A/N: Aww, you guys are great. So glad you're enjoying it. A shortish chapter, but nonetheless important. Again, disclaimer... the ancestors of these characters and some of these names belong to Carnival and JF. Borrowing, dusting off, and returning intact without making a dime from it. It's like a credit default swap... except it isn't.

Soundtrack: Ruthless Gravity continues, and shifts to Finding Beauty... both off "As If To Nothing." You can probably figure out when it changes...


Preferred Stock 4/?

Three daughters, he thought to himself as the elevator ascended. He thought back to the briefing book, remembering only the mention of Sybil Maier, a political writer at The Guardian, but there was no other daughter mentioned and he wondered who she was and why it was such a sore spot.

"Merde!" Aurelie cursed under her breath, first in French, then in German. She handed Matthew her iPhone and he felt his heart stop as he read the FT headline. "Shit," he said in English. "Shit, shit, shit. Who leaked?"

"Probably the one you're bringing in," Aurelie murmured. "His assistant is an idiot."

He kept reading it, thankful they were alone in the elevator, his mind racing. Fixable, he thought.

"Get Mary Crawley to my office. Wait." He stopped. "No. I need to go to her. Tell her assistant I'm coming down there now."

And as the door opened, he turned left and nearly ran over Greg.

"She's waiting for you," was all he said, and looked daggers at Aurelie.


Paris, she thought. Or New York again. No, Paris. I need Paris. She shivered as she looked across the city, memorizing the view. Strange, she mused, how all I feel is relieved somehow that it's over. I lost, but it's over. Her throat burned as she raged at herself for letting her emotions show in front of Matthew. "You must be congratulating yourself on such a lucky escape." she whispered to the glass.

"Escape from what?" The voice shocked her and she spun to see Matthew standing in the doorway. He shut the door deliberately and turned back to her. "I assume you've seen the FT?"

"Yes," she said coldly. "You've got a leak problem."

"It's a journalist doing her job," he replied. "And yes, someone said something. It's not going to be a problem, though."

"It's not a problem? That one of the most senior members of this firm, a legend in the company, found out he was sacked through a newspaper headline? An online newspaper headline? How could you do that?" Before he could answer, she stormed ahead, not caring what he thought. "Alastair Martin's given his life to this company. His institutional memory alone should make you want to keep him, but no, you've got to shove him out to make room for Patrick. Patrick," she spat out. "Who has failed this company on every level and deserves to be actually booted out the door. Except," she added. "He is the sort to have procured compromising photos of everyone on the board, likely with goats or other farm animals, so I wouldn't put it past him to have blackmailed his way into the board slot." She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "Alastair deserves better."

"Yes, he does," Matthew said slowly. "And that's not how he found out. Or what he found out, for that matter." He looked back at the door. "I need Alastair in here. Can your assistant call him?"

"Of course he can." But she made no move, said nothing, and he watched her expectantly.

"Are you going to tell him?" he asked.

"He already knows." She raised her voice. "He's listening at the door."

"It's my job," Greg yelled.

She looked back at Matthew. "Of course, Alastair may already have left. I was thinking about it."

"Where would you go?"

"To work?" He was so calm, almost smiling, and she had a fierce desire to slap that look off his face.

"No, if you left right now. Where would you go?"

"Are you suggesting I do so?"

"If I was, I would have asked 'where will you go?' No, I'm just curious. If you're running, to where are you running?"

"Paris," she replied.

His hand ruffled through his dark blond hair. "Mary, I'm sorry. I was hoping to have a long, quiet meeting about this, where we could discuss why this is the best thing for the company. I wanted you to have a little time to get on board with it. It's not going to happen that way."

"I hope your apology to Alastair is better than this," she muttered. "Have you even spoken to him?"

"Yes," he said. "Ten minutes before this morning's meeting. Right after I got in this morning."

She let out a breath. "So he knew."

"Yes," Matthew replied. "And he agreed to return as chief executive officer to replace Patrick."

Mary was not sure she'd heard him. "CEO?" she said.

"Yes," he replied.

"He's seventy-six."

"And here you were saying how ridiculous I was for wanting to get rid of him." he said with a smile.

"No, I mean he can't want that grind again. Really? He's agreed?"

