Storm and Silence

Storm and Silence Page 150

My words were cut off as he took another step forward and reached out for me.

Sometime later - insofar as time still had a meaning for me - I stumbled out of the powder room in a shirt and trousers, my feet still bare and my hair damp from the shower. Mr Ambrose awaited me outside, attired in his usual black tailcoat, bow tie and icy expression. How odd. I could have sworn that he’d just been wearing red, and then… well… significantly less.

‘What exactly did you do in there, Mr Linton?’ he demanded icily. He held his silver watch open in his hand. ‘You spent thirty-one minutes, four and a half seconds under the shower. The average time people require to take a shower is eight to fifteen minutes.’

I blinked at him owlishly. ‘How do you know the average time people need to make a shower? Do you spy through people’s windows with a telescope?’

He chose not to honour that with a reply.

‘I only require three and a half minutes,’ he informed me instead.

‘I’m sure you do, Sir.’

‘People are too lazy.’ He let the watch snap shut and strode past me into the powder room. ‘This room is now occupied, and since there is no lock on the door, you had better remember not to come in.’

‘Say hello to Napoleon for me,’ I called after him. ‘And tell him, if he’s planning a rematch, to start with the ruy lopez, e4 e5! Classic opening move!’

The door slammed shut without a reply. How rude! I had liked him better under the shower.

Remembering, heat flushed through my lower body. Much, much better.

Oh well, you couldn’t expect people to behave the same when they were dry as when they were wet, now, could you? Disconsolately, I wandered over to the straight-backed visitor’s chair and was just about to sink down on it when it occurred to me that Mr Ambrose probably wouldn’t like water stains on it any better than bloodstains. So I leaned against the wall and tried to dry my hair as best I could with the towel I had brought with me. It didn’t go very well. The floor had it in for me once again, rocking from side to side, making it nearly impossible to find my own head, let alone get it dry.

‘Blast!’

I tried to throw the towel over the back of my head so I could rub my neck dry. But somehow I managed to throw it over the front of my head instead, to rub my face wet. I got a mouthful of towel, and tried in vain to dislodge it from between my teeth.

‘Blaft, blaft, blaft… pfft! Blast!’

Finally! But by now I had managed to wrap the towel around my throat. Could one strangle oneself with a towel, I wondered? It would certainly make an interesting headline:

Sparsely dressed young lady found strangled with a towel in office of London’s richest businessman! The scandal thickens! Mr Rikkard Ambrose unavailable for comment!

Mr Ambrose would not be pleased - and neither would Napoleon or Alexander. They’d prefer it if I died bravely in battle, I was sure. I should probably try not to strangle myself.

Tentatively, I tugged at one end of the towel again. The beastly thing constricted around my throat, with total disregard for the wishes of two famous historical emperors.

‘Blast!’

‘Here, let me.’

My hand jerked when somebody touched it, and I really would have strangled myself had not this other hand gripped the towel firmly and unwound it from around my neck. Wait just a minute - I knew this hand!

It was Mr Ambrose. He had returned and appeared beside me without my noticing. Well, I suppose strangling oneself is a rather engrossing activity.

He wasn’t wearing his red hunting costume this time, or his black tailcoat, though I saw that hanging over the visitor’s chair nearby, next to a piggy that was looking through the pockets, in the hope of finding truffles, presumably. This Mr Ambrose was simply dressed in a white shirt and black waistcoat and, of course, his icy expression, which he probably hadn’t taken off even under the shower.

His hands weren’t icy, though. They were gentle and warm as he unwrapped the towel from around my neck and pulled it over my hair, which he seemed to have no difficulty finding.

‘Hold still a moment.’

His fingers worked too quickly for me to tell what exactly he was doing, but when he was finished, the towel was wrapped up and around my head in a complicated knot, keeping the cold air out and my wet hair in place.

‘Now you can sit down,’ he ordered tersely. ‘When the towel has soaked up most of the water from your hair, get a fresh towel and dry your hair again. Don’t even think of starting to rub, just take a bit of hair at a time and pat it dry from both sides.’

He led me to the visitor’s chair, and I was so surprised I let him do it.

‘How do you know how to towel-dry long hair?’ I asked him, once I was seated beside the truffles-seeking yellow piggy. ‘Don’t tell me you used to work as a hairdresser’s assistant.’

‘No. The explanation is somewhat simpler than that. I used to have long hair, once.’

‘You?’ My voice probably contained a bit more incredulity than was proper, but then, I had an inkling I had been doing a lot of things lately that were not entirely proper, and so far I was having lots of fun. I eyed Mr Ambrose’s neatly trimmed black hair with suspicion. ‘You had long hair?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I did not have enough money for a knife or scissors to cut it with.’

He was out of the room before I could think of a reply. And really, thinking of replies was so exhausting…

‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, you have to remove that damp towel.’

‘W-what?’

Blinking, I sat up straight. The world seemed very fuzzy again. There was a man standing in front of me… White shirt, black waistcoat and bow tie… stone-faced… Mr Ambrose! Mr Ambrose with a fresh towel!

‘Here. Take this.’ He handed the towel to me.

‘But you said to wait,’ I protested.

‘You have been waiting. Sleeping, to be exact. But five minutes is long enough. My office is no home for passing drunkards.’

He unwound the damp towel from my head, and I, luckily able to find my head again, began to rub vigorously.

‘I said pat your hair dry,’ he reminded me. ‘Pat. Gently. Not rub like you want to rip it out of your head.’

‘Why don't you go write a brochure on hair care?’ I grumbled. ‘I can dry my hair however I want, thank you very much.’