Disclaimers: as before.

Thanks for the nice reviews.

Note: I wanted to use Deviega in this story because he is a particularly nasty baddie and I like the personal tension with Sydney. However, I'm already drowning in so many plot threads that I didn't want to becoming embroiled with the Gural Nataz (sp?) or with him having half his face blown off! So, he's just a kind of independent villain in this...in case anyone was wondering, I guess that would set this early season three or in a slight alternative universe. So that gets that cleared up!

Warning: major overdose of Victorian melodrama. Sorry!

……………………………………

1875: City of London, near Fleet Street.

The cab driver refused to take Sydney and Nigel all the way to Dean Court and De Veleye's club.

'I'm not driving my hanson up there!' he retorted. 'They'd strip the wheels off!

'Nice young lady and gent, like you,' he muttered as Sydney handed him some coins. 'You shouldn't be going to places like that…and on a night like this. Keep hold of that purse ma'am. If you can!'

With that he gee'd up his horse, and the cab was gone.

Linking arms, Sydney and Nigel made their way up the narrow street, which was lined by high, crumbling stone tenements. Not that they could see them: the fog was far too thick to discern anything beyond their looming presence on either side of the narrow, cobbled track. The infrequent streetlamps penetrated the gloom only in small, hazy patches. Sydney could see shapes scuttling nearby. Although they were barely yards away, it was impossible to tell if they were man, woman or beast.

Nigel snuggled close, hoping he wasn't taking a liberty. He was beginning to think that exciting relic hunting missions may have their drawbacks, and was praying that they got out of this dreaded part of town alive.

Sydney sensed her 'chaperones' fear: 'don't worry,' she assured him. 'I've made my way through far worse places on my travels. We'll be just fine.' Nevertheless, Sydney was uneasy, too…

She had barely finished speaking when she was seized roughly from behind, and a hood flung over her head.

Sydney was primed for action and knew what to expect. Before the garrotter could place the leather strap around her neck, she kicked backwards sending her attacker flying, and swiftly yanked the hood from her face. A second man was on her in an instant, but she swung around and laid him out unconscious with a spinning high-kick to the head.

'Good God! Sydney!' Nigel, terrified as he was, couldn't believe what he was seeing. He didn't know women could fight at all, let alone do that!

A third assailant fell upon her. Nigel was gathering the courage to launch himself into the fray, when he was also grabbed, and pulled back to the side of the street.

'Sydney!'

Sydney heard the call, and repelled her latest opponent with vicious, right hook to the jaw.

'Nigel?' Sydney ran into the fog in the direction of the cry. She could see nothing in the dark smog, so she thrust forward wildly. Her growl was guttural: 'Get your hands off him, or you're a dead man.'

There was a scuffle, another small cry from Nigel, then the sound of sharply departing footsteps.

'Syd…Sydney? I'm here…I think they've gone.'

Stumbling into a ray of flickering candlelight, which drifted from a window, Sydney found herself just feet away from the side of one of the buildings. She could see Nigel, not two yards off, leaning up against the wall. His hand was clutched to his chest and he was clearly both very shaken, and extremely out of breath. He was also entirely devoid of his hat, jacket and boots.

'Oh, Nigel.' She ran over and hugged him to her. She could feel his heart beating wildly. 'I should never have let you come,' she murmured.

'No…I'm perfectly alright,' he panted, leaning gratefully into her embrace and resting his forehead down against her shoulder. 'Preston's ….going to kill me…about the boots and jacket...'

'Don't worry, I'll sort that out.' She instinctively lifted a hand and stroked the back of his hair. 'Are you sure you're not hurt?'

At first, Nigel's breathless silence alarmed her more than her whole trio of attackers. After a moment, he gathered himself and backed away a little, evidently rather embarrassed.

'I'm terribly sorry,' he said, glancing up into Sydney's concerned face. 'I don't know what came over me. Are you alright? Did they take your purse?'

'I'm fine.' Sydney, relieved Nigel had recovered, checked her belt. Her purse was still dangling where she'd left it. 'No, they didn't take anything. How strange.'

A thought struck her. 'Maybe they didn't mean to rob us. They knew who we were and wanted to warn us off…or shake us up a bit.'

Nigel frowned. 'Then why did they take my clothes?'

'Well,' considered Sydney. ' They might not all have been working together. My three assailants were, but I think you were just the victim of a passing opportunist.'

'Lovely,' said Nigel bitterly. She could tell he was still thinking about what Preston would say.

