Page 52 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

The large, wrought-iron gate in the massive wall surrounding the property swung open and cleared the way inside. Walking beside Mr Ambrose, I wandered down the white gravel path, making very sure to appear calm and relaxed while, in fact, I was anything but.

You want to hurt my baby, do you? Well, just you wait. Just. You. Wait.

I stared at the wall of the brilliantly white manor house as if I could burn through it with my eyes and set the bastard responsible for all of this on fire.

The only reason I didn’t come with a barrel full of flammable oil was because I knew it wasn’t he who was really responsible. He was just a patsy. A straw man.

He would get his comeuppance. But not before I got all the information I could squeeze out of him.

“This way, please.” Pushing open the front door, Woolridge gestured down the marble hallway lined with landscapes and portraits. “I’ll leave you in Mr Wilson’s capable hands.”

Just then, a butler stepped into the corridor from a door to the left and bowed. “Follow me, please. I shall show you to the yellow salon.”

Mr Ambrose gave a silent nod. I didn’t say anything either. Not because I couldn’t think of anything to say, but because I didn’t think I could stop once I started. And nothing coming out of my mouth would be conducive to keeping our cover—something which we would have to keep, at least for now.

Not much longer, though. Soon. Soon I will be able to get my hands on whoever is behind all this.

It only took around a minute for us to reach our destination. Opening a door to the right, the butler gestured for us to enter.

“Please wait here. The master will be along momentarily. In the meantime, I have taken the liberty to prepare some tea and biscuits for you two gentlemen and your escort. By all means, help yourselves.”

With a curt nod, Mr Ambrose acknowledged the man’s words.

The butler stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

I waited for a long, long moment while his footsteps receded into the distance—then moved over to the low, elegant table, on top of which sat a tea set and several gold-rimmed plates of biscuits.

Settling down on the chaise longue, I picked up one of said biscuits and scrutinized it, turning it this way and that.

“British pirates, organized from a British colony, and now we’re being served afternoon tea, just like back in good old England?

” With murder in my eyes, I stared down at the biscuit in my hand.

So, it’s you, is it, Dalgliesh? We warned you.

We told you to keep your distance. And what did you do?

You tried to come after my child! “That son of a…! I think it’s rather obvious who the mastermind behind all of this truly is, don’t you? ”

“Indeed.” Eyes narrowed infinitesimally, Mr Ambrose surveyed the luxurious room. “A little too obvious.”

The tone of his voice made me glance over at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Mrs Ambrose, that Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh is many things, but stupid is not one of them. After the threat we delivered, he would not try to do something against us that—”

I gave him a look.

“Well, all right.” He sent me a look right back.

“He most likely would try something. But he most definitely would not make it this bleedingly obvious. English pirates, from an English colony, when I, you, and the rest of the British business world know perfectly well who my biggest rival is? If Dalgliesh were behind this, he might as well put a banner declaring ‘Property of the East India Company’ on all his pirate ships. No, instead…”

I cocked my head. “Yes?”

“Instead, it’s far more likely that—”

Just then, footsteps once more approached down the corridor outside, making him cut off mid-sentence.

Moments later, the door swung open, and in stepped a man.

Not the tall man with the leonine mane of blonde hair I’d still been half expecting.

Oh no. This one looked nothing like Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh.

Instead, we found ourselves facing a broad-shouldered man with a black moustache and black hair in an almost painfully short, military-style haircut.

“Good morning, Messieurs .” Stepping into the room, the newcomer swept his gaze across the four of us and gave us a bone-chilling smile. “Joel Perrin Lachance. I am the man who has been financing your crew over the last few months. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

Yeah, right.

I let my eyes travel over the man, scrutinizing him closely.

During the years of working for Mr Rikkard Ambrose, I had become rather adequate at judging people.

Mostly in order to swiftly sort them into either the “wants to kill me” or the “Yippee! Harmless!” category.

This man most certainly did not fit into the latter.

But…

My gaze flitted over his rough, calloused fingers, the scar under his right eye, and the hard look within it.

He doesn’t really look like a mastermind, either.

No, this was not a man who plotted and planned. This was an enforcer. A killer.

“The pleasure is ours,” I told him with a slight bow and a smile.

And it definitely was. He was a step towards the mastermind behind the attempt on my family’s lives.

