Page 53 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

“Ah…a forceful change of leadership, was it?” Lachance chuckled, as if the death of a man who had, in essence, been his direct subordinate didn’t affect him in the least. Which it probably didn’t.

“Very well. The man you are going after is one of the most greedy, power-hungry, despicable men you could ever meet.”

“Indeed?”

“ Oui, Monsieur Capitaine .” Lachance gave a sombre look.

It was quite clear to me that the man he was referring to was not to be trifled with.

Hm…I wonder who it could be? “He is one of the richest men of the British Empire. A man whose arms reach far, and whose hands grasp all he can touch. His name is…Rikkard Ambrose.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that one? I’ve heard of him. Yes, he’s most definitely the most greedy, power-hungry, despicab—ow!”

“Apologies,” my dear husband spoke as he removed his foot from my toes. “My foot must have slipped.”

“Well, you are most certainly right.” Lachance gave me a grim nod that acknowledged just how big of a greedy, power-hungry son of a bachelor Mr Rikkard Ambrose was. Maybe the two of us would see eye-to-eye after all.

At least after I’ve clawed his eyes out.

“This Ambrose most definitely sounds like a dangerous individual,” said Mr Rikkard Ambrose while tapping his chin in a most serious manner. I somehow, incredibly, managed to keep my face straight.

“He is,” Lachance grimly agreed. “Very much so.”

“Ah.” My dear husband inclined his head. “Then perhaps I should have asked for a higher price.”

I had to fight hard not to facepalm.

Only you. Only you, Dicky Darling, could try and squeeze more money out of someone for attacking yourself.

“Maybe you should have.” Lachance’s eyes narrowed. “But you did not .”

There was a moment of tense silence—before Mr Ambrose inclined his head again. “Correct. I did not.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“But,” he added, “since I’m not going to get any more money out of this, you could at least give me some more information.”

A moment later, it hit me what he was doing.

Pretend to give in during the negotiation on one matter. Then go for what you’re really aiming for.

“Information? Certainly.” The Frenchman gestured for him to go ahead. “It’s the least I can do, oui ?”

“Well, let’s start with this Ambrose, shall we?” Leaning forward, my husband fixed his gaze on the other man. “From what you’ve said, I guess the underlying conflict with him has been going on quite a while?”

“Some months, yes.”

“I see. So, I suppose your employer must have some kind of beef with him, right?”

“Yes. He—”

Lachance froze.

Inwardly, I smiled.

Trap set and sprung!

“My employer?” Lachance leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into slits. “What makes you think someone such as I has need of an employer?”

“Oh, come now.” My dear husband waved a hand. “It’s quite obvious that you are not the one in charge.”

“Is it, now?”

Mr Ambrose’s face hardened.

“The butler served us tea. But when you entered, he neither announced you, nor asked whether you wanted something for yourself. Then there’s the little fact that this whole mansion smells of fresh paint as if you have only just moved in—as if you were sent here. And last, but certainly not least…”

He met the other man’s eyes.

“I’ve looked into the eyes of rich, incredibly powerful men before, you know?”

Oh, I’m sure. I fought down my instinct to smirk. Every day, in the mirror.

“And one thing is very clear…you are not one of them.”

“Oh? I am not?” Lachance straightened, danger practically radiating off him. His dark, almost black, eyes, seemed like pits of darkness in his face, ready to swallow us up.

Mr Ambrose gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re dangerous enough. But you’re not the one calling the shots, are you?” He gestured at the house. The servants. Everything. “You’re not the one in charge of all this.”

Danger still exuding from his every pore, the Frenchman leaned forward like a predator on the prowl. “And what if I am not, Monsieur ?”

“Then I want to know who’s holding your leash.

” Raising a single finger, my dear husband stabbed it at the other man.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know whoever is behind you.

The first time I heard about this mysterious ‘employer’ was less than half a minute ago.

So forgive me if I’m slightly hesitant to trust you, let alone him.

How do I know you really are who you say you are?

How do I know you ever intend to pay me? ”

Ha!

While keeping my face motionless, deep inside I smiled like a Cheshire cat.

Well, well…how are you going to get out of this one?

The answer was: he couldn’t. I had to applaud Mr Ambrose for his stratagem. He had driven the other man into a corner. What could he do now but reveal the name of the man who pulled his strings?

The answer came a moment later. And it came not with words, but with actions. Reaching into his pocket, Lachance pulled out a small, rectangular paper booklet and scribbled something down. There was a ripping noise and, before I could blink, the paper landed on the table.

“Here.”

There was a pause—then, Mr Ambrose reached out and picked up the piece of paper. Out of the corner of my eye, I peeked at the thing—and froze when I saw what it was.

“You were afraid of me not paying you, non ?” The Frenchman’s voice was sweet as honey as he answered. “That should be taken care of with this check. So you can leave now and start taking care of your assigned task.”

Blast!