'Don't worry about replacing your clothes. I can pay for them…'

'I couldn't possibly let you do that. It wouldn't be right.'

'It would be perfectly right,' said Sydney firmly. 'It's my fault you're here at all. Now let's get you into a cab home, and I'll do the rest of this alone.'

'No!' Nigel replied with equal resolution. 'If I'm going to let you pay my tailors bill, then you're going to let me come with you. At least I'm still vaguely respectable – thank God they didn't take my trousers.' He managed a thin smile.

Sydney rubbed Nigel's arms, now covered only by his thin shirt sleeves. 'You'll get cold, Nigel.'

He shrugged. 'We'll be inside soon. I doubt this place we're heading for has a dress code.' He grinned cheekily, his excitement at the quest returning. 'Maybe we could steal the boots off a sleeping opium eater!'

'Maybe we should,' replied Sydney, only half joking.

Taking his arm again, they trudged off up the lane. Sydney was more vigilant than ever, while Nigel silently cursed the jagged stones beneath his now un-booted feet.

After a minute of silence, he ventured a burning question: 'Sydney, if you don't mind me asking, where on earth did you learn to fight… like that? I've never seen anything like it.'

'No,' said Sydney, 'you wouldn't have. It's a martial art I learnt in the East. What with nobody expecting a woman to fight, and then my knowing a few moves that surprise them, most men don't stand a chance against me. It's amazing how high you can kick if you don't wear too many petticoats or lace your bodice too tight!'

Nigel chuckled. 'Maybe you should teach me a thing or two before I join the army. I hope I don't have to wear a bodice and petticoats, though!'

'I don't think that will be necessary, Nigel,' laughed Sydney. 'Ah…here we are.'

A bright oil-lamp was hanging over the top of some steps that led down into a basement tenement. A sweet, pungent odour snaked its way from a glowing room below street-level. Even if there hadn't been a rusty brass plaque labeling the 'The Cathedral Close,' Sydney would have known this was the place, just from the intoxicating, sickly scent.

'I'm imagining this isn't going to resemble a Sunday stroll around Canterbury cathedral close,' observed Nigel.

'I doubt it, Nigel,' she whispered. 'I think we might just find your opium eaters down here!'

Nigel nodded in silent, shocked agreement, and followed her down the steps. Despite his quips, he hadn't expected a real opium den. Being with Sydney Carraway was like living a wild, dark - and wonderful - dream.

…………………………

21st-century: City of London, near Fleet Street.

'I've got to hand it to you Nigel, you're quite right. There's nobody about and even Starbucks is shut!'

Sydney and Nigel had walked into the city from their hotel in Bloomsbury, avoiding the crowds in the West End and the clusters of tourists around St Paul's. It was a lovely, bright, clear autumn morning, but the historic City of London was empty.

'I used to come here by myself on a Saturday, when I still lived in London,' confessed Nigel. 'It was wonderful: admiring the Wren churches, the pockets of roman ruins, and the timber framed mediaeval houses that survived the fire of 1666 and the Blitz. Quietness and history: paradise!'

Sydney laughed. 'Did you do everything by yourself, Nigel?'

'Of course not,' he retorted quickly. 'I'm a sociable enough guy, aren't I? Anyway, believe it or not, it was Preston who first brought down here on a Saturday. I was too young to come by myself. It was a kind of birthday outing. It would have been a wonderful treat….'

Nigel trailed off.

'Let me guess: did you argue?'

Nigel cringed. 'I have no recollection what it was about now… but I do remember Preston threatening to throw me off the gallery at the top of St Pauls! On my birthday…ah, he was always so wonderfully brotherly.'

Sydney raised her eyes. 'Christ, you two! You've got so much in common, why can't you just get over it? Whatever it is that bugs you both. I admit, Preston can be obnoxious, but you should count yourself lucky to have a brother. Mom and Dad were great, but I always wanted a sibling when I was growing up.'

'You wouldn't have wanted Preston. You said it yourself: he's obnoxious!'

'There must have been good times, Nigel,' coaxed Sydney.

'A few,' he muttered, staring down at his the boots as they trampled over the cobbles.

They had now turned off the main thoroughfare, and were making their way up Manchester Street, which led to Dean Court and the address they were heading for. They were about to turn into Dean Court, when Nigel placed a deterring hand on Sydney's arm.

'We shouldn't go up there.'

'Why?' asked Sydney, uncharacteristically jumping at her assistant's sudden move. She wondered if it was Nigel's odd behaviour, or something else, which had just made her heart miss a beat.

