I gave him my most sweetest smile.
‘Easy. You’ll have to trust me.’
~~*~~*
For nearly half an hour he tried to worm my plan out of me, but I wouldn’t budge. At one point he declared that, fine, we were going to try something else. When I asked him what exactly, he didn’t look very pleased. Finally, Warren and a few of the others joined my side, arguing for him to let me have a go.
‘We don't even know whether Simmons is still in town,’ Mr Ambrose pointed out, stubbornly shaking his head.
The door to my office chose this moment to open and admit the monumental form of Karim, who bowed and with what I thought was perfect timing said: ‘Nobody has seen Simmons at the train station, Sahib. It is safe to assume that he is still within the city.’
There was one moment more of hesitation - then Mr Ambrose grabbed his top hat from the coat stand and slammed it down on his hard head.
‘Fine. We’re going. Karim, come along. We’re going to buy onions.’
With a slightly puzzled expression on his face, the bearded man followed his master out. I, unable to conceal a grin, was right at his heels.
‘What are you planning, Mr Linton?’ Warren whispered behind me, but I just shook my head.
We had to run to keep up with Mr Ambrose. Out in the street he didn’t hail a cab, but began to march down the street.
‘Err… Sir?’ Warren cleared his throat. ‘If the situation is as grave as you have indicated, the expense of a cab would surely be justifiable. It is a much quicker means of transport, very convenient in such an urgent situation.’
‘Fine.’
Irritably, Mr Ambrose waved a hand and, when a cab stopped, ordered us inside with a jerk of his head. All of us, about a dozen men plus one disguised woman, into one cab! The driver looked at us as if we were completely insane, and I couldn’t blame him.
The good news was I didn’t end up with Karim sitting on top of me. The bad news was I ended up with Mr Ambrose sitting next to me. Very close next to me. I didn’t want to think about how close. His lean body was nearly squashing me against the wall, and there was something hard pressing into my leg which I very much hoped was the end of his walking stick.
Through the window that connected the inside of the coach with the driver’s box, Mr Ambrose threw the cabbie a look. ‘Drive fast.’
The man’s eyes widened. Apparently, he knew who was talking to him. The whip cracked, and we started to move with astonishing speed for a vehicle carrying three times the intended load.
‘Take us to Flemming's,’ Mr Ambrose shouted over the whirl and clatter of the wheels. I had no idea who or what Flemming’s was - hopefully a place where one could get either dresses or onions. I didn’t know if this crazy plan of mine was going to work, but if it was to succeed, I definitely needed all the right equipment.
After a ten-minute drive, the cab stopped in front of a large building with grimy windows and a lot of merchandise crammed together, displayed there. Over the door, large, ornamental letters proudly spelled out ‘Flemming’s’.
I took a close look at the department store. I didn’t know much about fashion, but I knew enough. The frilly, cheap things displayed in the shop window were not exactly what I was after. I looked at Mr Ambrose.
‘I said I needed a beautiful dress.’
‘What’s wrong with those? They’re cheap.’
‘That’s exactly what’s wrong with them.’
I knocked against the roof of the cab. ‘Take us to the best dressmaker in town.’
~~*~~*
The little dressmaker was a hunched figure with a long, hooked nose, remnants of grey hair over both ears and a resplendent waistcoat in blue and gold. He was intent on examining a few rolls of brocade and didn’t look up when he heard the doorbell ring. Only when footsteps approached and the annoying presence of a customer drew him from the contemplation of the masterpiece he was no doubt thinking about creating, did he look up. A frown spread over his wrinkled face and he eyed the slight man in baggy trousers who was standing in front of him - yours truly - with obvious doubt in his eyes.
‘Is there something I can do for you, Sir?’ he asked. ‘Or did you perhaps want to come in through the servant’s entrance?’
‘No.’ I, shook my head. ‘I’m here to pick out a dress for my sister. It’s going to be a birthday present.’
Methodically, the dressmaker took a pair of pince-nez out of his waistcoat pocket, polished them on his sleeve, and clamped them on his nose. Then he studied me like he would a piece of his cloth. Apparently, he found that I was second-hand, with quite a lot of moth-holes, too.
‘And you’re going to pay for it?’ he asked, disbelief dripping from his voice.
‘Oh no. He is.’ Stepping aside, I pointed behind me. A lean black figure appeared from between the shelves and mannequins and strode towards the two of us. In theory Mr Ambrose was dressed quite as simply as I. Nothing about his black tailcoat, black waistcoat or black trousers indicated wealth.
But the arrogance of his dark eyes did.
‘Oh. I see.’ The dressmaker swallowed. ‘And the gentlemen’s names are…?’
‘I’m Mister Linton,’ I answered. ‘And this is Mr Ambrose.’
The pince-nez fell off the man’s nose and his eyes widened. ‘Mr Ambrose? Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded, curtly.
‘Oh dear Sir, please forgive me for not recognizing you on sight. Please forgive me for not properly welcoming you to my humble establishment. You honour me with your presence here!’
‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded curtly again.
‘Once more I beg a thousand pardons. Everything I have, everything I am is at your disposal. What do you wish to see? I have some very fine waistcoats, just came in yesterday from France. Very expensive, but the best, the very best. Please, let me show you…’
‘I’m not here to buy waistcoats,’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘I am here…’ He paused for a moment - gathering his strength, I would imagine. ‘I am here to pay for a dress for this man’s sister. One dress. As pretty and inexpensive as possible.’
The dressmaker blinked, surprised. I would have wagered that not one of his clients had ever before placed an order for a dress they wanted to be cheap. He dealt comparatively well with the new circumstances though, springing up from his stool and bowing deeply.
‘Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Please follow me, Mr Linton. What should the dress be made of? Muslin? Brocade? Silk?’
‘Silk would be perfect. With plenty of lace at the sleeves and the cleavage, and gold embroidery, and little diamonds everywhere.’ I smiled at him. ‘Don’t pay attention to what Mr Ambrose said. The dress needs to be spectacular. Make it demure but… alluring.’
The little dressmaker winked at me and nodded like an overexcited woodpecker, determined to make a new home for himself. ‘I completely understand, Sir. I think I know just the thing. Do you have your sister’s measurements, Sir?’
‘No, but she is about my build. You can use me as a model.’
Half an hour later we emerged from the shop, and Mr Ambrose was carrying a large package.
‘If this is going to be a waste of my money, you will be deeply, deeply sorry, Mr Linton,’ he said, his voice as cool as ice.
‘Don’t worry. The onions will be cheap, I promise.’
~~*~~*
‘This is in contradiction to our agreement!’ Mr Ambrose told me, quiet menace in his voice.
We were back at Empire House. All of us - Mr Ambrose, Karim, Warren and his cronies were assembled in the hallway in front of Mr Ambrose’s office. Mr Stone, who normally occupied the desk here, was nowhere in sight. Maybe Mr Ambrose had given him the day off. More likely though, he’d sent him to slave in some other part of the building while we conducted our secret business here.
‘It is not,’ I said, cutting open the first string that held together the package containing the dress.
‘It is. I only accepted you under the condition that you would pretend to be a man while working for me.’