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“If I had a penny for every time a case distracted you from me, Steed,” Emma sighed, clear by her tone that she was not really annoyed. They were stretched out in bed, the sheet draped over them and the comforter shoved down to their feet. Soon the autumn cool in the room would force them to pull it up, but for the moment they were still overheated from their intimate exertions.
Emma’s head was cushioned on Steed’s shoulder, his hand slowly stroking her forearm, but she knew he was thinking about a case because he had not answered her previous question about his plans for the next day.
“You would be rich,” he finished for her. “But then, you are rather wealthy…”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that you neglect me,” she said, rolling her head to look at him. “I was just wondering what you were thinking about.”
“But you’re right. Your wealth could represent my distraction – it does happen often enough. I can’t help it darling. Something about our time together clears my mind. Sharpens it.”
“Some people have their most brilliant ideas in the shower,” she smiled, rolling awkwardly onto her side to see him better. He shifted too so that they were facing one another. “You have them after sex.”
Steed smiled at her indulgence, reaching up to stroke her temple.
“And you are brilliant all of the time.”
She shot him a crooked smile in the darkness and snuggled her round belly up close to his. “Can you tell me? Maybe we’ll both have brilliant ideas.”
“Sorry love,” he grimaced. “It’s an eyes-only matter, and your eyes, although flawless, are not authorized.”
Emma grimaced at his overt flattery, deftly hiding the sting of his denial. “It’s all right Steed. Perhaps I can help you in another way,” she let her hand roam down his shoulder to his flank as her mouth sought his.
They made love again, slowly and gently, sharing breaths, heartbeats, caresses, and ultimately their very essences. Afterward they lay spooned together, Steed inhaling the warm, herbal scent of her hair, his breath warming her neck. Her heartbeat, felt through her back pressed against his chest, gradually slowed along with her breathing.
“Sleep well love,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the back of her neck. These words of good night were a long-standing tradition no less important because she did not hear them.
Her solution to his distraction had been quite effective, both at returning his attention to her for the duration and at refocusing him on the problem of the compromised surveillance flights. That afternoon after his visit to the alley behind Nancy’s gallery he had continued on his original errand. The supervising agent investigating the flights had told him that Air Commodore Drucker, in charge of the flight team, was under surveillance. But the investigators were concentrating on the squad of pilots based in Asia. He had no objection to Steed speaking with the Air Commodore who already knew that his top-secret team was under investigation.
So Steed had dropped in on the Air Commodore at his office at an RAF base not far from both their homes. The officer had welcomed him with polite curiosity: their occasional encounters at social occasions had not forged the sort of friendship that justified an office visit. Steed knew better than to use a cover: Drucker did know him well enough to have an idea of his true profession. Even a vague excuse for the visit such as general review of security would be transparent. So Steed was left with his least favorite approach – the straightforward one. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel the effects of insufficient sleep, so not having to invent and sustain a story was a relief.
Drucker met him in his office – a surprisingly utilitarian space in the station’s ornate old administration building – and offered him tea, which he accepted. Once a middle-aged aide was sent for the refreshments Steed knew he must explain his visit.
“I was in the area and I realized that it has been far too long since I visited RAF Bentley Priory,” he offered, at the last moment simply unable to launch right in to the matter at hand. Distracting him with a friendly chat, he decided, that’s hardly the same as using a cover.
“I didn’t know you were RAF, Steed,” Drucker replied.
“Oh no, I wasn’t stationed here, but I spent my share of pre-mission hours here during the war. Waiting for the weather to break, then strapping into the back of a transport for the ride over.”
“Intelligence missions?”
Steed nodded as he watched Drucker’s reaction. Most RAF boys respected the intelligence teams that they’d ferried back and forth during the war, but there were a few who resented having to fly over the line for a drop or, more dangerous still, a pick-up. Drucker’s expression seemed to lighten and he nodded back at Steed. Given his current intelligence project Steed should have guessed that he fell into the former category.
