This story copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey

Characters from The Avengers and Scarecrow and Mrs. King and other sources are the property of their respective owners.

[an error occurred while processing this directive] people have read this story since April 2004

Many thanks to Pat for correcting my French and offering some other useful advice!

The Stampedes

Steed Feels the Pressure Mounting

Emma Goes for a Ride

Chapter 9

Emma strode purposefully through the bullpen full of ministry workers and made a sharp right down the hall toward Mother's office. The guard outside his door saw her coming and opened it so she needn't slow her pace. Watching her approach he had the impression she would walk right through the door if he didn't open it. Fortunately, she was expected. She didn't pause for long at the inner door, either, opening it herself despite a weak protest from Watkins at the adjacent desk.

"Emma!" Mother didn't miss a beat at her abrupt entrance. He sat behind his immaculate desk, which was empty except for a sleekly modern phone finished in burnished stainless steel.

"Where is Steed?" she asked, stopping in front of the desk and planting her hands on its glossy surface in order to lean over it. She loomed over Mother, who did not appear to react. He smiled genially at her.

"Nasty business," he said, sounding regretful. Emma's nostrils flared as she glared at him. "You're to be congratulated for solving the case, by the way."

"Thank you. Where is he?"

Early that morning she'd half carried Steed to the front of the feedlot where, to her surprise, they were met by a team of ministry agents and specialists. Before she could react, Steed was bundled into one of their ubiquitous black sedans and carried away. The ministry people quickly turned the feedlot into a crime scene, impounding the laboratory, the feed, and the cattle. Emma had cooled her heels in the office for thirty minutes waiting for one of them to debrief her. Finally she had left. She'd returned to London and called the ministry to ask where Steed had been taken. She'd been told that there was no information available. She knew better than to call hospitals -- they would not put him with the general population, not with the virus. So she'd made a courtesy call, warning the ministry that she was coming to speak to Mother. She was operating on auto pilot, exerting all of her energy toward the goal of finding and being with Steed. She knew it was irrational, but she believed that if she were with him, he'd hang on, pull through, and get better.

Mother gazed up at her, his seeming complacency contradicted by the intensity of his eyes. They drilled into her, seeming to read her thoughts. She didn't flinch, returning the stare with an equally searching one. At last he broke eye contact and reached for the telephone.

"Give Lady Emma a medical pass and directions to the unit. Yes I know." He replaced the receiver and looked back at her as she straightened and stepped back from the desk.

"Thank you," She said.

"He's in poor shape, they say. You should be there," Mother replied. Emma's hadn't thought it was possible for her heart sink lower. She forced her expression to remain unchanged, nodding curtly and turning away. Only then did she allow herself to clench the inside of her lower lip between her teeth.

Watkins handed her a card and a piece of paper. "The medical unit is in this building," he said, showing her the rather complicated directions. "This pass is very, very hard to come by," he added.

"I understand," she said, concentrating on the pass, and on keeping herself under control. "Thank you Watkins." She turned away from him, regretting the seeming rudeness of not making eye contact. But she knew his face was filled with sympathy and she could not bear to look at him.

As promised, the medical unit pass raised a few eyebrows as she used it to get through two checkpoints and finally presented it at a nursing station in a buried section of a buried floor that looked exactly like a hospital. The white uniformed, pale complexioned nurse whose name tag said "Ripley" studied her pass, tapping one edge with an index finger and "tsk-tsking."

"This is most unusual," she said, handing it back and looking up at Emma inquiringly. "This patient is tagged ëtop hush, highest restrictions.' And he's very ill."

"Nonetheless," Emma managed, indicating the pass and raising her eyebrows in an inquiry of her own. The nurse pursed her lips and turned away, gesturing for Emma to follow. She stepped to a door behind the nursing station. A mesh-reinforced window revealed a patient in a bed surrounded by monitors and attached to several devices via plastic tubes.

