The Ambitious Orphan

by Amelia Price

“Yes, but my brother and I have a new lead and plan to deal with them once and for all. If you leave it with me, I can assure you, within a month this will all be a topic for a rainy day.” Mycroft stood. The last part was true at least, but that meant he had work to do.

  Chapter 2

  Amelia shivered and decided she'd sat outside long enough. It was late February and, although she liked sitting in Myron's garden, it wasn't warm enough to sit there for long.

  It still surprised her how well she'd fitted into life in the big house. Myron had taken her to his bed each night and made sure she enjoyed everything that followed. In that department, she had no complaints.

  During the day, he was a good bit colder with her than usual. It was evident that he didn't want her disturbing his work, but he ate with her and seemed genuinely pleased to have her company at meals. At least, he did when he spoke.

  The best bit about the house so far, however, was his study. It was the most amazing personal library she'd ever seen and, once inside, it was always where her feet wanted to lead her.

  With Myron gone, she lingered in the doorway, admiring the beautifully constructed room. Shelves and shelves of book-filled mahogany lined three of the four walls. The floor was a lush green carpet and all the chairs within were traditional leather wingbacks.

  One wall was broken up with three, floor-to-ceiling, window bays, each with a box seat in the window. It was at the closest one of these she had been resting during the day.

  The final wall, which held no books, had the most enormous marble fireplace she'd ever seen. Even now, a small fire burned merrily in the grate, and she'd noticed Myron's only breaks, outside of eating, included a moment every now and then to place more logs on the fire and tend to it in any other way that was necessary.

  While he worked, she made sure she sat still and didn't fidget too much, but in these moments she'd taken to fetching tea for both of them or allowing herself to change task, from reading to writing or whatever else she could do while sitting quietly in the light of the window.

  It was a sedate way of life, but it had helped her feel safe and recover from everything that had happened in Russia in a much shorter time than she'd ever have expected. The first time she'd been captured by the Russians, it had taken several weeks for her to feel calm again. It had only been four days this time and already she felt mostly normal.

  In her exploration of the house she'd noted there was also a small home gym and a pile of mats and pads that would quickly turn it into a sparring dojo. So far she'd not seen Myron use it, and she hadn't dared to do so herself. Even now that she was alone in his house for the first time, she wasn't sure she wanted to be anywhere else but his study.

  Feeling a little strange being in Myron's home without him, she decided to stick to the one room he seemed to be comfortable with her spending time in. She wandered over to the bookshelves, letting her fingertips glide over the ageing leather covers.

  Most of the time she'd been there she'd only looked at the English books, but while her perusal would cause no disturbances, she decided to take a more leisurely look at the rest of the collection. Less than half the books in the room were in English, and Amelia soon realised that Myron had many first edition copies of books in their original language. She was looking at a fortune in books.

  Not sure how he'd react to her touching the books, she withdrew her fingers and tried to decipher the titles. The shelf she was currently looking at was full of Russian books, making it impossible for her to identify anything other than the few well known author names like Tolstoy and Dostoevsky.

  She moved onto the French ones, having just enough knowledge of that language to make out most of the titles. When she found The Count of Monte Cristo she let out a noise half way between a gasp and a squeal of delight. It was one of her favourite books, and here was what looked like an original French copy.

  Throwing caution to the wind, she pulled it out of the bookcase, needing to see if it was also a first edition, like so many others. As she gingerly pulled open the front flap, a piece of paper came out and fluttered to the floor.

  Distracted by this unexpected result, Amelia bent down and retrieved the piece of paper. It was yellowed with age, almost as much as the book itself, and the ink used to write a message on it was deeply faded, but Amelia could still make out the letters enough to know it was Myron's handwriting, although the words were gibberish. No doubt it was a message in code.

  It was set out like a letter with a recipient and someone who'd signed it at the end. When she saw the date, she gasped and dropped it. It was dated 1871.

  For a few seconds she stood in place, the book she was clutching forgotten as she stared at the letter on the floor. It had landed face up, and as she stood frozen she realised it was unmistakable. The letter was in Myron's hand and dated almost a century and a half earlier.

  Not quite wanting to trust her own eyes, she picked the letter back up and carried both it and the book over to Myron's desk. Although he left very little out on the desk, she knew he kept a small notebook in one drawer; it contained his handwriting.

  When she tried the drawer, it was locked. Again, she hesitated. Every bit of her curiosity was enflamed by the situation. It wasn't the first time she'd found signs that Myron and Sebastian were far older than they appeared, and using new names to mask the seeming immortality they both possessed, but she'd never found proof that either of them were living a lie. And it wasn't exactly something a person really wanted to believe in. Immortality was the topic of fiction.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the desk. It was only then she remembered she had a letter from Myron in her handbag up in her room. It had been left in Mycroft's car and then under Daniels' care when she was taken from the hotel. She'd brought her notebook when Daniels had picked her up to tackle what had also turned out to be a fictional task. It contained all the handwritten challenges he'd ever sent her.