“Dangerous stuff back then,” Drucker said. “In behind the lines, flying blind, dodging ground fire.” He stopped speaking, his expression slipping from softly reminiscent to alert as he gazed at Steed.
Steed made another nearly imperceptible nod. “Dangerous stuff today, too, Air Commodore.”
The office door opened and the aide came in with a tea tray.
“Thank you, Waller. We’ll pour for ourselves,” Drucker instructed him as he set the tray on the desk.
Drucker poured Steed’s tea and waited while he added sugar and stirred. When he sat back with his cup and saucer in his lap Drucker added lemon to his tea and took a careful sip, studying Steed. He pursed his lips and set his cup down.
“Of course that’s why you’re here,” he said, picking up a yellow pencil and bouncing the eraser on the desk. It made a hollow, rhythmic sound.
“Strictly speaking, yes.” Steed admitted. “You knew there was an investigation underway?”
“I was notified – a form letter, really. So you are the hound?”
“I am -- ,” Steed paused to consider his response, “ – peripherally involved. My visit is more in the nature of a courtesy call – to make up for that form letter.”
The pencil bounced again.
“As you know, Air Commodore, the source of the leak – assuming there was one and the attacks on the flights were not just bad fortune – has to be one of a very small group of individuals. The pilots themselves, yourself, and your operations contact in Military Intelligence.”
“I can tell you one thing, Steed: the pilots are unimpeachable. The leak – if there is one – is not in country. Your fellows there are wasting their time.” Drucker leaned back in his chair, the pencil pointing across the desk at Steed.
Steed watched him for a moment, waiting to see if his cool, grey gaze would spur him to say more. But Drucker waited him out, his determined expression saying that he would stand behind his men at all costs.
“That does leave us with very few other suspects, Air Commodore,” Steed finally said, his tone suggesting that the comment was not terribly significant even though it placed the Air Commodore squarely in the center of the investigation. Still, Drucker did not flinch.
“I assure you the men of the RAF are loyal. You will find the leak elsewhere.”
Steed felt his mouth curling into an admiring smile. Drucker’s declaration of his own innocence as part of the RAF could have been more discrete, but the inherent accusation of Military Intelligence was subtle indeed.
“Well then, I shall convey your thoughts to the investigative team,” Steed said, setting his still full cup and saucer on the desk and rising from his chair as he spoke. Drucker made no move to stop him.
“Good day Steed,” he said, raising his own cup to his lips again.
Since he had not been asked to plant a bug in the Air Commodor’s office he suspected that the investigating team already had one in place, but he had reported the conversation to the supervising agent as a matter of form. The agent, a senior man who Steed had known for years, had reacted much as Steed had – wondering whether the Air Commodore was trying to deflect attention, or sincere in his declaration of RAF innocence. He agreed with Steed that his investigation should broaden to more overtly include the Air Commodore.
But in the moments after making love with Emma, as Steed’s supple mind automatically ran through the facts of the case once more, Steed had hit upon a third alternative. And as Emma and their unborn baby lay sleeping in his arms he reviewed it again. The notion grew more concrete and the lines of investigation more apparent even as he too slipped into welcome sleep.
***
“Is this bed standard spy issue?” Catherine watched as Gambit’s motorized sofa bed transformed itself at the touch of a button. Gambit stepped over to her, reaching up to stroke her cheek as his smile turned shy.
“No,” he replied, showing no sign of surprise at her identifying him as a spy. His light touch sent a tingle all through her, which surprised her considerably. He was attractive in a rough-hewn, very masculine way. Her type was usually more sophisticated, with subtler charm. But there was no denying that his touch and the curl of a smile on the corners of his mouth and his sensuous eyes were just the combination to draw her in.
