier of his body, which didn't really feel like a bad thing, but didn't increase my desire to escape, either. Blast him! He was the greatest son of a bachelor south of the North Pole! Why couldn't I feel properly revolted and disgusted? Why did it feel so good to be held by him, even when I was trying to punch him?

'There, you see? You're the best proof!' His voice gripped me just as hard as his hands. It was the voice of someone used to command and being obeyed. 'Look at yourself! Look at the things you've achieved during your employ: getting drunk right before a fight, letting the file slip through your hands, humiliating me in front of all of London—'

'None of that was my fault! It just happened! Let go of me!'

'And as if that weren't enough,' he whispered, his cold voice sliding over me like iron fetters, 'you're so helpless, so weak that I have to rescue you from that infernal ship. I swam ashore alone, with my own two legs and feet. You? You had to be pulled out of the water like a drowning little puppy!'

'Let go, I said!' My knee jerked, trying to ram into him, find some vulnerable spot – but he was pressed too tightly against me. And, curse me, a part of me didn't want to fight! A part of me wanted him closer, harder, even now!

'Look at yourself right now.' The power in his voice made me want to bite him, strike him in rage – it also made me want to dissolve right into his arms, damn him! 'I need just one hand to hold you. You're weak and defenceless. Admit it.'

'No!'

'Resign your position as my secretary.'

'No!'

'You don't have the stomach for it, the strength, the tenacity. Resign, or you'll get hurt, sooner or later!'

'No!'

'That is an order!'

'I said no! I won't! You gave your word to keep me, and I will hold you to it, blast you!'

His free arm came up so quick I didn't even see it. A strong, hard hand gripped my chin and turned my head, forcing me to look into the bottomless depths of his eyes.

'Respect, Mr Linton. Show respect.'

'Very well – blast you, Sir!' I glared at him with fire in my eyes. If I couldn't get my hands free, I would burn him to ashes with the pure force of my gaze, melt that ice of his with the firestorm roaring inside me! 'So finally I know. That's how you feel about me! That's why you saved my life! Because you think I'm weak!'

His left little finger twitched. Apart from that, he showed no emotion. 'Yes. That's it.'

'Well, do you know why I looked for you after the ship went down? Why I was hoping you would survive?'

'No.'

'Because I bloody well want my first pay check, that's why! If you croak, I won't get a penny!'

His eyes narrowed, infinitesimally. 'Is that so, Mr Linton?'

Proudly, I raised my chin. 'Yes, it is!'

And it was true. Absolutely. Never mind the way in which his dark stare sent my heart hammering. Never mind how his hard body, pressed up so tightly against me, made me want to be closer still, to grab him, pull him down and...

Well, never mind all of that. Money! I was interested only in the money!

Tightening his grip on my wrists, he leaned closer until his forehead was almost touching mine. Bloody hell, his forehead wasn't the only thing too close! His eyes were two giant pools of sea-deep darkness, right in front of my face, and his mouth was so near I could feel his breath on my cheek.

'Are you sure about that?' The fingers of his free hand slid over my chin, upwards towards my skin, sending a shiver through my entire body. 'Are you sure you want to be my secretary? Or do you want something else? Want to be something else to me?'

Something else? What in God's name does he mean? He can't be suggesting that we...? No! He can't. Most definitely not.

'I want to earn my money!' I growled between clenched teeth. 'The money to be free! Free of any man!'

'Free of any man?' He cocked his head a fraction of an inch. 'Except of me.'

'I only have to put up with you from Monday to Friday, 8am to 8pm, Sir!'

He regarded me for a moment, as if studying a strange, and possibly dangerous specimen under the microscope.

'You don't belong in my office. I might have thought you'd do – but after that thing in The Spectator...' He let the sentence trail off ominously. 'You're a liability, Mr Linton. If you won't resign voluntarily, I'll have to make you. Be warned, Mr Linton – it won't be long until you will be begging to be sacked, and I'll be rid of you.'

Jerking my chin free of his hand, I raised it high in the air, facing him down. 'You can try!'

*~*~**~*~*

The drive from Dover to London wasn't much more chatty and cheerful than the previous one. This wasn't just because of the stubborn stone statue I had for a travelling companion. No, it had begun to dawn on me that my return might not be very warm and welcoming. Considering the fact that I had left my aunt and uncle's house supposedly for a brief stroll in the park, and had ended up on a ship that took me to a adventure on a mysterious Island on the French coast involving danger, industrial espionage and near death, I thought they might be a tiny little bit upset with me.

Of course, neither my aunt and uncle, nor my five sisters actually knew anything about the adventure on the French Island. I could just tell them I had lost track of time and my walk in the park had turned out to be a little longer than I expected. The only problem with that was that my aunt wasn't a very trusting woman. She might think that a week-long walk in Green Park was a bit incredible.

Maybe you could say you went on a walk to Yorkshire and back instead. That would fit the time frame much better.

It would also sound even more ridiculous.

'What excuse would you tell your family if you had to explain having disappeared for a week?'

I only realized that I had spoken out loud when the stone statue in the corner raised his head and looked at me.