  Already telling herself that she was probably just being foolish, and that she'd find it similar but obviously different enough, Amelia tucked the letter and book back momentarily and hurried up to the guest bedroom.

  Although she'd slept in the same bed as Myron every night she'd been there, he'd had the housekeeper make up another bed for her, and it was where she was storing the few clothes and other belongings she had at his house. It was another sign of the odd behaviour the Holmes brothers both exhibited. They were definitive bachelors, and she knew she was more involved in their worlds than many women had ever been.

  As soon as she had her notebook in hand she slunk down the stairs again, treading lightly and avoiding all the places that creaked and groaned. She stepped back into the study, almost expecting to see Myron back at his desk, but the room was as deserted as it had been when she'd last walked out.

  She glanced at the clock and noted that he'd been gone almost an hour. Depending on the length of his conversation at the palace, he could be back very soon. Wasting no more time, she hurried back to the book and crouched on the floor to hold the letter she'd found and one of the letters he'd sent her side by side. Other than the colour of the ink and the damage time had done, they were identical. They'd even been laid out in the same way.

  Both were in code, although very different codes, but every letter was formed in the same unique, but neat, way. They were both slanted the same small amount and the letters were the same size. There was a small chance they might be written by two different people, but she doubted it.

  Wondering if the contents might also reveal some clues as to what might be going on, Amelia pulled out her pen and hastily copied the old letter into her notebook. As she wrote, she listened out for the door. At no point did she want Myron to catch her. She knew he'd see it as a betrayal of his trust, even if she knew she'd never betray him and would take what secrets she learnt to the grave with her.

  As soon as she was done, she put the letter and the book back on the shelf. Thankfully, they had been dusted recently enough that
there was no evidence she'd even removed it from its place.

  After putting her notebook on the window seat where she'd left her writing pad the night before, Amelia went back to the task she'd first intended to do and looked for a book she might read.

  By the time another ten minutes had passed, she was sitting in her usual seat and reading a mystery book by an author she'd never heard of. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, but her breathing had slowed somewhat and her hands were no longer shaking. If Myron returned now, he would have no idea what had transpired while he was gone.

  It still didn't sit very well that he was another person in her head, but she knew she couldn't dwell on it too much. If nothing else, she still needed to call him Myron, as if that was the only name she knew for him. But if he truly was immortal, then he'd been alone a long time and kept the secret well. It might go a long way to explaining why he was so intelligent. He'd had more than one lifetime to learn everything he knew.

  Over the next hour, Amelia did her best to read the book she'd picked out, but her mind kept returning to thoughts of Myron really being a man called Mycroft. Eventually, she gave up reading and put the book down. There was little point holding a book open on the same page for ages.

  While she thought about all the implications of being immortal, Amelia stared out at the garden. Her final conclusion was that it must be lonely living so long, and if they had once grown attached to someone, if they'd not found a way to pass their immortality on, it would mean watching someone die.

  This thought saddened her the most. It was highly probable that both Holmes brothers had watched people they cared about, and grew up with, get old and die. Their reluctance to get too attached to her made so much more sense in light of this. Was it worth the pain she might cause them to even try to seduce either of them further?

  Tears threatened her eyes as she imagined what it might be like, but she fought them back knowing she'd never be able to explain what the tears were for if Myron spotted them.

  To try and occupy herself in another way, she grabbed her writing pad and continued fleshing out the next novel in her main series. With everything that had happened to her over the last week she had a fresh insight into the world of crime, and she intended to put it to good use.

  Lunch time was announced by the housekeeper at the usual time, despite the still missing presence of the owner. Amelia made her way through to the dining room anyway and found it laid out just for her. She ate alone and with nothing but the continual ticking of the large grandfather clock to keep away the silence.

  When the housekeeper came back to clear up, Amelia decided to pose a question.

  “Do you know when Myron's likely to be back?”

  “No, dear. I'm sorry I don't. We'll see him when we see him.”

  “Right.” Amelia frowned, searching her memory for the last thing he'd said to her before he left. She realised he had only told her he was going to the palace and hadn't known how long it would take. “Does he do this often?”

  The housekeeper stopped what she was doing and gave Amelia a gentle smile.

  “I'm afraid so, dear. He usually goes to that club of his, but there's never any warning to it. Even Daniels doesn't always know where he is and what he does. It's his way.”

  “Well, I guess I shall have to wait here along with you, then. Do you need a hand with anything?”

  “Bless you, my love, but no. Relax and enjoy yourself. You're the first woman he's ever brought home with him. It's wonderful enough that you're here.”

  With that, she carried the dirty crockery away. Amelia didn't move at first, digesting all the information she'd been given. It was yet another sign that Myron might be Mycroft and keeping everyone at arm's reach because the pain of losing yet more people was too much. An emotion she could relate to. It had taken her several years to open herself to the idea of loving again after losing her own husband.

  Sighing with emotion, Amelia took herself back to the study to write and wait out whatever reason Myron had strayed from the house for. If nothing else, it would be good to let him know she didn't mind his peculiar habits. Her previous husband had also had plenty of strange quirks, and she'd always loved him.

