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!
Steed Feels the Pressure Mounting
Emma Goes for a Ride
Chapter 2
Emma had not packed an appropriate wardrobe for a visit to Paris, so Steed changed course and headed for the Peel estate. Once there she led him back up to her office where her secretary, Sally, was working at the neater desk.
"Good afternoon madam," Sally said, then noticed Steed following Emma and stared blatantly at him.
"Sally, this is John Steed. Steed, my secretary Sally Howard," Emma walked over to her own desk as she spoke, her manner suddenly all business. He made a point of smiling warmly at Sally, who seemed unfazed by her employer's formal manner. From behind her desk Emma addressed the young woman. "Sally, what are you working on?"
"Correspondence -- the letters you dictated yesterday, plus RSVPs for the benefit on the twenty-eighth are coming in."
Emma nodded thoughtfully, "take the rest of the day off -- none of that is critical. I'm going to have to go away for a day or two -- ," she glanced at Steed, who shrugged, "perhaps for several days. You'll have plenty of peace and quiet to finish those letters and take a crack at the seating plan for the benefit."
Sally glanced at Steed, who maintained his warm smile, then back at her boss. "As you wish, madam. Thank you," she said her voice expressing more curiosity than gratitude. As she collected her bag and took her jacket off the back of her chair Emma turned back to Steed.
"I'll go pack. You can use my phone here," she said, gesturing at the telephone on her desk. Steed looked at her over Sally's shoulder -- he had automatically taken the secretary's jacket to help her put it on. At the sight of Emma's raised eyebrows he stepped back from the young woman, who turned, smiled shyly at him, and slipped past him out of the office.
Emma stepped out from behind her desk and stopped in front of him.
"I hired Sally after Peter was arrested. I needed someone to answer the phone and deflect the press. She's quite bright and she's the daughter of my handyman. Please keep in mind that the staff here talks to their families, who talk to the people in the village -- ."
"Who talk to their employers, your neighbors. Wouldn't want to have a scandal," he went on, smiling impishly to cover his surprise at her annoyance.
She frowned at him, not amused. "My divorce is not final. Peter is not lacking for legal representation, and they'll do anything they can to discredit me."
"Emma," Steed took both of her hands in his and brought them up to his lips. She tried to maintain her stern attitude, but his gallantry always either melted her or made her giggle. Right now she was leaning toward melting. "I understand your desire to protect your reputation. But you hardly need Sir Peter's financial support. Why press for anything in the settlement?"
Emma shrugged, staring at their entwined hands, then looking into his eyes. "Principle. He's a criminal. You're right about the money, but I want a clean break from him."
Steed nodded, then squeezed her hands as he leaned close to place a delicate kiss on her lips. "I want you to have a clean break from him, too," he said.
That did it. She freed her hands from his grasp and slipped them up his broad shoulders and around his neck. When her lips captured his, his arms slid around her drawing his firm body against hers. He eagerly returned her kiss. She reveled in his strength, the way the feel of his strong body made her feel stronger, too.
"For a moment," Steed said at last, putting a few inches between them, "I thought someone had possessed you. Was that Emma Peel, business woman?"
"Yes. It's time you met her, she's likely to be around a bit more in future."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. But right now, Emma Peel, secret agent, needs to pack for Paris. Then there's that sample to analyze. Shouldn't you be checking in and booking flights?" She pulled away from him, pushing him slightly toward her desk.
Emma stepped out onto the back terrace and scanned the twilit grounds looking for Steed. She spotted him walking at the far edge of the sunken rose garden and set off toward him, the full skirt of her silky red dress swishing around her legs above strappy heeled sandals. He saw her coming and met her half way, raising his hands as she neared him, a single red rose extended. She smiled and took it, holding it to her face to inhale its delicate scent.
"That substance is made up of more compounds than I can identify," she said, stepping to his side and slipping her arm through his to walk with him back toward the house.
"Any clues?" he asked.
"Well, it does seem to be vitamins, but there are other things. One of which looks like a virus."
