"Don't. You. Dare."

The words were laced with such cruel, ice-cold venom that you could hear the threat of eminent death echoing in every syllable.

"I'm an Officer of 'er Majesty's law!" Growling, the policeman turned around. "Who are ye to interrupt me in the execution of...my...duty..."

His voice slowly trailed off as he came eye-to-eye with the man who had appeared beside us.

"The name," a blissfully icy voice announced, "is Rikkard Ambrose."

"Nglmp." The very second the name dropped from my husband's lips, all colour drained from the policeman's face, and he froze in place.

Eyes narrowing infinitesimally, Mr Ambrose cocked his head. "But don't let me interrupt you." His hand gestured to a nearby figure, and a moment later, Karim appeared, sabre drawn. "You were speaking of executions?"

The bluebottle took a step back, his knees shaking ever so slightly. My husband had only been speaking a little louder than a whisper—yet somehow, some way, everyone in the park seemed to have heard him. The entire crowd of law enforcement officers stopped in their tracks. Suddenly, they didn't look all that eager to enforce anymore.

"Um...Mr A-A-Ambrose?" one of the policemen squeezed out. "That Mr Ambrose?"

"Is there another?"

Dumbly, the bobbie shook his head. By the look of his uniform, he was a sergeant, and thus in charge here. A fact that he seemed to be very much regretting at the moment. "T-to what do I owe the p-pleasure of your p-presence?"

"Nothing special." Mr Ambrose's voice still dripped freezing poison. Only now, the toxicity had gone up by three hundred percent. Or maybe six hundred? I wasn't that good with small differences. "You know. Mingling. Relaxing." Reaching out with his free hand, he took hold of mine. "Spending time with my wife."

"W-wife?"

If the sergeant had been pale before, it was nothing compared to now. His face was pale as a pail full of milk.

"Yes." Mr Ambrose took a step forward, placing himself right in front of me. I glanced down at my belly. No. Not right in front of me. Right in front of us. "Wife. As in love, honour and protect."

Sometimes, I really loved my husband.

"P-protect?"

Mr Rikkard Ambrose chose this moment to pull off his gloves. The fact that he decided to clench his fingers into fists and leisurely raise his walking cane was surely pure coincidence.

"Yes. Protect. From anything..." His gaze swept over the crowd of policemen. "...or anyone."

As if on command, every single one of them took another step back. On second thought...there was no "as if" about it. One glance of his alone was more commanding than orders shouted by a thousand army officers.

"So..." Eyes narrowing infinitesimally, Mr Rikkard Ambrose leaned forward until his ice-cold eyes were only inches away from the sergeant's. "Keeping in mind that I will do anything to protect my wife...Tell me, what were you doing just now?"

The sergeant's mouth opened. Then his eyes flicked to the banner that so far, none of the policemen seemed to have noticed. The banner that read Rikkard Ambrose Foundation for Women's Suffrage and Equal Rights—stand up and live your dream! The sergeant's eyes flicked back to Mr Ambrose again.

We were here to arrest your wife?

We were just about to beat your pregnant wife with a truncheon?

We were about to commit career suicide by attacking a charity event organized by Britain's richest businessman?

I could practically hear potential answers flick through his mind. Then he stepped back, and closed his mouth again.

"Um...nothing, really, Sir. Just passing through, you know? Relaxing a bit and all that."

"And your..." Mr Ambrose's eyes swept to the rest of the men. "...acquaintances?"

"Err..." The good sergeant raised a hand to scratch the back of his head. "Taking a walk in the park?"

Mr Ambrose stared at the man for a long, long moment—then nodded.

"Ah, I see."

I blinked. He did?

"Y-you do?" the sergeant stuttered.

"Oh yes." Mr Ambrose nodded again, his cold eyes surveying the men in uniform. "Helmets, truncheons, handcuffs...certainly the standard equipment for casual walks in the park." Cocking his head, Mr Ambrose sent the sergeant a questioning look. "What do you think, should I and my men come for a walk to Scotland Yard?"

The officer gulped. His gaze flicked to the towering form of Karim behind my husband. "M-M-Mr Ambrose, Sir, you wouldn't—"

"Or," he continued, cutting the man off, "I could just have a chat with your superiors."

"Byallmeanscomevisitus! We'dbehappytowelcomeyouanytime,Sir!"

My, my. I couldn't keep the grin from spreading across my face. How the worm turns.

