This story copyright © 2003 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed becomes a man hunter
Emma stays afloat
Chapter 4
Sir Peter Peel hung up the telephone and stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head. He grinned at the ceiling, mentally tallying the cash withdrawals he was going to be making as he worked his way across Europe. It was rather frustrating that he didn't dare withdraw it all at once, but he couldn't transport that much cash, and even converting it to a few cashiers' checks would be too risky. The sums he dared withdraw seemed paltry compared to what was available.
Dear Emma. I really should do
something to thank her for teaching me how to pick locks.
He'd be living in style for the foreseeable future, no doubt about that. With plenty left over for his next project, whatever that might be. All he was certain of was that he was through with Camino Victorioso. They were too hot -- and too provincial. After three years in the jungle, visiting civilized lands on their behalf had spoiled him. He wanted the cosmopolitan elegance of Paris. He wanted the beach at San Tropez. He wanted Florence and Barcelona and then, for a break, Portofino or Capri.
But right now he wanted to move. He'd narrowly escaped the net Steed's people had cast over London, and then England, a month ago. He'd slipped out of the tube train at the rear and into the tunnel, locating a maintenance exit halfway between stops that let him out onto a busy street. From there he'd moved among the masses of evening commuters, eventually making his way to the apartment of a lady friend who'd supplied him with traveling cash and a fond farewell. Late that night, while Emma was recovering from surgery, he'd visited a locker at Paddington to retrieve a valise, then used the identification stored in the bag to rent a car and head for the coast. By the time he crossed the channel his blond hair was five inches longer and dark brown and his eyes were nearly black. His hands bore tattoos and he sucked on the butt of a cigarette, then added it to an overflowing ashtray. The inspector waved him through and onto the next ferry. When he disembarked his rental car had French plates and his hair was salt and pepper grey. The tattoos were gone. His fingers were covered in rings and he wore four gold chains around his neck under his half buttoned shirt.
Since then his appearance and mode of transportation had changed almost daily as he moved through France and into Switzerland. He'd taken his time, being sure to read the English papers, and read between the lines. He was certain that Steed, who he regarded as his greatest threat, had not left England. No, the agent was staying dutifully by Emma's side.
You just look after darling
Emma, Steed. You're obviously better at it than I was.
"Go home, Emma," Edmond placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. "We -- you -- have done everything we can today."
Emma stared out at the lights of London. Her half a day had stretched well into the evening. Knight's legal team was burying itself in their contract with the brokerage firm. The accountants were picking through the financial statement that Barnwell had left with her. Edmond was correct. But as she looked out at the city teaming with millions of people all she saw was emptiness. A few hours ago she'd been facing a happy, if busy, future. She'd finally begun feeling ready to think about her wedding to Steed. She'd been looking forward to resetting Knight's focus on technology by making the computer and software division a subsidiary and pouring funds into the American research project. A single sheet of paper had changed everything. Knight was broke, and she believed that her ex-husband, Sir Peter Peel, was out there somewhere spending its money.
He had won.
She owed it to Knight's investors and employees to do everything possible to save the company. With no cash reserves she'd have to sell off assets to cover operating expenses. She'd have to cancel their tentative agreement with the Americans. She'd have to cut her own salary. The accountants had painted a rosier picture, but Emma knew better. And this time, if word got out about Knight's situation, the multinationals wouldn't be circling for takeover. They'd be bidding pence-on-the-pound for what was left.
Knight's next public financial statement was due in two months. That would place the final nails in the coffin. The stock price would drop when the analysts found out. Learning how Stein had done it would have little bearing on the reality that Knight Industries was about to enter into a downward spiral.
"Shall I call Sally?" Edmond suggested, "I'm sure she's still here. She could see you home."
Emma turned to Edmond, forcing her expression to show gratitude for his kindness. "All right," she said. He wouldn't give up, she knew. And he was right.
Emma opened the door to her flat and stopped. Steed was stretched out on the sofa, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the floor beside him. He looked up from a book -- one of hers, she thought. Sally peered in around her.
