Fic: "Nine Years Later," Chapter 3/7
Title: Nine Years Later, Chapter 3 of 7
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: I guess we start getting some intimations of Pike/One and Kirk/McCoy here.
Rating: G for this chapter
Content Advisory: Kites.
Word Count: This chapter, about 1900; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 3
In which Lady Eve repeatedly outmaneuvers Lord Prescott
Various parks, parlors, and ballrooms in London
Over the next week
The following Monday, Christopher sent another dozen red and white roses to Eve, signing the card “Always yours, Chr. Pike, Baron Prescott.” He might as well place a standing order, he thought, and signed three more cards before adding a note to that effect for the footman to give the florist. This campaign certainly wasn’t going to end overnight.
Jamie had inexplicably shown up for breakfast, McCoy in tow, the former sprawling in a chair as if he owned the place and the latter perching on his seat uncomfortably. “So, what’s next?” Jamie asked, pulling a piece of toast apart.
Christopher tilted his head and gave him an amused look. “I understand you’ve appointed yourself my lieutenant in this endeavor, Jamie, but I’d prefer to finish eating before I make any life-altering tactical decisions.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “You know, when we were on the Continent, you could dine and discuss tactics at the same time.”
Subordinate twit, he thought, not without fondness. “And now I’m back in London, and I have decided that a gentleman does not retain a skill.”
“I have chosen to retain the skill, and I am a gentleman,” Jamie pointed out. “Also, I believe an earl outranks a mere baron.”
McCoy coughed into his napkin.
“Clearly,” Christopher said, “the only way to resolve this dilemma is to contact the Prince Regent himself and ask his opinion on the matter.”
“Oh, that’s no fun,” Jamie said. “We should go straight to Mad King George himself. I’m sure his opinion will be more enlightening than Prinny’s.”
“Oh, of course,” Christopher said. He finished his tea, looked at the sideboard, and decided against a third helping of anything. He was, after all, thirty-six now.
“Are you done?” Jamie asked hopefully. Christopher saw McCoy shake his head slightly and smile.
“I suppose I’m done,” he said, sitting back in his chair.
“Oh, good,” Jamie said, and bounced out of his chair, heading for the door.
“Is he always like this in the mornings?” Christopher asked McCoy, rising and following at a more sedate pace.
“Sometimes I send him to play with Joanna before breakfast so they can both sit still for a half hour to eat,” the former lieutenant said, walking beside him. “Sir.”
Christopher pressed his lips together to hold back a laugh. “The earl of Riverside is either a five-year-old or a puppy, eh?”
“Something like that.” McCoy’s lips twisted.
Jamie was pacing the library when the other two men arrived. “All right, Kit, what’s next?”
“Jamie, surely you have better things to do with your time.” Christopher settled into one of the chairs flanking the fireplace. “Ahh, this is nice. All I need is the hound to complete the picture.”
“I don’t, actually,” Jamie said. “My estates practically run themselves.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow. “You have a seat in Parliament. You could take it up.”
“You have one, too,” Jamie said.
“And, unsurprisingly,” Christopher said, “I spent yesterday afternoon, while you were buying horses, attending debate.”
“And what were they debating?”
“The Corn Act,” he replied. “Jamie, when your father was in Parliament, he introduced a bill to abolish slavery in the Empire. Surely you can do something.”
Jamie’s face hardened. “The bill died in debate. For that matter, you never met my father, so it is unfair to invoke his specter.”
“True enough,” he allowed. “What do you feel should be my next step in pursuing Lady Eve, o master tactician?”
“Everything I know about tactics, I learned from you,” Jamie said, absolutely serious for a moment. “But, of course, if you’ve forgotten some, I would be more than happy to remind you.”
Christopher laughed, and before he could respond, a footman scratched at the door. He called, “Come,” and the footman-Tyler-entered, holding out a silver salver on which there was a single sheet of paper, folded hastily and asymmetrically. His name-no, his title-was scrawled across one side. He opened it.