"Now..." Linking his arm with mine, Mr Rikkard Ambrose took a step towards the park exit. "My wife and I will be leaving. Any objections?"

"No objections, Sir! None at all!"

"Adequate."

He strode past the sergeant—then suddenly halted in mid-step. Without a hint of hesitation, he knelt in the dirt. Right beside the fallen Patsy. Ice-cold eyes met defiant ones, scrutinizing, judging.

"Yes," he repeated. "Adequate."

Then he extended a hand.

She huffed. "I suppose you'll do."

Grasping the extended limb, she let herself be pulled to her feet. And if she happened to try and squash my husband's hand in the process, that was mere coincidence. Behind Mr Ambrose's back, I grinned like a Cheshire cat, mouthing "Traitor to feminism" at her. That made her grind her teeth and tighten her grip. Mr Ambrose didn't even blink or react in any noticeable way.

My grin widened. They were going to get along so great!

The bobbies dispersed quickly after that. Mr Ambrose led me off towards the park gate, the crowd of women cheering behind us. The few men among them who had been commandeered into coming along were also cheering, although they looked considerably less sure why they were doing so.

Smirking, I turned back to Mr Ambrose. "You're now a hero to feminism, Dicky Darling."

In answer, I received deafening silence.

"And Patsy likes you."

More silence. Silence so cold and icy it would freeze my bollocks off if I had any.

"Dear me, what is the world coming to?" Scandalized, I shook my head. "What will be next? Charity events? Donations to orphanages?"

"Mrs Ambrose?"

"Yes, Dicky Darling?"

"Be. Silent."

"Yes, Dicky Darling."

"And stop using that name."

I grinned. "Yes, oh great and generous benefactor of feminism."

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

Yay! Victory!

Feeling very satisfied with myself, I strolled towards home, arm-in-arm with the most amazing husband ever. Several moments passed in companionable silence. Then...

"Mrs Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

A hand clasped mine, squeezing. "Are you uninjured?"

I squeezed back. "I'm all right."

A pause.

"Adequate."

Like I said. Most. Amazing. Husband. Ever.

"You know," I told him, "after all this, I feel kind of tired. Once we're home, I think I'm going to need a bath. And something to eat." I gave a sigh. "I know that normally, as a dutiful housewife, that would be my job to prepare meals, but the pregnancy is really draining, and right now, I don't quite feel up to it."

Ruthlessly, I batted my eyelashes up at him. Puppy eyes on!

He swallowed. "I...shall take care of the meal."

"And?" I prompted.

"And...I...shall make sure the servants run you a bath."

"Why, thank you!" I beamed. "Oh, you know. I could use a backrub, too."

That muscle in his cheek twitched again. "I will be..."

"Happy," I suggested.

"...happy to do that for you."

Slinging my arm around his waist, I hugged him close with a triumphant grin. Yeepeeh! Being pregnant was awesome!

***

"Blleeaaargh! Blurgh! Gghk!"

Being pregnant was hell! Utter, complete, unadulterated hell!

I resurfaced from my bucket for just long enough to drag in a breath, then bent forward again. "Bluuurgh!"

"Would you like to eat your meal now?" My kind husband chose this moment to enquire. "Or should I show you the way to the bathroom?"

Lifting my head, I sent him a malevolent glare. "Would you like to spend the night in the dog house?"

"This place does not have a dog house."

Reaching out, I grabbed a nearby rope hanging from the ceiling and tugged. In the distance, a bell rang. A moment later, the door opened and a maid stuck her head into the room.

"You rang, My Lady?"

"Yes. Please hire a carpenter and have a dog house built on the property before nightfall."

"A...dog house?"

"Yes. My dear husband has two adorable dogs. What kind of wife would I be if I didn't take care of them?"

"I see, My Lady. I shall take care of it immediately, My Lady."

With a curtsy, she closed the door and disappeared. I, for my part, lifted my head and sent a challenging look at Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

Your move.

It would have been a whole lot more impressive if I didn't have to dive into my bucket two seconds later.

"Bleeeaaargh!"

For the next few minutes, I was rather busy. When I finally came up for air again, slightly trembling, I sent my husband a weak smile. "Perhaps showing me to the bathroom isn't such a bad idea after all. I have a feeling I could use a toilet bowl right now."

It might have been my imagination—in fact, it probably was—but I thought I saw his face soften ever so slightly.