Steed's eyebrows rose in alarm and she smiled reassuringly.
"Don't worry, I wore my rubber gloves," she said, wiggling her fingers in front of herself. But she was also glad she'd made Steed stop at a pub shortly after they left Twill and Merchant so she could wash her hands.
"We'll need to get it to the ministry for analysis, the sooner the better," he said thoughtfully.
"I thought we might stay here tonight and drive in tomorrow in time for our flight," she said, her gaze drifting across the back façade of the house, its many windows softly reflecting the evening light. Steed stopped, turning slightly toward her. She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling like the windows, her lips colored to match her dress.
"Despite what the staff might stay?" he asked.
"There are many bedrooms," she replied coyly. He couldn't stifle a laugh. "After all, we're hoping to make it an inn."
"And that's what you've been so busy with," he added. She nodded. "Why you? I mean, it's his family estate."
"I'm very fond of Peter's parents. They have always been kind to me. They're very -- old world. The process of taking this from an underused house to an inn and conference center is beyond them -- the inspections, the inventories, the lawyers and investors. Peter betrayed them as much as me, and they understand it less. I can help make this place into something that will carry the Peel name forward. I want to do that for them."
Steed nodded, his arm sliding around her to pull her to his side and walk with her. "They probably had something else in mind from you, to carry their name forward," he said. She snorted and covered her face with her free hand.
"Probably!" she finally managed through giggles, "but since Peter was gone for several years, that was hardly possible!"
They walked a few steps in silence before he spoke, "would you have?"
"Have what?" she stared at his profile, but he didn't look at her or answer. Then realization dawned. She took a deep breath. "Oh. Probably. It was what was expected."
A few steps later they were at the edge of the sunken garden. They climbed the five steps up to the lawn and Steed stopped and turned to look back at the roses, nearly invisible now in the darkness. Emma noted that the gardener had followed her instructions and turned off the timer on the garden lights to help reduce electricity costs. Steed squeezed her hand as he began to speak.
"There's an opening at the ministry, for a supervisory position," he said. "Less travel, less danger -- ."
"No, Steed." He turned to look at her, his face in shadow. "Please don't take it," she added.
"Emma," he said, his hands grasping her upper arms, "you are more important to me than this job. My work puts you in danger."
"Steed, I usually find my own danger, thank you. And, in case you hadn't noticed, I am capable of defending myself. You'd be miserable behind a desk. Don't you dare do it ‘for me.'"
"It's just that if we're -- involved -- you're in greater danger, whether you're working with me or not."
"I'm your weak spot," she concurred, eyes flashing at him, capturing and reflecting the starlight. She took his breath away. Her challenging look seemed to say deal with it.
"You are many things to me, Emma Peel, but a weak spot is not one of them," he said at last, reaching up to caress the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, her expression softening.
"Hadn't we better get going?" she asked, "to the ministry with the sample?"
And that's why I love her, Steed thought as he took her hand and they walked briskly into the house to gather her things. Romantic, feminine, brilliant, and a spy through and through.
"Wow," Emma sighed as a liveried doorman opened the glass door of the hotel lobby. Steed followed her across the stone floor to the desk.
"Bonjour Madame, Monsieur, welcome to the Pavillon de la Reine," an impeccably groomed male clerk greeted them in delicately accented English. Emma rarely appreciated Parisians who spoke to her in English. It always seemed as if they were showing off that they could recognize a Brit at twenty paces.
"Good afternoon. John Steed and Lady Emma Peel," Steed said, placing his bowler on the counter. His French was a good as Emma's, but his philosophy was that if English is good enough for her highness, it's good enough for the French. The clerk examined a reservation book, then opened a drawer and removed two keys on big, plastic tags. Emma drifted across the cavernous lobby while Steed finalized the check-in. On closer inspection, the lobby lost some of its impressiveness. The huge oils on the walls were only adequate reproductions, the striped upholstery fabrics seemed ever so slightly shrill, and the beams did not seem authentic. Emma amused herself by trying to decide whether they were indeed decorative or structural. She had just about settled on decorative and started to wonder why they had bothered when Steed beckoned to her, heading for an elevator with a porter in tow.