'None,' Mr Ambrose told me.

I blinked, taken aback. I hadn't really expected an answer. So my next words popped out before I could really think about them. 'You'd disappear on your family for an entire week? Just like that? Without explanation? Have you done that? Left, and stayed away for an entire week without sending word?'

'No.' He met my eyes coldly. 'I've left and stayed away without sending a word for approximately nine and a half years.'

I gaped at him. Ignoring me, he turned back to staring out the window. Well, well... so Mr Ambrose was not a family man, eh? What a surprise!

Which still didn't answer my question: what was I going to say to my family when I returned?

Well, why say anything at all? You could simply garb yourself in mysterious silence, like bloody Mr Ice-Cold Ambrose!

Yes, I could do that – if I wanted Aunt Brank to try and rip my head off!

Well, you'll simply have to let her try and hope it is attached firmly enough to survive.

Outside the coach, the landscape began to change. Gentle hills transformed into flat, monotonous country. After a while, it began to be dotted with a cottage here and there. More cottages came, then turned into houses. And before I knew it, we were rolling into London. The sounds of the city engulfed us, and the familiar smoky smell of the city crept into my nostrils.

Soon enough, the carriage was rolling down a familiar street – a very familiar street. Taken aback, I stared out of the windows at the neat, middle-class brick houses. Wasn't this... Yes, it was! The street where my aunt and uncle lived! The street where I had lived, too, ever since my parents had died.

'What are we doing here?' I blurted out.

Turning his head just a fraction, Mr Ambrose deigned to look at me. 'You live here, don't you?'

'Yes, but...' I hesitated. How was I going to tell him I hadn't thought he'd care enough about me to care where he threw me out of his coach without sounding rude? It was impossible. But on the other hand, since when had I had a problem with sounding rude?

'I didn't realize you were providing cab services, for me, Sir,' I told him, one eyebrow raised in question.

'Don't get above yourself, Mr Linton. I just do not think you have the brains to find your way home alone.'

The arrogant...! Blast him! I could believe him, too, considering the way he was looking at me.

'Are you sure you don't want me to accompany you back to Empire House, Sir?' I said in the sweetest tone I could manage. 'Who knows, maybe you could use my help squeezing your head through the door, considering how big it has grown.'

'That won't be necessary.' He didn't even bat an eyelid. Curse him! Could nothing ruffle that son of a bachelor?

When we finally pulled up in front of my aunt and uncle's house, the coachman jumped off to open the door for me, but I was outside before his feet had even touched the ground.

'Do you have any luggage, Sir?' he asked, with a polite bow. 'Should I help you carry it in?'

'That all sunk in the channel,' I informed him. 'But thanks for the offer.'

Leaving a startled coachman behind, I started towards the door in the garden wall and the garden shed beyond, where I still had a secret stash of women's clothes tucked away. But only after a few paces, I stopped, half turned, and sent Mr Ambrose a bright smile.

'Looking forward to seeing you at work on Monday, Sir.'

He acted as if I weren't there. Clapping his hands, he motioned for the coachman to get back to work. Moving faster than should be allowed for a man who didn't have to work under the threat of slavery, the coachman jumped back up on the box and cracked his whip.

'Gee up!'

The horses darted forward and the coach was gone, a black streak that grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Only when it was already turning around a corner did I start to wonder:

Mr Ambrose had dropped me off in front of my house. But... how the hell had he known where my house was? I had certainly never told him! And if he knew my aunt or any of my sisters well enough to know where they lived, I'd eat my corset! He and my uncle might know each other from the annual meeting of the London Miser Association, but I doubted it. My uncle never left his four walls except to go to work, and neither did Mr Ambrose.

So that still left the question: how the hell did he know?

For a few moments I looked after to coach, biting my lower lip in thought. Then I shrugged, and turned back to the house. The Lord might move in mysterious ways – but he had nothing on Mr Ambrose in that department.

It took no time at all switching clothes. Ever since I had do it on a sinking ship to save myself from drowning, I had gotten a lot quicker at lacing up a corset. Everything has its bright side, I suppose. Leaving the changing room alias the garden shed, I made my way towards the back door and to my delight found it unlocked.

Huzzah! Fortune was smiling on me! Maybe I would be able to sneak up to my room and pretend as if nothing had happened. At least until the next morning.

I was about half-way up the stairs when a voice came like a whip crack from behind me.

'Lillian!'

Wincing, I stopped in my tracks. Apparently, fortune wasn't really smiling on me. It was just grimacing. Slowly, I turned, and came face to face with Hester Mahulda Brank, my beloved aunt.

All right, the 'beloved' part might have been a lie. But judging by the death-glare she was shooting up the stares at me out of those small, sharp eyes of hers set into her vulture's face, I wasn't particularly beloved by her either. More bedispised, if there was such a word.

'Lillian Linton! Tell me this isn't you, showing your face here after... after...'

'This isn't me showing my face here,' I assured her. 'It's not actually me at all. It's just a phantasm, some kind of ghostly image. So... why don't you carry on with whatever you were doing and let this phantasm go to bed? It is a really tired phantasm.'