"I'll just go on home," she said quietly, and before Emma realized what she'd said she was gone.
"Mrs. Peel?" Steed asked, standing and walking toward her. She hadn't left the doorway. "What happened to your half day? I telephoned. And then I just decided to come around about an hour ago. You look as if you need cheering up. Fortunately, I have just the thing."
He came over and took her hand, closing the door and leading her toward the sofa. His manner was gentle. He made no verbal suggestion of celebrating her return to work. She sat down and he handed her two champagne glasses to hold while he opened the bottle.
"Someone told you," she said. He eased the cork from the bottle with a gentle pop and turned to her to pour the golden liquid.
"Rather remarkable, actually," he said, plunging the bottle back into the melting ice. "Mrs. Emerson."
Emma was shocked. Mrs. Emerson had made her position on mixing personal matters with work quite clear. She was aware of Steed's role in Emma's life, but it was completely uncharacteristic of her to take action on such a personal level.
"She wanted to advise me that another crime, possibly perpetrated by Peter Peel, had been discovered."
"What did she tell you about it?"
"That Knight's investment accounts were drained, presumably by the fellow managing them. Her assumption seems to be that the manager was under Sir Peter's influence. Is that what you think?"
Emma stared at Steed. Could he really not understand what it all meant? Peter was long gone, escaped because she had taught him to pick locks. He had Knight's money, and she was left to try to salvage her father's dream.
"Mrs. Peel?" Steed prompted again.
"Yes, that's what I think. I don't know how, or when, but I think Peter arranged for Knight's capital to be siphoned off -- probably to Switzerland," she paused, a bitter laugh making her healing ribs ache. "I once explained the Swiss banking system to him." Right after I taught him how to get out of handcuffs.
"How much?" Steed asked. Emma told him the sum in round numbers. He did not look surprised. He just took a sip of his champagne, watching her over the rim of the glass. She held hers absently, not drinking it.
"Sir Peter is on the ‘most wanted' list of every agency in the world," he said, trying for reassurance. "He can't possibly spend it all before he's caught. It will be recovered."
Emma shook her head, continuing to fight back tears as she had been all afternoon. I do not cry, she reminded herself. "I can't count on that. I have to do everything I can to rebuild Knight's finances. All of the staff, and all of the shareholders, are depending on me."
"And your management team," Steed amended, still watching her. She took a sip of her champagne, not acknowledging his comment. He set down his glass and took hers, setting it beside his.
"Did anyone think to order some supper at the office?" he asked. She shook her head. "You go wash up and change into something comfortable while I find us something to eat."
Steed mixed jarred mushrooms with eggs and cheese that he sliced mold off of. The bread was a bit dry, so he toasted it and spread on butter. By the time his scrambled eggs were ready Emma appeared in the kitchen doorway wrapped in her dressing gown. She had put her hair up, which emphasized her long neck. A few lose strands elegantly framed her face. The sight of her so attired made him smile fondly, as it always did, with the memory of the first time they'd made love. She returned his smile, although he didn't think she knew why he wore it. He had always been more sentimental than she.
"It's breakfast for supper, I'm afraid," he said, setting two plates of eggs on the small kitchen table. He'd fetched the champagne from the living room, and now he refreshed both their glasses. Emma sat down and he joined her.
"Thank you, Steed," she said after she'd taken a few bites. "I don't know what I'd do without you to look after me."
He snorted, gulping some champagne, his eyes twinkling at her. "You flatter me, my dear. You are the most self-sufficient person I know. But I appreciate your -- appreciation."
When they'd finished Steed collected the plates and washed up, letting Emma sit at the table in silence. When he'd finished he offered her his hand and lead her to the bedroom. She followed complacently.
"Shall I stay or go?" he asked simply, unable to read her silence. He wanted to comfort her, but not against her wishes.
Emma wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his broad chest. "Please, darling," she said as his arms instinctively encircled her slim form.