The nurse peered up at Emma, trying to assess her. The last thing she needed was this -- what? Agent? Family member? -- passing out or turning into a weeping wreck. Emma looked calmly through the window at what she could see of Steed. One of the monitors beeped regularly in sync with a jagged green line jumping up and down across a screen. Seeing evidence that he was alive unaccountably raised Emma's hopes. The nurse reached out and opened the door, waving Emma inside.

"We have not determined the vector for the virus," she warned. "you should keep back, and don't touch him."

"I already have," Emma said, walking directly to Steed's bedside. The nurse frowned, then shrugged and closed the door.

He was breathing through his mouth with a damp, rattling sound. There were tubes in his nose and an IV taped to the back of his left hand. An oxygen mask lay on the pillow near his head. His eyes were closed, and his skin was yellowish grey darkening to a bluish hue around the eyes.

"Steed?" she said softly, touching the back of his right hand, which lay across his stomach. His eyelids slid slowly upward, then a small smile curled the corners of his lips.

"Mrs. Peel," he whispered, "I thought I might have dreamt you, before."

"I'm not that easy to get rid of, Steed," she replied. Suddenly the despair and fear overwhelmed her. She dashed at her eyes with her left hand, leaving the right touching his. The contact was everything.

"Nor am I," he said, reaching up to her face to wipe a tear off her cheek. She took his hand in both of hers and kissed his palm.

"This is so unfair," she muttered, placing his hand gently back on the bed, but not letting go. She remembered, for a moment, the scene she had constructed during the drive with GÈrard. Champagne, a warm fire, his arms around her. Whispering the simple little phrase that she had been withholding. She wanted that moment so badly, but now it might never come. He might never hear her say it. "Steed," she whispered, bending closer to his face, "there's something I must tell you."

His eyes had closed, but he smiled again, "yes my dear?" His whisper was nearly inaudible. She was losing him, she was certain of it, despite the steady beeps from the machines.

"I love you, Steed," she said, then touched his dry, warm lips with her own. There was no change. The beeps continued, his eyes remained closed. She straightened, giving his hand a last gentle squeeze, then backed away from the bed.

There was nothing more she could do but wait.

"Nurse, is there someone here for Mr. Steed?" a white-coated doctor glanced up from Steed's chart he was studying. Nurse Ripley looked pointedly at the figure lying on the threadbare couch in the small seating area near the nursing station. She felt sorry for the tall brunette who'd arrived yesterday afternoon and never left. She'd gone off duty last evening certain that things would have changed by morning, but she'd returned moments ago to find her asleep on the couch. She'd just finished tucking a spare blanket around the woman -- more than the night shift had done, apparently.

"Shall I wake her, doctor Harms?" she asked.

"No, that's all right. I'll take care of it," he replied. He walked over and sat down in an armchair beside the couch. Oh dear, Nurse Ripley thought, it can't be good.

The doctor reached out and gently shook Emma's shoulder. "Hello?" he said, glancing back at the chart, "Are you Lady Emma Peel?"

Emma felt herself rising out of a deep, troubled sleep. Someone was shaking her. "Steed?" she muttered, wishing he'd stop and let her sleep.

"Yes, it's about Mr. Steed," doctor Harms said.

Emma's eyes shot open. She sat up, rubbing her hands up over her face and through her hair. Then she focused on the doctor -- a young, attractive man in a lab coat. He had a rather dark suntan, she noticed.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice nearly breaking as all the misery of the last day washed over her again.

"The lab has provided some more information about the virus that Mr. Steed is suffering from," he said, putting the chart in his lap and looking into her eyes.

His were a lovely shade of green. Why am I noticing these things? She scolded herself.

"What information?" she asked, clearing her throat to stop her voice from cracking.

"We think Mr. Steed ingested the animal form of the virus," he began.

"Yes, I suppose so," she replied. During their short walk back at the feedlot Steed had said something about a canister spilling.