Prescott, he read,
If you hadn’t guessed, I’ve thrown my lot in with your side. Lady Eve might have said something about the wind being perfect this morning and may have just sent a note off to someone like Lord Spockton, so it is possible they will be somewhat near the Upper Brook Street Gate by ten this morning. We are attending the Smythe-Smith musicale this evening, but I would not show up unless you are more of a glutton for punishment than I thought.
Lady Christine
A smile spread across his face, and Jamie said, “What?”
“We’ve got an ally,” he said, and passed the note along.
McCoy leaned over to read over Jamie’s shoulder and asked, “What’s the Smythe-Smith musicale?”
Christopher groaned. “Imagine the worst rendition of Mozart that you’ve ever heard by a fumble-fingered violinist and multiply by four. I believe Lady Patterson is somehow related to the family. I made the mistake of accompanying Eve to the event once. Never again.” He shuddered theatrically.
“Well then,” Jamie said. “To the park?”
“At ten,” he agreed.
* * *
It didn’t take long to locate Eve and Lord Spockton. Christopher stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw her. “My God, she’s amazing,” he breathed.
“I don’t doubt that, Kit, but what makes you say so? I can’t even see her.” Jamie craned his head to follow the other man’s gaze.
“Do you see the gold kite up there? She’s controlling it.” He pointed, and McCoy and Jamie both turned to watch.
There were two kites, a blue one and a gold one; the blue one was sedately riding the air currents, with the occasional dip or turn, but the gold one was circling and weaving in a very precise pattern.
“Impressive,” Jamie said, having realized it as well. “Are you sure that she’s the one with the gold kite?” Christopher gave him an annoyed look, and Jamie retreated quickly. “I mean, there are two kite-flyers over there.”
“Yes,” he said patiently, as if Jamie were a six-year-old, “and one of the two kite-flyers-the one wearing a dress-is moving her arms around quite a bit, and the other-the one wearing breeches and a jacket-is barely moving at all. Also,” he said, resuming walking, “I bought her that kite, or one very similar, ten years ago.”
“Oh,” Jamie said, hurrying to catch up. “You know, she spends an awful lot of time with Lord Spockton.”
Christopher shot him a look over one shoulder. “And?”
“Do we need to consider him competition?”
Christopher stopped again. “I-no?” He frowned. “Presumably if he had designs on Eve, he could have asked for her hand at any point in the last nine years.”
McCoy snorted, and both men turned to him. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve only been in London for weeks, and even I’ve heard that the young Lord Spockton’s mother is Indian. Let’s not pretend for a moment that the Earl of Patterson would let his eldest daughter marry a Scot, let alone a half-breed from Asia, even if his father is a marquess.”
Christopher got a queer feeling in his midsection and said hastily, “All that aside, McCoy, she does not interact with him like a lover.” And I should know, he did not add. Jamie nodded hastily, and McCoy shook his head but kept mum.
By the time they reached Eve and Lord Spockton, the two were surrounded by seven children and three nursemaids. McCoy pressed his lips together to avoid laughing; and Jamie slapped Christopher on the shoulder. “A blockade of youngsters. Innovative. I’ll have to remember that for the next campaign.”
Christopher just shook his head.
* * *
The next morning brought with it another note from Lady Christine, detailing a morning expedition to an orphanage and an evening spent en famille; Christopher sent Jamie and McCoy a note saying he intended to attend Parliament that day. Jamie did not appear.
Wednesday afternoon Eve was visiting a relative who was indisposed, and that evening the family would be attending the Hollisters’ event. Christopher sorted through the invitations on the mantle until he found that one, and sent over a hasty and late response. Fortunately, his status as a war hero made those somewhat acceptable, and he was willing to trade on his reputation as long as it would work.
He arrived fashionably late, flanked by Jamie and McCoy, all dressed in their finest again (actually, he thought perhaps McCoy was dressed in Jamie’s finest, but close enough), and split up to write their names on the cards of eligible young women or to find the punch bowl, depending.
Christopher spotted the Chapel party apparently at the same time as Jamie; McCoy intercepted them on the way and handed off glasses of punch.