Eventually he released her, guiding her into her bed, then undressing and joining her. Once under the covers he held her again, gently stroking her back until he knew she was asleep in his arms. "Rest well, Emma my love," he whispered to her as he had so many times before.
Emma rolled onto her side to face Steed and ran her fingers through his hair. He appeared to be asleep, lying half on his side, half on his stomach, but he'd gotten up to go to the toilet a few minutes earlier, so she knew he couldn't be. Her depression of the previous evening lingered, but it was overlaid by a powerful sense of need. She needed Steed -- needed the strength he always imparted to her, the sense of completeness that made her stronger than she was on her own. She pressed in against him, wanting him, sliding her hand over his shoulder and down his back. Abruptly he opened up to her, wrapping his arm around her to pull her naked body snugly against his own. He was aroused -- he always was in the morning. Their bodies melded, arms holding tight, legs twining together, mouths searching, covering one another's faces with kisses.
"I need you so much, John," Emma whispered, rolling onto her back and pulling him with her. He supported himself with his hands on either side of her, kissing her face, then tracing his tongue down her neck to her left breast. He lightly kissed the edge of her scar, then made a trail over her breast to her nipple and took it between his lips. Her hands were all over his back and sides, reaching down to stroke his hips. Pressed between them, his solid penis throbbed eagerly and he ground it against her. "I feel so lost. Fill me. Please fill me John."
"Emma, love," Steed shifted his hips, parting her with the tip of his erection and holding it there. "I'll do whatever you ask, just tell me what will help."
"Fill me. Make me yours."
He reached between them to stroke her inner thigh, separating her legs further, then drawing his finger along her labia. He guided his penis into her, stopping half way while he caressed her vulva, sucking her nipple at the same time. She groaned beneath him, pressing her hips upward to take more of him inside while she slid her hands around to press on his buttocks. He held steady, releasing her nipple and raising his head to smile at her.
"Don't rush me, darling," he said. She drew in a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. He felt her contract around his solid flesh and he pressed against it, then withdrew. She groaned again and her fingers dug into the soft flesh of his ass. He stroked her more quickly and bent his head to nip at her breast again, more sharply this time so that she cried out. He thrust into her as fast and deep as he could and she cried out again, a guttural sound that drove him to thrust once more, pressing his groin against hers as hard as he dared. He knew what she wanted -- what she needed -- was fast, torrid sex. But he was afraid to lose control as he hovered over her, afraid he'd forget and let his weight come to rest on her weak ribs.
"Put your hands on my chest," he gasped, withdrawing a bit and returning both hands to the mattress to support himself.
"I'm sorry darling," she said, thinking she'd hurt him with her groping, or that he needed her to stroke him and she'd been neglectful. She drew her hands in around his torso and brushed them over his nipples.
"No, love, it's to protect yourself -- to hold me off, if you need to," he explained, then lowered his lips to hers. "But that is a delicious bonus," he added as she drew circles on his chest. Certain that between them they'd manage to protect her, he focused on the burning in his loins, allowing it to begin building to full flame. As he thrust into her and withdrew he felt her shiver, her juices anointing him. Her muscles alternately contracted and then relaxed, opening her to him still more. She drew her legs up and parted them more. Steed drove in and twisted, then pressed his penis against her clitoris as he thrust over and over again, the friction sending molten heat coursing from his groin throughout his body.
He barely noticed her long, low moan of carnal ecstasy. But his body responded when she contracted mightily around him, her vagina flooding with her own fiery juices. He drove his final strokes, exploding deep inside of her, the rush of fulfillment frothed with joy suffusing his senses.
He rolled off of her, his arm across her abdomen, his mouth pressed to her shoulder.
"Good morning Miss Knight," he sighed, kissing her shoulder, then raising his head to look into her eyes. What he saw there saddened him, for beneath the familiar glow of fulfilled desire there was a pain so deep that sex -- even their most rabid, incredible sex -- would never heal it. Nor, he knew, would his expressions of love for her make it go away. No, the only thing that would fix the wrongs she railed against was the recapture of Peter Peel.