"The virus was designed to sicken, and then madden animals, primarily cattle. It also would have that effect, to varying degrees, on sheep, goats, and less effectively on horses," he went on. She wanted to ask him to drop the biology lesson and tell her whether Steed was alive or dead, but manners, and an inability to focus her thoughts, prevented her.

"I've seen it have a nasty effect on a horse," she said instead. He frowned at her as if wondering if she was quite awake, then went on.

"The virus mutates in the infected animal, and when the animal's flesh is consumed the mutated virus affects the human who eats it. I believe there have been some cases of this process documented . . ."

"And if a human consumes the animal form of the virus?" Emma interrupted, patience at an end.

"It is not, necessarily, fatal. It does not seem to lead to the madness. It's rather more like a very, very bad case of influenza combined with pneumonia."

"So Steed . . ."

"Is much improved. Perhaps you'd like to see him?"

Emma tossed aside the blanket and dashed across the corridor to Steed's room. She swung open the door and stopped just inside.

"Good morning Mrs. Peel!" he said brightly. He was sitting up in the bed, the monitors pushed back against the wall, the tubes gone from his nose. He was holding a folded newspaper in one hand and a pen in the other. "What's a five-letter word for aeroplane?"

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, regarding him.

"Do you have any letters?" she asked.

"Afraid not -- I've only just begun."

She pushed off from the doorframe and walked to him with measured strides. He clipped the pen to the paper and set them down on his lap, then reached out to take her hands. Their eyes locked in a shared gaze much different from the one she'd exchanged with Mother the day before.

"How do you feel?" she asked at last. His complexion was more normal, and his grip was stronger. In fact, it felt as if he might never let go.

"Weak as all hell," he sighed, the jovialness replaced by resignation, then almost as quickly by something much sweeter. He brought his right hand to her face to caress her temple then slip under her hair at the back of her neck to draw her closer. She came willingly.

"They'll probably scold me for this," he whispered before kissing her. She savored his touch, but cut it short, bringing her fingers to his lips and smiling playfully.

"I'm sure they'll scold me even more," she said. "Do you remember that I was here yesterday?"

"I dreamt you several times over the last few days," he said, shuddering at the memory of hearing De Courcelles say she was dead. It made him think of what he'd been pondering before she came in. "Now, about that desk job --."

"No."

He shook his head, forcing a smile at her stubbornness. She shrugged, and her expression suggested that there was something else on her mind -- that she was disappointed about something. But she didn't say anything. She leaned close again and placed a kiss on his forehead.

"I should go get your flat ready," she said, both hands caressing his shoulders and sliding along his arms as if she wanted to be sure he was all there. "I'll get some provisions in -- you'll need taking care of."

"And you're just the woman to do it, eh?" he asked.

"Just," she agreed, squeezing his biceps, then stepping away.

"Mrs. Peel," he called out when she was at the door. She paused, one hand on the doorframe, and looked back, "Mind that you store things in their proper places in my kitchen."

She smirked at him, then walked away.

It was the following afternoon before the ministry doctors released Steed into Emma's care. When they finally did, she helped him into clothes that she'd brought and drove him home. She had supplied his kitchen with soups and juices, brought in wood for the fire, and made sure the wine and liquor supplies were adequate. Of course the doctors told him no alcohol for a few days, and of course she knew he had no intention of following their orders.

She settled him on the sofa and made a fire, then brought him a bowl of soup, pre-made from Harrod's food court. He ate it hungrily, and she was gratified to see color return to his cheeks. He urged her to join him in the meal, so she did, and did the dishes when they were done. Finally she succumbed to his requests that she keep him company. He shifted to the inside of the sofa so that she could take her accustomed position opposite him. They talked about the case, telling one another their individual adventures. She remembered to tell him that Gerard was concerned about him, and he picked up the telephone and called his friend.

"He's invited us for a visit," he said hanging up the telephone. "Fancy a bit of cycling in the Loire?"

"I fancy a bit of wine tasting in the Loire," she replied with a smile. "I'll do the cycling if that's what it takes to earn the wine."

