Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

May 16th - May 31st, 1999

Claudia had been thinking over what to tell the Doctor on the way to Delaford. She certainly meant to tell him more than she would tell anyone else, but there were also things she didn’t want anyone to know, if she could help it.

“You know where I’ve been.”

“I’ve a fair idea,” he said. “The Interrogator. Now the question is, did he seek you out, or was it the other way about?”

“A bit of both. He was here on the night of the wedding – dressed as the Highwayman. He sought me out and said he would come back for me. All the memories came flooding back, the ones you’d suppressed, and I was really overwhelmed with them. I didn’t know what to think or do.”

The Doctor placed a cup of tea in her trembling hands, and added three cubes of sugar for good measure. “I was worried about that. When I rescued you from the Interrogator’s offices I had no idea how long you’d been there or what had transpired. I’m not even sure how the Tardis found you, it was no help this time.”

“Well, I remembered all that had gone on then. It made me angrier than ever at the Interrogator, and perhaps with myself. But the things I remembered also gave me an idea. I knew things that could help me bring the Interrogator and perhaps his whole organisation to justice. I just had to work at it from inside the organisation.”

The Doctor groaned. “I was afraid of this. You always rush off half cocked, without thinking properly…”

“You sound like Ed,” Claudia smiled, a little bitter smile. “And you don’t I suppose?”

“I never go looking for trouble,” stated the Doctor proudly.

“No, it just seems to find you wherever you are. Well, I don’t like waiting for things to happen. If I make things happen, then at least they are on my terms.”

“And things are on your terms now?”

“Now I’m back in Delaford, yes they are. I can begin to make my plan work.”

“Oh, you have a plan do you?”

“Don’t sound so surprised!” If she’d been standing, her hands would have automatically gone to her hips.

“Listen to me. You dash off and leave Ed in a terrible state. He has no idea where you are. You assume that he and others will look after the boys for you. You haven’t acted very responsibly, as usual, and you expect me to believe you actually have a plan this time? Claudia, you are a grown woman, but you are one big bag of irresponsibility!”

Claudia banged her cup down on the table and stood up. “Perhaps its your influence,” she fumed, “or my mother’s genes. I don’t know, but when I see some wrong that needs to be righted, some villain that needs to be brought to justice, then I have to do something about it. It’s who I am, and others just have to accept it. Perhaps its cruel and selfish of me, but since I’ve remembered that time, before Ed, when I was with the Interrogator, I know more than ever who I am and what I must do.”

The Doctor was quiet for a time, studying her face. He sighed. “Alright. Now are you going to tell me the whole story?”

“No, this is as much as I’m going to tell you – for now anyway. It’s more than I’m going to tell anyone else. The less people who know – the better. They will be safer for not knowing. But can I ask that, you please back me up on this?”

“And what do you propose to tell all the people at Delaford who have been going out of their mind with worry? Who spent the whole day yesterday out searching for you?”

Claudia looked a little surprised. “They have? But all I told Ed was I had to be by myself for a while. My story is that I’ve been to a Health Farm being pampered, exercising and having some time alone to think. I will tell them I saw the Interrogator the night of the Wedding, in the Highwayman costume. The memories confused me and I had to be by myself to sort them out.”

“And you seriously think they will believe you?”

Claudia smiled sweetly, too sweetly, at the Doctor. “But you said you’d help me.”

Claudia stopped her bike well away from the house, in the trees at the edge of the wood. Hopefully no one would have heard her arrive. She wanted to talk with the Doctor before anyone else found out she was back. She made her way over to the Tardis, which was also hidden in beginnings of the wood, (as much as you can hide a tall blue box with a flashing light on top), and placed her hand on the door. The Tardis recognised her touch and the door swung open. Claudia looked quickly around her to make sure she hadn’t been spotted, then entered and closed the door behind her.

Inside the console room buzzed in a friendly tone. The uppy downy thing (yes, as mentioned before, Claudia had failed miserably to learn anything technical in her 2 years at Time Lord School) failed to live up to its name. Tea things were laid out on a pedestal table next to the sofa. Two cups, a jug of milk, cubed sugar and tongs, and a plate of biscuits. Just then the Doctor wandered in with a freshly brewed pot, and set it down on the tray.

“It looks like you were expecting me,” said Claudia, taking satisfaction at the way the little man nearly jumped out of his skin. He did, however, regain his composure remarkably quickly, and the wrinkles of concern on his brow faded. She was expecting a telling off, at the very least, but except for the concern in his eyes, for the moment he carried on as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Oh, its you. No, I always put out two cups, just in case. Surprising who shows up just as the kettle boils.” He sat, on the sofa and started to pour the tea. “Now, you better sit down and tell me exactly what you have been up to.” Time didn’t mean much to a Time Lord. There was always time for tea, no matter what was going on in the world that needed fixing.

“We can’t be overheard in here, can we?” she asked, sitting next to the Doctor. “I mean if someone was trying to listen in, they couldn’t, right?” She wasn’t sure, but she seemed to remember something about this from her lessons.

“That’s right. The Tardis is shielded”.

Claudia grabbed his arm and made him put down the tea. “I want you to take the boys back to school on Gallifrey. And Ed, too, if you can pursued him to go. I can’t risk having them here. If something goes wrong they are too easy a target. I can’t risk them being used against me. On Gallifrey they will be safe.”

As Charlie tripped lightly down the darkened staircase in order to retrieve her purse and keys so she could drive Jamie into town, she realized that she needed to confess.

Confess.

Confess the reason she lived on the Vineyard by herself. Confess what had happened to her in the past.

Confess.

The word echoed through her mind.

She reached the bottom of the steps and, as she grabbed her purse from the hallway table and snatched up her car keys, she glanced towards the top of the stairs where Jamie’s silhouetted figure appeared in the shadows with his cello case.

Still looking upwards, she watched as he began to descend the flight of stairs. And, as she watched, she was instantly struck with the realization that she loved this man. Loved him so very much. Even though, mere moments ago, he had confided to her about the “woman” in his life.

Sophie.

Sophie?!

She grinned at him as he gingerly made his way down the stairs with the case. It was only a cello, for goodness’ sakes!

But, Jamie had confided in her as a good friend would. And now she realized, with a slight sigh, that it was about time that she confided in him. She winced involuntarily at the memory. Yet, it was time. Time that she confided in him about the man she once loved.

"Eamon de Valera, you are a dead man," Therese growled into his ear--much more quietly than she would have liked given the ensuing wave of complete and utter silence left in their wake. Guests who had been milling about and chatting stopped in their tracks, their tongues suddenly quiet as they stopped to take in the spectacle passing before them.

"Don't cause a scene, my love," Eamon replied, his tone even.

"Cause a scene?" she asked, her tone disbelieving. "ME?" Therese looked up from his shoulder, and shook her head in disbelief. She was planning to marry a madman. Having raised her head, Therese caught Mary Anne's gaze, her eyes narrowing. Mary Anne, Mistress of Delaford, was making a vain attempt not to giggle--or more accurately, outright guffaw. The other woman's right hand covered the lower half of her face, her left arm braced upon her husband's shoulder for support. Thank you, Mrs. Brandon, Therese thought, rolling her eyes, you are of great help.

Colonel Brandon merely looked confused. Until he, too, looked up to see one of his guests coming toward him--with another of his guests slung over his shoulder. Therese wondered if it was possible for the man to look amused and affronted at the same time.

It was at this moment that she noticed that Eamon strode directly toward the master and mistress of the house. She fervently began to pray that he would trip.