As hard as the rest of the week was for Emma, it was harder for Steed. Much though he wanted to spend every evening with her, he was kept on the run escorting the foreign VIP that everyone knew between conferences, public events, and fancy parties -- events to which he had hoped to bring Emma. When he spoke to her she was either too rushed to speak for very long or too moody to be pleasant. Steed was a patient man, but a grouchy Emma was more than enough to try even him. So each night, when the VIP was safely stowed inside his home nation's expertly guarded embassy, Steed haunted the ministry's communications department seeking information about the international pursuit of Peter Peel. And when he'd learned all he could, he haunted the gym, exercising his body while his brain pondered the problem of tracking down a very smart, very determined thief.
"Steed, I have to say that I usually despise being subjected to tight security," Xavier Detrey, the cosmetics industry magnate and multi-millionaire, sipped his cocktail and smiled at his English bodyguard. Steed swirled the brandy in his glass to warm it and waited for the Swiss gentleman to go on. "But I have thoroughly enjoyed your company this week. You disappear when appropriate, are unobtrusive when you need to be visible, and you play an excellent game of chess. Are you sure I can't tempt you to change allegiances? I can offer very generous terms."
Steed shook his head, returning the man's smile. "If I did what I do for the money, I'd have sold out long ago, Monsieur Detrey," he said. "I'm afraid I'm British to the core -- can't imagine serving under a foreign flag, so to speak."
"But I have British offices -- I could employ you through them!" Detrey joked. "But seriously, if there's ever anything I can do for you, please contact me. And I shall demand your services when I next make such a public visit here."
"Only if you've been receiving death threats, please," Steed added. He was not interested in becoming Detrey's personal watchdog in the UK. He'd only taken the assignment because Mother had been grousing about him spending so much time with Emma. Still, Detrey's offer -- his second one -- was tempting. Steed set down his brandy and reached into his jacket pocket. He withdrew a small piece of paper with a long series of numbers on it and set it on the table between their chairs.
"What's this?" Detrey picked it up.
"There is something you can do for me, Monsieur Detrey," Steed said, all hint of joking gone from his voice. "Your brother is a member of the Swiss government. If I'm not mistaken, I believe he is very senior in the agency that oversees banking."
"Yes, Yves is quite successful, for a little brother," Detrey studied the numbers on the paper. "But I know what he will say -- if you ask what I think you will. Our banking system is successful because it offers complete privacy, Steed."
"As I'm well aware," Steed nodded. He was, in fact, personally aware of the value of a numbered Swiss account. "However, I think you, and your brother, would agree that your nation's intention is to provide privacy for those conducting legitimate business and personal banking matters." He paused and Detrey looked up at him, nodding slowly as if unwilling to make an admission that would backfire. "Funds have been transferred to that account from the investment accounts of one of Britain's largest corporations. Illegally transferred by a dishonest investment manager. The account's owners are now in possession of millions of illegally gotten funds."
"You can prove this?"
"Positively. All I want, since I know your country will not freeze the account on short notice, is a statement of deposits and withdrawls -- ongoing statements, actually."
"Someone is spending the stolen money," Detrey nodded, lips pursed as he looked from the paper in his hand to Steed's face. "If this person is a known criminal, we can act quickly to cut off his access."
Steed shook his head, "No, I don't want him cut off. He'll just find another way, and he'll disappear. I need to track the withdrawals to track him."
Detrey folded the slip of paper and put it in his own pocket. "I will speak to my brother. I know you are an honest man, Steed. For this, however, you will owe me another game of chess."
Steed saw Detrey safely aboard his corporate jet, then returned to his office at the ministry. He had a great deal of information laid out before him on note cards and in the form of bank statements and other such reports. He sorted through it once again, sifting the pertinent information to the top and summarizing it in scrawling longhand on a lined notepad. Finally he picked up the telephone and dialed Knight Industries.
"No, Miss Price, I will not authorize a thirteen percent staff reduction," Emma tapped her pen on the meeting agenda on the table in front of her. "Knight's people are its most valuable asset," especially since it has no cash assets, "eliminating them with broad strokes will not solve our cash-flow problems."