He nodded, chuckling, "I think the cycling is to earn the pastries, actually," he said, reaching down to caress her bare foot. She flexed it, encouraging him and he complied with stronger, massaging strokes. She watched him, her own hand idly stroking his calf through the blanket she'd tucked around him. She realized that they had come to the moment she'd pictured after all -- they were cozy together in front of the fire. Tell him, she urged herself. The hospital doesn't count.

"Where are you?" he asked, his voice soft as if trying not to intrude. She swung her legs off the sofa and rotated her position, snuggling in with him as he accommodated her by rolling onto his side, his back against the sofa back. He wrapped his arms around her, gathering her against him so their faces were nearly touching.

"Right here," she whispered, holding her head back so she could look into his eyes. The twinkle was back, and the passion that threaded it's way through her, warming her soul. "I love you, Steed," she said, letting her lips brush his, then unable to stop them from a real kiss. He responded, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her head, pulling her close, demanding more. Her lips parted against his and they explored one another with intensity and familiarity. She lightly stroked his jaw with her fingertips, working them back to caress his earlobe. His sharp intake of breath told her that nothing had changed between them. And everything.

"I know," he whispered, and she pulled back a little, frowning. "I heard you the first time."

She reared away from him, hands against his chest, putting herself nearly off the edge of the sofa. "You're a rat, John Steed," she said, not meaning it. He chuckled, smiling evilly, and tried to pull her back, but she pursed her lips and shook her head. "No, you don't deserve any more kisses," she said, rolling over to put her back to him, then snuggling up against him just as close as she'd been before. He held her tight and touched his lips to the nape of her neck.

"You can't blame for wanting to hear it again," he said.

She sighed and closed her eyes, amazingly, deeply contented.

"What sort of house do you fancy," he whispered, his lips tickling her ear distractingly. "Big, like the estate? Surely not that big."

"Ummm," she agreed sleepily, "I need an office -- room for Sally," she said.

"How many bedrooms?"

"Enough," she sighed, wondering what they were really talking about. "for Albert, Gordon, Julia, and Baby Brian," she giggled. She felt him laugh too. She turned her head to look back over her shoulder at him. He smiled, pecking her on the cheek. "What are you talking about, Steed?"

"Just thinking ahead," he whispered. "Go to sleep darling, I know you've not gotten enough rest the last few days."

She frowned at him for a moment until he reached up and smoothed her brow with his finger, smiling encouragingly. Houses, she thought as she turned back toward the fire. And bedrooms. What do I want?

Steed awakened in his own bed for the first time in a week and stretched luxuriously. He was alone, and he didn't hear water running in the bathroom, so Mrs. Peel must be up and about. She had sleepily protested sharing his bed on the pretense that he needed to rest, but he'd convinced her that he needed her close as well, and the sofa was so darned uncomfortable for really sleeping -- which is what they'd done.

He got up and put on his bathrobe, which he found lying across the foot of the bed, then slipped his feet into slippers and ambled down stairs. He felt remarkably better until a round of coughing stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Peel poked her head out of the kitchen and studied him with concern.

"I was about to ask how you feel," she said when he'd recovered. "Come have some tea. And there's toast -- I heard you coming."

"Thank you Mrs. Peel," he said, sitting at the small breakfast table as she set a mug of tea in front of him. He sipped and found it properly milked and sugared. She set a plate of toast in front of him; the marmalade and butter were already on the table. Hands wrapped around her own mug, she sat across from him and watched him butter his toast.

"I have some errands to run," she said as he took a bite. "I'll be back later to check up on you. I'll call first, to see if there's anything you need."

He flipped through a pile of mail that he'd left on the table last week, pulling out a creamy white envelope.

"Do you have a party dress about?" he asked, opening the already unsealed envelope.

"Why?"

He held up an invitation and smiled, "The ministry holiday party is tonight. I thought we might go, then have some supper somewhere small, intimate, and very good."