'I don't know…just a feeling. I don't remember coming here before on my walks around the city; the buildings are early Victorian tenements, they wouldn't really interest me so much. But still it seems strangely… '

'…familiar.' Sydney finished his sentence.

'Déjà vu,' she said under her breath. 'Like in the cave.'

She turned to Nigel.

'You're right. My gut's telling me something's 'off,' as well. I don't know what - maybe somebody is waiting to jump out on us? You stay here while I see if everything is clear.'

'Right,' said Nigel. 'I'll keep watch, and check nobody's been following.'

Sydney pulled a knife from her leather boot, and rounded the corner into Dean Court. Nobody was there. Some of the high Victorian tenements had been replaced by modern buildingsm, and she hoped the address they were heading for was one of those which survived the war.

She took several cautious step up the silent street, and was about to call Nigel, when a large Mercedes screamed around the bend at opposite end of the street. Six large, sharp-suited men ran out of the basement of one of the older tenement buildings.

'Oh crap,' thought Sydney, and wheeled around, ready to run back towards her assistant.

Nigel saw a car tear past him, and cried out:

'Syd…watch out!' Then he felt a thudding pain in the back of his head, and everything went black.

A second after Syd heard the call, the second Mercedes screeched towards her, braking sharply and blocking her way. Three further men piled out.

'Run, Nigel…go!' shouted Syd, unable to see this was already impossible. She raised her knife, ready to give as good as she got. She was desperately outnumbered.

A large, sandy-blond haired man with a rugged, weather-worn face, emerged up the steps from a basement tenement. He clapped his hands slowly.

'Fabrice Deviega,' spat Sydney. 'I should have known.'

'This is interesting, isn't it Miss Fox? I have you followed through London to lead me to the Diamond Ruby, and instead you walked straight to my London offices. Tell me why?'

'Damn,' thought Syd, glancing at the number and realising that Deviega had just appeared from the very address they were heading for. 'These are his offices? This is just too weird…'

'You have offices, Deviega?' she snarled out loud. 'The only place you should be operating your business from is jail!'

'Ah…yes. But I'm afraid it's you who's going to be a little detained. Until you find me the ruby, that is… now would you step inside, Miss Fox?'

Deviega graciously gestured that Sydney should make her way down the steps.

'I'm sure it would be quite a party, Deviega, but I think I'll pass!'

Syd swerved into a soaring kick that laid the henchman to her right flat on his back on the cobbles. As she brandished her blade threateningly, however, she was stopped in her flow by the ominous click of a gun barrel. In the corner of her eye, she could see the weapon pointed straight at her head.

'I'm afraid your martial prowess is far too well known for me not to take certain precautions. Let's not make this any harder than it needs to be, eh, Sydney?

Sydney snarled, but relinquished her knife to one of the suited men and started towards the steps.

Deviega looked at the three henchmen who were standing by their menacing-looking Mercedes. 'Did you get Bailey?'

'Yup,' answered one. 'Molly got him. He's out cold.' Sydney's heart sank: Nigel hadn't got away.

'Bring him in then, you fool!' said Deviega.

Two of the men went to retrieve Nigel from where he lay on the pavement. Before they could lay hands on him, however, a helmeted policeman rounded the corner of Manchester Street from the main thoroughfare.

He saw the men, a ginger-haired woman, the car, and a prone body. He knew there was trouble: 'Hold it there!' He barked into his radio for backup, and sprinted up the street.

The men, and Molly Gages, panicked at the consequences of giving away Deviega's hiding place and of being caught red-handed at the scene of a crime. They piled into the car and sped off

The policeman thundered up as they vanished into the next street. 'I need an ambulance. I've got an unconscious man – Caucasian, late 20's, well-dressed - corner of Dean Court and Manchester Street. The attackers headed off in an 04 registration Mercedes.'

He knelt down and checked Nigel's pulse and breathing. His vitals were fine but, slumped on his side as he was, the policemen could see blood matted in his hair. He shifted the supposed mugging victim into the recovery position, and rummaged into his rucksack, looking for identity.

'It's strange the robbers never grabbed the bag,' pondered the policeman, wondering if this had been an attempted kidnapping. He pulled out Nigel's dark red British passport.

'Ah,' thought the policemen, as he heard the siren of the approaching ambulance. 'At least we're not going to have difficulty placing you.'