  Chapter 3

  The silence soothed Mycroft's weary mind as he sat at his desk in the Diogenes Club. Although he'd enjoyed having Amelia around, he had to admit, getting away from her for a few hours was a relief.

  She'd not distracted him. If anything, the tension in him had dissipated now his base needs were being met, but she was still another presence in the house he wasn't used to. It also might send the wrong signal to both her and others, to keep her there any longer.

  On top of that, it would be safer for him and Sherlock to deal with Nesterov, and whoever Nesterov worked for, without her assistance. He would send her home and have someone watch her at all times to keep her safe while he dealt with the man who'd tortured her himself. They would draw him out of Russia.

  Over the next hour, Mycroft put his plans into place. Tom was a wonderful option to keep an eye on Amelia. The man already spent plenty of time with her in training, and he could continue her lessons without making it too obvious. Mycroft was paying him enough that a little extra work would probably be considered nothing more than a favour.

  Afterwards, he buried himself in his work, looking over government documents and making recommendations wherever necessary. In the three days he'd been chasing Amelia across Europe the emails and messages had stacked up. By the time it was dark outside he'd cleared his plate of tasks. That left him with Nesterov and Delra. Both of whom needed investigating.

  Nesterov was the more immediate threat, and if Mycroft was honest with himself, the more enticing one. The Holmes brothers both intended to make him suffer for the torture they'd had to listen to. Even now, Amelia's face was still sporting signs of an old bruise.

  The agent who'd recognised the man's voice had already been looked up by Mycroft, and every mission report or incident that mentioned Nesterov had been retrieved for Mycroft's perusal. He spent the rest of the evening reading through them. By the time he was done, he probably knew more about the Russian than the Russian knew about himself.

  Mycroft had just finished sending out a request for his secretary to keep an eye on several key transport hubs, when the clock chimed out twelve identical gongs. The time had come to return to Amelia and see how she'd react to her involuntary solitude for the day.

  Their relationship wasn't at a stage where she'd feel the liberty to complain – of that he was sure – and it never would reach that point. Mostly, he expected her to act indifferent, even if she was put out by it. How badly she had to hide her disappointment would let him know exactly how much farther away he needed to push her. It wouldn't be good for her to have any expectations of him, and if sleeping together the last four nights had caused any, he would shatter them all in the next twelve hours.

  With this resolve in mind, Mycroft made his way out to Daniels and his waiting car. His chauffeur stifled a yawn upon seeing his boss and opened up the door.

  “Good evening, sir. Home?”

  Mycroft nodded and slipped into the leather interior, making a mental note to let Daniels rest for another couple of days. The man wasn't young anymore, and their adventure had taken a lot of energy out of him.

  As the car pulled up on the drive, Mycroft glanced at the house. The only light that could be seen was around the edges of the curtains in the study windows. Amelia had waited up for him. Only a few more minutes and he'd know how contently.

  Silence greeted him as he went inside and continued as he took his shoes off and pushed his feet into his slippers. Walking almost soundlessly, he carried on down the corridor and stopped in the open study doorway. Amelia was curled up in one of the chairs by the fire, a woollen blanket draped over her legs and one of his books on her lap. She didn't look up, her eyes moving swiftly over the words on the pages.

  “Good evening,” he said, realising she
hadn't even heard him come home. She visibly jumped and then let out a small laugh at her own reaction.

  “I was totally absorbed,” she said, putting her hand to her racing heart. She then glanced at the clock and he saw her eyes widen almost imperceptibly as she noticed the time. He lingered by the door a moment, to see if she'd follow the reaction with an action but she didn't say anything. She merely looked to him to see what he would do.

  He glanced over the book she was reading and realised it was one he'd been given over the years and never read. Some mystery book one of his staff had decided might make a good Christmas present.

  “Did you have a good day?” she asked, placing the book down on her lap. He nodded, keeping his reaction to the question hidden. The words were neutral enough but there had been a hint of the emotions she really felt in them. She wanted to be a part of his life a little too much for her own good.

  “I achieved what I set out to. There's always a lot to be done, however.”

  “I can imagine, at least given what your brother has said you do. A lot of people must rely on you.”

  Mycroft frowned. He didn't like the sound of what Sherlock might have been telling her. Before he could comment she stood up and placed the book on the small table nearby. She then flicked the reading lamp off.

  “I'm tired. I think I should get some sleep. Do you want me to join you again tonight?” she asked, failing completely to hide the hopefulness in her voice. It almost made him say no, but he knew it would be good to indulge one last night before he cut her off.

  Instead of answering, he took her hand and she knew enough about his ways to let him lead her up to his room. Once there, he took his time easing her out of the corset, letting the anticipation build between them. Already, she knew better than to try to do more than be led by him through whatever he wanted.

  The first couple of nights she'd tried to touch him somewhere he hadn't instigated she'd received a rebuttal for her actions. Now she was completely surrendered to him, letting him remove her clothing piece by piece, until she stood before him, her smooth skin almost glowing in the flickering firelight.