She took the invitation and read it. "Are you sure you're up to it?" she asked.

"I think so. I can always cut it short, if not."

"I think I can manage something to wear," she said, mentally juggling her schedule for the day to include a bit of shopping.

Unlike many women, Emma did not think of clothes shopping as a hobby, but she did make a point of being fashionable and aware of where to find what she wanted. Between her meeting at the bank and a working lunch with her broker, she acquired several shopping bags containing a daringly sexy black dress with a trail of red stones from shoulder to hem like shooting stars, sheer black hose, and even sexier shoes. Arriving at her lawyer's office in the afternoon she tucked them into a corner under his secretary's watchful eye.

"Mrs. Peel, so good to see you," Mr. Pennington rose and took her hand as she entered his office.

"And you too, Mr. Pennington. I'm sorry to have had to reschedule our appointment. Something came up last week."

"Not at all, my dear. Your Sally is quite efficient, according to my Grace. Please sit down. Can I get you anything?"

"No, but thank you."

"Well then, let me see what we have to discuss," Pennington sat down behind his desk and opened a file that had been set squarely on the blotter. "Ah yes!" He looked up and smiled.

"Good news?" she asked.

"I think so," he handed a sheaf of papers across the desk. "Your divorce. Your husband has signed the preliminary papers."

Emma took the papers and leaned back in her chair to stare at the top page. There it was: Peter's signature at the bottom. She flipped through the documents, noting his signature at each spot where it was required. No fight over property, no meetings around a stark prison table. She realized that she had been anticipating -- dreading -- having to participate in angry, bitter negotiations.

"How about that drink, then?" Mr. Pennington asked again. She nodded, unable to restrain her smile of relief.

"A brandy, please, Mr. Pennington," she said. He pressed a button on his phone and asked Grace to bring one for each of them.

"Now then, I'll file these. It will still be a few months before it's final in the eyes of the government, of course. But that will give us time to conclude related matters." Seeing her questioning look he went on. "Your in-laws have drawn up a contract for you to receive fifty percent of any profit from the Peel estate, once it opens to the public."

Emma laughed, shaking her head at Mr. Pennington. Grace came in and set a snifter of brandy in front of each of them then withdrew. Emma took the moment to recover and think about what to do.

"It will be a very long time before the place turns any sort of profit," she said, "the investors I've been working with, and the management company, will get most of it for a very long while. And after that, I don't want it. It' isn't mine."

"Well, it seems your in-laws are very grateful for all you've done, that's what they say in the cover letter that came with the contract. What do you want to do?"

"I want any proceeds that are a result of that contract to go to charity."

"Any charity in particular?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded. "The local school -- in the village. In fact, I may want to contribute something myself. For language education."

"All right. I'll make inquiries," in years of working for Mrs. Peel, and the Knight family, he had learned to question seemingly capricious decisions like this. He was certain she had a good reason. "If there's not a suitable charity in place, I'll see about setting it up. It shouldn't be difficult."

Emma and Mr. Pennington reviewed the rest of their business as they sipped their brandy. When they finished he rose and came around the desk to take her hand.

"You seem well and happy, Mrs. Peel, I'm glad."

"Thank you, Mr. Pennington. I am. And I think I shall be even better when this business with Knight Industries is concluded."

"In your favor."

"Yes, of course. I'm not willing to contemplate what I'll do if it doesn't go my way."

"I shouldn't worry, my dear. You've a tremendous capacity for new things. We'll work something out to keep you occupied."

Steed had just summoned the energy to examine his tuxedo when the telephone rang. The flat had been so quiet all day it startled him.

"Hello, Steed here."

"Mr. Steed, it's Amanda King."

"Mrs. King! What a delightful surprise," he sat down, knowing that any conversation with Amanda King would not be a short one.

"For me, too, sort of. I mean, Lee and I were called over quite suddenly. I was actually looking for Emma. I tried her home, but they told me she had not been in for several days."

