Page 219 of Storm over the Caribbean
ExceptMonsieur FDM, that is.
Question after question, manipulation after manipulation, Mr Ambrose dragged more and more answers out of the man. His name. Where he lived. Who his neighbours were. What he ate for breakfast. What shoe size he wore. What the number to his bank account was.
The only thing the Frenchmandidn’treveal, no matter how much Mr Ambrose stared holes into his head, was the name of his employer—which, in itself, was a rather telling fact. Whoever the man was, Monsieur FDM seemed to fear him more than Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
One corner of my mouth quirked up.
Fool.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose wastalkingto him. Mr Ambrose wastaking his time. If the man had any brain cells, or any knowledge of my husband, he would know what that meant. And he would be pissing his French silk pantaloons.
As if on cue, the door to the dungeon swung open, and reinforcements for our merry little band of tortu…ehem,interrogators, stepped into the room.
“Karim?” Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “What are you doing here? I thought you were looking after the girl.”
“It proved unnecessary,Sahib.” Karim sent his employer a rather untypically broad smile. “Apparently, your esteemed lady mother sent several attendants capable of caring for children because she heard theSahibawas pregnant and thought thatsomeonewould not provide a sufficient budget for child care.”
“Well, you’re just in time,” I told him brightly, before my dear husband could point out that babies had better work and pay for their own care, or something equally Ambrosian. “I think we’ve finished the preliminary stage of our little talk withMonsieur FDMhere. Would you like to take over stage two? I’m sure under your gentle ministrations, our dear guest would become much more…cooperative.”
Karim glanced between the open cabinet of torture instruments and the tied-up Frenchman, whose eyes widened abruptly. In response, the bodyguard smiled and cracked his knuckles. It sounded suspiciously like small cannon shots.
I smirked. Apparently, Karim’s short stint as nanny had built up some frustration that needed to be vented. Violently.
“With pleasure,Sahiba.”
Colour drained from the Frenchman’s face.
I smiled.
Ah, yes. The only possible way for Mr Ambrose to be the good cop in any scenario: a bloodthirsty giant with a sabre being in the room.
“Adequate.” With a curt nod, Mr Rikkard Ambrose rose from his seat and strode to the door. He completely ignored the desperate looks thrown his way byMonsieur FDM. I hadn’t really bothered to remember his full name. Judging by the look on Karim’s face, the fellow wouldn’t need a name for much longer. Or a head, for that matter.
“M-MonsieurAmbrose! Wait, I can—”
…be ignored completely, apparently. Mr Ambrose didn’t even bother throwing a glance at the other man. Instead, he stepped through the doorway and gestured for me to follow.
“Mrs Ambrose? Let’s go!”
“Coming, Darling.” Skipping after him with an entirely too innocent smile, I quickly reached the exit. In the doorway, I stopped for a moment and glanced over my shoulder to send a last wave at the desperate man still lying on the floor. “Toodeloo. I hope you enjoy your time with your new caretaker. If you miss us and want to chat, just let us know.”
“Wait! Maybe we can come to an arrangement! We could—”
Wham!
The door closed firmly behind us.
“How long do you think he’ll need to be convinced?” I enquired.
A high-pitched squeal issued from within the chamber.
“Not long,” Mr Ambrose stated with absolute certainty.
Another squeal.
“Ah. Yes. You’re probably right.”
“Indeed.”