No such luck. He progressed with his typical, sure, long legged stride.

"Colonel! Mrs. Brandon!" Dev's booming voice rang out in greeting.

"Mr. de Valera," Brandon returned, his tone placid.

Mary Anne snorted--a very unladylike sound--to contain her mirth. "Oh Dev," she chuckled, "what are you about now?"

"Mrs. Brandon, as you know I am an Irishman, I come from a long, glorious line of barbaric Celts--the Vicomte de Valmont can vouch for me on this count--and we are a people of tradition. These ways of ours, why none are more specific than what a man must do when he chooses to wed." He turned Therese, lifting her down from his shoulder to cradle her in his arms. She attempted to shift sideways, and drop her feet to the floor, but he stopped her easily, her arms crossing stubbornly in front of her chest as she glared up at him. You'll need more than the sliver tongue of a politician to get yourself out of this one, she thought, glaring up at him.

"And what traditions are those, Mr. de Valera?" the colonel asked, his golden eyes inquiring.

"Why it's a simple thing, really, with strong ties to our uncivilized past. When an Irishman has found the woman whom he wishes should spend the rest of her life cooking his meals and darning his socks he goes to her immediately. He does not propose, he offers nothing precious, and presents her with no gems--he merely throws her over his shoulder, takes her to the leader of the tribe--a host serves this purpose well--and announces his intent to marry."

The colonel looked at him skeptically. "One should wonder why there are not far more bachelors in Ireland than husbands, given your 'traditions.'"

"It is a great wonder indeed," Dev agreed solemnly. "However, that, perhaps, is a question you may wish to direct toward Miss Therese, as she has done me a great honour and agreed to become my wife," Eamon lowered her feet gently to the floor--keeping a firm grip upon her shoulders so she wouldn't stalk off and leave him to announce their engagement alone. "We wished you to be among the first to know."

Mary Anne was still grinning when she suggested to her husband that a toast was in order. Signaling to one of the nearby servants to provide the necessary refreshments, Mary Anne shook her head in wonder. I've seen some samples of your blareny already, Dev, but you've outdone yourself this time.

Through her small oval window on the plane she could see the rows of long tall windows with small figures standing in plain view .. waiting to see loved ones take off in the Boston-bound bird in which she know sat.

Her mind drifted back, as it so often did, to Alexis and New Orleans. It had been well over a year now.

Who would have guessed?

Who would have possibly guessed that her chance New Orleans encounter -- with the handsome man in the lobby of her hotel -- would have been with the very husband she had initially been propositioned to seduce? That Alexis had singled her out, after much research, as the one woman in town that her husband would want? That the trip to Louisiana was instigated by Alexis, not for an interview as Kari and her editors had been led to believe, but for that one particular proposition? That Kari's refusal of that one particular proposition would have ended in her losing her prestigious employment? Her prestigious employment as the only reporter the Globe had gone out of their way to hire upon her graduation from Brown?

She tried to put the thoughts from her mind.

I’ve so much to be proud of, thought Kari as she recollected her accomplishments with a slight smile. Yet the smile vanished as her thoughts turned to David, and she bit her lip as she cast her eyes downward. And so much to be ashamed of.

With a deep sigh, Kari shifted in her seat as she turned her gaze in the direction of the flight attendants while they stood in the aisle and demonstrated the safety measures and procedures that every well-informed airline passenger should know. She watched them as if in a trance for her mind was elsewhere.

She was going home.

At last.

Mary Anne watches Ed and The Doctor move off toward the library and then goes in search of Brandon; there must be no delay in passing along the Commander's news and instructions.

Though she very much enjoys the company of their friends and plays the part of gracious hostess to perfection, Mary Anne cannot help feeling that this evening cannot end quickly enough to suit her. For a beginning, she is more disturbed by her earlier quarrel with Brandon than she cares to admit. How does something like that happen? So quickly. Out of nowhere. All was well, and then . . . Yes, of course they were tired and on edge; the mere hint of HIS presence nearby is enough to unravel anyone's nerves. And she had behaved abominably to Brandon. Not for the first time, Mary Anne breathes a quick prayer of thankfulness for the Colonel's steady temper and his readiness to forgive her foibles.

The thought of The Interrogator takes her mind back to Claudia. And Ed. Mary Anne shakes her head a little, thinking of Ed's own words: that they both know what kind of a man The Interrogator is, and that if HE needed an extra lever with Claudia . . .

So. Ed has come to the same conclusion, then. Not for him any kindly hopes that Claudia has gone away on some innocent errand. She has gone to HIM, or tried to. And who knows if she will ever return?

Mary Anne halts, suddenly cold with dread. Suppose Claudia does return. Or . . . is found. What then?

When you abducted The Interrogator, you had HIS note to testify that you were under an outside influence. That it wasn't your idea. HIS letter, and The Commander came in on your side, when she knew the circumstances. Otherwise, it might have been you in that courtroom, hauled up in front of Justice Angelo . . .

What will happen to Claudia? If it can be proven that she was working with an enemy of the Realm, of her own free will--The Empress won't be able to overlook it. Not this time. Poor Ed! And Luke and Joseph, what will they do? What will become of them?

Ah. There is Brandon. Mary Anne moves toward him, grateful for the distraction from thoughts that were becoming more and more unbearable.

Her husband--she can still hardly believe it. These few short days have not been enough to make it seem real to her, that this man is joined with her, body and soul. After all the months of waiting: to know that when this evening ends, there is no need to tear themselves from each other and make their way to separate rooms . . . no. No more of that.

Mary Anne pauses for a moment and smiles, enjoying the opportunity to gaze at Brandon when he does not know she is looking. The Colonel stands alone for the moment, fixed in a pool of golden light from the chandelier overhead. The glow of the candles turns his hair dark gold, his eyes warm amber . . .

Mary Anne is grateful for her sense of humour. Even at such a time as this, it stands by her, sharing in her admiration for this man but reminding her: No, Mary Anne, he is NOT an angel, no matter how he looks in this light! He's a man, dear, and you had best remember that.

Oh, yes. A man. She will remember. No danger of her forgetting it.

Brandon turns, then, to see her looking at him, and holds out a hand to her. "Yes, Mary Anne?"

She still trembles at his touch, and wonders briefly if she will ever stop, before recovering herself enough to reply. "I have a message from Commander Hudson. She called Lieutenant Sifuentes this afternoon . . ."

It is not long before Brandon and Mary Anne are so deep in conversation that they completely fail to notice the developments at the refreshment table by the far wall . . .

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. . .

Valmont leaned low over Therese's shoulder so that she felt, as well as heard his deep greeting in her ear. The delicate hairs of her neck stood on end at his presence, and she couldn't help but liken her reaction to the age old notion of the hunter with his prey. It was not a comfortable feeling, and her stomach fluttered nervously.

"Monsieur," she returned his greeting, her word soft, yet distinct. You'll not ever realize just how it is you make me feel; I'll provide you nothing of any use for your games. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze directly as he straightened to stand before her.

His yellow golden eyes appraised her, and Therese was quite certain that he found her wanting. He wore his arrogance like a cloak, his vanity permeating the air around him, surrounding his person with a world weary air of disdain. He smiled at her, a thin, brittle gesture which did not reach his eyes. "Avec mes regrets les plus since'res--my apologies for the misunderstanding earlier at dinner." He gave a stiff little half bow, and placed his hand upon Therese's shoulder. "I meant no offense."