Miss Price, the senior accountant from operations, assumed a patient expression that Emma knew all too well. The woman had underestimated Emma's understanding of the business as well as her temper. "Miss Knight, my recommendation is with an eye to the future. Certainly there would be immediate costs in severance and other expenses, but in the long term, Knight would be operationally more efficient. We've determined that thirteen percent would put us at the breakeven point on the day-to-day balance sheet."
"And does the day-to-day balance sheet take into account the overtime that will become necessary for those who remain to do the jobs of those who have been dismissed? Or does your proposal include reorganization to eliminate the need for whatever work those people are doing now?"
Miss Price was momentarily speechless, and Edmond Stanton stepped in to save her from further abuse by the CEO.
"I think perhaps Mr. Harper has a proposal that will be more palatable," he said, nodding at Harper to urge him to speak up. Emma turned her gaze toward the "consultant" who was actually a ministry agent. He'd been placed within Knight before she regained control to try to identify the sources of security leaks. She'd recognized him from a case she'd worked on with Steed years in the past and challenged his presence in her company. After that, she'd worked with him, promoting him and giving him access to the departments where he thought the leaks might be. So far as she knew, neither of them had revealed this joint effort to Steed or anyone else at the ministry. Only Bond had guessed that she knew, and even then she'd refused to confirm his suspicion.
Harper had explained, the day after her return to the office, that the ministry wasn't yet convinced that they had apprehended everyone at Knight who was involved in Peter Peel's network. Then he'd admitted that he had agreed to stay on because he rather enjoyed the position she'd put him in, and he knew she needed all of the loyal supporters she could get. She had elected not to ask what would happen if it came to a question of loyalty to her or the ministry. In any case, Harper had come up with some very solid suggestions during his short tenure, and whether they were actually his or the work of ministry experts didn't really matter to Emma. In fact, she rather hoped that whole departments of ministry workers were being kept busy providing Harper with solutions to Knight's problems.
Harper spoke up now, outlining an opportunity to sell their interests in certain heavy industries. This would include "selling" the support staff to the buyer and would eliminate the overhead of leased offices in various cities. It was an elaborate scheme, but Emma grasped the fundamentals immediately. It hurt to discuss such a thing -- whittling away at the Knight empire that her father had struggled to assemble saddened her deeply.
As Harper answered questions from the others present, Mrs. Emerson stepped in to the conference room and leaned close to Emma's ear. "Mr. Steed is on the phone. He say's it's important, and that it's good news," she whispered so that only Emma and Sally, seated on her left at the conference table, could hear.
"Put him through here, then," Emma replied, grateful for the opportunity to get up from the table and, for a moment, not think about breaking up the company. She rose and went to the telephone on a side table, snatching it up as it started to ring. She gestured at Harper and the others to go on discussing his proposal.
"Mrs. Peel?" Steed's voice was pleasantly cheerful. She caught herself smiling at it and turned to face the wall.
"Yes Steed. Mrs. Emerson said it was important," she said, a clear message to get to the point. But the smile on her face softened her tone.
"Yes. And good news, of a sort. We've found references in Evan Birch's papers to the same numbered account that Stein transferred Knight's funds to."
"So Birch --?"
"So it seems. He's not talking about it, of course. There's more."
"Go on."
Steed knew Emma didn't need long to contemplate what he'd told her in order to grasp most of the ramifications. So he went on to the next item. "Birch had a personal payroll."
"And I gather you don't mean the butler and maid," she said with wry grin. For a moment she sounded like the Emma he adored.
"No. The banker and the executive assistant and the auto detailer -- detailer as in paint jobs and new tags and filed serial numbers, that is," he said.
"Banker," she repeated. He'd known she'd pick up on it.
"Yes. Matthew Stein has been collecting regular payments from Mr. Birch for years. It's fair to assume that Knight's accounts were being managed at Birch's instruction, which, we know, is the same thing as Peter Peel's. Also, I expect to receive some information about the account shortly -- with luck I'll get a statement showing the location of any withdrawals."