The porter showed them their adjoining rooms and indicated a shared shower just down the hall. Emma's eyebrows shot up at this, catching Steed's eye. He frowned as well, then tipped the porter to dismiss him.
"I don't object to the shower down the hall," Emma explained, "But this does seem like a rather high-end establishment for it."
"Indeed," Steed nodded, opening the curtains in his room to look out at the street below. The narrow, uneven sidewalks of this very old neighborhood were fairly crowded with pedestrians. The only vehicle on the little street was a small black sedan idling near the curb. A man dressed in the hotel livery was leaning into the passenger side window. "I'll withhold my judgment for the time being, but I'm not impressed."
Emma crossed the room to stand beside him and survey the street below. The porter straightened and gave a little wave as the car drove away. Probably giving directions, Steed decided.
"So? Do we have a plan?" Emma drew his attention to her.
Steed produced the slip of paper with the address and held it up. "I had the ministry pinpoint this on a map," he said. "It's over near the Trocadero."
"Good, then you can meet me after you check it out," she leaned close and planted a kiss on his cheek, then swung around and headed for her room.
"Mrs. Peel?" Steed stared at her retreating back.
"I have an errand to run, Steed," her voice emerged from the other room. "You can find the office and meet me, and we'll decide what to do next," she returned to his room with her handbag and a piece of paper from the bedside pad. "Here's the address. I'll see you in a couple hours?"
And she was gone, grinning at him as she shut the door to his room. Steed glanced at the paper before he folded it and put it in his pocket. The address looked vaguely familiar, but he was too vexed with her to think about it. An errand! Did she think he'd brought her to Paris so she could go shopping?
Steed exited the Metro at the Trocadero station and consulted the neighborhood map. He crossed the street to get away from the tourists visiting the Trocadero for the view it afforded of the Eiffel Tower. He walked southwest past a car dealership and two apartment buildings. The neighborhood was turning decidedly residential, which did not bode well for a business address, particularly a business that distributes farm animal feed additives.
In the next block, the scenery changed. The ground floors of the apartment buildings housed small businesses. He passed a doctor's office and a boulangerie, and paused outside a small gallery displaying erotic primitives. He turned away still smiling privately and glanced up at the street number on the next shop. It matched his slip of paper. He looked in the storefront window, wondering if the building housed offices in addition to the store. Then he saw it: the shop was a mailing center -- a business that provided mail boxes and mail handling services.
"Blast," he muttered. Then he took a deep breath, pocketed the slip of paper, and opened the shop door.
"Bonjour Monsieur," a portly, middle-aged woman wearing print dress acknowledged him.
"Bonjour," he replied, removing his hat. "Je recherche cette -- ," he paused, fishing the slip of paper from his pocket, "um, this company," he allowed his French to disintegrate, and sent the woman an apologetic smile accompanied by his best imitation of a Gaelic shrug. She took the paper and lifted glasses that hung on a chain around her neck.
"Ah, oui," she said, nodding and handing back the paper. "nous acceptons leur courrier." She peered at him, trying to determine whether he understood. He looked blank. She frowned, then walked along the counter and stepped out at the end. She went to a wall of metal letterboxes and patted one of them, looking at Steed inquiringly. "Voici leur lettres."
Steed looked from her to the box she was patting then allowed understanding to dawn on his face. She smiled triumphantly, and he smiled back.
"Mais où est.. ah, their, their bureau?" he stammered. She shrugged.
"Ils viennent chercher leur courrier ici," she replied, patting the box again. Then she shrugged again and walked back behind the counter. "Peut-être si vous leur écriviez," she added.
Steed was flummoxed. He could fluently demand that she check her billing records for who paid for the mailbox. But then she might just mention the curious Englishman the next time someone came to retrieve the mail. As things stood, she'd forget the tourist struggling with the language as soon as he was gone. He decided to leave it that way, tipped his hat to her, and left.