"Only if there's a change at number two."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Well, he hates Rafe Mortimer." She was silent for a moment. So that's why he's bringing in someone new.

There was a soft knock and Alastair stepped in, a rueful smile on his face. "So you're still stuck with me," he said to Mary, who grinned back at him as he looked at Matthew. "What did she say?"

"She thinks you're too old."

"I didn't mean that." Mary glared at Matthew.

"I am too old." Alastair lowered himself into a chair.

Mary looked at Alastair. "You're all right with this?"

"Only if you are," he replied.

"You're replacing Rafe," she said. "I'm thrilled about that."

Alastair snorted. "He was happy to go." His dark eyes fixed on hers. "So what do you think?"

"About you being in charge?"

"No," he said, a slight confusion in his voice and he looked at Matthew.

"I hadn't gotten that far yet," Matthew began, and he looked at Mary. "I'd like you to take over as group finance director."

She did not speak, her fingers twisting into her jacket as she stared back at him. Group finance director...

"I hoped we could talk about why, and what I'm expecting, but we're in a bit of a bind here with that headline all over the FT, and since I don't want to see a negative impact on late trading by not responding to that story, I need to know now." He ruffled his hair again and grinned at her, and the urge to slap him disappeared, replaced by a sensation she did not care to think about.

Group finance director. Number two behind the CEO, on both the board and the executive committee, the power to turn the ship around. Her gaze dropped to Alastair. "Was this your idea?"

"All his," Alastair said softly. "Of course, I approve." He leaned forward. "Mary, this should have happened before. Take it. I'm going to need you."

She smiled at him, distractedly, all of it still quite unreal. Group finance director. No Patrick to answer to. Her father, powerless. Fix it. I can fix it. There was no other answer she could give except the one she was about to give, and yet it was all still incomprehensible.

"Mary," Matthew's voice broke through her fog. "What about it?"

"Why not?" she replied.

A soft whoop could be heard outside the door.

Matthew started to laugh, and Mary shot him an exasperated look. "I don't know what yours is like, but he's a walking sitcom."

"Mine's like a French chat show," he said.

"Mine," Alastair said as he stood up, "is probably dead from boredom. She's not going to appreciate actual work again. Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I saw her. I think she might have retired. As I was supposed to." He leaned down and kissed Mary on the cheek. "Congratulations, my dear. We don't deserve you."

"Careful," she said. "That could mean a lot of things."

"It means only one thing, Mary." He looked at her with such unabashed happiness that she blushed with pride. He believed in me. Believes in me.

Alastair looked at Matthew. "I think we ought to reconvene before five and discuss Monday."

"Agreed. Three?" Mary nodded, and as Alastair strolled out, Matthew held out his hand to Mary. "I'm glad. I'm sorry it wasn't tidier, but I'm glad you're with us. You're very important to the success of this firm, and I'm... it just means a great deal that you're willing to take this chance with me."

She took his hand, and grasped it, and something she had not felt in a long time flickered deep inside. "Why this?" she asked, and he did not let go of her hand.

"It worked when he was in charge. When he wasn't, it didn't. You said it yourself, he knows this culture. He IS this company's culture. No one else here would know how to take us out of this mess." He could have sworn she squeezed his hand slightly, and he was not going to be the one to let go. "And I've been led to understand that no one in this town could figure out why you were passed over."

She must have imagined it, that he gripped her hand just a little tighter. "The people here thought it was a bad idea."

"Bad idea?" Had she taken a step forward?

"A very bad idea." Was he closer?

Her iPhone pinged, and just as quickly as it began, the moment was gone, and she let go of his hand with a smile. "But now the people who did pass me over are out. The ones you've agreed to dine with on Sunday, by the way."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have lied and said I had plans."

"No, it's all right. You'll learn a lot about who you're dealing with." She paused. "I'm sorry you witnessed that. I don't let it come to the office very often." Her eyebrow tilted up ever so slightly. "And it's always better if you don't lie, no matter how uncomfortable it makes people."

This time it was his iPhone pinging and she rolled her eyes. "What my great-grandfather would have thought of iPhones..."

He glanced at the text, and grinned. "The FT is updated." He slipped the phone back in his pocket. "What would he have thought?"

