So here's the last installment of this short fic. We hope you enjoyed it!

Chapter Three

There had been another fruitless stop, at Old Chan's newest opium joint behind Bekesbourne Street, a kind of place in which Richard always felt quite ill-at-ease. Of course, Old Chan was a precious informant, one of his most precious. Over the course of the years, the man had been Richard's ears in the dark streets of London and he had provided the publisher with more than a few terrible secrets, giving him a considerable leverage.

However, with these informations came a very high price. Over the years, Richard had helped the devious Chinese to escape from the clutches of Scotland yard, providing him with valuable governmental information about British policy about opium in India and China.

Most of the time, apart from the occasional sleepless night during which some his strategical choices came back to haunt him, Richard managed to live with his cynicism and look at himself in the mirror with little problem. However, noticing the languid, almost lifeless bodies lying down on low beds, a pipe carefully placed at the bedside, the empty eyes that stared at him indifferently before resuming their opium-induced dream as he questioned the owner of the place about Pete's possible whereabouts.

"Yes, he was in one of my places," Old Chan replied in his usual polite and careful tone. Of course he would not specify where.

He was a man of few words and great patience, which had helped him to ascend the steps on his organization, to the point of becoming some sort of ambassador in Europe. That had been before the Triads put an end to the Qin empire and Sun Yat-Sen became the first president of the Chinese Republic. Old Chan could have become an honest and honorable politician, if such a creature ever existed, but the old man's skin did not agree with the light of day.

"Unfortunately, he left when he heard that you and your friend were looking for him. Naturally, I had him followed…"

"But?" Richard prompted. He had no patience left for this kind of game.

In a dark corner, two of Chan's men evacuated a man who had forgotten that the owner of the place never gave credit terms. Deaf to the pleading, the men pulled him along a corridor leading to the back entrance. Richard felt his shoulders' tense unconsciously. It was at times like these he felt he treaded a very blurred line in his dealings with the Chinese. The man caught his esteemed clients in his nets, then played with them as he wished, as very few would find the strength to escape from the trap.

More than once, Pete had escaped from the man fate - some vicious and very dissuasive beating for the first time, broken hand for the second time - thanks to his boss' connection to the owner. However, at some point, Richard had wondered if letting the wayward Yank have a taste of Old Chan's special treatment of the clients who forgot to pay him would not teach him a valuable lesson.

"I'm afraid that he went to a place out of my reach."

Just my luck.

"Thank you."

Not able to stand the muffled cries that came out from the opened back door anymore - the client was surely a second time offender by the sound of it - Richard took his companion's hand and lead her out of the damn place.

"Let's go back to the park. Keith is waiting for us."

Mary clung to Richard's hand, her heart beating in time to the quick staccato of his footsteps. Though she could not get out of the opium den quickly enough, having felt for the first time since joining Richard in this part of town that she was really in danger, her skin crawling beneath the undisguised lascivious stares of the man and his employees, she panted, "But what about Pete? Are you really going to give up searching for him? Knowing he's been in a place like this?"

"I'm not giving up, just switching tactics."

She didn't bother to ask what that change of tactics might be, breathless from keeping up with his long brisk strides in her heels-why hadn't she worn more sensible shoes?-and knowing by the set of his brow and jaw that he was formulating his plan at this very moment. All would be revealed in due course.

York Square Garden, despite being rather unkept as far as London parks were concerned, and surrounded by shabby rowhouses, was a welcome sight to Mary. The same could not be said for the sight of her to the stout man who watched their approach from one of the weathered benches over a newspaper. He folded it deliberately, his lips forming a line as sharp as the crease he folded in the paper between his thumb and forefinger. Richard had told her about Keith MacDonald, the steadiest of his circle of colleagues and friends, and also the harshest judge of both their past relationship and renewed acquaintance, and it was clear as he stood to greet them that he knew at once who she was.

"Mr. MacDonald. We meet at last."

Though she wasn't really surprised that he did not immediately shake her proffered hand, she was nevertheless offended that he eyed it from beneath heavy lids. At least his balefulness was not reserved solely for her.

"What's she doing here?" he addressed Richard in a monotone which seemed to come from the back of his throat.

"Don't start, Keith, please," Richard shot back between gritted teeth, more than ready to put out a fight, more to just relieve the tension that he had felt building all day long. He forced himself to unclench his fists buried in his trenchcoat pockets than to defend Mary from his suspicious friend's inquiry.

A strong hand came to his shoulder, accompanied with the typical floating smell of tobacco pipe.

"Come on boys, play gently, will you?"

Richard's shoulder ached a little under the restraining grip.