"Did they?" he drawled, unconsciously matching her speech pattern. "We'll have to speak to them about that," he added, not meaning to say it out loud.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, never mind. It's just her staff shouldn't tell unknown callers her business. I'll suggest she speak to them about it."

"Well, I wasn't exactly an unknown caller. I mean, I introduced myself, and her cook remembered me, and we chatted a bit."

Steed smiled. One of Amanda King's talents was drawing information out of people. "I see. Well, in any case, Cook was correct. Mrs. Peel has been in London for a few days. But she's not here just now." He noted as he spoke that he hadn't actually said she had been staying in his flat. As if Mrs. King wouldn't assume it. Silly. "I'm expecting her shortly, but then we're going out."

"So are we, actually. You wouldn't happen to be going to the ministry holiday party, would you?"

"Yes, we are. Are you?"

"Yes, since we're here they invited us. Perhaps we can surprise Emma."

"We could do -- I won't mention you phoned, and we'll see you this evening."

"Wonderful! I'm looking forward to it."

When Emma stepped through the door Steed couldn't help thinking there was something different about her. She looked radiant, although she was essentially the same as when she'd left that morning. She strode in and set down several shopping bags and her handbag, then held him at arm's length to inspect him.

"Do I pass?" he asked, posing for her. He'd had to iron his jacket and he was, actually, a bit worn out. She leaned close to kiss him on the cheek.

"You look perfectly dashing," she said, then scooped up her shopping bags and headed for the stairs. "I won't be a moment."

"Don't rush. We have time. I'll pour you a brandy."

Steed held Emma's arm as they entered the party more for his own security than hers. The swirl of gaily dressed guests and sparkling decorations was a bit overwhelming, reminding him that he was still recovering from the virus.

"Are you all right?" Emma asked, stopping him at the edge of the crowd. She looked concerned, which just wouldn't do at such a lovely party.

"I'm perfectly fine," he assured her. "Shall we find the bar?" she inclined her head in tacit agreement, but her expression remained slightly worried. He steeled himself against the sensory overload and guided her across the room.

The party was in the ballroom of a big, modern hotel. While the setting was not architecturally interesting, the holiday decorations combined with the music from the jazz combo and lighting effects made it quite festive. They had been fashionably late, so the crowds of agents and less covert ministry employees was already rather thick. They had progressed about half way to the bar, skirting the edge of the main crowd, when Steed spotted two familiar faces. He diverted Emma with a light pressure on the small of her back. She caught sight of Amanda and Lee and her face lit up.

"There you are!" Amanda declared as they approached. She took Emma's hands and gave her a social kiss, then shook Steed's hand.

"It's good to see you both again so soon," Lee said as he shook Emma's hand and then Steed's.

"And quite a surprise," Emma said, glancing sideways at Steed, then at Amanda, "for some of us."

Amanda laughed, "I called Mr. Steed's apartment this afternoon hoping to find you," she admitted. "We realized that we'd all be here, and decided it would be fun to surprise you."

"And it's a very pleasant surprise. Will you be in London long?"

"Oh I hope not," Amanda sighed, then realized how ungracious that sounded and glanced at Lee. He shook his head ruefully.

"Probably not," he said, "but you know how these things go. Steed, I suspect you were on your way to the bar. Why don't we go get drinks?"

The two men departed, leaving Emma and Amanda to exchange knowing looks.

"I didn't mean it's not nice to be here," Amanda explained. "It's just so close to Christmas. My family really notices that I'm gone. And I miss them."

"I understand," Emma said, although it had been a very long time since she'd felt the tug of family during the holidays. "Parties like this are such an awful place to talk. Are you free at all tomorrow? Maybe lunch?"

"I'd love that -- you know how nosey I am, I'd like to hear about how things are going with you. If you'd like to talk."

"I think I would," Emma nodded, thinking about Steed's strange discussion of houses last night. "Yes. Shall I call you in the morning? Or you can reach me at Steed's. I have some appointments in the afternoon."