Back in his flashy red Jaguar he had asked her where she wanted to go and she’d replied, “Surprise me.” Predictably he’d brought her to his place, but since she still hadn’t found out why he was involved in the Arnold Bray case she had decided to play along. She had a feeling, though, that she really was being played – that he knew what she was after and intended to make her pay the price she was offering. Still, if his touch could make her heart race like it was now then the price was worth it. It had been a while since a man had made her feel this way. She turned her head just enough to nestle against his hand, encouraging him.
He slid his fingers into her hair, his other arm moving around her waist so that their bodies were pressed lightly together. She tilted her head back a little, finding his eyes suddenly terribly fascinating. His mouth touched the side of hers and her lips parted on their own, a little sigh escaping. But rather than kiss them he lowered his face to kiss her neck and she gasped at the sensation of his warm breath on her sensitive skin.
He sighed too, leaving a trail of kisses over her cheek leading to her mouth. And then he took her mouth with his, shifting his body against hers to press one thigh between her legs. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself to him, returning his kiss with eager abandon.
***
“Why are you interested in Arnold Brey?”
Gambit stood in his kitchen, dressed in trousers and a casual shirt, holding a mug of coffee. Catherine had asked the question as she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in his somewhat tattered flannel robe.
“He was murdered for his art collection by thieves who don’t know art very well,” Gambit replied with a dismissive shrug. But she shook her head, pacing toward him in a mock threatening manner. He grinned at her approach, wondering if they would end up back in the bed that he had not yet put away. He was tired from a nearly sleepless night, but that had never stopped him before.
“You’re not a policeman. The murder, the theft – they aren’t what you’re interested in.” She stopped in front of him, her expression gone deadly serious.
Game’s up, he sighed internally. It was fun while it lasted.
“Sorry,” he tried his shrug again. “Top secret.”
Her jaw nearly vibrated as she ground her teeth, her eyes flashing anger and frustration at him.
“You rat!” she growled, and he half expected her to slap him.
“You could have just asked over dinner,” he replied with the casualness of the upper hand. Then he leaned a little closer to her, knowing it was risky: “but last night was rather fun anyway.”
Her eyes narrowed over her glare, but after a moment she snorted a laugh and visibly relaxed.
“It was. I’ll give you that,” she replied, her eyes dropping to the coffee mug in his hand. “May I have some?”
“Of course!”
He turned to get her a mug, missing the speculative look she wore as her eyes dropped to his behind.
* * *
In a dimly lit room a gloved hand dragged open a heavy desk drawer to reveal hanging file folders all neatly labeled with hand-written tabs. Long, thin fingers rifled through the tabs, paused on one particular file, rifled further and stopped again, and then pried the pages apart to reach inside.
Nearby a floorboard creaked. Even closer a baby emitted a soft wail, a cry for attention. The hands froze, and then withdrew from the folder.
The drawer shut and the searcher moved across the room from the desk to the infant who lay on the floor, arms and legs flailing. It wailed again as the figure picked it up to cuddle it, murmuring soothing words. Outside the floorboard creaked once more and footsteps receded along the corridor. Still holding the infant, the figure crept to the door and opened it a crack to peer out. The way was clear. With a glance back at the desk, adult and infant slipped out into the bright corridor.
* * *
Tara paused near the bottom of the basement stairs listening to the sounds emanating from below.
Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud …
It was a familiar sound, but she could not put a name to it. She descended the rest of the way and went along a short corridor to stop in an open doorway, looking into a large, brightly lit room, feeling foolish.
Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud ...
Steed was running on a treadmill, the heavy slap of his trainers echoing in the room. He appeared to be well into his run: his white t-shirt was sweat-stained and his face was moist, but despite his fast pace he was not breathing heavily.
It had been years since Tara had last seen more of Steed’s body than his face and hands. The many scars on his limbs surprised her again as they had when she’d first seen them. She thought there were a few more now. They told a very different story from that of his sophisticated sartorial style. He was a fighter and a very dangerous man.
Certain that he had noticed her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall, even though he had shown no sign of it, she resisted the urge to slip away. She had come in search of the gymnasium that Emma had invited her to use; it was just bad timing that had brought her here while Steed was present.