"Write to them!" he muttered as he paused outside the boulangerie down the block. "Write to them," he repeated, a slow smile curling his lips. He took another look at the shops in the area and spotted what he needed. Shortly he was seated at a small table in the boulangerie, a café crème and delightful little pastry beside a sheet of writing paper and a bright red envelope.
He held his Mont Blanc poised above the page for a moment, pondering what to write, then set it down and folded the paper. Why write anything? It was the bright envelope that mattered. He took a sip of his coffee and a bite of his pastry, then took up his pen and addressed the envelope.
When he'd finished his snack, he posted the envelope and, locating the paper Mrs. Peel had given him, found a taxi stand.
"Vingt-quatre Faubourg Saint-Honoré," he told the driver, staring at the address as he said it. Why was it so familiar?
The taxi stopped on the wide boulevard across from the address. As he straightened and looked across the street he felt downright silly. When the traffic slowed he crossed the street. The doorman nodded as he pulled open the shop door for Steed. The differences between this shop and the one he'd just come from only started with the doorman. Steed took a deep breath of scented air. This shop, which he'd visited often, was something of a Mecca for the sophisticated gentleman or lady. Now where would Emma be?
He strolled past the scarf counter where a proper, unsmiling sales lady methodically unfolded and refolded beautiful silk squares for tourists. Emma was not among them. No, he thought, she could get a scarf at the London store. Through a doorway he caught a glimpse of another sales lady offering a bottle of scent for a man to sniff. Women's perfume -- she could also get that in London. He wandered on, forcing himself not to pause in the tie department with an admonishment that he did not need another one, no matter how clever the pattern. He turned right past luggage -- no Emma there, and came to another doorway on his left.
"Yes, it's fine," she was saying. He leaned against the doorframe and watched her caress the seat of a saddle. A male clerk stood nearby, hands folded patiently, expression bland. She turned toward him and his face lit up, suddenly anxious to serve. Steed smirked, but didn't' interrupt. "I'll take it, but I don't believe I need the leather conditioners," she said. The clerk nodded and reached past her to lift the saddle off of the wooden display frame.
Steed stepped in, clearing his throat. Emma and the clerk both looked at him, Emma smiling happily.
"Steed! You found me," she said, stepping close to kiss him on the cheek. The clerk turned away.
"Yes," he replied, "and you might have just told me what shop -- I know where it is."
She shrugged and cast him a playful smile, "it was more fun this way. How long did it take you to recognize it?" Then she turned to the clerk, who had produced a sales slip for her to sign.
"Merci, Madam," he said, handing her a copy. "I will have it delivered to your hotel this afternoon. And here is this," he handed her a tall, thin orange bag.
"Merci," Emma replied, then turned back to Steed. She took his arm and steered him out the doorway and on through the rest of the store.
"Well?" she asked once they were on the street.
"I did not make the connection until I got here, I'm sorry to admit," he admitted.
She laughed. "What about the other address? You were probably too focused on that."
"I found it," he said cagely.
"And?"
"Let's walk," he replied, guiding her in the general direction of the Seine.
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" she said.
"It's more fun this way."
They turned left, heading in the general direction of the Louvre. Behind them, a black sedan pulled out of a parking space and passed them.
"So had you planned on buying that saddle?" Steed asked after they'd walked for a few minutes.
"Yes. In fact I had spoken to that very clerk about it last week. I called him yesterday to arrange to pick it up, rather than having it shipped."
"There are many fine saddles for sale in England," Steed said. He had not seen the price on the saddle, but he imagined that it was the equivalent of a small motorcar.
"Yes, but not like that one. It's rated very highly, despite being sold by a Paris boutique. They got their start as a saddlery, you know."
"Yes, I was aware."
They walked on in comfortable silence for a while longer, enjoying the late afternoon bustle, noticing that the bars and cafes were starting to attract clientele. Emma would have liked to stop at one and watch life go by for a little while, but Steed seemed to have a goal in mind. At last her feet starting to complain about the hard pavement so she decided to ask.