"Don't you always say that it's in difficult times that you can recognize your true friend? People can change, you know. If not, it would a sad, sad world." Years of living in London had never polished his brogue.

For a copper, Philip was a strange creature, always keen on giving a second chance. Maybe that was why he had managed to raise so high. Few people were able to see beyond the appearances like him.

Few were able to walk a very fine line in order to get the job done.

"Lady Mary, it's a pleasure to meet you at last, in person. Of course, I would have preferred to meet you in a white dress some years ago, but life is life, isn't it?"

Few people could insult their interlocutor and get away with it with a charming smile and a firm handshake.

The backhanded compliment made Mary arch an eyebrow, but she shook hands with the red-haired and bearded Chief Superintendent Philip Mortimer of Scotland Yard, another of Richard's longstanding friends. He certainly was well connected at all levels of society, wasn't he? Mortimer had diffused the tension between Richard and Keith deftly, and he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"It is, indeed," she replied. "And right now it seems Mr. Inzaghi's life requires our attention?"

Richard shot her a brief look of gratitude before he squared his shoulders and relayed his plan.


For the second time that day, Mary found herself walking to the Jade Palace. This time, however, it was not Richard who strode alongside her, but Keith, who didn't offer her an arm to guide her down the street. Instead, he kept one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other held his pipe as he puffed away.

Displeased as she was with this arrangement-both her destination and the person who was taking her there-she equally had Keith to thank for it. If Richard had his way, she would have been back in Aunt Rosamund's Renault, headed back to Eton Square and far away from the danger he faced at the Pharoah, a casino which, prior to the last half-hour, she'd never known existed. Keith pointed out, in the droning tone which somehow did not fail to convey how deeply disgruntled he was, that they didn't have time to search for a telephone, much less wait until the chauffeur arrived to collect her.

"Just what are you doing here, anyway?" Keith asked, his voice startling Mary after some minutes of silence except for the scuff of their shoes on the pavement, which she'd fully expected him to maintain until they reached Miss Johnson's establishment.

A man of few words, Richard had described him to her in one of his letters, but always precisely chosen ones. So she took her time replying, though she wasn't sure if it was to choose her own words precisely, or to delay what he would follow them with.

"Avoiding Valentine's Day invitations."

"So you're using Richard again."

"I-" She caught herself stammering out an excuse, drew back her shoulders, and schooled her expression into one of neutrality. She would not be intimidated by another newspaper man. "He invited me."

"So he's being an idiot again. I had so hoped he wouldn't be as predictable as Pete."

"The Chief Superintendent's speech about people changing and deserving second chances obviously didn't make much of an impression on you."

A puff of a laugh rattled from his throat. "Oh, I suppose it's different this time around, is it? You're friends now?"

She gave a shrug to convey a lack of concern. "Mock it all you like, Mr. MacDonald, but our visits and letters the past eight months have been nothing but amiable."

"I've no doubt they have. Richard can be very amiable when he wants to be. That isn't the same as being friends." Keith pulled the pipe from his mouth, lips parting to exhale a ring of musky vanilla smelling smoke. "I suppose he's confided in you all about the Vronskis, then? And about how the very last thing he needs now that he's finally begun to regain what he lost to them is more Crawley family drama to drive him mad?"

Mary wanted to retort-there was no drama! And that very afternoon their search had been suspended for a good deal of confiding in each other-although, she supposed, an overdue talk about their own tumultuous relationship didn't exactly support her argument.

As she cast about for a reply, she noticed that the alleyway they were turning down was familiar. Lady Mary Crawley, familiar with Limehouse alleys, houses of ill repute, casinos, and opium dens. If that wasn't proof that people could change, then nothing was. But it was also as good an excuse as any to abandon the thread of their conversation, as Keith's green eyes fixed on the entrance of the Jade Palace, his mind clearly on Richard's more imminent problems.

If he hadn't greeted the woman who admitted them as Maddie, Mary wouldn't have recognised her as the woman she'd met earlier in the guise of Lady Sun-Yi. Her makeup toned down and the crimson silk gown exchanged for a more conservative blouse and skirt, there was little to distinguish the earl's daughter from the woman of the evening-or afternoon, as the case seemed to be for Lloyd George. The one familiar feature was the wary look which she regarded as her gaze fell on Mary for the second time that day. It quickly gave way to a look of worry as she recognised Keith.

"Has something happened to Richard?" she whispered.

"Not yet," Keith replied. "But something probably will, and if all goes to plan, he'll come here."


Richard blinked as he stepped into the Pharaoh, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the glaring lights of the casino. With a wordless tilt of the head, he declined the hostess' offer to take his coat and hat to the cloakroom.

