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with all the speed and desperation of a runaway horse. Perhaps by asking for his help with the mysterious letter writer, she could put things right between them again.
    She rose to her feet and headed for the door. Helene and her father had retired to his study to speak to Christian, who had arrived unexpectedly just after dinner. It would be a simple matter for her to slip out of the house and go and find Ambrose—if he wanted to be found.
    She hated the fact that she was even second-guessing herself in this manner. Where had her courage gone? She’d always loved visiting the pleasure house, sitting with Ambrose in the kitchen, watching as he managed the staff with such calm competency. She couldn’t remember when her shy admiration for him had turned to love. She refused to let anyone , even Ambrose, tell her that she was mistaken in her own feelings.
    When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused. There was no one in the hallway or the drawing room and the light still shone under the door of her father’s study. It was easy enough for Emily to find her maid and escape through the back entrance of the house. She reckoned she could return before her parents even noticed she had gone. Helene’s other less respectable residence was not that far away, and Emily was used to walking there.
    As she walked, she considered what she would say to Ambrose, how she would present him with a smiling face and calm demeanor to rival his own. He would have no cause to describe her as a spoiled child denied a special treat ever again.
    With that thought firmly in mind, she descended into the basement of the pleasure house, her maid trailing uncomplainingly behind her. To her delight, Ambrose was sitting at the kitchen table eating his dinner and reading from a book propped up against a tankard of ale. Before he noticed her, she had the opportunity to study his graceful figure, the quiet strength of his features, and the sense of calm that always surrounded him. How could she not think him beautiful?
    â€œMiss Ross.” He stood up hastily, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I wasn’t expecting you this evening.”
    She forced a smile. “Please don’t mind me. Carry on with your dinner. I’ll just sit quietly until you are ready to talk to me.”
    A wary light entered his dark brown eyes. “You wish to talk to me?”
    â€œYes. Is that not possible?” She hurried on. Had she ruined everything between them with her impulsive nature? “There is a personal matter I wish to ask your opinion on.”
    He looked even more dubious than he had before she’d tried to explain. Emily sighed. “Ambrose, it’s about a letter I received.”
    â€œA love letter?”
    â€œOf course not. No man has ever sent me one of those.” She sat down opposite Ambrose and extracted the letter from her reticule. “Here, you can read it for yourself.”
    He took the letter with all the reluctance of a man offered a poisoned chalice and started to read. After a short while he looked up at her.
    â€œDo you know this man?”
    â€œI believe I do. There was a gardener at our old family home called Thomas Smith. I remember him because my mother liked to consult with him about the rose garden, which was a particular passion of hers.”
    â€œBut why would he suddenly want to talk to you after all these years, and without the permission of your father?”
    â€œEven back then it was fairly obvious that my parents didn’t have a very good relationship. In truth, my mother probably spent more time talking to Thomas Smith about her roses than she did conversing with my father. Perhaps Mr. Smith was aware of that and decided he would rather not have any contact with my father.”
    â€œI assume you wish to meet with him?”
    â€œYou know me so well.” She smiled and for a precious moment, he smiled back. “But I don’t wish to meet him alone.