Every such step would be a pleasure. Particularly once I would get to step on him.

Hard. “May I introduce my colleague? He recently took over from Captain Briggs and goes by Rockface.”

“How…fitting,” Lachance commented, closely studying Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s chiselled face.

Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Without a word, he gave the other man a curt nod.

“He’s not the most talkative of people,” I added.

“You don’t say.” One corner of Lachance’s mouth twitched. “Well, let’s get down to business, Messieurs . Please, take a seat.”

Sweeping his frock coat out behind him, the Frenchman settled down in the armchair opposite us and crossed his legs. The leisurely posture didn’t fool me for a second, though. The pistol-shaped bulge at his hip made sure of that.

“So…” Mr Ambrose, in a horrifically uncharacteristic move, broke the silence. “Your man mentioned you were having problems?”

“Ah, oui .” Our host gave a nod, steepling his fingers. “It seems that my competitor whose ships I hired you to deal with has caught on to what is happening. Some of my own business interests on the sea have come under attack recently, and I believe this is retaliation.”

“Most likely.” Mr Ambrose cocked his head. “But what does that have to do with me?”

I inwardly smiled, knowing perfectly well what thoughts were driving him. Play up your character. Be a pirate captain. Be greedy. Do not raise suspicion as to your true goals.

Somehow I doubted he would have trouble staying in character.

Lachance’s face tightened. “What does it have to do with you? I hired you, remember? Last time I checked, that means you do what I tell you to do.”

“You hired me to attack merchant ships. Not a rival pirate fleet. That is a whole other kettle of rotten, stinking fish. One that I do not plan to get involved in.”

Pretend to be reluctant. Pretend to not want to talk about this situation, let alone get involved in it yourself.

Lachance parted his hands, his right moving slowly but surely closer to the pistol-shaped bulge under his clothes. “Oh, you don’t?”

“Well…” Mr Ambrose sent the other man a look. “Not without getting something in return.”

It didn’t take long for the Frenchman to understand. Slowly, Lachance’s hand pulled back from underneath his coat, and he gave a reluctant note. “I see. Very well, Monsieur Capitaine . You will be adequately compensated.”

I had to hand it to Mr Ambrose… Getting his enemies to pay him for taking them down? He was good. Really good.

“I see. Well, then…” Lifting one hand, my dear husband rubbed his fingers together in the capitalist world’s most universal gesture. “How much?”

“Hm…” Lachance stroked his chin. “Presumably, you would like payment in pounds sterling, n'est-ce pas ? I’d say…five hundred pounds?”

Mr Ambrose’s eyes frosted over. “Five thousand.”

“Ridiculous! Six hundred, and not a penny more, Monsieur Capitaine !”

“Four thousand nine hundred and fifty.”

“Seven hundred.”

And so the haggling started. Normally, this would be the highlight of the day for Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

But I knew my dear husband well enough to recognize the signs of impatience.

The tension in his posture. The twitch of his little finger.

Oh yes, he was impatient. And, amazingly enough, not for the haggling to continue.

No, he was waiting for what would come after.

“Four thousand nine hundred, Lachance.”

“Seven hundred and fifty.”

“Four thousand and eight hundred.”

“Remove the ‘four thousand’ and we have an agreement, Monsieur .”

Things went on like that for quite a while. When, finally, reluctantly, after several hours of horrendously harrying haggling, the two of them came to a tenuous agreement, I was nearly ready to fall off my seat.

“All right.” Slapping his hand down on the table, Mr Ambrose concluded the discussion and abruptly woke me from my haggle-induced daze. “Two thousand seven hundred it is.”

“ Oui .” Lachance nodded. “Two thousand seven hundred.”

“And now that we’ve concluded the negotiations…” Steepling his fingers, Mr Ambrose leaned back in his seat, as if relaxing. Which I knew was exactly the opposite of what was really in his mind. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about our opponents? Who are we going up against?”

So, the interrogation had begun, had it? And, apparently, his strategy was already planned out.

Talk casually. Pretend the both of you are fighting for a common cause. Hide what you are really after.

It was really hard to keep a predatory smile off my face.

Lachance frowned. “Didn’t Briggs tell you?”

Mr Ambrose gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He was not very talkative in the end. Probably because of how I was choking the bastard.”