"I'd better call you. Who knows where we might be. And I can't be positive I'll be able to -- ."

"Say no more. It's understood," Emma scanned the crowd, "for just about everyone at this party."

Steed and Lee returned with glasses of champagne all around and they toasted one another's good cheer. Shortly Lee spotted someone entering and excused himself and Amanda to go meet him.

"Do you know what they're here for?" Emma asked when the Americans were gone. Steed watched the other couple greet a naval officer near the door.

"No, but I can guess. That's Admiral Partridge. He heads up a special undersea unit."

"Submarines?"

"More like special gadgets and goodies that go inside of them."

"Hummm. Fun."

"If you're on his side. Quite likely our friends are here to oversee transfer of a prototype we're sharing."

"And who is that?" Emma nearly interrupted, indicating a new arrival coming through the door. Steed followed her gaze and groaned. What had caught Emma's eye was a short man in a burgundy velvet suit over a white ruffled shirt. His shaggy brown bangs brushed the top of thick, black-framed glasses, and his crooked smile revealed badly kept teeth. Emma's eye had also been drawn to his companion. Tara King was beside him. As they entered, several young women detached from the crowd and went to meet them.

"Powers," Steed grumbled.

"And what is a Powers?" Emma asked, tossing Steed a sideways smile. He caught it and sighed, then took her arm and started toward the newcommers.

"An agent. NOT in my department. I can't imagine what Tara is doing with him. Perhaps we can rescue her -- if you don't mind?"

"Not at all. I'm fascinated."

"By him?"

Emma laughed, and the sound carried to Tara, who was looking everywhere but at her companion and the other women who were now surrounding him. She saw Steed and Emma approaching and left Powers's side to meet them.

"Tara, baby, where are you going?" Powers called. She glanced back at him with an apologetic smile and hurried to meet Steed and Emma.

"Tara, what ever are you doing with him?" Steed asked, for the moment too surprised by the situation to remember to be concerned about Tara and Emma meeting.

"Mother's orders," Tara replied with a carefully schooled expression.

"He called you over from Paris for this?" Emma asked.

Tara chuckled, glancing at Powers, who was making his way through the room with a growing entourage. "No, I came over this morning to close some matters related to your case, actually," she looked from Emma to Steed. "I understand it was a near thing. I didn't expect to see you here."

"You know I can't resist a good party."

Tara nodded, giving Steed an appraising look. "Well, Mother said Austin was distraught because his favorite girl in the secretarial pool got engaged. Mr. Exposition is on vacation, so Mother felt responsible. He asked me to see that Austin got here. I think my responsibilities have ended, though," she watched Powers coming toward them with a drink in each hand.

"Maybe not," Emma said, her arch tone drawing both Tara and Steed's eyes. She shrugged and smiled at them, then nodded toward Powers, who seemed to take it as a greeting.

"Well hello!" he said, winking salaciously. He handed Tara a drink, then tipped his glass to Emma, "To you, my lady."

Steed cleared his throat, "Lady Emma Peel, Austin Powers. Powers, Lady Emma," he performed curt introduction. Emma gifted Powers with her most brilliant smile and offered him her hand.

"Lovely," he muttered, bending over her hand and planting a moist kiss on the back of it. "Can I see you later?"

"No."

Powers straightened, eyes wide with surprise. Emma retrieved her hand, her smile never fading. Tara's face split into a grin, but Powers didn't look at her. Instead he turned to Steed.

"Bit icy, is she?" he asked.

"Indeed. Sad thing," Steed agreed, "But I think that little lovely over there is making eyes at you," he pointed across the room at nobody in particular.

"Really?" Powers swung around, making a beeline for a group of women, Tara, and Emma's rejection, completely forgotten.

"Good heavens!" Emma said when he was out of earshot. Steed cocked one eyebrow at her and Tara giggled.