He opened the passport and read the details: 'Nigel Bailey, aged 28. Damn. Your address is in the U.S? Tricky. Oh no, here we are: next of kin - Preston Bailey, address: ooh, Hampstead. Posh postcode! Maybe I should send you straight to the private hospital, eh lad?'

…………………………..

1875: 'The Cathedral Close Club' .

Anger swelled in Sydney's breast as she stepped through the door of the basement club.

'How dare he invite me here,' she seethed. She had expected a den of vice, but this was the lowest of the low. De Veleye knew she was the daughter of a potentially lucrative contact, but he obviously also considered he to be something else: he thought she was like him. This notion thrust her temper to boiling point. But she was aware she had to master it.

It wasn't the sort of place where one could afford lose control.

Nigel drank in the sights and sounds with wide eyes. In the confined, smoky room were at least two dozen people. The men, some in expensive suits, some in the uniforms of sailors in port, others in little more than rags, were draped across settees and chaises-longues. Several were deeply asleep, while others had eyelids hovering half closed. They snored, hiccupped or moaned softly: the collective effect was pathetically haunting. The women, adorned with gaudy makeup, unkempt ringlets, faded lace ruffles and feathers, lay and hovered around. Most were as drowsy and desolate as the men.

On one side, painted directly on a white, wooden-panelled wall was a crude representation of an exotic, Eastern landscape. Brightly coloured birds, scantily clad beauties and strangely shaped trees, intersected with English rolling hills. Sydney sneered derisively: the artist had obviously never left Britain and knew only of the so-called 'Orient' from Imperial fantasies and prejudice.

'My God, Sydney,' hissed Nigel. 'Real opium eaters?'

'They sure are, Nigel,' whispered Sydney. 'I pity them, poor fools. We'd better keep on our guard, though. Some people in here might not be so dead to the world.'

She lifted aside some shabby, scarlet hangings that ran right down one side of the room. As expected, behind them was another, more exclusive space.

'Miss Carraway. My dear friend! I've been expecting you!'

'Damn,' thought Sydney. 'I hoped you'd be comatose by now.'

De Veleye showed he was capable of rising from his settee to greet her, despite the brandy glass in one hand and the long, scooped pipe in the other.

'I'm not your dear friend,' spat Sydney. 'How dare you invite me to somewhere like this? I'm hardly going to recommend you to my father now, am I?'

Her nemesis laughed. 'Now come and sit down by me, and we can find out just what we can offer each other.' He glanced disdainfully at Nigel, hovering uncertainly at Sydney's shoulder and, seeing his state of undress, chuckled again.

'Does your young friend usually enter respectable institutions without any shoes on?'

Sydney's glare could have blasted through granite. 'That was the fault of your welcoming party, De Veleye. But don't worry…it'll be a pound of flesh I'll be taking back from you.'

De Veleye took a long puff on his pipe, and lay back on his couch, revelling in the musky air. 'I never asked anybody to take his clothes, my dear. I merely sent you a warning shot – beautiful women like you should not take risks in the London fog. I wanted you in good condition… for business.'

'You wanted me shaken, De Veleye. It didn't work.' Sydney turned to Nigel. 'I'm going to speak to him alone, see if I can get anything out of him,' she whispered. 'I'm not holding out hope for success. Our best bet is still to wait until they are all asleep - it won't be long at this rate.'

'Good plan,' returned Nigel. 'What shall I do?'

'Go and wait in the other room,' said Sydney, not wishing Nigel to witness any more unpleasantness between her and De Veleye. 'Don't talk to anyone. Don't touch anything. Keep your eyes open.'

Nigel slipped back through the curtains as Sydney went to work on De Veleye.

Once back in the main court of the opium den, Nigel realised that the turgid atmosphere was making him incredibly warm and sleepy. He was grateful that he had no jacket to encumber him, and undid his high-buttoned collar and necktie.

He was just wondering if flopping down on a vacant settee would fit into his remit of 'doing nothing,' when he felt a tepid hand encircle his wrist.

He turned to meet a pair of glassy, green eyes, freckled and finely lined skin, and a cascading mass of ginger ringlets.

'My, you are a sweet little thing.' The voice was husky, the brogue was Irish.

'I beg your pardon, Madam?' Nigel was unsure how to respond to such a greeting. He offered a handshake.

'Nigel Finchley. Very pleased to meet you, I'm sure.'

Nigel squeaked in alarm as the woman pressed the back of his hand to moist, voluptuous lips.

'Goodness, that's rather singular!'

The woman laughed. 'You're rather singular, my pretty.' The tone was mocking, and Nigel felt very uneasy.