"And we know there's only one person who could be making withdrawals," Emma said. "Steed, how did you know the number of the account Stein transferred the funds to? You didn't steal that file from my offices, did you? You know you could have just asked me," she said. Steed chuckled.
"No, Mrs. Peel, we thought it would be much more interesting to steal them from Barnwell's office. I wish you could have been there to help -- you're so good at that sort of thing."
"Perhaps you'll call me for the next one," she suggested.
"I'll make a point of it," he replied, heart warming at the sound of their usual comfortable banter.
"One other thing, Steed."
"Yes?"
"The executive assistant?"
"Is not Mrs. Emerson. Mr. Birch has had his fingers in a few other pies besides Knight's."
"Thank you Steed."
Emma was genuinely smiling as she replaced the telephone receiver and turned back to the meeting. As she retook her seat Edmond Stanton leaned close to her.
"You look quite pleased -- did he propose or something?" he asked.
Emma cocked one eyebrow at him, placing her left hand flat on the table and glancing down at it. He followed her gaze, eyes lighting on her ring.
"Certainly not, Edmond. Not over the telephone," she said. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at her face. He wasn't wrong, there was definitely a sparkle there that had been missing for weeks.
"What then?" he asked. Emma realized that the meeting had come to a halt and all eyes were turned toward them. She raised her voice to address everyone.
"I've just learned that the authorities have had a breakthrough in the case against Evan Birch and others he was involved with," she explained. She wasn't about to go into more detail. Only a few members of the management team were fully aware of the situation. The rest had simply been told that Knight needed to tighten its belt in the wake of the shooting, arrests, and associated scandal.
"It's getting late, Sally. I won't have your father complaining to me -- or to the Peels -- that you're riding the train at all hours," Emma said, rising from the sofa in her office and heading toward the bar. "Have a drink with me, and then go home."
"Actually, ma'am, I have an appointment to see an apartment -- well, a room in an apartment -- in a little while. It's a two bedroom with three roommates. I'd be the fourth," she said. She sounded excited at a prospect that, to Emma, sounded dreadful. Ah youth. Emma poured them each a glass of red wine from a bottle she'd opened the previous evening and brought them to the table in front of the fire. Sally was dwarfed by the big armchair.
"Thank you," she said, taking her glass.
Emma stood staring at the empty fireplace. She still hadn't had a chance to look into its functionality. "Then it will be very late by the time you get home. Why don't you stay at my apartment? I need to see Steed, and I'm sure he'd be happy to have me at his place."
"That's very kind of you, ma'am," Sally replied, happy to take her up on the offer. "I could get in much earlier."
"That would be good, but it's not my prime motivation. I know how tiring those long train rides are."
Emma glanced down into her glass and noticed a bit of cork floating in it. She absently wandered back toward the bar to fish it out.
Edmond Stanton appeared in the open doorway. Spotting Emma he strode in unannounced.
"You're engaged to John Steed, aren't you?" he said as he approached her. Emma turned toward him, one arm wrapped around herself under her breasts, the other holding her glass to her lips. It was a defensive posture she'd been adopting a lot lately.
"Would you like a drink, Edmond?" she asked. He came closer.
"Yes, whatever you're having. Are you?"
"Engaged to Steed?" she glanced at him over her shoulder, "Yes." She poured him the last of the wine and handed the glass to him with a smile. "Have a seat." She gestured at the chair by the fireplace. Only then did he notice Sally. Emma saw him start, staring at the girl. "It's all right. Sally knows all about it."
Still somewhat flustered, Edmond made his way to the other armchair and sat down. Emma perched on the sofa and took another sip of her wine.
"Congratulations, my dear. There are many who believed he'd never succumb to any woman's charms. I suppose if anyone could crack him, it would be you."
Emma saw Sally's face turn puzzled at Edmond's obvious familiarity with Steed.
"A long time ago you suggested to me that you knew something about Steed," Emma said, remembering a casual comment he'd made shortly after she'd started working with Steed. At the time she'd intended to pursue it with him, but circumstances had caused her to forget all about it. Until now.