'It is you! Nobody else would dare talk to me like that!'

Why was everybody pretending to recognize me by my insolence? First Mr Ambrose, and now her! It was really unfair! In reality, I was a quite nice, well-behaved, soft-spoken young lady. Yes, I bloody well was!

My aunt had started moving, stalking up the stairs towards me, her feather duster clutched in her right hand like a sword.

'You... you... ungrateful little brat! You disappear for over a week, and then you simply waltz back in here as if nothing had happened? Is that your thanks for the care I took of you all those years?'

You mean torturing me with etiquette lessons while you tried to marry me off to the first rich bachelor available? Yes, thanks so much for that!

But not even I was brave enough to speak that thought aloud.

'One week! One entire week!' She was nearly level with me now. I started to retreat, peering with trepidation at the feather duster in her fist. These things looked innocent enough, but who knew, maybe hers had a concealed blade or hidden spikes or something. I wouldn't put it past her. 'One week you disappear without a word! Do you have any idea how–'

...worried you've been for me? How many sleepless nights you've spend praying for my safety?

'–many social events I've had to reschedule because of you?'

Oh, my dear aunt! It's so nice to know how deeply you care for me.

'Two balls, three dinner engagements, and one walk in the park with Colonel Spencer – all arranged for nothing! He's gone to India now, and he's such an old fool he might actually have taken you!'

Isn't it wonderful to have such loving relatives? They always give you such a warm welcome home.

Reaching the end of the stairs, she pointed the feather duster as if she meant to skewer me with it. I took a few more steps back.

'Such a pity,' I said, meekly lowering my head. 'I would really have liked to meet Colonel Spencer.' Preferably with a large mallet in hand and no witnesses.

'Oh, you would have, would you?' My aunt's eyes sparked. 'To think I might have had you out of the house by now, properly married and taken care of... And now you're back, costing me even more housekeeping money!'

'I'm really sorry. Truly, I am.' A very, very large mallet.

My back hit the door at the end of the corridor, and I was forced to stop. Moments later, a feather duster poked into my ribs. To my relief, there were no hidden spikes or blades.

'Sorry? That's not good enough, girl!'

'I'll do the dishes for a week aunt,' I promised.

'Not good enough!'

I bit my lip. What could be a worse punishment than doing chores?

'I'll go out every day to meet as many young men as possible! I'll attend every ball, every feast, everything there is. I'll practically throw myself at every young man I come across.'

'Still not good enough by half! You, young lady, are in need of a thorough dressing-down!'

My eyebrows shot up. Wasn't she already taking care of that? And most thoroughly to boot?

'Not by me,' she told me as if she had read my thoughts. Her voice had a coldness that almost rivalled that of Mr Ambrose. 'Turn around, girl!'

Reluctantly, I did as she said, and for the first time realized where my backward steps had lead me: upstairs, at the very end of the corridor – in the forbidden zone. I stood right before the door that lead to the domain of the dread lord of miserdom, the gates to the the lands of death and desolation and spanked bottoms for little five year old girls who had been so brazen as to peek inside.

I stood in front of my Uncle Bufford's study.

I tried to say something, but no more than a croak escaped my mouth. Half turning back to my aunt, I shot her a desperate, pleading look. But she looked back at me like a hangman escorting the prisoner to the gallows.

'I will see if he's ready to receive you, girl.'

The door to the study creaked ominously as she opened it to step in. With her inside, for a moment, I considered running. I could be out on the street and away from the study of terrors before anyone could say Jack Robinson. But... where would I go? I had no money to rent a place. I still hadn't received my first pay check. That happy event was still a few days in the future, and the thought that Mr Ambrose might give me an advance was too laughable to think about it. And even if I'd had money... I was still a minor. They could haul me home whenever they wished.

'Girl!'

I jumped. Without my noticing, my Aunt had come out of the room again and was holding the door open for me.

'He's ready to receive you. Go in.'

Too late to run now. 'Aunt, couldn't you...'

'Go! Now!'

Taking a deep breath, I straightened. There was no escape. I had to get a grip and bite the bullet, like any brave soldier faced by inevitable death and dismemberment. Raising my chin in defiance of the enemy, I stepped into the study.

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My dear Lords, Ladies & Gentlemen,

The time has come! Let's pull out our swords & dueling pistols, since the great battle is about to arrive! The 1st book of this wonderfully Victorian series, Storm and Silence, is now in the running for the 2015 'Story of the Year'-Award. And ONLY YOU can help Lilly & Mr Ambrose win the contest! If you'd like to lend your assistance, you can do it here:

https://www.wattpad.com/storyoftheyear2015/

This link might not be clickable since it's part of the chapter text. If you can't click on it, you can find a clickable version of the link on my wattpad profile. A great bit "thank you" to all those among you who've lent their awesome support to Lilly and Mr Ambrose in the "Story of the Year" award 2015! I truly appreciate the help, and right now I'm working on a special surprise just for you, to be published the instant we emerge victorious from the competition! :-)

Yours truly (and confident in our victory!),

Sir Rob