'Wouldn't the young gentleman like to sit down?'

'The young gentleman would very much like to sit down,' thought Nigel. He couldn't conceive that even tropical heat could be more intoxicating than the air in that room.

'Yes please.'

She led him, still clutching his hand, to an empty settee. Nigel perched awkwardly on the edge, wondering if he ought to go and find Sydney.

His indecision was short-lived. In an instant, the woman had pinned him into a reclining position and was undoing the buttons of his waistcoat with practiced skill.

'Oh my goodness!' yelped Nigel, as his eyes clamped down upon her heaving bosoms. 'I'd rather leave that on for now, if you wouldn't mind.'

The woman cackled, and started undoing his undershirt. Nigel tried to stop her, but she slapped his hand away and waggled a finger before returning to her work.

'You never even told me your name,' asked Nigel meekly, calming himself with deep breaths and hoping that a change of subject might leave him in possession of at least some clothes.

'I'm Molly,' said the girl with a broad, painted grin. 'If you're a good boy, I might just be able to help you… and the fine lady.'

She leaned in close, so her rouged lips were on the verge of brushing against his. 'I know where your ruby is, my pretty.'

'You do?' gasped Nigel.

The grin returned. 'I do. What's it worth?'

'The ruby? I'm terribly sorry, but I haven't got a clue what its worth in monetary terms. It means a great deal to my friend, though.'

'She's a rich woman, isn't she?'

'I suppose she is,' panted Nigel, inconclusively.

Molly had finished her work on 'loosening' Nigel's clothing, and now handed him a large bottle of gin. Flustered by his breathless discomfort and state of dishabille, he downed a large gulp. He flinched as it kicked like a donkey.

Combined with torpid aromas of the opium, the effects of the alcohol swiftly counteracted his tension. He didn't protest as Molly's hands wandered around the back of his trousers and inside his now open shirt. On the contrary, he smiled and thought her springy, ginger curls rather magnificent. He wondered if it would be acceptable to touch them.

'Now where does the young gentleman keep his valuables,' thought Molly, predatorily. If she was lucky, she could get away with robbery and selling her information…

On its journey towards his waistcoat pocket, her hand rested momentarily on Nigel's chest, incidentally absorbing the rhythm of his heart. She started. The impetuous beat was unusual, yet familiar. Her cold eyes betrayed a flicker of tenderness.

She pulled shut his shirt, and trailed a finger from the top of his brow, which was beaded with sweat, down the side of his cheek.

'You remind me of somebody.' Her voice was querulous. 'Somebody I loved… somebody who cared for me…somebody I lost.'

'I'm sorry,' mumbled Nigel, taking another swig of the gin.

'So am I, my sweet,' replied the prostitute, her head turned away as she choked back unbidden tears. 'So am I…'

Nigel wondered what was wrong. He hadn't a clue what one said to a 'lady of the night' in these circumstances. He was relieved when Molly twisted back towards him. Her smile was now benign: stealing was far from her mind. He started to address her, but she 'shushed' him with a finger to his lips.

'Just you keep quiet and relax, Nigel Finchley,' she drawled. 'Now…if you can promise me that your fine lady will pay well, I'll tell you where the Ruby is hidden.'

……………………………

Back on the other side of the curtain, Sydney had placed herself down on De Veleye's settee at a respectable distance from the large, sprawling male.

De Veleye instantly moved towards her, and offered a brandy and a pipe, both of which she refused.

'Indulge me, Sydney,' he drawled. 'Indulge yourself! You and I are so alike…in our business and our pleasure. We are both interested in making your father more money…and in acquiring the world's most beautiful relics.'

Sydney was repulsed. 'You and I are nothing alike. I love my father, but his business is his own. And I retrieve relics because I am fascinated by the past and to redress a balance: these days, I've found that the most ancient and priceless artifacts are falling into the unworthy hands of rich, white men - like you, De Veleye. And I will get that ruby back.'

'Ah, Sydney…that's my girl. I just love that fire in your eyes. Surely we share one thing: passion!' He edged closer, sneering rakishly as he lifted a meaty paw towards her shimmering locks.

'Ugh!' Sydney pushed him away and rose from her seat. De Veleye waved his hand at her dismissively – fortunately, the alcohol and narcotics were starting to overcome him. It was time to get busy and start snooping around this place. There had to be several adjoining basement rooms. She had a hunch he was taunting her by hiding the relic right under her nose.

Sydney rose, straightened her hair and clothing, and went to seek Nigel and the ruby.

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