Silence No More

37. Bend, Break Or Stake It All

Once more, a grim procession proceeded up the stairs towards the office of William Alexander Ambrose, The Fifteenth And Worst Ever Marquess Ambrose. And yes, to me that was his official title, and damn anyone who wanted to argue the point. One thing I noticed, though: this time, the procession just consisted of me, my husband, and a terrified little maid at the front. The way Mr Ambrose's icy gaze bored into the back of the poor girl's neck didn't exactly seem to make her feel better.

"Um...h-here we are, M-my Lord." With a curtsy, the maid stopped and pointed at the door. "Should I a-announce you, or—"

Mr Ambrose answered her question by striding straight past her and pushing open the door. With one hand I gathered up my skirts and, hurrying to follow, waved at her with one hand in passing.

Inside the room, the marquess was sitting behind his desk, working on various papers—or at least pretending to. When the two of us entered, he didn't even bother to look up. He did, however, speak.

"You forgot to knock."

Mr Ambrose sent his father a withering glare. "The time for courtesy has long passed."

"You are right about that, boy." Pushing his papers aside, the marquess raised his gaze to meet that of his son. Then his eyes flicked over to me, where I stood with Berty in my arms. In retrospect, maybe bringing him along hadn't been the smartest idea.

"Hello, my dear. It is good to see you and finally meet your son."

I shuddered.

Mr Ambrose had been right. This old sod was trying to get his grubby mitts on my son.

Over my dead body! Or preferably his!

"Let us dispense with that senseless drivel, shall we?" Leaning forward, the older man narrowed his eyes.

"Indeed. Let's."

"So, tell me, son...what is your decision?"

In answer, there came only one thing...

Silence.

Well, that, and the sound of Mr Rikkard Ambrose's teeth grinding. His entire body was stiff—and not in a good way, like last night. Oh no. This was tension born entirely of rage. Rage that, no matter how much he wanted to, he could not unleash. Not on the man who held his sister's fate in his grasp.

Maybe I should have told Patsy everything after all.

"Well?" The marquess cocked an eyebrow. "Your decision. Now."

He waited, watching my husband like a hawk. And he wasn't the only one. I was staring at him without blinking even once. I knew I had said it would be his decision, but...

Wealth worth a king's ransom, or Adaira's happiness?

Which would he pick?

Everything he has worked for, or the future of his closest family?

What would he choose?

"My..." He hesitated. "My decision..."

I felt my heart drop. Did Mr Rikkard Ambrose actually just repeat himself?

This was bad. Very bad.

"Go on." The marquess steepled his fingers. "I don't have all day."

My husband's fists clenched. I had a good idea what for, but so far he had restrained himself from slamming them into his father's face. Quite admirable, all things considered.

"My decision...my decision is to agree with your—"

That was when the door to the room flew open, slamming against the wall with a thunderous crash. And, there in the doorway, like a fiery goddess of vengeance, stood Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose with a...was that a steel-reinforced parasol in her hand?