"I thought we might have an early dinner," he replied, acknowledging with a wink that he had not answered her question.
"Very early, it's only just six," she agreed.
"We could start off with drinks," he suggested.
"And a discussion of the plan?" she asked pointedly.
"And that, yes. Here, we're almost there," he said, steering her toward a wide porte cochere through a building. Emma realized that they had reached the Louvre and were passing into the courtyard.
They turned left once in the courtyard and Steed guided her to a set of steps between columns along the side of the building. A hostess guarded the top of the steps.
"Bonsoir Madam, Monsieur," she greeted them brightly.
"We have a reservation for dinner later," Steed said. "Perhaps we could have a drink outside?"
She nodded and looked along the terrace crowded with tiny tables and glamorous people. "Oui, Monsieur. I can seat you. What time is your dinner reservation?"
"Seven thirty."
"Well then," she glanced at each of them, "You shall enjoy one or two leisurely drinks, then, yes?"
"Yes!" Emma replied. She could easily relax here and wait for dinner.
A man dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket, a leather cap pulled down so that the brim shaded his eyes, strode out from the porte cochere and paused to light a cigarette. He studied the diners along the terrace as he took a long drag, his gaze pausing very briefly on Steed and Emma. Then the turned and walked across the courtyard to a bench near the glass pyramid. His seated form was silhouetted by the cool glow from within the structure.
"So do you really think your envelope will be delivered to that box tomorrow?" Emma asked as they entered Steed's room later that evening. Their dinner at Café Marly had been good, but not spectacular. They had agreed that the restaurant's reputation was based on its location. Nonetheless, Steed had enjoyed exploring their cellar, ordering three half bottles to go with the various courses of their meal. Consequently, Emma went directly to the bottle of water on a dresser in Steed's room and poured herself a glass.
"I have great respect for the French postal system," Steed replied, joining her for a glass of water. "It could. More importantly, even if it isn't we may be able to identify someone checking that box, if we have a good vantage point."
He took his water to the window and opened it to let in the sounds of the Parisian evening. The Marais, the neighborhood of their hotel, was a lively place long into the evening. Emma joined him, sitting on the edge of the windowsill, her back to the street.
"And did you see any likely vantage points? An empty building across the street, for example?" she asked, half joking.
"Unfortunately not. So first thing tomorrow I'll rent a car."
"Ah, a mobile command post?"
"Exactly."
"Oh!" she jumped up, setting her glass on the windowsill.
"Mrs. Peel! Did something -- ," Steed frowned at her. She headed for the door to her room.
"My saddle -- they didn't mention whether it arrived when we came in," she said. She unlocked and opened the door, then stepped into the doorway and felt around on the wall for a light switch. "Steed?"
Her voice sounded quite stressed. Steed set down his water glass and hurried to her.
Her room was a mess. Her bag had been overturned, her clothes scattered. She had not had time to unpack, but the empty dresser drawers had been pulled out anyway. In one corner, a large box had been turned on its side and torn open. Emma rushed to it, crouching to inspect her new saddle.
"Is it -- ?" Steed hesitated to say "damaged." Although Emma could afford such an item, it would be very upsetting to find it destroyed before even using it. She rocked back onto her heels, then rose, the saddle in her hands.
"It's fine," she said, turning to him with a sheepish look on her face. He smiled reassuringly, then surveyed the rest of the room.
"I'll just call and find out what time they delivered the saddle," he said. "You see if there's anything missing."
She set the saddle on the bed and started gathering her clothes. She had put most of them back in order when he returned.
"They say they brought the saddle up at seven o'clock. I asked them to find the porter who brought it and ask about the room."
"Surely if he found the room like this he'd have reported it," she said. Steed shook his head.
"They see all kinds in hotels, this may not be that bad."
Emma folded her last blouse and set it back into her suitcase. Steed noted that she had not unpacked into the dresser, but repacked into her bag. "So why," she said, "did someone ransack my room and not yours?"
"Simple, Mrs. Peel. They're not after me."