"It'll be a quick visit," he explained to the puzzled young blonde who looked like a girl playing at being a woman, with her excessive make-up and revealing dress. Her puzzlement and her slight frown betrayed her young age even more. Whether she realized it or not, she was part of the big theater that was a casino, each employee playing a precise role in order to confuse the senses of the guests.

The more they would feel at ease, dumbed down by the easy access to alcohol and the reassuring company of innocent hostesses, the longer they would stay and more money they would spend most unwisely.

While checking the movements of the guards behind his back, who would naturally be alarmed by a man not even tempted by a game of cards or roulette, Richard scanned the room for a familiar silhouette.

Fortunately for him, it was still an early hour and the casino was half empty. Only the most stubborn players would be inside a casino in the last hours of the afternoon, when normal employees barely begun to prepare for their commute home. However, the ambient noise was still deafening and made it difficult to focus. A tired jazz quartet slaughtered New Orleans tunes in the back of the room. Roulettes rolled around, croupiers shouted to raise the bids, fruit machines spun and occasionally spat a handful of resounding coins. Most of the clients moaned and cried in defeat, but a few of them shouted in triumph, encouraging the former to go on their madness.

In the middle of that organized chaos, Peter was busy losing the more than comfortable salary Richard gave him. Slouched over a craps table, he barely paid attention to the cards the croupier dealt him. On the table, an empty bottle of rum sat at his right hand, a ridiculously low pile of counters sat at his left hand. In front of him, the croupier barely hid his glee at having met such an easy customer.

"Come on Pete, let's pay and go," Richard put a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. The man reeked of alcohol and blinked at him with blurry eyes.

"Woah, Richie! Walking straight into the lion's den to save me! Such dedication!"

"How much does he owe?" Richard asked the croupier, ignoring his friend's nonsense, anxious to go as quickly as possible.

"Let me count, sir." The croupier's lack of enthusiasm reflected his sorrow at seeing a sucker go before he'd taken all his money. "Nine hundred and eighteen pounds, sir. Plus the drinks."

Richard frowned. He only had half of the sum in cash, and he would burn in hell before writing down his name on an acknowledgement of debt in this establishment. It would go straight to Lord Rothmere's office. That meant he had to switch to plan B soon.

Three thugs walked to their table, their cheap tuxedos deformed by the coshes they hid under the coat.

Charming.

"Are you sure?" he contested, more to buy time than really obtain something, as he stepped aside, to Pete's right. Long gone were the days when he could take on three thugs on his own. Two might be doable, especially with the knowledge that Morty waited for them in the back alley.

Richard scanned the room one last time. There were two more guards. One could not leave his post at the main door. The other one was left alone to watch the room.

Richard's decision was made.

With no warning, he grabbed the rum bottle, threw Pete to the ground unceremoniously, and flipped the scrap table over, making the counters flow. Then, he turned around and aimed at the first thug's head.

The bottle smashed, hard, and Richard used the broken piece to slash at the patellar tendon before hammering it into the man's right arm. Around them, the customers had left their seats, abandoning their vain hopes of beating the odds for a surer gain. The two remaining thugs made their move, taking the coshes out, but had to deal with the avid crowd before they could get their hands on Richard and his friend. In the back of the room, the quartet butchered When the Saints go marchin' in.

They were in the middle of bloody American movie, and a bad one.

Richard grope Pete's arm and made a run for it. After all, he mainly reached his current position as a prominent figure in Great Britain because he knew when to run, and because he was fast on his feet, even when dragging a rather uncooperative drunk man behind him.


Apart from its exotic and eclectic decor, East-meets-West in a mishmash of ornate traditional Oriental fabrics and finishes and clean-lined modern pieces, little about the parlor to which Madeleine Johnson showed Mary and Keith gave the impression of its being the ground floor of a brothel. The girl who brought them tea, with a pale powdered face and wearing a flowing silk print robe, was another story, but Keith paid more attention to the hands of his watch than to the girl's, which brushed against him more than was necessary to fill his teacup.

Reminder of the unsavory nature of her current environs or not, when the girl padded out of the parlor cat-like on her stocking feet, Mary felt abandoned with Keith and his increasingly furrowed brow and the steady, unstopping tick of minutes on his watch.

A quick job. Richard had described his plan. Into the Pharaoh. Find Pete. Settle up. Out again.

You make it sound so simple. Keith said, and Mary had not dared to ask why it mightn't be.

How could so much time seem to elapse between each second, while her heart beat double time in her breast? Her stomach fluttered, and she sipped her tea to settle it.

"You and Sir Richard go a long way back, don't you Mr. MacDonald?" she asked, to fill the silence. "You met in Glasgow?"

