Page 75 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

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I never liked mysteries. Mostly because the majority of said mysteries came in the form of the question “Where did all the money go?”

And the answer to that—surprise, surprise—ended up being “Into the pockets of corrupt employees.”

Needless to say, said corrupt employees didn’t enjoy the consequences either.

Ever since I had married my wife, things had changed, just a little. Mysteries such as “How much longer till we get to the bedroom?” or “What will happen once we get there?” were rather pleasant to contemplate. Their answers usually turned out to be even more so.

This, however?

Being dragged off by my wife for some kind of mysterious “event” in a public park, with lots of strangers around? This smelled fishy.

And not just because of the vendor selling ridiculously overpriced kippers not too far away.

Eyes narrowed ever so slightly, I let my gaze sweep across the meadow before me. More than two dozen rather dainty tables and chairs decorated with flowers. A women’s event? But then why was there a stage being erected nearby, as if for a public speaker?

Is she going to give a speech?

No, that made no sense. If so, why the secrecy?

Enough wondering. Time to get some answers!

“Mrs Ambrose.” Stepping up to her from behind, I scrutinised her carefully. “You seem to be very satisfied?”

She half-turned and sent me a bright, happy smile. Knowing my wife, a little too happy. “And why wouldn’t I be? I’m with my darling husband! And it seems like preparations for the event are going great!”

“I would agree—”

“Spiffing!”

“— if you had told me by now what this event is supposed to be all about.”

“Shh!” She placed a finger on her lips and leaned closer in a manner that was about as conspiratorial as a man with a hooked nose in a black cloak with the word “conspirator” printed on his hat. “You don’t want to be a spoilsport, do you? It’s meant to be a surprise.”

As mentioned above, I didn’t like mysteries. I liked surprises even less.

“I frequently spoil sports. Most often by ensuring people bet on the wrong team and then raking in their hard-earned money.”

Rather than finally answer my question, she only responded with another smile and a wink. Then she slipped off into the crowd and started chasing people hither and thither, obviously preparing for…something. And were those the three harpies, also known as my wife’s best friends?

Suddenly, I felt a looming sense of doom approaching. Not that I let it bother me. If I let a little thing like doom get in my way, I would not be Rikkard Ambrose.

“Well!” Lilly clapped her hands, suddenly popping up beside me, a bright smile on her face. “Seems like everything is ready.”

On the other hand, this was my wife. There were worse things than doom.

“Adequate,” I stated, hoping it really would be. “Then perhaps you can tell me why so many of the people coming to your little ‘event’ happen to be women. And while you are at it, you can finally tell me what this whole event is all about.”

“Well, how shall I put this…”

In a straightforward manner, preferably.

“…sometimes a banner says more than a thousand words.”

Reaching out, she pointed behind me. I turned around just in time to see a banner rise above the podium. A banner which read Rikkard Ambrose Foundation for Women’s Suffrage and Equal Rights—stand up and live your dream!

No.

No, she didn’t.

After only a moment of staring at the banner, I turned around to see an absolutely massive grin spread across her face.

Yes, she absolutely did.

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes, Dicky Darling?”

“What. Is. This?”

My voice was calm. Cold. Serene. I sure as hell wasn’t, though.

“Ah.” With a completely innocent smile on her face, she nodded. “I get why you’re surprised. Originally, I had intended to call it the Lillian Ambrose Women’s Foundation for Suffrage and Equal Rights , but then I thought—why not name it after my beloved husband instead?”

How about survival instincts? Always a sufficient reason. For most people, anyhow.

Snuggling up against me, she promptly proved how few of those she had.

“What better present could there be to celebrate our return from our honeymoon?”

I could think of a few.

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes, Dicky Darling?”

“I will get you for this.”

“True.” Smirking, she patted her pregnant belly. “But not for the next few months, correct?”

I paused, considering. For quite a while.

Tarnation!

“… Correct.”

Her smirk made me want to rain down punishment on this disobedient little ifrit of a wife. May Mammon curse whoever thought it was a good idea for pregnancies to be nine months long!

Except you wouldn’t even touch her afterwards, would you?

Silence!

Her smirk widening, my “darling wife” patted her baby bump. “So, I have plenty of time to prepare my defences. Oh, and…?”

“Yes?” The word I squeezed out was little more than a growl from between clenched teeth.

The smile she sent me was so sweet. So innocent.