Jamie took a glass and picked off Miss Seabourne, who went gladly; McCoy held out his glass of punch to Lady Christine Chapel, who smiled at him and accepted the glass. Christopher offered his to Lady Eve, who looked mutinous for a moment and then relaxed into a smile. “Thank you, Lord Prescott,” she said, but handed the glass to her blonde companion-he thought her name was Rand. “Lieutenant McCoy, I believe this is your dance.”
McCoy froze for a moment, but good manners took over and he held out a hand. He shot an apologetic glance at Christopher, who gave him a half-smile and offered his hand to Miss Rand instead. Lady Christine entered the dance floor on the arm of a young man who looked about twelve but who was probably well older than she was. Christopher shook his head.
Miss Rand turned out to be a lovely partner; she danced prettily and spoke correctly on many topics, and he fleetingly thought he might find her attractive had-well, had he been an entirely different person. Nonetheless, he returned her to her mother, spoke for a moment or two, and searched for Lady Eve.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” McCoy said, when Christopher found him. “I returned her to her sister and a moment later, they disappeared.”
He sighed. “Of course they did.”
Jamie showed up, a moment later, a bit pink in the face. “Did you enjoy your dance with Miss Seabourne?” Christopher asked, a half-smile on his face.
“She’s . . . direct,” Jamie said. “Wanted to know if and when I’d be asking for Lady Christine’s hand.”
“And how did you answer?”
Jamie shrugged. “I said I was certain that she was a lovely young woman and that I respected her greatly but that I would most likely not be courting her. She then demanded to know why not, and I had no answer. So it’s possible that I may actually be courting Lady Christine.”
Christopher blinked a few times before laughing. McCoy was perhaps not entirely surprisingly silent.
* * *
“Eventually, you’ll have to speak to him,” Christine said, apropos of nothing, while she and Eve worked on correspondence after lunch.
“I have spoken with him,” Eve said. “Last Friday, I thanked him. Monday, I acknowledged his presence. Wednesday, at the Hollisters’ ball, I accepted punch from him.”
“And passed it off to Jane to dance with the dashing lieutenant instead. But you know what I mean,” Christine said, leveling a glance at her sister.
“I do,” Eve admitted. She sanded her letter to Cousin Shaw and folded it neatly in thirds.
Chapter 4 | Master Post
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: I guess we start getting some intimations of Pike/One and Kirk/McCoy here.
Rating: G for this chapter
Content Advisory: Kites.
Word Count: This chapter, about 1900; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 3
In which Lady Eve repeatedly outmaneuvers Lord Prescott
Various parks, parlors, and ballrooms in London
Over the next week
The following Monday, Christopher sent another dozen red and white roses to Eve, signing the card “Always yours, Chr. Pike, Baron Prescott.” He might as well place a standing order, he thought, and signed three more cards before adding a note to that effect for the footman to give the florist. This campaign certainly wasn’t going to end overnight.
Jamie had inexplicably shown up for breakfast, McCoy in tow, the former sprawling in a chair as if he owned the place and the latter perching on his seat uncomfortably. “So, what’s next?” Jamie asked, pulling a piece of toast apart.
Christopher tilted his head and gave him an amused look. “I understand you’ve appointed yourself my lieutenant in this endeavor, Jamie, but I’d prefer to finish eating before I make any life-altering tactical decisions.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “You know, when we were on the Continent, you could dine and discuss tactics at the same time.”
Subordinate twit, he thought, not without fondness. “And now I’m back in London, and I have decided that a gentleman does not retain a skill.”
“I have chosen to retain the skill, and I am a gentleman,” Jamie pointed out. “Also, I believe an earl outranks a mere baron.”
McCoy coughed into his napkin.
“Clearly,” Christopher said, “the only way to resolve this dilemma is to contact the Prince Regent himself and ask his opinion on the matter.”
“Oh, that’s no fun,” Jamie said. “We should go straight to Mad King George himself. I’m sure his opinion will be more enlightening than Prinny’s.”
“Oh, of course,” Christopher said. He finished his tea, looked at the sideboard, and decided against a third helping of anything. He was, after all, thirty-six now.
“Are you done?” Jamie asked hopefully. Christopher saw McCoy shake his head slightly and smile.
“I suppose I’m done,” he said, sitting back in his chair.
