Victoria awoke Wednesday to Beckett sitting on her bed, staring at her intently. Once she had blearily blinked at him once or twice, she sat up with a gasp and swore, "Bloody hell, Cutler, what are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to wake up," he said in amusement. "Happy birthday, my dear."

"Thank you," Victoria said groggily, rubbing her eyes and attempting to tame her wildly displaced blonde curls. "What do you want?"

"Wanting to wish you a happy birthday isn't enough?"

"Not for you, it isn't. If you're visiting me you must want something."

Beckett eyed her none-too-chastely. "There are a great deal of things I want from you," he said in a low voice. He shook his head as though to clear whatever thought he'd had from his mind. "I'm here, however, to claim my answer."

"You'll have it," Victoria sighed. "Just not right now."

Beckett's eyes flashed dangerously. "And why is it that I must wait?" he asked, his anger at these words barely concealed.

"Because I have an elaborate plan established for giving you your answer, and I don't feel you should ruin it by having me tell you now," she said irritably. "Have you no patience?"
"Very little," Beckett replied with equal ire. "As much as I hate to ruin your little plan, Miss Thorne, I'd like to know now what your decision is."

"I'm afraid, my Lord, that you will just have to wait." Victoria stretched, then threw back her covers and leapt from bed. "What time is the masque?" she asked as she walked to her dressing screen. She could feel Beckett's eyes on her as she slipped behind it and removed her chemise.

"Seven," he said after a moment. "Shall I send for your maid?"

"Yes, please."

"MARY!"

The maid hustled in as soon as she was called, carrying two boxes. "The tailor came today," she said quietly. "He brought your masquerade dress and one other. I brought them upstairs for you."

"That poor man!" Victoria cried. "Has he worked constantly on these dresses for the past week?"

"I don't think the guards sent with him would permit him to stop," Beckett said with a small smile. "May I see you in your masquerade dress?"

"Of course… tonight," Victoria retorted cheekily.

Beckett sighed. "The other one, then."

She opened the first box and lifted from it the most beautiful dress of soft, peach-colored silk. It was trimmed in lace and pearls, and had a pair of peach slippers to match. It was without doubt the most beautiful garment Victoria had ever seen. She ran loving fingers over the dress, staring at it in awe. The maid studied her curiously. "Is there something wrong, milady?" she asked.

"No, no! Quite the contrary," she said quickly. "It's just… it's lovely."

"Let's get you dressed, then," the maid said, grabbing a fresh chemise and the other complex parts of Victoria's undergarments. Victoria gasped in pain as Mary pulled her corset ridiculously tight.

"I can't breathe," she gasped, her voice breathy.

"You'll be all right, milady," Mary said certainly.

Victoria grimaced as she sucked in a deep breath. "Easy for you to say," she hissed. "Your corset isn't half as tight as mine."

"You must look perfect today," Mary replied evenly. Victoria had the sense that Mary was enacting some sort of perverse vengeance on her, perhaps for being wealthier or prettier or more privileged. Whatever the reason, Victoria decided at that moment that she despised Mary and that, at the nearest juncture in time, she would be finding herself a new maid.

It took a considerably lengthy period of time, but finally Victoria was fully dressed in the stunning gown. Mary brought her hairbrush, pins, and mirror behind the screen and carefully brushed out and set Victoria's hair. She also brought Victoria the long pearl necklace, which Victoria wrapped several times around her neck. Mary carefully examined her work, and then nodded decisively. "You're finished," she said.

Victoria would have sighed in relief if her corset would have permitted it. Instead, she sucked in another deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen. "Well?" she asked of Beckett, who was reading her diary nonchalantly. "What do you think?"

He looked up reluctantly, as though he didn't care in the slightest how she looked. The instant he took her in, however, his eyes widened in astonishment, and he snapped the diary shut as though it had no importance any longer. "You look stunning," he said sincerely.

"I'd better, for the tightness of this corset," she said, making a face. "I may faint by the end of today."

"I'll be there to catch you," Beckett assured her, still staring at her as though he didn't quite believe her real.

"I don't think that comforts me," Victoria laughed. She grew slightly uneasy when he continued to stare at her. "Shall we go down to breakfast?" she asked lightly.

Beckett blinked, then nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, standing and offering her his arm. She took it and let him lead her down to breakfast.

Mercer was standing outside the dining room door, arms folded in front of him as though he were guarding some sort of treasure. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Victoria. "Nice dress," he said easily, opening the door for her.