She wandered across the room toward him, stopping next to an elaborate exercise contraption – the sort she’d seen in expensive gymnasiums, not in people’s homes. Is this Emma’s folly, or his? She wondered as she sat down on the contraption’s uncomfortable little seat.
Steed smiled at her through his concentration, the friendly expression only touching his mouth. His eyes darted to her, then refocused on a point somewhere in front of him.
Flustered and resenting that he had that effect on her she felt compelled to speak. “I didn’t think you actually exercised. I always thought you were just naturally fit.”
He noticeably slowed his pace and looked back at her, giving her his full regard this time as his effort decreased.
“How far do you run?” she went on.
“I don’t have an odometer, but it’s an hour at various paces.”
An hour! She would never have expected him to have such stamina. That thought immediately took a turn toward other types of exertion and she felt her face color. She adjusted her position on the contraption and reached up to wrap her hands around a horizontal bar hanging on a chain over her head. She pulled down on it, but it wouldn’t budge. Instead she managed to lift herself up off of the seat. It must be locked.
Steed’s thud-thud-thudding slowed to a walk and then stopped. He stepped off the treadmill, whipping his face with a small white towel that had been hanging on the front rail.
“Stop,” he said as he approached the contraption. “Not even Emma can pull down fifteen stone.”
He adjusted the weight setting on the machine while she bristled at his assumption that Emma was stronger than she. Not even Emma indeed! She drew down the bar with the lighter weight, determined to show him that she was strong too. She continued dragging down and controlling the reverse, over and over until her arms were on fire. Steed sat down on a bench with free weights stacked near it, watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally she stopped, ready to concede defeat and wishing he’d either go on with his workout or leave. But he rose and returned to the device, moving levers and adjusting weights.
“But your feet here. This will work your thighs.”
Tara’s self esteem slipped into the gutter as she pressed outward over and over until her legs trembled. Steed watched her, impassive until she faltered, then he urged her to do two more and she did.
He changed the torture machine once more and showed her how to work her shoulders. She pressed and pushed, her enthusiasm waning as he put a hand on the small of her back to make her sit straighter. Why won’t he go?
“It’s nice to have someone to train with, since Emma can’t do most of it right now,” he said as she grew certain that her arms were going to drop off. Emma! She pressed hard again, making the weights slam together. Steed smiled mildly and she grew certain that he was trying to provoke her. Or maybe he was oblivious to her reactions to his comments. He could be that self-centered.
Steed recognized Tara’s frantic attack of the exercise machine. She was an emotional wreck and physically unfit. She was desperate to regain control of her life, and expressing it through an attempt to dominate the machine, or her body. When he’d caught sight of her in the mirror while he was finishing his run he’d hoped she’d just go away. He concealed his exercise regime from all but Emma and Hemming, the ministry trainer. And Emma only knew because she’d caught him at it a few years ago. Only because she knew had he allowed himself the luxury of this basement gym, otherwise he’d still be doing his workouts late at night at the ministry.
Nonetheless, the damage was done: Tara had seen that he was only human and his strength and stamina were hard won. And if he left her to it she’d hurt herself or his very expensive equipment. Besides, she was not going to last long at the rate she was going. He was surprised at just how out of condition she was. If she had not resigned from the ministry, she’d have failed her next physical exam.
“You should finish up with a run,” he said when she’d used every position on the machine. Her upper arms would benefit from some basic weight lifting too, but he knew she couldn’t do it now even if she wouldn’t admit it. “Next time we’ll do a free weight routine.”
He watched her eyes widen in what he thought was horror. “Or you can come down and use the machine now you know how it works,” he quickly added. Tara’s expression returned to the grim mask she’d been wearing since the morning more than a month ago when he’d told her that her husband was dead. His heart fell – he’d thought he was helping her, but apparently all he’d done was sent her deeper into her grief. And much as he cared for her, and felt responsible for her, he could not find further sympathy within himself. If she didn’t want his company he wouldn’t force it – he hadn’t wanted hers either.