"Your ladyship will understand that I'm not in the mood to pretend it's teatime at Downton Abbey."

Mary lowered her teacup onto the saucer in her lap. "I know you're worried about them. But wasn't that the whole point of having Scotland Yard at the back door?" Keith had wanted to go with him, protesting Richard's argument that they couldn't risk both of them being seen at one of Rothermere's establishments. "Chief Superintendent Mortimer seems competent-"

The green eyes flickered up to her, flashing flecks of gold in the light of the Tiffany lamp on the table beside his chair.

Mary stopped short, and gulped her tea. Mortimer was probably not the best person to mention at the moment, as he'd silenced Keith by asking whether he was fighting fit these days.

But Keith's ire was all for her as he sat back in his chair, his hands curling around the low arms of his chair. "You thrive on drama, don't you, Lady Mary?"

"Mr. MacDonald, I hardly see how-"

"I see it, as plain as the nose on your face. There's a flush on your cheek and a glimmer in your eye. You're exhilarated by all of this. Taking tea at a brothel while Richard infiltrates a casino, why-how could you have sat through stale old Shakespeare or saccharine Irving Berlin?"

Mary's breath caught in her chest, and her thumbs twitched against the edges of her saucer. "You're worried about Richard, I know. You needn't take it out on me. Of course I'm concerned, too-"

Keith was on his feet with a startling fluidity. "You're damned right I'm worried about Richard." The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he approached Mary's chair. "You err in thinking I'm more worried about a couple of casino thugs roughing him up than how he'll come out of another round with you."

"Now who's being dramatic?" said Mary with a roll of her eyes. "If anyone thrives on drama, it's you-quite literally. You make your living publishing it."

"And as always, you demonstrate a fundamental disrespect for Richard's work," Keith said. "Do you have any idea what those bloody Russians took from him? All because you and your noble family played the loyal idiot for a fool."


Of course, things went south before long. The Pharaoh was probably the only place in Limehouse district Richard was not familiar with, and he lost his way in the maze of the place twice. First they disturbed some bored accountants as they were totaling the takings for the day in a sinister room with no window. Then, they rushed headstrong into what probably was the owner's office. Fortunately, the fellow was busy elsewhere, most probably feeding Lord Rothmere with the latest rumors he had gathered in his establishment.

Sir Richard, life is a game in which the player is made to appear ridiculous.

From nowhere, the Dowager's sententious voice rang in his ears as they made their clumsy way through the shabby kitchen, the remaining thugs on their heels. Pots were knocked over, plates thrown down, innocent cooks and busboys pushed to the ground before they reached the back door at last.

Not my life.

Really, he should have thought twice before replying to the Dowager back then. Until this day, he had had the sinking feeling that this whole charade thing had been set up to ridicule him. On his good days, Richard managed to convince himself that it all had been no more than bad luck. On his bad days, and as he struggled against the resisting lock, he decided it was a very bad day; no bad luck could have made him mimic Kipling's Man Who Would Be King in front of the Crawleys.

The thugs were on them, but thankfully, Pete had sobered up a little and pulled out a pitiful but most useful fight as Richard finally pushed the damn door open. However, it was a tad too late, and he could not dodge the first blow that landed on his right shoulder. He dragged Pete outside, barely seeing straight.

Broken clavicle, at least.

Both men stumbled down the flight of stairs leading to the back alley. One thug took on Pete, hitting him hard on the back while the others went after Richard. He dodged a first blow, then another before losing his footing. Fortunately, his opponent felt too assured of his advantage and rushed at him without thinking, which enabled Richard to stop him in his tracks with a well-adjusted kick to the groin. Now, if he could only get up on his feet… He braced himself for a blow that never came, instinctively closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, the two remaining toughs were on their knees, hands up in the air. The confused expressions on their faces revealed how little they expected to encounter uniforms in their back alley.

"So, lads, here's the thing," Philip announced between puffs from his pipe. "For years, I've been told that the Pharaoh was a respectable establishment. Don't resist, and don't give me the occasion I've been looking for for so long."

His pipe clenched between his teeth, Philip crouched to talk to the third man, who was still on the ground, curled up in pain.

"Let's leave it at that. No winner this time. You consider that you never saw these men. I consider I never witnessed you roughing them up. If a single word comes out, on the street, in the press, anywhere, my lads will show a great interest for your boss' dealings, and I'll make sure he knows why."

The Chief Super patted the man on the head.

"Understood?"

He straightened up and strode to Pete to assess the damage.

"Write down their names and address, and take their weapons. If they want them back, they know where they are."