“It worked, right? I managed to surprise you?”

Deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths.

“I will get you for this. I will get you for this and punish you severely .”

Her smile not waning an iota, she hugged my arm to her side. “I look forward to it.”

Then, before I could do a thing—such as tackling her to the ground and tying her up—she marched off towards the stage. I leapt forward, trying to grab her arm—only to experience the most horrifying feeling in the world. Being late.

“Attention, please, everybody.” With a broad smile on her face, my dear wife appeared behind the lectern up on the podium. “Thank you for coming. I would like to welcome you all to the first event organised by the Rikkard Ambrose Foundation for Women’s Suffrage and Equal Rights .”

Wait a moment…was naming this feminism fiasco after me the only thing she did? Where did the money for this abomination of an event come from?

Don’t you already know?

“We have all gathered here for one common cause,” my wife’s voice rang out, “one just goal that is very close to my husband’s heart, and that unites us in our fight for a better world of justice and equality.

Now, I’m sure you’re all expecting me to give a long-winded speech, but I am a woman of few words, and not particularly good at speeches. So…”

Why was I suddenly overcome by a horrible sense of foreboding? What could possibly be worse than having to pay for all of this?

Stepping back from the podium, my darling wife beamed.

“…I’ll leave that task to someone much more qualified. Please, Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, give me your applause to welcome Rikkard Ambrose!”

Ah, yes. That would do it.

She pointed at me. The little ifrit had the audacity to point at me. My hands clenched into fists, begging to smash something. Preferably that infernal banner and podium. However, given that everyone present was now looking at me, I decided against that oh-so-tempting course of action.

“Ambrose!” called out a young female who looked like she could tackle a bull to the ground. Looked like she wanted to try, too.

“Ambrose!” a few other ladies joined in. “Am-brose! Am-brose!”

“Am-brose! Am-brose! Am-brose!” The incessant chorus of cheers became louder and louder. If only there was some way to shut them up!

Oh, but there is—hold a speech for feminism.

On second thought, maybe it was better to let them continue to shout after all.

My eyes moved to the side and found the one responsible for all of this. Mrs Lillian Ambrose, the scourge of mankind. Emphasis on man .

Parting my lips ever so slightly, I mouthed, “You will pay for this.”

In answer, she cocked an eyebrow, and mouthed back: “You mean with the salary that I get from you?”

That cheeky little…

…woman has a point?

Well, yes. But that was completely irrelevant!

“Am-brose! Am-brose! Am-brose!” Completely ignorant of the obvious fact that saying something once was perfectly sufficient, the gaggle of females continued its incessant cheering.

Somewhere among their number, I spotted those so-called “friends” of my wife, who seemed to find far too much enjoyment in my predicament.

I made a mental note to check my list of debtors for their names. If they or their families were on it, well…

As the saying went, An attachment order 45 says more than a thousand words .

“Cheer a little louder, ladies!” roared the one who looked like she could mud wrestle a bison. “Seems like our benefactor is a little shy!”

Oh yes. That one is definitely going bankrupt as soon as humanly possible.

“Am-brose! Am-brose!”

Though not nearly soon enough.

At that very moment, my dear wife decided the perfect time had come to move away from the lectern and, with an inviting smile, gesture for me to step forward. What a pity that driving her into bankruptcy would mean driving myself bankrupt as well.

Gritting my teeth, I slowly counted to ten…then stepped forward. The crowd’s cheers grew even louder.

Well, we couldn’t have that, could we?

Eyes narrowed infinitesimally, I took up my position behind the lectern and trained my gaze on them. The same gaze I usually used to welcome prospective employees. As expected, they fell silent instantly.

Beside me, my dear wife stiffened, apparently only now realising that letting me freely speak my mind in front of a crowd of impressionable young feminists might not have been the best idea.

Too bad. It’s too late for regret now.

“I am here today to speak to you.”

My words echoed over the heads of the crowd. Not a single sound came in answer. It wasn’t going to stay like that for long, though.

“To speak to you about a subject that, in recent years, I could not help but think about again and again.” At those words, my eyes found my wife’s, who had joined her friends among the crowd.

With a stare as cold as the very core of an iceberg, I did something absolutely abominable I had rarely done before: convey my feelings .

Through words . “In fact, I couldn’t help but face this issue repeatedly . Again. And. Again.”

She smiled. She had the audacity to smile .