Thank the Lord! I was free. What bliss.
Staggering to a chair near the refreshment tables, I flopped down on it and leaned back, closing my eyes. Whoever knew dancing could be so exhausting? If this was what you had to do in order to catch yourself an eligible bachelor, I wondered at the fact that not more ladies had decided to try and go find a job of their own. Compared with this, even working for Mr Stoneface Ambrose looked like a piece of chocolate cake.
Could I take off my shoes? My feet ached, and I wanted so much to give them a little room and air. But although this hadn’t been included in any of my aunt’s lectures about etiquette, I somehow believed that taking off your shoes and putting your feet on the next table wasn’t considered acceptable behaviour at a high society ball.
My only consolation, I thought with a grin, was that I knew that my partner’s feet would be hurting a dang sight more than mine right now. There was nothing so useful to a girl as really solid heels.
‘… and abominably rude,’ a voice made its way through the haze of my exhaustion to my brain. My eyelids fluttered open. The voice was coming from behind the nearest potted plant. I wasn’t someone who eavesdropped, normally. Normally people didn’t have anything interesting to say. But this sounded like one of those rare occasions where it might be interesting to keep an ear open. After all, they mentioned rudeness. They might be talking about me.
‘Yes, that is what I heard,’ I heard another voice, which I recognized as Lady Metcalf's. ‘But he has certain… redeeming features.’
Oh. Not me. They were talking about some stupid man. Losing interest in the discussion, I slowly rose and started away in the direction of another refreshment table. I almost didn’t catch the next sentence.
‘But can anyone of you tell me what is so fascinating about him?’ Another voice demanded. ‘I just got back from the country and found that all London is awash with talk of him. I mean, what is so special about this Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’
I froze in my tracks.
The Sins of Mr Rikkard Ambrose
‘You haven’t heard?’
The voice was full of glee and juicy gossip. I was so quickly at the potted plant behind which the group of gossiping ladies where hiding that I saw who had spoken. It was the Duchess of Brandon. I should have been able to guess from the tone.
Lady Allen, obviously the one who had asked the question, flushed a little. ‘From what I’ve heard since I’ve arrived in town, he’s rumoured to be one of the richest men in London,’ she said defensively.
‘One of the richest?’ The duchess laughed. The sound almost made me want to go away again, or at least stuff my ears while it lasted. ‘My dear, from what my sources tell me, he is the richest. His wealth is unparalleled. There is only one other man who can hold a candle to him.’
Lady Allen’s mouth formed a little 'O', and her eyes went wide.
And I had to admit, to my shame: for once in my life I felt the same as Lady Allen and the Duchess of Brandon. I was awed, and a cold shiver ran down my back. The more I heard about Mr Ambrose, the more rich and powerful he seemed to become. Where the hell did all this wealth come from? I couldn’t believe he was simply the heir of some large estate. Why would he have that monumental building in the city if his wealth came from his inheritance? And what had all those people been doing there, hurrying about, carrying papers?
The third member of the little discussion group behind the potted plant seemed to harbour similar questions.
‘Yes, yes.’ I knew that voice. Peeking through the foliage, I saw Lady Metcalf wave her fan. ‘But does anybody know where his wealth comes from? I must say, I have my suspicions that it’s not honest money, and that he is no gentleman. I have repeatedly invited him to balls and the theatre, and never once has he accepted my invitation. He hasn’t even replied! The nerve of him! I say there must be something fishy about him, there is no other way to explain such dastardly behaviour.’
For some reasons those words made a grin appear on my face. Suddenly, I liked my employer a little bit better. Just a little bit.
‘Well…’ the duchess said in that drawn-out tone that said ‘I have a shocking piece of information and I am willing to share, but you must badger me first since I cannot very well appear to be a gossip.’
‘Yes?’ Lady Metcalf leaned closer, eagerly. ‘You know something, Duchess?’
Carefully, I stepped even closer to the potted plant, praying they would not notice me. The duchess was a treasure trove of gossip, and for once I was actually interested in what she had to say. Very much so.
‘I really can’t,’ she protested. ‘It is only a rumour, and I would never want to slander anybody.’
Amazing how people could lie without their face twitching.
‘We won’t tell,’ Lady Metcalf assured her.
‘Yes,’ Lady Allen concurred. ‘You know us. We don't gossip.’
Really, really amazing.
‘Well… all right, if you promise not to repeat anything I say.’
‘We promise,’ Lady Metcalf nodded eagerly.
‘It is only a rumour, mind you, and I do not have any proof.’ The duchess gloried in the eager anticipation of her friends.
‘Does he have anything to do with the Ambroses in the North?’ Lady Metcalf tried to guess. ‘A very good family, I think.’
‘Dear Lord no, my dear. The Northern Ambroses? The earl’s family? They may have recovered from their financial difficulties, but I assure you, they do not have the kind of money this Mr Ambrose has.’
‘But if he has not inherited his wealth from them, where did it come from?’
The Duchess smiled. Lowering her voice, she said:
‘That is the shocking part. I have heard,’ she continued lowering her voice even more until it was only a whisper, ‘that he is involved in commerce!’
The two ladies gasped in shock.
‘Surely not!’
‘Unbelievable!’
‘And trade. And he invests in manufacturing and industry. Can you imagine?’
Lady Metcalf began to fan herself. ‘Stop, please, my friend. Or I am going to faint. That anybody should degrade himself so…’
‘You have not heard the worse of it,’ the Duchess said, ominously.
‘My dear, what could be worse than that?’
‘I have heard, from a very reliable source, that during his youth he actually worked for money, that he did manual labour.’
‘Dear me!’
‘Heavens!’
‘Yes,’ the Duchess repeated with glee. ‘He worked for a living! Among common working-class folk! It is hardly creditable, is it not?’
‘Please, have mercy on us, stop!’
‘And not even here in the United Kingdom - but in some wild place in the former colonies!’
‘You don't mean - oh goodness, you don't mean that awful place… what do the people call it again?’
‘The “United States of America”.’
‘God, yes. Please, Duchess, no more. Even the mere thought of that place makes me shudder!’
‘They do not even have a king over there, do they?’
‘Worse, my dear! They do not even take tea in the afternoon.’
I didn’t catch much of the conversation after that. I had to admit, I was too blown away. Well, well, well… a gentleman who once did work for wages and earned his way to the top. What a novel idea. I couldn’t suppress a grin. How very naughty of you, Mr Ambrose, to so flout the traditions of the English upper class.
But then my good mood vanished and I was overtaken by sudden anger. How dare he? How dare he judge me and my attempt to earn a living when he himself had done the same? Yes, I was a girl and he was man, but apparently a gentleman. For a gentleman to work for a living was almost more outlandish than for a female to do it. And how, by the way, had he gotten so stinking rich at it? He couldn’t have worked as a secretary, that much was for sure.
‘'I will find out the truth about you, Mr Ambrose,’ I vowed to myself. ‘And I will make you accept me. You are my ticket to freedom, whether you like it or not.’