Tara felt ready to drop but she knew she should push herself a little harder. She hoped that if she took Steed’s advice he’d leave her alone, so she went to the treadmill and studied the simple controls. He joined her, showing her the knob that adjusted the tension. She stepped on and began to walk, then to jog slowly. He crossed the room to a cabinet and retrieved another small white towel from a stack of them.
“Help yourself to water if you need it,” he said as he draped the towel over the bar for her. To her immense relief he left her then. She let herself slow back to a walk and then stop. Her legs were leaden, her arms hanging limply at her sides. But something else had also happened. In spite of her determination to be angry and resentful, her mind had cleared. The burning pain of her losses was slightly less and her anger at everything looked foolish. She poured herself a large glass of water from a pitcher on a counter and gulped it down. She thought she could feel the cleansing liquid suffusing her aching muscles, healing and rejuvenating her.
***
“I’m sure he’s not here. Only he said he might come,” Siobhan sighed, working hard to conceal her disappointment. She had urged Hal, the Steed’s groom, to come to the servants’ ball, but he had shuffled his feet in the dirt of the stable floor and refused to promise. He was looking after a colicky mare, he explained, sounding regretful but dedicated to his equine charge nonetheless. After a circuit of the three rooms open to the party Siobhan saw no sign of him. She hoped the mare was enjoying his company. She wasn’t even certain how interested in him she was, but she couldn’t help being curious whether she was right about his quiet way with animals also working on women.
“Hush, maybe he’s just being fashionably late,” Dolly, her friend and fellow nanny, scolded.
“Oh, I wish that were so, but he’s never late,” Siobhan sighed again.
Dolly rolled her eyes and linked arms with her. “Come on you, there are too many fish in this pond to be pining after that old seahorse.”
Grinning at her own joke, she dragged Siobhan over to the bar where a gorgeous gardener was pouring cheap white wine.
“Speaking of seahorses,” Siobhan said as she accepted a glass and a flirtatious smile from the gardener. She smiled back and took Dolly’s arm, steering her out of the man’s earshot. “Will we see your Aiden tonight?”
“Oh ho! Turning the tables, are you?” Dolly snorted, then her expression softened and she nodded. “He’s coming – he said had something to do this evening first.”
“So long as it wasn’t some one,” Siobhan smirked. Dolly gasped, giggled, and glanced around to see if anyone might have heard.
“Siobhan!” she finally scolded. Siobhan shrugged and shot her an innocent smile.
A mutual friend, a young woman who worked as a cook for the local MP, worked her way through the crowd leading with the sweaty glass of beer in her hand. She greeted them and launched almost immediately into a gossipy account of a luncheon she’d prepared the day before for several government officials. Siobhan always felt a pang of resentment in these situations: she could easily outdo April’s stories if only she could speak of the things she’d experienced working for the Steeds. But as always she held her tongue. As far as any of her friends knew she worked for a bureaucrat and a female executive – and the executive was the far more interesting member of the family.
Dolly and April were speculating on the intimate relationships of the luncheon guests when Aiden, Dolly’s current flame, appeared at the far side of the room. Unlike the rest of the guests, he was not a local domestic, but a student – Siobhan thought a perpetual one – who currently worked at the petrol station just outside the village. At over six feet he could see over the heads of many of the other guests. His shaggy, bowl-cut head nodded to the beat of the music coming from an impressive set of quadraphonic speakers mounted in the corners of the room. He caught Dolly’s eye as he pressed through the crowd to join them.
“’ello love,” Dolly crooned as he pulled her into an embrace while careful not to spill her drink. “Everything all right?” she added, apparently sensing the tension that Siobhan could see in his body.
“We have to talk,” he replied, hardly the assurance that Dolly, or the other women listening, had expected. Dolly nodded, brow knitting as she pulled out of his embrace. It had, Siobhan reflected as she forced herself to look away, looked more like confinement than affection.