Edmond smiled at her, a look of nearly fatherly pride. "That's right. I've been wondering when you'd ask me. Steed was a corporal -- about your age, my dear," he nodded at Sally, "when he began making a name for himself in military intelligence. By the time the war was at its hottest he had built a reputation as the smartest, most ruthless, and most effective operative in the field."
"And you were aware of him because --?" Emma asked. Steed had never mentioned knowing Edmond. If he had, he would have known her father, too, since he and Edmond had served together. Surely Steed would have mentioned that.
"I was behind various desks in various command centers handling intelligence gathering throughout the war. Steed wouldn't have known me, I was anonymous. As was your father," he added as if he'd read her mind.
"Did my father know of Steed?" she asked, not sure how she felt about it.
"Without a doubt. Steed's exploits were legendary in certain circles. Not all of them are appropriate for such company as this, I feel compelled to add," he glanced at Sally, then back at Emma, his expression conveying disapproval. "Don't you think he's a bit old for you, Em?" he asked.
"No," she replied simply. She rarely gave a thought to the difference in their ages -- and when she did it was almost always because someone commented on it. She had briefly allowed herself to consider whether Steed was a father figure, then decided that she didn't really care if he was. He wasn't really old enough to be her father, at least not by the standards of their social class, biology aside. As for his age, he was the fittest man she knew, and he certainly didn't lack energy and enthusiasm for all manner of activities. No, the difference in their ages mattered not a whit to her.
"How old is Steed?" Sally asked. Emma cocked one eyebrow at her, not because the question was impertinent, but because she thought Sally knew.
"He'd be, what? Forty-four now?" Edmond asked, giving Sally a knowing look. She looked quite surprised.
"Yes, that's right," Steed said from the doorway, having made one of his favorite types of entrances -- a sneaky one. "I brought you this, Mrs. Peel," he said, holding up a file, then setting it on her desk. "The information from Birch's files on Stein. Your lawyers should be able to make good use of it."
"Thank you Steed. Join us for a drink -- I'm afraid the wine is gone," Emma said. "You remember Edmond?"
"Yes of course, although not, apparently, from as far back as he remembers me," Steed said as he crossed to the bar and poured himself a brandy.
"My signature was on more than one set of orders you received during the war," Edmond said. "Not that you could have read the handwriting."
Steed sat down beside Emma and she suddenly had the impression that they were facing her father, seeking his approval. It would be a completely silly thought if Edmond hadn't been her father's best friend, and if Steed hadn't actually sought out her father-in-law to ask for his blessing before proposing to her. That had set the precedent and now Edmond seemed inclined to act as surrogate father.
"Not that I would have bothered to try," Steed replied to Edmond. "So Mrs. Peel has played her hand, so to speak?" he asked, taking Emma's hand and holding it so that the engagement ring was visible.
"Not overtly, no," Edmond said, eyes narrowing at the other man, "but I put two and two together with her grandmothers' ring -- yes, I remember it, Em. When did you reach this agreement?"
"At Christmas," Emma said, chin rising defiantly. She didn't like the feeling of being interviewed that Edmond's tone implied.
"That long ago, and you haven't announced it," he said, not a question, but a statement that sounded concerned. "Are you having second thoughts?" The last was directed at Steed.
"Not at all. But I hadn't realized I should speak to you about it, Mr. Stanton," Steed said. Emma felt him stiffening. He didn't like Edmond's tone any better than she did.
"We couldn't announce it before my divorce was final. And then I had the board meeting to get past, and then I was shot. Now we're in this mess, and the time just isn't right," Emma said, her gaze turning from Edmond to Steed as she spoke. He had not mentioned it since their visit with his sister, but she knew it was there, hovering in his thoughts, growing more and more insistent with each passing week. I'm a fool to keep putting it off. But I can't right now. I just can't.
Steed's expression was anything but comforting. He looked pensive, as if weighing various options. She didn't want to think about what they might be.