Therese stepped back from Valmont slightly, her gaze turning to the other side of the room for a brief moment. She could literally feel Eamon's eyes upon her, and knew even before she turned that she would meet his dark glare. "None taken," Therese replied simply. "I am quite certain--"

Therese jumped slightly, and broke off in mid-sentence as she felt a warm, familiar hand touch upon her shoulder. "Excuse us, Monsieur," Dev's voice was completely expressionless as he turned to lead Therese away. She planted her feet, her large brown eyes had taken on the mulish cast that Dev had come to know entirely too well in their time together.

He looked to the Vicomte, and saw the predetory glint in the other man's eyes. Valmont was amused by the interaction taking place in front of him, and Dev knew that his response at this point would either end the Vicomte's interest in Therese, or further fan the flames.

"Dearest." Therese was quite aware that Eamon's voice held a clear warning, but her stubborn mien did not alter.

Without another thought, Dev leaned forward, grasped Therese firmly about the waist, and slung her over his shoulder, her furious gasp hissing loudly into his ear.

"Cross your legs, my dear," he suggested, as he carried her across the room.

Would all the writers/actors etc here like to write an update or new description of their characters and themselves. Any other information that you think would be useful to people wanting to join in on Flights of Fancy.

Dev sighed and shook his head slightly as he watched Therese depart, her back stiff and shoulders taut. There, he'd done it again. His intent was not to dictate orders to her, but that was frequently how his wishes were relayed. He was trying, and he liked to think he was improving--

All thoughts of mollifying his finace' vanished instantly as Dev watched Valmont approach Therese, and lean low over her shoulder to murmer something into her ear.

Dev clenched his teeth involuntarily as the Vicomte rested his left palm upon Therese's right shoulder. Turn and walk away, my dear, as I've asked you to do, before we both regret what will transpire. . .

Therese turned slightly toward Dev, just long enough to catch his attention, before focusing once again upon Valmont. There was no question in Dev's mind that her reason for staying by the odious Frenchman had one sole purpose--it was her response to having been expressly told not to do so.

Dev strode toward the refreshment table, his stride purposeful.

Mary Anne approaches The Doctor and Ed, just in time to hear The Doctor: "--any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Clever fellow, that Clarke, and tells a good story, too--"

"I still can't see how this will help us find Claudia--"

They break off at her approach, but Mary Anne smiles and urges them to continue. "What's all this about magic, Doctor?"

Ed scowls. "Oh, he found some book in your library about it."

Mary Anne laughs. "Hardly a surprise. Colonel Brandon is Scots through his mother's family; perhaps it's from her side."

The Doctor is smiling, but something in his gaze disturbs Mary Anne a little; it is a weighing look, and she cannot tell if she has been found wanting or not. Finally, the Timelord contents himself with, "Ah, yes. Scots, and therefore superstitious Highlanders. No doubt."

"I never said--" protests Mary Anne . . . and then she suddenly remembers the morning after her wedding and her walk through the long gallery with Brandon: his bloodchilling tale of Connor MacLeod, who was mortally wounded, who could not live--but did not die. And those same golden-green eyes look at her from the face of Moire MacLeod.

"I only meant," she continues, "that it doesn't seem the sort of book the Colonel would have chosen. It wouldn't be to his taste--nor to his father's from what I've heard." Yet who knows? Some men are consumed with interest for the very thing they profess to scorn.

"Well." The Doctor is smiling at her again--having given her an uncomfortable moment, he kindly eases her mind. "Just don't be too quick to dismiss such matters. After all, that creature in Loch Ness is real." His smile dims. "Or . . . was."

Mary Anne brightens with interest. "Now that, Doctor, is a tale you've never told me!"

"You can read it in the Tardis chronicles--"

"But he still hasn't told us," interrupts Ed, "--what any of this has to do with--"

"Finding Claudia." Mary Anne rests her hand lightly on Ed's arm. "Maybe we won't need magic. Listen, Ed--I really should tell the Colonel first--" But you're suffering and if this will help at all, I have to tell you! "Lieutenant Sifuentes told me that Mister Willoughby was able to give them some information. Not much, because he's ill. But some. The Alliance is mounting a search and rescue operation. Please don't give up hope!"

Ed's hand tightens briefly over Mary Anne's fingers, and his eyes thank her. A meagre morsel of hope, true, but extended to a man who is all but starving for it.

Together, they watch Lis with the twins; she is entertaining them royally with stories and games invented on the spur of the moment.

"Ed," whispers Mary Anne, "would it be easier for you if we . . . had Luke and Joseph go and stay with Mrs. Jennings, perhaps? It can't be easy for them here. They're smart boys, and they must know something's wrong. Anyone would know it. What do you think?"

Ed's eyes do not leave the boys, and finally he shakes his head. "No. I'd feel better with them here--where I can keep an eye on them. I know Mrs. Jennings and Sir John would be kind to them, but . . . I don't think they'd be as well-protected." Ed turns toward her, looking down into her face. "We both know what kind of a man The Interrogator is. If HE needed an extra lever with Claudia, do you think he'd hesitate to kidnap the twins? I--I may have lost her; I couldn't let that . . ." Ed's voice breaks and trails off. "I've been with them so long, they're like my own--"

Mary Anne is chilled to the marrow; she had not even considered the possibility.

Ed has enough self-control not to cry, though his eyes are red-rimmed; that, however, could be a sign of fatigue. The long sleep enforced by The Doctor had rested his body, but had done little for his mind and heart.

The Doctor takes his arm. "Come along, my boy; I saw some brandy in the library when we were there earlier. Do you good."

Ed plants his feet and refuses to move. "You're not going to hypnotize me again, are you?" he growls suspiciously, narrowing his reddened eyes.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Now, to the library--"

Perhaps there is some latent force of the Doctor's hypnotic abilities in the exchange, for Ed ceases his resistance and accompanies The Doctor. And Mary Anne, her heart aching with pity, watches them disappear through the doorway, then turns back to the drawing room in search of Brandon . . .

Therese was fairly certain that this time, Mr. I had, in fact, been caught off guard.

When she'd knocked his supporting arm from underneath his body, causing his torso to fall upon hers, he'd sucked in his breath sharply in a quick gasp. At the same time he'd attempted to twist sideways to avoid the full contact of his body crashing into hers--and he would probably have been successful had she not wrapped her arm around his neck and drawn his head down to her own.

He hesitated for a long moment as Therese kissed him, parting his lips with her own, and for a brief second she feared he would not respond. . .

Until all doubt was distinctly removed and he most certainly did respond indeed.

He deepened the kiss, pressing his body down upon Therese's, and propping the majority of his weight upon his elbows--

At which point Therese quickly slithered sideways, out from under his body.

She almost made it, too.

"Are you toying with me?" he growled, grabbing her about the waist and hauling her back beside him, he pinned her firmly beneath his body and glared down at her.

"I told you I wanted to get up," she reminded him sweetly. "So when you refused, I felt a distraction might be in order."

"So, that was merely a 'distraction,' then?"

Therese gave him a wary look. He didn't seem particularly happy about her ploy. "Perhaps," she admitted hesitantly.

He kissed her then, a long, demanding, affair that caused her emotions to careen crazily and every cell in her body to respond to him and his masculinity. When he finally lifted his head, Therese had to remind herself to breathe.

Mr. I rose gracefully from the floor, leaving Therese lying there, a glazed look in her eyes. Walking to the chair in which he'd originally sat, he casually took his jacket from the arm, unrolled and buttoned his sleeves, and put on the suit coat. Therese managed to bring herself to a sitting position as she watched him dress. "Wha--?" she croaked, her voice not quite as stable as she would have liked.

"What?" he repeated, "I don't know what you mean. Come now, we're going to be late for our dinner reservations," he admonished, holding open the door to the trailer for her.

Still half in a daze, Therese rose awkwardly from the floor, smoothed her skirt, patted her hair, and grabbed her purse from the counter, before preceding him from the trailer.

"Did you hear what they said, Eamon?" Therese looked up at Dev, a rapturous expression upon her features. "Herr Gruber told me that I have an excellent head for horses, and then Colonel Brandon said that my eye is second only to my seat!"

"A woman could never hope for a higher compliment," he retorted dryly.

Therese wrinkled her nose at him. "You are impressed, you just refuse to admit it," she said with a sniff.

Dev grinned at her, the wide smile transforming his features from a stern, plain faced man, into a distinctly handsome individual. He may have had a reputation as 'The Monster' in English owned papers out of Dublin, but passing observers could not help but note the protective air of love and devotion with which he regarded Therese.

"You're right. I am merely jealous because I do not appreciate other men noticing your seat." He allowed the arm that he had draped about her waist to pat her bottom gently.

Therese jumped forward slightly, and glared up at him. He returned his gaze--and his palm--to her upper body. You're supposed to be the proper one around here! "Colonel Brandon has eyes for only one seat in the manner to which you refer, you lascivious man. And since when have you ever been the jealous type? As I've told you time and time again, there is always a good chance of me bringing home another horse--but I wouldn't even look twice at another man."

Dev's face took on a somber mien once again, and his voice lowered ominously. "I am not worried at you looking at other men, it is the other man who is choosing to look at you. You will stay clear of Valmont."

Therese did not respond to Dev's order, instead she whirled around, her sudden movement interrupting the conversation taking place behind them, as she stalked over to the refreshment table on the far side of the room. Is that thick skull of his completely impenetrable? she wondered vaguely. Would he never learn not to order her about?

Therese reached toward one of several shining flutes of champagne lining the table, and taking a sip, almost choked to hear a soft, "Mademoiselle" spoken disturbingly close to her ear.

Great, just great! she thought morosely.

Mary Anne allows Lt. Sifuentes to draw her aside, wondering what he can have to tell her while smiling to herself over how he had given Valmont such a hard time in the kitchens earlier, when the Vicomte had behaved as if he were going to move in on Therese. Sifuentes obviously takes his duties very seriously--and is eminently suited for the role of protector.

"Of course, Mister Sifuentes, but perhaps my husband . . . ?"

"I would have spoken to him first, but he seems to be occupied."

Mary Anne glances toward Brandon and has to smother a grin. Occupied, indeed: deep in conversation with Herr Gruber and Therese, as Dev stands patiently by--well, patiently for him--and puts in an occasional word. Even at this distance, Mary Anne can hear some of the exchange.

The topic is horses.

Eyes twinkling, Mary Anne looks up at Sifuentes--who does not exactly return her smile but raises an eyebrow as if to say, You see?

"You had better tell me, then. Is there a problem?"

"No, Mrs. Brandon. It is only that the Commander called earlier on the cell--" Sifuentes pats the small phone clipped to his belt. "They reached Mister Willoughby's estate, and found him quite ill."

"Nothing serious, I hope," exclaims Mary Anne in alarm.

"No, not that serious. He had not attended your wedding because his wife and son were ill. As they recovered, he came down with it himself." At Mary Anne's raised eyebrow, Sifuentes explains, "It being an especially ugly case of influenza."

"That can be bad. Will he be all right?"

"From Doctor McCoy's report, it wasn't one of the deadly strains--not like the Spanish flu." An ironic smile. "Not enough to kill you--only make you wish you were dead. And Mister Willoughby was already exhausted from caring for the others, so it took him harder. But--" Sifuentes pauses. "He was able to speak with Commander Hudson . . . and he did remember some of what had taken place when he rescued Colonel Brandon. He was still feverish when he spoke with her, but he was able to give some information about The Interrogator's possible whereabouts."

Mary Anne does not miss the stress on "possible." All of that was long ago; surely HE would not remain in the same location, or would take steps to alter and disguise it. With this, her doubts return: had Claudia really tried to go to The Interrogator? If so, would she even be able to find HIM?

Mary Anne comes back to herself. "Sorry, Mister Sifuentes. Finish what you were saying; I was just thinking about . . . some things. Will the Commander wish for Colonel Brandon to call the searchers together again?"

He shakes his head. "Absolutely not. That's part of my message: the Commander is calling some AR personnel from Delaford to assist her, but this could be dangerous and she stressed that she wanted no risk of civilian casualties--or at least, as little as possible. She's leaving a small Alliance contingent here, but the task of the Colonel is to protect Delaford and everyone in it." A smile. "And I will be helping him; I'm to command the Alliance contingent here."

Mary Anne eyes him for a moment. "I must say that after that display in the kitchens this morning, I do feel even safer with you around." A pause. "And . . . I commend you on your patience. Protecting me and Therese, well . . ." Not easy at all, and then my husband orders you to conduct a search when he doesn't even hold Alliance rank . . . "You seem a remarkably tolerant man."

"Part of my duty," he deadpans. But the smile is in his eyes.

"So if you're to remain here, who's helping the Commander? Looey?"

"The Lieutenant is her personal officer--her right arm." Mary Anne can hear the respect in his tone, that slight emphasis: The Lieutenant. "Has been for years. Looey's pulling in some of her field contacts on this one, maybe even some help from UNIT . . ."

"And would you rather be with them?" Mary Anne looks up at him sympathetically. "It sounds like a major Alliance operation--"

Sifuentes glances about. "Well, what I would rather do is beside the point, Mrs. Brandon. I have my orders." All business, now. "If you would simply relay to your husband what I have told you? Also, the Commander sends her greetings, but regrets that she does not know when she will return to Delaford. None of the party will come here until after Dr. McCoy has made certain they won't spread the illness. And there is no knowing what will happen when they act on Mister Willougby's information. So if you have a message for the Commander, tell me and I will relay it for you."

Mary Anne looks up at him. "When you speak with her, tell her that I wish her . . . success." A grin. "And that . . . perhaps we will meet again in Baker Street." At Sifuentes' puzzled look, Mary Anne shrugs. "She'll understand. Just tell her. And thank you, for your . . . attention to duty."

Sifuentes nods in acknowledgment. "It is my pleasure, as well. If you will relay this information to the Colonel? And now you must excuse me. Some security checks . . ."

"I understand. Good night, Mister Sifuentes."

"Good night, Mrs. Brandon."

Yes, of course she will convey this information to the Colonel. But there are other matters to be taken care of as well. For instance, she has hardly had a chance to speak with Therese all evening, save for a few words at the dinner table--and the presence of Valmont had put a damper on comfortable conversation between them.

Mary Anne looks about for Therese--and spots her, withdrawn into one of the far corners with Dev. The "horse" conversation is evidently over and whatever is going on between Therese and Dev looks rather intense. Oh, Lord, are they fighting again? Maybe. Maybe not. Impossible to tell at this distance. Perhaps it is nothing at all; with their personalities, a conversation about the weather might appear as a quarrel to the casual observer. Well, whatever. I'll leave them to it; I can speak with Therese later . . .

And another stop along the way: Ed. Mary Anne's heart goes out to him as he stands with The Doctor and watches Lis, who is attempting to occupy the twins. Ed's enforced rest may have done him some good physically, but his mental state is another matter. Mary Anne wonders if the strain has finally been too much for Ed, as she draws nearer and hears him conversing with The Doctor about . . . magic?

Pulling out of the parking garage, she hesitated. Where was she going? Hart's house was out of the question. Food? It was late, and it would be difficult to find an open restaurant. She remembered with a pang the night Hart had surprised her with an impromptu supper at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Joy's sudden appearance has nothing to do with you. Just give them some time to work out whatever that poison dwarf has on her mind. Doesn't mean you have to starve.

Grace headed toward Santa Monica Boulevard. The ornate light fixtures outside the Peninsula Hotel caught her eye. She turned into the semicircular driveway and left her car with a valet who assured her that, of course, dinner was still being served in the grill room. Of course. Almost anything one wanted could be had at the Peninsula -- it was just a question of money. She decided to splurge in celebration of her discovery, even though it would be a party of one.

She walked down the wide wooden hallway toward the grill, passing quickly by the ornate bar. Just a few couples were still drinking. Grace didn't notice the man with longish hair sitting alone in one of the low, overstuffed club chairs. But he looked up over the rim of his glass as she walked by, a look of surprise on his face. After thinking about it for a minute or two, he picked up his glass, got up heavily and followed her, keeping a good distance between them.

The grill was nearly deserted. Grace sat down at a banquette, ordered an omelette and waited, drumming impatient fingers on the heavily starched tablecloth and looking around the beautiful, almost empty room. She was looking out at the softly lit patio and heard a man's voice before she turned to see Colin Molyneux walking unsteadily toward her.

"You didn't strike me as someone who had supper alone at nearly midnight, Ms. Alexander," he said. Grace shook her head at the coincidence of running into Colin after what she had just learned about the Hansbank. This only happens in badly written fiction, she thought to herself. Laughing a shade too loudly, she asked him to join her.

"Care to let me in on the joke?" he asked, sliding around to the other side of the banquette and looking a little perplexed. He was accustomed to a wide range of reactions from women, but laughter was something new.

"It's no joke, Mr. Molyneux. Forgive me. What brings you out so late on a school night?"

"Work. Worry. A complete lack of gin at my apartment," Colin deadpanned, gently rattling his glass and looking indeed quite worried. And quite drunk.

"Not to talk shop, but I imagine your work gives you very little to worry about." Grace was careful to keep her comments vague in case anyone listening recognized Colin as a Hansbank executive.

The rest of the dinner hour has passed in relative peace, and the guests have left the table and are grouped about the dining room and the adjoining drawing room: small islands of conversation, the rise and fall of voices, with the muted clatter and ring of silver and china for a background as the servants clear away the remains of dinner and set out brandy and coffee and liqueurs.

Mary Anne firmly pushes away a brief and troubling memory--one hundred year old brandy and the scent of Jamaican Blue Mountain . . . no. Now is not the time to think of such things.

She makes the rounds of the conversationalists as a good hostess should, inquiring as to how they are enjoying their stay at Delaford, parrying their teasing about how she would probably appreciate it if they would all just go away and leave her and Brandon to themselves! She laughs as she is expected to, and blushes quite becomingly--but the truth is that she does not mind the presence of her friends and she suspects that Brandon does not, either. They had become used to this situation over the past several months, in the Safehouses and at the Manor House; to be surrounded by their friends gives a feeling of safety and comfort, much-needed at such a time.

Mary Anne makes her rounds.

Anton Gruber. Clarification of his earlier conversation with Brandon.

"My son has long been trying to have me . . . vacation. Here at Delaford I feel twenty years younger. Such stables you have! That Ares, a wonder of an animal . . ."

Giles and Emilie. Mary Anne frowns a little, wondering why Emilie is limping--and why Giles seems to be worried that anyone will notice. And surely Diggory and Tamsie will have to depart soon for Egdon? How long can the Manor House run smoothly without them?

Andrea, for a few moments. Mary Anne decides against warning her about the Vicomte: Andrea is a sensible woman and knows Valmont's reputation--and after her recent traumas, surely she does not need to be informed about the dangers of predatory males.

" . . . and if you're feeling tired, Andrea, don't hesitate. You know that neither Christopher nor I would think you were rude to excuse yourself . . ."

Andrea responds to this with an enigmatic smile. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Mary Anne?"

"No! No, I--" There's no need to worry; she doesn't know. And won't. You're being ridiculous. Mary Anne calms herself and smiles at Andrea, a smile of sincere warmth and concern. "No, I'm truly glad you're here and . . . getting better. I--" Mary Anne takes a deep breath. "I hardly know what to say to you. Everything I can think of seems like too much or too little. I don't want to make things worse, but I wish I could say or do something to make them better . . ."

Andrea looks at her for a moment. "Even that wish is . . . something, Mary Anne. It's kind. Thank you."

Mary Anne feels a light touch on her arm for a moment, and then Andrea has moved away from her . . .

. . . to be instantly replaced by the stalwart Lieutenant Sifuentes, who leans down to speak softly to her, almost directly into her ear. "If I may have a word with you, Mrs. Brandon . . ."

"Charlie, Sophie is suffering from a medical condition. It is my responsibility to get her to a doctor to have her examined and fixed."

Charlie is taken aback. "Who is Sophie?" One can tell there is a hard edge to her voice.

"Sophie is my cello. I gave her that name because it seemed to fit her personality."

Charlie is shocked. "Sophie is.....your....cello?" It is obvious that this is not the answer she is expecting, nor is the answer being fully comprehended in that brain of hers.

Jamie speaks very slowly. "Yes, Sophie is my cello. She is in need of a doctor...someone who can fix her up properly."

"Sophie is your cello." Charlie speaks with almost an amazed wonder, as if the cello had been something unexpected.

"Yyeeessss." Jamie draws the vowels out slowly; suspiciously.

Charlie turns towards the bed where Sophie lay. She runs her fingers down the wood, taking in everything. Such a strange situation.

Jamie comes close to her and explains what is wrong.

"Charlie, I know what has to be done, but I cannot do it. In order to repair this kind of instrument, one needs a master craftsman. I do not suppose you would just happen to know anyone like that, would you?"

His voice is pleading, like a child's. She turns his gaze from Sophie and looks into Jamie's eyes. They are pleading, as well as concerned. She pauses for a moment and then addresses him.

"Jamie, I *do* know someone, well more specifically, some people, who can help Sophie. I am sure they would be more than willing to help you."

"Really? You mean it?" The pleading tone is still there. Charlie is a bit puzzled as to why he has such a concern for a block of wood. Wasn't it just a block of wood?

"Yes, I mean it. Let's get her back in her case and I will drive you there."

Thanks to everyone for their support in my writing. I am glad to have people who enjoy it! I plan to post as often as I am able to this summer!

Kari: Yes, no question that they are sisters!

Therese forced herself to relax her body, and then smiled up at Mr. I who calmly sat atop her, as if holding down prone women was nothing out of the ordinary. "Well now, that was a nice little demonstration, but I believe it is time that you let me up."

Mr. I peered down at her in a friendly fashion, both eyebrows raised. "No," he said very simply.

"Let. Me. Up." Therese's voice was steely, and she bit off each word with contempt. It really rankled her that she even had to ask for this basic request. And that he should decline? It did not sit well.

"Again, no."

Therese began to struggle in earnest. She was angry, she was unsure, and she definitely wanted to become perpendicular. It was like wrestling with a mirror. Every move she made, he gracefully and effortlessly blocked with a countermove. As her struggles became wilder, the ease with which he fended off her attempts actually seemed greater, rather than more troublesome.

"ALL RIGHT YOU GREAT BLOODY CRETIN--GET OFF OF ME!!" Therese had had enough. Mr. I, apparently, was just beginning.

"Good, wonderful--yes, that's it!" he told her approvingly. "Think about your posture and facial features, right this instant." He paused as her struggles ceased, and she took several deep, steadying breaths. "Anger, uncertainty, fear--that would be accurate for your character in the situation of the second scene--not the complacency with which we began when you thought of this as more of a game." He gave her a long look, staring down his nose and arching a single brow, "Or when you suddenly felt I was comfortable, like a doddering old uncle. I do wish women would realize that men truly do not appreciate such comparisons."

"Why Mr. I," Therese said, grinning once again, "I do believe I've wounded your male pride."

"Yes, well, I imagine I shall recover," he remarked dryly. "Now, one more time through this scene I think, and then I believe it's time for dinner."

"I should warn you that after what you've put me through, I'm ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, whether I find it appealing or not."

He gave a small, tight little smile in acknowledgement of her threat. "In which case I shall send the bill to The Director."

Therese raised her upper body up from the floor as much as Mr. I's position would allow, and leaned back on one arm languorously. "Does nothing ever rattle you?"

"Not much," he said simply.

"I see." Reaching behind his back with her free hand, Therese swept Mr. I's supporting arm from under his body, causing his torso to fall against her chest. Walking her fingers up the back of his neck, she pressed his face close to her own, and kissed him passionately.

Although Andrea believes that the Colonel has every right to know what goes on at Delaford, she has no intention of escalating the tension at this dinner table with her tale. No. If Colonel Brandon presses the issue further, she will simply ask to defer their discussion until after dinner.

Besides, Andrea remembers well her promise to the Colonel that she would not upset Mary Anne with any talk of The Interrogator.

Emily, my belated welcome back! Wow! *Now* I know why I've always loved the cello. And the Director certainly sounds very pleased. :-)

"On a roll" is right, Leigh. Lots of posts lately, just like I like it! And everyone is in great form! The story lines are thrilling and suspenseful.

Racing back to the desk and rummaging in her laptop case for the floppy disk where she had stored her summary of the sting documents the morning they had left for Catalina, she popped the disk into her computer and opened the file. Then she executed a quick searcch. There it was. Lazarus Brothers was listed as one of the brokerages in the sting documents; it had executed a fraudulent stock purchase in the Cayman Islands that she and Hart had traced back to one of the Investors. She turned to the Brussels disclosure forms and directory listings scattered on the desk. Lazarus Brothers, at the same London address, was listed as one of the sellers of a large block of Hansbank stock last week. Gotcha, she smiled to herself, you can run but you can't hide.

By themselves, the disclosure forms from the Brussels exchange led nowhere. But linked to the sting documents, they led to an obvious conclusion: the Investors had to be behind the manipulation of Hansbank stock! Of course, it made good sense. The Investors were trying to finish what they and Hart had started over a year ago. This time without Lukas, she thought, relieved that he couldn't be implicated this time.

She sat back in Hart's chair, a little dizzy from her discovery. But what next? It would be more than satisfying to call Colin Molyneux and tell him of the real menace to the Hansbank. But she could not. The proof the bank needed was in the government sting documents -- which were in the custody of the U.S. Attorney. She would have to go to MacGregor, the Assistant U.S. Attorney in charge of the sting, for permission to release the material to the bank. She was sure MacGregor would be pleased with her detective work, which could add a new set of charges against the Investors. And Lukas. . . he would be proud, too, that she had made this connection all on her own. She couldn't wait to tell him, and reached for the phone. Her hand stopped in mid-air as she remembered Joy -- Mrs. Hart.

It was nearly eleven p.m. She had left the unhappy Harts long ago, but had not heard from Lukas. She resolved not to call, but to let him call her when he was ready. Her satisfaction at solving the Hansbank puzzle fizzled like a punctured balloon.

The last few weeks.

Had it really been so short of a time?

It seemed like forever since she’d locked up her little brownstone and headed West in the Saab to cover the story of the Gruber wedding in Los Angeles .. as a freelancer. She rumpled her brow in remembrance of the events that had led her to this point.

A freelancer.

Having lost her job at the Globe as a direct result of Alexis Chandler’s grievances over the initial outcome of their lunch meeting in New Orleans, Kari had suddenly found herself without a source of steady income and with no way to pay her rent or many bills. At that point, she recalled, life had seemed so very hopeless. Yet, as luck would have it, fate had placed David Weinberg in the midst of her life at precisely the right moment. He had appeared only weeks before the Chandler woman had called up the Globe and adamantly requested that Kari be removed from their staff. Kari had vehemently and truthfully denied the accusations put forth against her by Ms. Chandler, but her pleas had fallen on all-but-deaf ears. After all, the Globe’s chief editor -- and Kari’s direct supervisor -- had once been the apple of Alexis’ eye, and, as far as Kari was concerned, still carried a torch for the beautiful young English heiress.

And so, the following day the ax fell, and Kari was suddenly and unceremoniously relieved of her reporter duties for the Boston Globe. Her life, as she had come to know it, had been ruthlessly and effectively chopped to bits.

Alexis.

The name contorted Kari’s normally pleasant expression into one of narrow-eyed disdain. However, from her present seat on the plane, she could not help but feel as if she was enjoying the last laugh. Since losing her respected post, David had dashingly stepped in and purchased her the brownstone, provided her with her very own car, and lavished on her all the love that he was capable of. They had met by accident, no less, in New Orleans and had subsequently fallen into a sort of accidental love. Kari hadn’t known of David’s marriage initially, but after discovering his status at a fairly crucial point in their relationship, she felt as if she could not turn away.

For, you see, by then it was too late.

Therese is not the only woman to feel a shiver of apprehension at Dev's quiet pronouncement of "Monsieur Valmont."

"Yes . . . Mister de Valera?"

At that, Mary Anne looks up, though she is careful to move only her eyes. No sudden gestures, no hasty moves--anything could ignite a quarrel now, like one flick of a spark into a room flooded with pure oxygen. For Valmont, in replying, had subtly imitated Dev's brogue . . . so subtly that few would notice, or if any of the listeners did notice, they might pass it off as their own imaginations or as some aberrations of the Vicomte's own accent. A slight difference in the shaping of a vowel. A different manner of trilling an R.

But Mary Anne, who is keenly aware of vocal nuances, can hear the imitation--the cruel mimicry, a more refined and adult version of children's schoolyard taunting.

Dev lets it pass, or seems to. He pays it so little notice that Mary Anne can see the spasm of uncertainty pass over Valmont's features . . . a moment only, and it is gone.

Perfectly timed. Even so apt a politician as Eamon de Valera cannot hide the brief gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, though the spectacles are an effective shield. As with Valmont's hesitation, the look is there and gone, so that Mary Anne cannot swear it even existed.

And now Dev is speaking once again--and Mary Anne touches her napkin to her lips, hiding her smile. The brogue, lilting and unconquerable: Dev will not bother to hide it, will not give Valmont the satisfaction. "Monsieur, I meant only to inquire whether it is quite . . ." A smile from the Irishman. " . . . comme il faut, as it were . . ."

Stop it, Dev! You'll make me laugh, and that'll spoil everything. For the French accent, though correct, is deliciously exaggerated, as if the speaker had grown up in the heart of Paris and wishes all within hearing to know it.

Valmont frowns. "Yes, Monsieur? A question of . . . protocol?"

For of course, this Irish barbarian has no concept of courtly manners.

Dev proceeds imperturbably. " . . . whether it is the well-bred thing to do, for a gentleman to so completely ignore a lady who has wished him a very polite 'good evening.' It simply isn't done, I should think."

Valmont's glance cuts toward Therese for a moment and for once his thoughts are plain in his face: she, a LADY?

As her own gaze moves back to Dev, Mary Anne is truly frightened. Eamon de Valera has not made the least move toward the Vicomte de Valmont--but his eyes. Dev's eyes.

Mary Anne swallows.

No expression there at all. The repression of all feeling, the self-control . . . she knows that this man has trained himself to look upon horrors and accomplished his training so well that some factions of the press call him The Monster. He feels nothing, they say. Look at that face. Those eyes. Empty and dead.

But now . . . the less he shows, the more he reveals.

Mary Anne takes a sip of her wine and exchanges glances with Therese, willing her to keep still. Don't move, Therese. Let them settle this with words. I've had to stand by at one duel, and I never want to see another . . .

Valmont may feel something of this, but settles for a haughty look at Dev. "I could not at that moment reply, Monsieur." A glacial smile. "Something between a cough and a sneeze--it got caught in my throat." (homage)

The glance toward Therese that accompanies this last would be enough to put a far less volatile woman out of temper, but even as Therese leans forward to launch a stinging reply, Dev's voice smoothly overpowers hers.

"I quite understand, Vicomte." Dev appears lost in thought for a moment, as his hand plays idly with his silverware, lingering upon the blade of the silver knife. "Yes. That could happen to anyone." Dev looks directly at Valmont. "Getting something . . . stuck in his throat. Most troublesome."

The Vicomte reddens. He has not lived this long by not recognizing a threat. But before he can reply . . .

"Gentlemen."

Brandon does not raise his voice, yet it somehow carries the length of the table. "This is a gathering of friends--and there are ladies present."

No one could possibly miss the Colonel's emphasis on ladies. Let there be no suggestion that any woman present is less than a lady. Or else.

Dev nods, his expression composed into a bland smile. "But of course, Colonel, and bless them all for enduring the likes of us." He lifts his glass. "To the ladies."

Every man present--every gentleman present--must echo the toast or be marked as an ill-bred boor.

Valmont joins in with the rest, but speaks the words as if that mysterious something is once more caught in his throat. And as the normal hum of conversation resumes, Valmont looks directly at Therese, his dark eyes like a matched set of daggers, and quietly challenges, "I . . . give you a good evening, mademoiselle."

Therese nods and returns to her meal, but the soup spoon trembles slightly in her fingers.

Fear, or anger? Or both?

For she knows a threat when she hears one, as well.

>>There is visible steam coming out of her ears, and Jamie is not surprised. He knows her to jump to conclusions (often the wrong ones) with only a few bits of valid information. >>

Therese looked up at Mr. I, half surprised, half alarmed. How does that man move so quickly? she wondered for the second time that evening. "Okay, once again, I see what you mean--um, let me up now." She was securely pinned to the floor, his legs straddling her hips, her shoulders held down easily by his hand. She strained against his body weight. He didn't move one iota.

"This is precisely the situation you'll find yourself in by the second scene, I think that we should block this one out while we're down here. . ." he paused, and gave her a wolfish grin. "And I believe that you are in no position to argue."

Therese frowned. Her bargaining powers were certainly limited indeed. She didn't like to be restrained, either, but she wasn't about to let him know that. Mr. I's character may be a sexual predator, torturer, and all around unsavory fellow (albeit in a very nice package) but Mr. I himself was a good egg, and would be considerate of her feelings, should she genuinely become upset by their practice. She told herself this several times, but still her heart began to beat just a little bit faster, and her stomach began to flutter nervously. "That being the case, what would you like me to do now?"

"Well, what do you think your character's reaction will be when she finds herself in this predicament?"

Therese began to struggle in earnest. She knew *exactly* what her character would do. Come unglued. Freak out. Become unhinged. "Let me go!" she demanded.

"Good!" Mr. I encouraged Therese, easily holding her in position with subtle shifts of his upper or lower body. "You would try to escape thus--" he paused as he moved her more firmly beneath him, "but that wouldn't work because I would simply do this. . ."

Once again, Therese was securely flattened to the floor.

Charlie is frightened by the noise she has just heard. She begins climbing the stairs, and it is not long before she is taking them two at a time. In her mind, all she can think of is the worst. What if he has hurt himself? What if he needs a doctor? Too many "what if's".

She reaches Jamie's room and barges inside. Jamie's head jerks up, confusion written all over his face. Charlie does not even wait for him to say anything.

"I heard you scream...are you ok? I am so frightened that you have hurt yourself. Nothing is broken or anything? No sprains? No blood anywhere?" As Charlie is saying this, she is examining him all over, making absolutely sure that there is, in fact, no blood and no broken bones.

Readers, as you might imagine, Jamie is completely taken aback. It takes him a good several seconds before he can fully understand what Charlie is thinking and is now doing. He now understands the situation and bursts out laughing at the irony of the situation. At the sound of his laughter, Charlie's head jerks up. Her confused eyes meet ones filled with amusement.

"Jamie, is this some sort of prank? Did you interrupt my writing to play some silly, ridiculous, juvenile practical joke? Is that what this is?"

There is visible steam coming out of her ears, and Jamie is not surprised. He knows her to jump to conclusions (often the wrong ones) with only a few bits of valid information. He takes her hand in his and looks at her very seriously. The amusement has completely gone from his face. Charlie sees the transformation and is ready to listen to his explaination.

She tried to trace the recent sales of large blocks of Hansbank stock on the Brussels exchange first, knowing better than to try and penetrate the Chinese puzzle of the Hong Kong market. The Brussels exchange was relatively new, and its regulations were patterned on those of the American exchanges. Plus, it had a website. She manuevered through the site, finding real gold in an obscure regulation of the exchange requiring a disclosure form for large transactions, and requiring public access to the disclosure forms. She tried to link to these forms, but each time was sent to a different, unrelated website instead of the disclosure forms. This is no mistake, she told herself as she was shunted to a website dedicated to a distinguished English actor, this link has been hacked by someone who wants to hide the disclosure forms.

She checked her watch to make sure it was daytime in Belgium, then picked up the phone and placed a call to Brussels on her long distance calling card. She was sure Hart wouldn't mind, or even notice, a European call on his phone bill, but she was scrupulous about this sort of thing. She half-charmed, and half-bludgeoned, a young public information officer at the Brussels exchange into e-mailing her copies of the disclosure forms on the large Hansbank sales. "Merci," she said, sweetly, as she opened her e-mail and read the forms, knowing that a more experienced officer would have at least stonewalled her request.

At first, the disclosure forms were disappointing. Each form listed a different seller and each seller was a business entity, names that sounded like brokerages or private banks. They looked completely unrelated. One company that sounded like a brokerage, Lazarus Brothers, listed a London address on the form. Not knowing where else to search, she accessed the London telephone directory online and looked up the addresses for each seller, printing out each listing. Grace laid out all the printouts side by side. All the sellers were located at not only the same address, but the same room number! This was no coincidence, either. This apparently random group of companies, was, in fact, closely related. But who was at the center of this web?

"Thank you, Colonel. But I'd hardly call my indisposition an 'illness.' " Andrea smiles as she says this. In different company, she might joke: I'd call it being knocked to the ground and left outside overnight to die. Somehow she doesn't feel that Brandon would find the statement amusing.

The Colonel truly does not know why Andrea has been unable to join his other guests for meals. "What would you call it?"