“All right, but first let’s dance,” Dolly gained the upper hand, coercing him into the middle of the room where several people were gyrating to the music.
The party flailed on in the usual manner. A pair of young maids who were employed by a filthy rich executive performed a raunchy sketch about their master’s son. The chef from a local restaurant turned off the recorded music and entertained them with his guitar and voice, cajoling them into singing a few Christmas carols. Everybody drank too much, and in a dark back corner indiscreet kisses were exchanged. Siobhan drifted from group to group, catching up with acquaintances met at previous gatherings and other nannies she knew from walks with their charges on the village green.
She was getting tired and thinking about finding Dolly, her ride, when a commotion erupted in the parlor. She was dragged along with the crowd through the doorway and into the room just in time to witness Dolly landing a powerful slap on Aiden’s cheek. She was red-faced and strands of her straight, brown hair lay across her brow as if she had shaken her head violently.
“I told you!” she screamed as he rubbed at his cheek with one hand. “I couldn’t do it.”
Aiden backed away from her and reached out with one hand until it brushed the shade of a table lamp. He glanced down at it, grabbing it around the slim brass base as if he was throttling it. “Why can’t you just do what I tell you?”
“You’re a bastard sometimes! Why can’t you listen to me?” Dolly stepped toward him to close the space he’d opened. He lifted the lamp, yanking its cord from the wall socket.
“Hey, stop it!” a third voice joined in. “My boss will have my head!”
“Bastard!” Dolly screamed again, lunging at Aiden with both fists raised. He brandished the lamp, crushing the shade as he struck Dolly in the ribs with it. She shrieked and grabbed at the lamp. The bulb shattered with a pop and her hands came away with a crimson sheen spreading across her palms.
“No!” the third voice – the houseboy who was hosting the party – yelled. “Put it down or I’m calling the constable!”
He grabbed for the lamp and was smacked with it as well, the jagged glass of the destroyed bulb gouging his forearm. One of his mates caught Aiden in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides, and the host, enraged now, seized the lamp and raised it to swing it at Aiden’s head. Dolly grabbed the lamp and dragged it downward with a scream while Aiden struggled with his captor. The houseboy turned on Dolly, dropping the broken lamp and grabbing both of her hands.
Just then Aiden shook off his attacker and lunged at the houseboy, spinning him with one hand and striking him squarely in the face with the other fist. Released, Dolly reeled back, careening into two of the many bystanders who’d crowded into the room. They all went down onto a sofa, Dolly screaming bloody murder and leaving bloody handprints on everyone.
The houseboy and his mates ganged up on Aiden, who gamely squared off with them, holding his own as they took turns swinging at him.
Siobhan watched in disgust as the argument degenerated into a brawl. Friends of Aiden materialized and took on the houseboy and his friends. Dolly continued to shriek at all of them, her hands dripping blood on the ivory carpet. Siobhan backed out of the room hoping her friend hadn’t seen her there. She wanted to distance herself from the melee, and felt justified in abandoning her hysterical friend as the sound of sirens outside drowned out the stereo.
***
“Steed here,” Steed held the receiver to his ear with his shoulder as he turned the page of his book. He and Emma were both reading in bed having enjoyed an evening doting over their son. Emma turned her head to watch him speak on the phone, curious as always whether it was work, and whether it would take him away from their pleasant repose.
“Yes we do. Yes. Certainly, where?”
Emma frowned, unable to guess at the meaning of his side of the conversation.
“In thirty minutes. Thank you.”
Steed replaced the receiver and sighed, then looked up at his curious wife.
“Siobhan,” he said. “There was a disturbance at the party she went to. She’s lost her ride home and needs to be picked up.”
“That was Siobhan?”
“No,” Steed swiveled his feet to the floor and started for the dressing room. “That was the police.”
“The police? Must have been some disturbance.”