Richard got up, clenching his shoulder. The distinct metallic smell of blood associated with the pain on the side of his face indicated he must have cut himself in his fall.

"How's Pete?" he asked before motioning to the uniforms. "You sure?"

"Yes, absolutely, don't worry," Philip replied as he helped a rather groggy Pete up. "Let's go. Can you walk on your own?"

"Yes, let's call it a day."


Commotion in the alley alerted Mary and Keith to the arrival of the wayward newspapermen, but she was nevertheless unprepared for them to blunder through the lacquered parlor door in quite the state they did. Bizarrely, as she leapt to her feet, the sight of Richard and Mortimer supporting a rather diminutive, very disheveled, and even more discombobulated man between them, made images flash in her mind of wounded soldiers limping or carried on stretchers through the front doors at Downton. The first time, queasiness had nearly overcome her, but she soon discovered it wasn't delicacy so much as dread that one of them might be Matthew.

Now, though she could see the elusive Pete Inzaghi was in a bad way, the stench of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke made her recoil-and rage when she heard the tautness of pain in Richard's voice as he barked orders, and saw that blood dripped down from his temple, staining his collar, and that he favored his right arm.

"Richard, you're hurt!" she exclaimed, going to him as he and the Chief dropped Pete unceremoniously onto a divan.

"Well well," drawled Pete, blinking up at her. "If it isn't the infamous Mary Crawley. Enchanted. What's she doing here, Richie?"

"I asked the same question myself," said Keith, darting to support Richard as he began to sway on his feet, guiding him over to the armchair he'd vacated.

"Your nursing reputation precedes you," Pete slurred, not waiting for an answer. "So nurse 'im!"

With a frown at the man who was the cause of all of this, Mary turned to take a tray of bandages and a bowl of water just brought in by the proprietress, and carried them to the chair where Richard clenched his teeth against a groan as Keith eased him out of his coat.

"What happened? Is anything broken?" Though that gash looked deep. "Has anyone sent for a doctor?"

"No need to attract more attention than necessary here." Richard uttered through clenched teeth. "Just need a pack of ice, and some disinfectant for the cut, and I'll be alright. How's Pete?"

Maddie had walked out and into the parlor, bringing some medical supply with her, bandages, disinfectant, ice. You can always count on her when in need, when an important figure was not paying a visit, naturally. Behind her, a girl still in exotic attire brought a bucket that she placed by the sofa, just in case.

"He'll live. Bruises, some cracked ribs, a bad hang-over when he wakes up.

Pete's feeble moans as their hostess examined him and senseless ramble seemed to confirm her assessment.

"Good, then I'll have no qualm in locking him into a room with no windows for the next six months, and make him work without a salary."

Richard had straightened up to take a look at this friend but had to settle back again as the room started to spin dangerously. Next to him, Mary was fussing in a way that made him quite uncomfortable, as the picture evoked some very frustrating moments of a long-gone past.

"Philip, you should take Mary home."

He barely heard his improvised nurse's protestations and the room stopped spinning as he blacked-out.


"He'll be all right, Lady Mary, I guarantee it," said Chief Mortimer as he opened the car door for Mary, back in Eton Square. "Blacking out from a broken collarbone doesn't mean he's in danger. Just that he's not invincible. And not as young as he once was," he added, blue eyes twinkling, "but don't tell him I said so. Richard's a fighter. Always has been. Always will be."

"Richard used to tell me that all the time." You haven't had to fight for what you've got. "It seemed so preposterous, while our boys were fighting a war. But after today, though...well, I've seen for myself exactly how hard he does fight."

And what-and whom-he fought for.

For all that, she suspected that what she knew of Richard's fight was scarcely the tip of the iceberg. What stories could Philip Mortimer tell her?

"I hope we'll meet again," she told him, and bid him good night.

When the hall boy swept open the front door, her nostrils were assaulted by the heavy fragrances of the bouquets-like being in a small room with too many women wearing too much perfume. During the day's excitement, she'd all but forgotten the damn flowers.

"Mary?" Aunt Rosamund's voice echoed in the foyer, accompanied by the click of heels as she came in from the dining room. "I phoned everyone! I was tempted to sent out Scotland Yard."

That certainly would have been ironic.

"Where in heaven's name have you been?"

Mary didn't answer immediately, pressing her lips together to squelch the smile that tugged at her lips as she envisioned Rosamund's face if she gave her an honest answer: Oh, only a dog fight in Limehouse. And a house of exotic entertainment. With her fingertips, she touched the red quivering blossoms of the gladiolus. Flower of the gladiators.

"Escaping the shallow sentiments of Valentine's Day," she replied. "And being reminded of what it really means not to give up without a fight."