“Oh, good,” Jamie said, and bounced out of his chair, heading for the door.
“Is he always like this in the mornings?” Christopher asked McCoy, rising and following at a more sedate pace.
“Sometimes I send him to play with Joanna before breakfast so they can both sit still for a half hour to eat,” the former lieutenant said, walking beside him. “Sir.”
Christopher pressed his lips together to hold back a laugh. “The earl of Riverside is either a five-year-old or a puppy, eh?”
“Something like that.” McCoy’s lips twisted.
Jamie was pacing the library when the other two men arrived. “All right, Kit, what’s next?”
“Jamie, surely you have better things to do with your time.” Christopher settled into one of the chairs flanking the fireplace. “Ahh, this is nice. All I need is the hound to complete the picture.”
“I don’t, actually,” Jamie said. “My estates practically run themselves.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow. “You have a seat in Parliament. You could take it up.”
“You have one, too,” Jamie said.
“And, unsurprisingly,” Christopher said, “I spent yesterday afternoon, while you were buying horses, attending debate.”
“And what were they debating?”
“The Corn Act,” he replied. “Jamie, when your father was in Parliament, he introduced a bill to abolish slavery in the Empire. Surely you can do something.”
Jamie’s face hardened. “The bill died in debate. For that matter, you never met my father, so it is unfair to invoke his specter.”
“True enough,” he allowed. “What do you feel should be my next step in pursuing Lady Eve, o master tactician?”
“Everything I know about tactics, I learned from you,” Jamie said, absolutely serious for a moment. “But, of course, if you’ve forgotten some, I would be more than happy to remind you.”
Christopher laughed, and before he could respond, a footman scratched at the door. He called, “Come,” and the footman-Tyler-entered, holding out a silver salver on which there was a single sheet of paper, folded hastily and asymmetrically. His name-no, his title-was scrawled across one side. He opened it.
Prescott, he read,
If you hadn’t guessed, I’ve thrown my lot in with your side. Lady Eve might have said something about the wind being perfect this morning and may have just sent a note off to someone like Lord Spockton, so it is possible they will be somewhat near the Upper Brook Street Gate by ten this morning. We are attending the Smythe-Smith musicale this evening, but I would not show up unless you are more of a glutton for punishment than I thought.
Lady Christine
A smile spread across his face, and Jamie said, “What?”
“We’ve got an ally,” he said, and passed the note along.
McCoy leaned over to read over Jamie’s shoulder and asked, “What’s the Smythe-Smith musicale?”
Christopher groaned. “Imagine the worst rendition of Mozart that you’ve ever heard by a fumble-fingered violinist and multiply by four. I believe Lady Patterson is somehow related to the family. I made the mistake of accompanying Eve to the event once. Never again.” He shuddered theatrically.
“Well then,” Jamie said. “To the park?”
“At ten,” he agreed.
* * *
It didn’t take long to locate Eve and Lord Spockton. Christopher stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw her. “My God, she’s amazing,” he breathed.
“I don’t doubt that, Kit, but what makes you say so? I can’t even see her.” Jamie craned his head to follow the other man’s gaze.
“Do you see the gold kite up there? She’s controlling it.” He pointed, and McCoy and Jamie both turned to watch.
There were two kites, a blue one and a gold one; the blue one was sedately riding the air currents, with the occasional dip or turn, but the gold one was circling and weaving in a very precise pattern.
“Impressive,” Jamie said, having realized it as well. “Are you sure that she’s the one with the gold kite?” Christopher gave him an annoyed look, and Jamie retreated quickly. “I mean, there are two kite-flyers over there.”
“Yes,” he said patiently, as if Jamie were a six-year-old, “and one of the two kite-flyers-the one wearing a dress-is moving her arms around quite a bit, and the other-the one wearing breeches and a jacket-is barely moving at all. Also,” he said, resuming walking, “I bought her that kite, or one very similar, ten years ago.”
“Oh,” Jamie said, hurrying to catch up. “You know, she spends an awful lot of time with Lord Spockton.”
Christopher shot him a look over one shoulder. “And?”
“Do we need to consider him competition?”