“I’ll just go find out,” he replied, voice muffled from the other room.
“Shall I come?”
“And get John up?”
“Ah, right. I’m too used to having Siobhan here for him. But Tara is here …”
“No,” Steed re-emerged wearing a black jumper over dark grey trousers. “That’s not fair to her – she’s our guest. You stay here and I’ll go rescue Siobhan. I’m sure she’s very disturbed about being involved.”
“How do you know she was involved?”
“Being there, then,” he amended. “Silly things, these servants’ balls.”
“It was hardly a ball – just a party.”
Steed sat on the edge of the bed to lace his shoes. “That’s what they call them, though. Very Victorian – these people are workers, not servants.”
“That depends on who you ask.”
“Or who’s doing the employing?” Steed smiled as he stood up.
“In any case, Siobhan is comfortable with her peers. There’s no harm in that.”
“I’ll be back with her in no time,” Steed said, avoiding any further comment on the nature of the party.
“Drive carefully.”
Twenty minutes later he steered the Bentley along a sweeping drive not unlike his own and parked behind a police van. As he got out of the car a uniformed policeman approached him, but simply nodded and waved him on toward the group of people gathered in front of the house at the sight of his identification. The officer trotted back to his compatriots and whispered that something serious must be going on – a government agent had arrived.
The Bentley’s big round headlights and long body were unmistakable. Siobhan detached herself from the group of dejected looking party guests, most of whom were standing near the front steps with their hands in their pockets and eyes downcast. She met Steed a few paces from the house, afraid to make eye contact but immensely relieved to see him.
“I’m so sorry Mr. Steed,” she said as soon as she was close enough to speak quietly.
“Not to worry my dear – I assume you didn’t start the commotion?”
“No sir. But --.”
“But your friend was involved – the one who was to give you a ride home.”
“Yes sir. She’s just a friend, we’re not – I mean, she’s just --.”
“A friend who got into some trouble tonight. This is Air Commodore Drucker’s house, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
Steed looked over the group of party guests, noting with a little smile two young women with their arms around one another’s shoulders drunkenly singing a vaguely familiar pop tune. They would not start regretting the party until tomorrow. Four people were being interviewed by police officers. One of them was a young woman with bandages on her hands – Siobhan’s friend.
“Is he away?”
“Yes sir, I believe so. He gave his permission for the party.”
“Yes of course,” Steed was not surprised at Siobhan’s defensiveness. “Let’s get you home – no need to prolong this.”
“Yes sir,” Siobhan shot a glance at the other guests as she walked with Steed toward the Bentley. The police officer who’d motioned him in turned to watch wide-eyed as he opened the door for Siobhan and went around to get in the other side. He started the engine and carefully maneuvered the big car in a turn, waving at the officer as he finally got her going in the right direction.
“Is Mrs. Steed very angry?” Siobhan asked.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Steed replied. “She’s more likely asleep.”
“It’s just that some of the others were, um, dismissed.”
Steed’s brows rose in surprise. “For this?”
“For being involved with a disruption. It’s bad for appearances. I thought Mrs. Steed might think so, or it might be a problem for you, sir.”
Steed chuckled merrily. “Siobhan, this is nothing compared to the kind of trouble Mrs. Steed and I can get in to! A little too much beer celebrating the holidays, high spirits on a Saturday night – it’s not a good habit, but not a crime every now and then.”
“I’m the help sir, I’m supposed to provide stability for John.”
“And that you do. Now not another word about it – you are not going to be dismissed. We’re counting on you with the next one coming soon.”
“Thank you sir,” Siobhan sounded deeply relieved. Steed wondered for an instant how he’d gotten himself into this situation – not so long ago he was a confirmed bachelor. Now he had a wife, children, pets, household employees, and even other agents all looking to him for support and leadership. And he didn’t regret any of it. If anything, he felt more alive now than he had in many years. If Siobhan noticed his bemused smile as he drove along the country lanes back to his country house she did not mention it.
***
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