"Come." Two strong arms swept me up, and I felt myself being carried away, down the corridor, towards the bathroom. Moments later, I was gently set down on the bathroom floor. Instinctively I reached out to grab the toilet.

"Hold me?" I asked, trying my best to keep my eyes open as exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed me.

"I will."

"And then, maybe...help me relax?"

"Mm."

***

An hour and a half later, I gave a blissful sigh, leaned back in the steaming hot bath tub and, once again, praised the advantages of living in a hotel. For instance, having multiple bathrooms in the house. Something which turned out to be extraordinarily beneficial when you spent the afternoon vomiting into the toilet bowl of one bathroom, and didn't feel like enjoying your bath within the same four walls.

Just then, a maid stuck her head into the room.

"Excuse me, would you like some bathing oil, Your Ladyship? Some scented soap?"

Hm... oh yes. Plentiful advantages indeed.

"Yes, please. My back is killing me. Could you...?"

"Right away, Your Ladyship."

A few moments passed, and then I felt gentle hands on my back, massaging my aching muscles.

Aah...oh yes. Marvellously advantageous advantages. Hotels are the best! Long live room service!

Although...

Leaning forward a little, I was just able to spot the figure of Mr Rikkard Ambrose through the window, striding up and down outside on the veranda. He was studying a thick business report, but he didn't seem to be quite himself. I could tell by the way he had apparently read the current page three times already.

He was...anxious.

Well, that much wasn't really surprising. One corner of my mouth quirking, I reached down to cup my belly. But...

I glanced down at Mr Ambrose again. It was more than that. Over the years, I'd learned to be very good at interpreting Mr Rikkard Ambrose's non-expressions. He didn't just look anxious. He looked...lost. Forlorn. And not at all at home.

And to tell the truth—he wasn't the only one, either. I glanced around at the magnificent marble bathroom. It was shiny. Beautiful. And...sterile.

Sure, this place was extravagant. Sure, it was large and luxurious. One of the most luxurious abodes I had ever stayed in. Yet...

My other hand joined the first, protectively cupping my belly.

Yet it isn't a home!

It was just a sterile place to stay for a night or two. I bit my lip and stared out of the window, scrutinizing a certain broad, black-clad back as if it held all answers to the mysteries of the universe. Who would want their child to grow up in a place like this? More importantly, who would take his wife and unborn child to a place like this?

Nobody! Except...

I froze.

Nobody, except maybe someone who has never had a home.

In an instant, any hint of pregnancy-induced annoyance that I might have felt evaporated. He...he'd never known what a home was like, had he? He'd been thrown out by his own father before he could ever really learn it. True, my own experience of "home life" at my aunt and uncle's wasn't exactly stellar, but at least I'd had Ella, and later my friends. He...

He'd had no one.

He'd been out in the cold, all alone. As a child.

Instinctively, my hands tightened over my belly, protectively sheltering the bump. Right then and there, I came to a decision.

This. Cannot. Stand.

My gaze drifted on to where, right next to the Casino, rose a tall, beautiful townhouse. The fresh paint was hardly dry, and colourful flowers were just beginning to bloom in the front garden surrounded by a white picket fence.

I smirked. Now, wasn't that a coincidence?

***

Real estate speculator Francis Lindley Allingham stood in front of his new property, hands on hips, and a self-satisfied smile on his face. It truly was a magnificent sight. Hard to believe he had only bought this place a fortnight ago. He was lucky to have heard over the grapevine about this huge hotel and casino being built right next to an old property by some filthy rich business mogul called Ambrose. It had been the work of a moment to snatch the neighbouring property up, pressure a renovation company that happened to be in debt to him, and have the place fixed up into a beautiful town house.

Now he only needed to wait until that casino opened its doors. Then the real estate prices in the area would shoot up, and he would make a fortune by selling this place for thrice its actual price to some pretentious, idiotic nouveau-riche who—

"Ehem, excuse me?"

Annoyed, Allingham turned around to see who had the nerve to interrupt him and came face-to-face with...some pregnant lady? And behind her stood...a huge bearded bloke with...was that a turban and a sabre?

The huge man drew his weapon in one fluid movement. Sunlight glinted on metal.

Yes, a sabre. Definitely a sabre.

"Good afternoon," the pregnant lady asked, smiling broadly. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, showing a lot of teeth. "My name is Lillian Ambrose. Lady Lillian Ambrose. Tell me...would you be interested in selling this property?"

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Oh my, Lilly is going into the real-estate business. How do you think it will go? ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob