"So," I stated, halfway to the vicomte's quarters, "it occurs to me that we should probably get Adaira before we do this. After all the drama she's had to endure, she deserves some fun as well."

Eve gave me a pat on the back. "You take the words out of my mouth, Lilly."

"I am usually not someone to condone indulging in frivolous things such as 'fun'," Mr Rikkard Ambrose stated, "but, in this case, I cannot help but agree."

As if summoned by our words, Adaira stepped out of a door to the left, an expression on her face that was equal parts confused, disbelieving and happy.

"Um...did you also just see father being chased through the house and jumping out of the window, or am I having a particularly pleasant dream?"

"No, no. What you saw was very real." Slinging an arm around her shoulder, I pulled her close. "Let me tell you all about the interesting things that have happened since last we saw each other..."

And I told her.

Told her what we had discovered.

Told her how she could give her dear father and fiancé the finger.

Told her she would become the new Marchioness Ambrose, and the marquess would have to depend on her to continue his precious line and legacy.

Her reaction did not disappoint. By the end of it all, she was leaning against a wall for support, cackling like a witch who had just won the world's-most-evil-witch award.

"M-me? Ha! Me, really? Marchioness Ambrose?"

Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod, his face expressionless. "Yes."

"And father can't do anything about it?"

"Indeed."

"That is...that is just...mwahahahahaha!"

Once more, she nearly keeled over with laughter. Sliding down the wall, she fully indulged herself in hilarity—at least until she noticed her brother still stood unmoving, his face deadpan as a pan buried in an Egyptian pharaoh's tomb.

"Oh, come on! Even you have to admit it's funny!"

"Do I?"

"Don't give me that disapproving brother look! It's funny as hell!"

He cocked his head. "Do you wish to continue laughing, or would you like to accompany us to stick it to your erstwhile fiancé?"

Adaira's eyebrows twitched. "Why do you always have to make so much sense?"

"Because I am your brother."

"That's no reason at all!"

"It is with me. Now..." Stepping forward, he reached out his hand to help her up. "Are you coming?"

Adaira grumbled in protest, but let herself be pulled to her feet. The moment she was up, though, her irritation seemed forgotten. Instead, there was now an eager glint in her eyes, and the smile on her face could have put armies to rout. Which was good, because we might be about to face one.

Outside the quarters of His Excellency the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste, half a dozen armed men were standing guard. They were all sending suspicious looks our way, especially at Karim and, for some reason, sweet little me. Why would they...oh right. I was still dressed in male clothes. Dressed as their boss's rival in love, to be specific. Who had just recently tried to shoot their boss in a duel.

Yep, that might do it.

I gifted the lot of them with a broad smile and put an arm around Adaira. Picking up on my signal, she snuggled into my embrace with a besotted expression on her face.

The faces of the guards turned a nice shade of red. Now only white and blue were missing, and they could imitate their employer's national flag.

"We have matters to discuss with the vicomte," Mr Ambrose announced, his voice cold enough to spread frost on the windows. "Let us pass."

One of the men inclined his head just a little bit, in a manner that could not possibly be mistaken for a bow.

"We shall inform the vicomte, Monsieur."

Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. He was probably a moment away from informing them that he had no need for other people's permission to go wherever he wanted, when a silky, French-accented voice drifted through the door behind the guards.

"Let them in."

The guard glanced at our group, most especially the grey-clad squad of thugs at the back. "Monsieur Vicomte, are you sure? There are quite a lot of them, and—"

"Oui, oui! You are all here, n'est-ce pas? I will be perfectly all right. Let them in."

The guards gave us a last, stern look, then pushed open the door. When we stepped inside, the vicomte was standing at the other end of the room with his back to us, studying a landscape painting of the white cliffs of Dover.

"Beautiful, non?" he spoke. "Cliffs have such a raw, rugged beauty, Messieurs et Mademoiselles. Do you know why?"

"No." My eyes narrowed. "But I'm sure you are going to tell us."

"It is the beauty of danger." Slowly, the vicomte turned around and let his gaze sweep over us. Finally, it came to rest on Mr Ambrose and me. "One wrong step, one stumble, and you plummet into the abyss."

"True." I gave the man a beatific smile. "But then again, it's just as possible for me to stumble and 'accidentally' push someone else off the cliff."

He stiffened. "What do you want, Messieurs et Madame? I thought all matters between us had been settled already?"

Mr Ambrose and I exchanged a look and came to a silent agreement.

I talk, you glare icily.

Perfect division of labour.

Turning back to the vicomte, I took a step forward, my chin raised in defiance. "In a way, you are right. Matters between us are settled—because you've lost. Your evil plot has failed."

The Frenchman looked at me for a long moment, then blinked. "Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur?"

"I said," I repeated, raising my voice enough for it to echo through the room, "Your evil plot has failed."

"Oh, I heard you the first time, Monsieur. I was just wondering what plot you were referring to."

Ah. Playing innocent, was he?

Then again, how many evil people actually regard themselves as evil? I'm sure that the hordes of Genghis Khan didn't think there was anything wrong with pillaging and plundering to their hearts' content.

"Do I need to give you a list of the crimes you committed?" I enquired sweetly. "I'd be happy to oblige."

"Please do." The vicomte cocked his head and...was that faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth? He was finding this amusing? "I look forward to hearing what horrible evils I have supposedly done."

"Well, how about we start with what you did to me?" Adaira piped up from right behind me. A moment later, she stalked past me, hands on hips and a fiery look in her eyes.

"To you, Mademoiselle?" If I didn't know better, I would have thought the expression on the vicomte's face was actually surprise. Bloody hell, he was a darn fine actor. "You are the apple of my eye, chérie! I could never do anything to hurt you."

Adaira's eyebrows twitched. "Oh? So forcing women to marry you is just another day of the week for you?"

Behind her, her brother and his bodyguard planted themselves, arms crossed in front of their chests. They were clearly waiting for an answer.

The vicomte looked even more confused. What the heck! What was the purpose of this play-acting? Not that I expected him to outright admit it, of course, but this wasn't like him at all. Why was he pretending as if he didn't know what we were talking about?

"Forcing? Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle! What are you talking about? I am merely fighting for your affection. Trying to prove myself worthy of you."

From beside me, I heard an ominous cracking sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mr Rikkard Ambrose clenching his fist so hard he nearly shattered his hand.

"Pretend all you want!" I hurled my accusing words at the Frenchman. "We both know the truth. We know what you are really up to. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but your sick game ends here! You won't be able to force Adaira into anything. Here!" Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a page from a certain book and thrust it under the bastard's nose. "Have a look at this!"

Frowning, he took the page and skimmed over it—then threw it aside. "I'm afraid I only understand French and English, Monsieur, not legalese."

That son of a...!

Before I could vent my anger, a slim figure stepped up beside me.

"That page," Ella spoke up with a courage I would not have thought her capable of, "means that Adaira will inherit the title of Marchioness Ambrose."

"Really?" The vicomte's eyes widened—and then a broad smile spread over his face. "That's wonderful! Fantastique! Merveilleux! Congratulations!"

Ella's mouth dropped open. And hers sure as hell wasn't the only one.

"Wait...congratulations?"

"Why, of course." He cocked his head. "Continuing your family's legacy is a great fortune. Why wouldn't I want the best for my future wife?"

"For heaven's sake, I'm not your future wi—" Cutting herself off, Adaira took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm down. "I am going to inherit this place. Which means I will never be your wife! You can take your evil plot and stick it up your fancy French arse!"

"Stick it up my..."

I had expected many things. Hatred. Anger. Vitriol, even. But confusion? It was clear as day on his face. He had to be the greatest goddamn actor in the world.

"Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Adaira," he finally spoke, scrutinising her as if he were wondering what doctor to call for her, "you and your friends have mentioned my 'evil plot' several times before. Mayhap it is presumptuous of me, but could you inform me what it is? I am really interested. I have never concocted an evil plot before, and I am thoroughly impressed with myself for doing so accidentally, without even noticing."

"You are still pretending?" I felt an instinctive urge to stage a reenactment of the aborted duel. Without giving him time to get a gun, of course. "Well, if you insist, I will spell it out for you. You, Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de Saint-Celeste, are a despicable piece of dirt! After trying to kill the both of us—" I gestured between myself and my husband, "—you came here for whatever twisted reason to force Adaira into marriage. I don't know what purpose you seek to achieve by doing this, probably to gain power over my husband in some way, but whatever the reason, it stops now!"

The vicomte cocked his head again, this time in the other direction. "No."

"Ha! If you think you can still force—"

"Pardonnez-moi for interrupting you, Monsieur, but that is not what I meant. I meant no, I have not tried to end any lives recently, yours included. No, I have not tried to force any ladies into marriage. Or men or goats, for that matter. Sorry to disappoint you with my lack of despicable villainy."

"Don't you bloody lie to me!" I growled. From behind me, I could feel my husband agree with me by means of a silent, icy glare. "You tried to get me and Mr Ambrose killed just the other day! Or are you honestly trying to tell me that the bandit attack wasn't orchestrated by you?"

"Bandit attack...orchestrated by me?" Saint-Celeste's eyebrows shot up. "Monsieur Ambrose—are you certain your secretary is not delirious from overwork? I have heard of your, ehem, rigorous attitude towards work ethic, but this goes a little too far, non?"

Mr Ambrose's glare became a few hundred degrees colder. "Answer the question."

The vicomte's eyebrows rose a little higher, almost to his hairline. Turning his attention back towards me, he gave me that bloody look again, as if he were worried for my mental health.

"Monsieur Linton...your vivid imagination and questioning of my morality aside...what kind of thought process could possibly have given birth to the idea that I would send bandits, who are so very well known to be reliable employees, into a forest to kill you while I was in the very same forest? You don't think that might have been a tiny bit risky on my part?"

I opened my mouth for a sharp comeback—only to close it again a moment later.

He...was right.

That really would be a rather stupid thing to do. No, not rather stupid, it would have been really, incredibly stupid. In my life, I had met enough bandits and highwaymen to know one truth: there was only one thing you could depend on bandits to do for you, and that was to rob you. Why would it be any different for their employers?