"That was one for the WWEPD handbook," she said. Emma grimaced and glanced at Steed, who had gone a bit pale. She had glossed over her meeting with Tara in Paris, and he had not asked about it. But it looked as if he, too, was familiar with WWEPD. And he never told me. That deserves repayment, when the opportunity arises.

"Can you explain to me what women see in him?" Steed asked.

Emma shook her head, "No. He's definitely not my type."

"He does remarkably well, though," Tara added, watching Powers work his way through introductions with the group of women Steed had set him on.

Steed noted that his and Emma's glasses were empty. He looked from Emma to Tara, realizing for the first time that they were in close proximity and no sparks were flying. "If I can trust you ladies to continue in this cordial vein, I will go find us another round," he said.

"Dear Steed," Tara said, mock pity in her voice as she smiled at Emma.

"Tara and I have reached an understanding," Emma said. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, though."

He cocked one eyebrow at her, then studied Tara's knowing smile. "Then I'm not sure I should leave you two alone after all. It could be quite dangerous," he said, taking Emma's glass. Tara withheld hers, which was still half full, and watched Steed walk away.

"He's not at all well, is he?"

"No. But he will get better, if I can keep him in bed -- ," she stopped short and looked embarrassed. Now it was Tara's turn to cock one eyebrow at Emma. Emma was saved by a young man who was wending his way through the crowd toward them. He chose that moment to call out to Tara.

"Robbie!" she greeted him happily, winking at Emma as she turned away from her. Emma took the opportunity to melt into the crowd, meeting Steed on his way back from the bar and taking her glass.

"Let's get a bite to eat, to absorb this," she suggested.

They shared a plate full of mediocre appetizers and exchanged standard holiday party conversation with various other guests. Emma tried not to be obvious a she watched Steed, but he was clearly flagging. When the opportunity arose, she put her arm through his and leaned close to his ear.

"You're exhausted, let's go."

He sighed and she felt his body relax. "I promised you dinner --."

"I'll take a rain check. I'm taking you home."

He offered no resistance as she guided him to the door. They stopped at the coat check behind a man who was just arriving. He accepted his ticket from the attendant and turned around.

"Steed!" he said, a bright smile filling his handsome face. Brilliant blue eyes shifted from Steed to Emma and paused there.

"Good evening, Bond. I'd heard you were back," Steed said. "May I introduce Lady Emma Peel. Lady Peel, this is James Bond, an associate."

"How do you do, Mr. Bond," Emma said. Steed was a touch put off by the sincerity of her greeting. It was the antithesis of the one she'd favored Powers with. The last thing he needed was James plying her with his not inconsiderate charm.

"The pleasure is mine, my lady," Bond said, his brows knitting in concentration, "Have we met before?"

"I don't believe so," Emma replied.

"Hummm. Peel," his expression changed to one of recognition, "Any relation to the Sir Peter Peel that -- ."

"My ex-husband," Emma replied quickly.

"I see. Just as well, I suppose," he nodded, then glanced at Steed, who was staring intently at Emma. "So, who's inside?"

Steed started, turning his attention back to the other man, "quite a crowd. You'll find that tiresome Powers fellow in the middle of things."

"And the more interesting characters around the edges," Emma added. Bond chuckled, peering through the open ballroom doors.

"I've not heard much good about this Powers fellow, and now you've added flame to the fires. M's asked me to take him under my wing."

Steed's eyebrows rose in alarm, "You refused, I trust."

"I tried, but you know how persuasive --."

"It's inconceivable. You'll understand when you meet him."

"Which I suppose I should get over with," Bond sighed. He faced Emma and took her hand raising it to his lips. "My lady." He nodded a farewell to Steed and strode into the ballroom. Emma watched him go while Steed retrieved their coats. She seemed lost in thought until he set her coat -- his coat, he noticed now -- around her shoulders. She slid her arms into it and turned to face him.

"Now he's my type," she said as he shrugged his own coat on.

He stopped, hands on the middle button, looking at her, "EX-husband?"

fin

Chapter 1