"The idea of always being reachable probably would have killed him," she said. "Let me know where to meet for the three o'clock?"

"My office," he said. "The view's almost as lovely as yours."

She nodded and watched him walk away. Bad idea popped unbidden in her mind and she felt a flush across her cheeks as she sat down at her desk and opened up the FT website.

UPDATE – MARTIN BACK ON TOP AT CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE.

The first line told her she was the new Group Finance Director, but she couldn't read any more than that, because the photograph made her stop cold. Was it deliberate? "Greg?" she called out.

He leaned it, a grin on his face. "Congratulations. I get a raise, right?"

"Shut up," she said. "Maybe. And thank you. Have you ever let the FT in here? Or any photographer?"

He was instantly serious. "Are you kidding me?"

"No," she said. "Because I don't know how else the FT photographer comes up with this."

And they looked first at the website, at the bright color image of Matthew Crawley behind the old wooden lectern, the angle such that she was the person seated immediately to his left, her eyes tilting up to him, a small smile on her face, a smile that she did not remember ever allowing to emerge during that press conference, a smile that seemed almost triumphant. Greg's eyes met hers, the shock apparent as they looked up at the faded black and white photograph framed on her opposite wall, of Matthew Crawley behind the then-new wooden lectern, and his wife, Lady Mary Crawley, her eyes gazing up at her husband, a small, triumphant smile on her face.


"Five o'clock," Aurelie said softly as she entered the office. "You still haven't told me where to make reservations for tonight."

"Nowhere," Matthew replied from the depths of his Eames chair. His feet were up and he was staring out the window at the dark blue sky, hands folded, his iPad ignored on his knees, and Aurelie rolled her eyes.

"But you should celebrate. The stock is already up and everyone is talking about the wise young Matthew Crawley. You should be seen tonight."

"It's too early to celebrate," he said. "I'm just going to head out in a few."

"What do you need for the weekend?"

"Nothing," he said, and unfolded himself from the chair. "You should get settled into your new place. I'll call if I need anything."

"All right," she said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

She looked at him critically, and he sighed. "What?"

"It's black tie. Wear the Ralph Lauren," she said. "Sunday, I mean. And don't ride your motorcycle."

"Wasn't planning on it." He looked outside. "How cold is it right now?"

"Freezing," she said. "You should take a car tonight. I'll order it now."

"I will," he said. "Thank you, Aurelie. For everything."

She nodded, and if he'd looked at that moment, he would have seen the pride she took in that praise, but he didn't, and she put back her insouciant mask as she strolled out.

He wondered if Mary would drive home in the cold, knowing the soft tops on the Shelbys weren't exactly windproof, and the vision of her behind that wheel made him feel something he hadn't felt in a while, and for whatever reason, the words bad idea came back into his head.


"Five o'clock," Greg called into the office. "You still haven't told me where to make reservations tonight."

"Nowhere," she said quietly. Her shoes were off, and she'd tucked her feet underneath her as she stared out over the lights of London.

"You have to go out and celebrate." He walked in. "You've gotten fourteen flower deliveries, wine, chocolates, tea... everyone thinks you should celebrate. You should celebrate." He sat on the edge of her desk, ignoring her glare. "You just got a promotion and your archnemesis has been humiliated."

"Karmically speaking, that's the worst time for a celebration," she muttered. "And I have dinner plans." She uncurled from her desk chair and slipped her iPad into her Mulberry. "Can you call downstairs and have them put up the top on the car?"

"It's freezing. You shouldn't drive."

"It's not far and I'm going straight home. And I might want it this weekend." She looked again at the old photograph on the wall and shivered. "And why am I explaining myself to you?"

"Because you know I care." He stood up. "What do you need for the weekend?"

"Nothing," she said. "You should celebrate. Take the wine. Enjoy your weekend. I'll call if I need you. Thank you, Greg. I couldn't have survived today without you."

"Of course you couldn't," he replied, his proud smile belying his flippant answer. "You're welcome."

She wondered, as she slipped on her coat and tied her scarf a little tighter, if Matthew would brave the cold on his BMW, and the thought of him in the leathers again made her shiver again, but not from the cold.

Bad idea, she thought to herself. Very bad idea...

TBC