Christopher stopped again. “I-no?” He frowned. “Presumably if he had designs on Eve, he could have asked for her hand at any point in the last nine years.”
McCoy snorted, and both men turned to him. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve only been in London for weeks, and even I’ve heard that the young Lord Spockton’s mother is Indian. Let’s not pretend for a moment that the Earl of Patterson would let his eldest daughter marry a Scot, let alone a half-breed from Asia, even if his father is a marquess.”
Christopher got a queer feeling in his midsection and said hastily, “All that aside, McCoy, she does not interact with him like a lover.” And I should know, he did not add. Jamie nodded hastily, and McCoy shook his head but kept mum.
By the time they reached Eve and Lord Spockton, the two were surrounded by seven children and three nursemaids. McCoy pressed his lips together to avoid laughing; and Jamie slapped Christopher on the shoulder. “A blockade of youngsters. Innovative. I’ll have to remember that for the next campaign.”
Christopher just shook his head.
* * *
The next morning brought with it another note from Lady Christine, detailing a morning expedition to an orphanage and an evening spent en famille; Christopher sent Jamie and McCoy a note saying he intended to attend Parliament that day. Jamie did not appear.
Wednesday afternoon Eve was visiting a relative who was indisposed, and that evening the family would be attending the Hollisters’ event. Christopher sorted through the invitations on the mantle until he found that one, and sent over a hasty and late response. Fortunately, his status as a war hero made those somewhat acceptable, and he was willing to trade on his reputation as long as it would work.
He arrived fashionably late, flanked by Jamie and McCoy, all dressed in their finest again (actually, he thought perhaps McCoy was dressed in Jamie’s finest, but close enough), and split up to write their names on the cards of eligible young women or to find the punch bowl, depending.
Christopher spotted the Chapel party apparently at the same time as Jamie; McCoy intercepted them on the way and handed off glasses of punch.
Jamie took a glass and picked off Miss Seabourne, who went gladly; McCoy held out his glass of punch to Lady Christine Chapel, who smiled at him and accepted the glass. Christopher offered his to Lady Eve, who looked mutinous for a moment and then relaxed into a smile. “Thank you, Lord Prescott,” she said, but handed the glass to her blonde companion-he thought her name was Rand. “Lieutenant McCoy, I believe this is your dance.”
McCoy froze for a moment, but good manners took over and he held out a hand. He shot an apologetic glance at Christopher, who gave him a half-smile and offered his hand to Miss Rand instead. Lady Christine entered the dance floor on the arm of a young man who looked about twelve but who was probably well older than she was. Christopher shook his head.
Miss Rand turned out to be a lovely partner; she danced prettily and spoke correctly on many topics, and he fleetingly thought he might find her attractive had-well, had he been an entirely different person. Nonetheless, he returned her to her mother, spoke for a moment or two, and searched for Lady Eve.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” McCoy said, when Christopher found him. “I returned her to her sister and a moment later, they disappeared.”
He sighed. “Of course they did.”
Jamie showed up, a moment later, a bit pink in the face. “Did you enjoy your dance with Miss Seabourne?” Christopher asked, a half-smile on his face.
“She’s . . . direct,” Jamie said. “Wanted to know if and when I’d be asking for Lady Christine’s hand.”
“And how did you answer?”
Jamie shrugged. “I said I was certain that she was a lovely young woman and that I respected her greatly but that I would most likely not be courting her. She then demanded to know why not, and I had no answer. So it’s possible that I may actually be courting Lady Christine.”
Christopher blinked a few times before laughing. McCoy was perhaps not entirely surprisingly silent.
* * *
“Eventually, you’ll have to speak to him,” Christine said, apropos of nothing, while she and Eve worked on correspondence after lunch.
“I have spoken with him,” Eve said. “Last Friday, I thanked him. Monday, I acknowledged his presence. Wednesday, at the Hollisters’ ball, I accepted punch from him.”
“And passed it off to Jane to dance with the dashing lieutenant instead. But you know what I mean,” Christine said, leveling a glance at her sister.
“I do,” Eve admitted. She sanded her letter to Cousin Shaw and folded it neatly in thirds.
Chapter 4 | Master Post