Andrea studies Brandon's face and wonders Is he setting me up so that I may deliver my punchline? She decides against this possibility. "Has no one informed you?"

Now it is Brandon's turn to take a hard look at Andrea. He had already noticed that her face seemed heavily made up. He assumed that she was still covering the bruise resulting from The Sheriff's attack. Examining her more closely, he can see the swelling . . . on both cheeks.

I just know that it wouldn't be particularly nice.

The "Lady Rose" has arrived. Please consult with the Properties Master about care and maintenance ASAP.

Enjoy.

Therese allowed herself to be shown to her seat, tucking the ends of her simple blue dress beneath her, somewhat chagrined that Dev had been escorted to the opposite side of the table. She watched him depart after he had seen her placed in her chair, and helped to situate her at the table. His strong hands brushed her shoulders, and she felt the faintest brush of lips against hair. . . Mr. de Valera, you are going to scandalize the entire gathering.

She watched him as he gracefully lowered himself into his own place at the table, his body lithe and powerful. Contained motion. Barely contained. He had a restless energy about him that drew the eye. . .she smiled to herself. Well, certainly her eye, anyway.

Looking up at him, she caught his gaze, and he raised a single brow at her lazily, his expression placid. Her smile widened as she realized he was fully aware of her scrutiny. Caught me, haven't you?

The pleased look Therese wore upon her features immediately froze, then dissapeared entirely as she turned to find hard, dark eyes regard her coldly. "Good evening, Vicomte," she greeted him, her tone neutral.

The Vicomte inclined his head with a brief movement in a quasi-acknowledgement of Therese's words before he pointedly turned from her.

Therese was quite aware of the social impliation of his action, and that he was, in fact, announcing to both her and others who witnessed their exchange that she was beneath him, and not worthy of his notice. Fine with me, you over inflated bufoon, she thought, turning to greet and acknowledge the other people near to her.

From the opposite side of the table, another pair of dark eyes appraised the situation, as Dev's features hardened. He knew all about Valmont, and what type of man he was. The Vicomte was in no danger from him, so long as his rude behaviour was confined to dinner table cuts--Lis was a fine woman, and he had no desire to further her problems. But Dev knew that once Valmont targeted a woman, he was like a hound on a scent.

"Monsier Valmont," Dev spoke the other man's name quietly, and waited until he was acknowledged. The other occupants of the table continued their friendly discourses, except for Therese, whose soup spoon stopped in midair, and returned to its bowl, untouched. Oh no, Eamon, please don't. . .

Even though HE certainly doesn't . . . Accck.

Dinner proceeds, and Mary Anne is pleased and relieved to note how Andrea is enjoying her food. Of course, the spread this evening would be enough to tempt the most listless appetite. The creamy soup--is there a dash of sherry in it? Mary Anne can feel a pleasant burn in the back of her throat, which is a bit irritated from her earlier crying. And there is the pheasant, roasted and seasoned to a turn; the assorted vegetables in herb sauce; an outstanding selection of cheeses . . .

Even Valmont abandons his customary attitude of disdain and smiles with pleasure, not least because he has spotted the crystal dish of those delicate French candies known as millefruits.

Valmont. What a puzzle he can be at times. While Lis is briefly occupied in chatting with Mesmer, Valmont devotes himself to Andrea and Mary Anne nervously wonders whether he will be ill-bred enough to make improper advances. And to Andrea, of all people, after what she's been through . . .

Oddly enough, Mary Anne's fears are unjustified. She spends several moments in growing puzzlement as Valmont talks quietly with Andrea and conveys, without speaking one word out of turn, that he knows her sufferings and wishes her a good recovery, all while taking various small steps to increase her comfort at the table: moving the salt cellar closer to her, signaling for her glass to be filled and inquiring which dishes appeal to her. Drawing her out. All of this the Vicomte manages with soothing and punctilious politeness that could not be faulted by the most jealous guardian nor the most vigilant chaperone, and that in itself makes Mary Anne uneasy. Is he up to something?

She occupies herself with her soup--that touch of "burn" is comforting to her irritated throat--and thinks it over. She is in no mood to give Valmont the benefit of the doubt, yet there is no sign that his courtesy to Andrea is anything save what it appear to be; if it is, he has missed his calling and should be appearing on stage at the Comedie Francaise.

That's the maddening thing about him, reflects Mary Anne as she slices into her serving of pheasant. I can understand why Lis loves him, if he'd always be like this. There's something . . . he isn't completely ruined. Not yet. Her memory carries her back to the small parlour of the Manor House, when the Vicomte had attempted to blackmail her--and thought he had provoked Brandon to a murderous rage. He had spoken up quite bravely and taken the responsibility for his actions, when he was convinced that Brandon was readying himself to kill her.

Talk about a persuasive performance! Perhaps Christopher should be the one who took to the stage . . . ah, but he already has, once.

Mary Anne's gaze flickers toward Brandon and she sees that she is not the only one who has noticed Valmont's strange gentleness toward Andrea. Brandon, while deep in earnest conversation with Anton Gruber, has taken note of it as well and his eyes meet Mary Anne's.

Brandon's shoulders lift in a hint of a shrug, which Mary Anne returns with equal subtlety before turning back toward the mini-drama unfolding before her.

In the background, the voice of Herr Gruber: " . . . sehr ruhig, very restful here. My son has for some time attempted to persuade . . ."

And before her . . .

Mary Anne watches in fascination, while being very careful not to let Valmont know she is watching. For one thing, she does not want to spoil his mood of rare consideration. It is as if he is not even aware of how kind he is being: genuine concern, no mere show of it. He knows Andrea is no threat to him. He can show pity for suffering--provided he isn't inflicting it for his own reasons . . . For another, she fears her eyes may be irritated as well as her throat, and Valmont is exactly the sort of man to see a woman's red-rimmed eyes and draw conclusions. She hopes that cool water had taken all the telltale signs away, but still . . . what had passed between her and Brandon is for them alone to know. How it would delight Valmont, in his more customary frame of mind, to know that they had quarreled. And so soon after their wedding!

Also, Mary Anne is rather nervous of Andrea. True, she had been able to smile and welcome Andrea to dinner--easy enough, for she is truly glad to see the signs of returning health and spirit. Yet there is that subliminal awareness that Andrea has some sort of connection with The Interrogator, and Mary Anne still dreads Andrea's discovery of the truth about HIS abduction from prison and subsequent torture at the stronghold in the Valley of the Moon.

Why are you so afraid, Mary Anne? There was nothing you could have done--you did fight it as hard as you could. And everyone else has understood when they found out. Why shouldn't Andrea? Still, it is not the sort of thing one wishes to shout from the housetops. The people who know all either love her anyway or else have very professional reasons for keeping silent.

Except, of course, for The Interrogator HIMSELF.

Mary Anne shivers a little and takes another spoonful of her cream soup . . .

"Hello, everybody!" Followed by another voice, rich and dark, with the faintest lilt of a brogue: "We are sorry to be late . . ."

Therese and Dev, being shown to their chairs.

Without one sign of haste, Valmont concludes his inquiries as to Andrea's health and presses her hand briefly between his own, before turning to the new arrivals.

Lis is still conversing with Mesmer, and now Hamlet as well--and Mary Anne gives a start of dismay as Valmont turns toward Dev and Therese, for the Vicomte's expression has altered, the goodwill of the courtly gentleman exchanged for the alert and glittering eye of a predator . . . as if he had fastened on a mask.

Or, perhaps, let one fall.