Could it be that someone else...

No! No, it had to be him!

"Then what about the pirate attacks?" I demanded. "The assassination on the ship?"

If it were possible for eyebrows to rise above someone's forehead, the vicomte's would probably have done so. "Pirate attacks? Ship? Monsieur, I don't know if you have realised, but... We. Are. On. Land."

"Not here and now! I'm talking about what happened a few months ago on the Atlantic Ocean!"

"Oh, you should have said so!" The vicomte gave a serious nod. "I regularly organise so many pirate attacks on innocent people that I sometimes lose track of it all. After all, robbing and murdering people is so much more fun than just enjoying the riches brought by my boring, legitimate businesses, non?"

"Are...are you making fun of me?"

One corner of the blasted man's mouth twitched. "What do you think, Monsieur?"

My teeth were grinding like a windmill. Only with supreme willpower was I able to resist the urge to punch the bastard in the face. Dragging in several deep breaths, I was able to calm myself to a reasonable level.

"Very well." My voice turned nearly as icy as my husband's for a moment. "I'll play along for a minute. Let's say, for the time being, that you are telling the truth—"

"How very generous, Monsieur."

"—that you are telling the truth," I repeated and took a deep, calming breath. "If so, what the heck did you plan to accomplish by coming to this place and trying to force Adaira to marry you? Is that a common custom in France?"

"It most assuredly is not! And I never did such a thing!"

I stared at the man, incredulously. He couldn't be serious, could he?

But...

But what if he was?

"Then why the heck did you keep insisting on pursuing her when she clearly wanted nothing to do with you?"

"Mon dieu, isn't it obvious?" Saint-Celeste gifted me with the most infuriatingly arrogant smile a man could manage. "She was just playing hard to get, non?"

I stared.

Eve stared.

Ella stared.

Flora stared.

Mr Ambrose Stared.

Adaira stared really, really hard. Then she slowly turned towards me.

"Is he serious?" she asked, jabbing a figure at the vicomte.

The French nobleman blinked. "Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle...do you mean to say you really don't want to marry me?"

Adaira made an extremely rude gesture involving her middle finger. "Go frig yourself with a red-hot poker!"

The vicomte blinked. "Oh."

"Wait..." A cold tingle travelled down my spine. Abruptly, I felt a sense of unreality—and, judging by the stiff, utterly unmoving form of Mr Rikkard Ambrose beside me, he wasn't feeling much different. "You actually thought she wanted to marry you?"

"Well, naturellement." The Frenchman struck a pose. An actual. Bloody. Pose. "This is me we are talking about, non?"

I took another calming breath. "Mr Ambrose?"

"Yes, Mr Linton?"

"Can I punch him?"

"No, Mr Linton."

"Damn!"

"Not before we have discovered whether he is speaking the truth."

"Ah. All right, then."

Narrowing his eyes infinitesimally, Mr Rikkard Ambrose stepped past me, apparently done with keeping silent. His intense gaze was fixed fully on the Frenchman, and under those arctic eyes, even the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste couldn't help shifting uncomfortably.

"Speak the truth. You never attacked me or my family? You never meant to force my sister into marriage?"

"No." Any trace of arrogance drained from the vicomte's features, and he gazed into Mr Rikkard Ambrose eyes without blinking. "I would never do such a thing. Which makes me wonder where exactly you got the idea?"

"But...but we were attacked!" Stalking forward, I glared at the Frenchman. "Even if the bandits weren't sent by you, back in the Caribbean a few months ago, we were attacked!"

"Not by me, Monsieur. Or men of mine, for that matter."

"We have evidence!" I slammed a fist against the wall. "We found a paper trail leading directly to you! Granted, you had us fooled at the beginning, but after a while it became obvious that it was you who was at fault, and not Lord Dal—"

Abruptly, I broke off.

Oh no.

Oh no. That couldn't be it, could it?

My gaze met that of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Judging by the arctic fury in his eyes, I wasn't the only one who had come to a certain conclusion.

"Tell me, vicomte," Mr Ambrose enquired, his voice very calm and controlled. "If you did not want to force Adaira to marry you as a means to control or confront me, then why did you ask for her hand in the first place? You had not met before, right? Where did you hear about her?"

"That? Oh, I had been looking for a suitable spouse for a while, Monsieur Ambrose. A business friend of mine suggested Mademoiselle Adaira, and I have to say he was absolutely correct in his praise! Her beauty is truly unparalleled. Her sweet, delightful temperament—"

"If you do not mind me asking," Mr Ambrose ruthlessly cut him off. And a good thing, too. Sweet, delightful Adaira was about to throw a shoe at him. "What was the name of that 'business friend'?"

The vicomte cocked his head. "I don't mind in the least. I'm quite certain you would like him as well if you met him, Monsieur. He's a truly delightful fellow, that Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh."

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My dear Readers,

Well, did any of you perchance guess this outcome? I had this planned ever since the start of volume eight, by the way ;)

Countdown: Three more chapters till the end of this book!

Yours Truly

Sir Rob