"Thank you," Victoria beamed. A compliment from Mercer was rare; Victoria would accept anything he offered her.

Beckett and Victoria ate breakfast in relative peace. He had an array of gifts to offer her, mostly jewelry and ancient artifacts from all over the world. Victoria was amazed at all that he'd given her and accepted everything with a quiet modesty that astonished Beckett. He'd expected only more disdain in return for what he'd lavished on her; instead she offered him shy thanks, blushing prettily. She still spent breakfast bantering with him, firing insults in his direction, but they were all in good humor.

He didn't dare hope that she would accept his proposal, yet the way in which she acted towards him throughout the day encouraged him to think that perhaps she would. He noticed she was wearing his ring – another good sign. And she spent the entire day with him of her own accord. They walked together in the gardens and spent a little time at her cottage, arguing about the merits of Shakespeare's sonnets. When Mercer interrupted them to announce that tea would be served soon, they went back to the house, still arguing passionately with each other.

"… but he was attempting to do something a little different with his sonnets, don't you see?" Victoria was saying.

"No, I don't," Beckett fired back. "They're all the same – ridiculously flowery love poems that the world could do without. The plays are much better."

"I'm not saying they aren't," Victoria said stubbornly, "I'm merely arguing that the sonnets have merit themselves."

"If you want to believe that," Beckett snorted.

"I do," Victoria said with a grin. "And nothing you say can change my mind. If you quoted some such flowery poem to me you might actually gain my heart."

"And to think, a few simple days ago you were advising that I try more intellectual poetry," Beckett laughed, stopping and facing her.

"Poems of love are different than poems of seduction," Victoria started to explain. "The poem you quoted was one focusing merely on physical aspects of a relationship – demanding them, in fact, though the lady was apparently not willing to grant him such favors. Poems of love, rather, are – "

He cut her off, cupping her face in his hands and planting a kiss on her mouth. She went still, returning the kiss despite her surprise. Oddly, it was he who pulled back, studying her intently for signs of repulsion or anger. Instead, her cheeks were aflame, her eyes dropping demurely to the floor. She tucked her lower lip beneath her two front teeth as though biting back a smile, then lifted her lace fan and coyly hid behind it.

He smiled. "I expected a slap for that," he told her.

"You deserve one," she replied, still blushing, "But I'm in too fine a mood to ruin it by blackening yours."

Beckett leaned back against the wall, shaking his head in perplexity. "I've no idea what to think of you, woman," he said in amazement. "Some days it seems all you want is to make my life miserable. Then there are days like today, where it actually seems as though you like me."

"It might all just be a front, you know," she teased.

"Then I wish you'd put up such a front more often," Beckett said. "It would make my life a great deal easier."

"God forbid I make your life easier," Victoria said impishly, grinning wickedly. She lightly slapped him on the arm with her fan and turned from him. "Tea's waiting for us," she said, moving away from him. "I know how you hate to miss your tea…"

Beckett watched her for a moment, studying her in puzzlement. Then he called, "Before we go, I two questions for you… in regards to two objects in your possession."

Victoria turned to him, one brow arched. "Yes?"

Beckett took her in briefly, drinking in her beauty, admiring what he hoped to God would soon be his. "That golden ring I mentioned previously," he said. "You're certain you've no idea where it is?"

Her face noticeably colored at this. "Certain, my Lord," she assured him.

"Strange," Beckett said, "Because Mercer tells me that you snitched it from me when you were eleven years old – a trinket you wished to keep to remind you of your future husband, which is how you thought of me at that point in your life according to Miss Whitlock."

"Damn those two miserable little conspirators!" Victoria cried. "I will never speak to them again!"

"Oh, don't say that," Beckett said, walking to her and taking her hands in his. "Cat, I hear, has a marvelous birthday present for you. After you receive it you can stop speaking to her."

"You make me seem so selfish," Victoria said, refusing to look at him. "All right, I took it. It's in my jewelry box on my dressing table, if you want it back."

"No," Beckett said with a satisfied smirk, "Keep it… as a token of my affections from early days."

"Ha!" Victoria snorted derisively. "You hardly would have looked twice at an eleven year old girl."

"As I recall, you were quite determined to catch my attention – and you did," he said. "Unless I remember incorrectly, you made quite an effort to give your opinion on every business matter your father brought to my attention."

She laughed. "So I did," she murmured.

He tilted her chin up. "Clearly, you've held my attention ever since," he said quietly. He leaned forward and kissed her again, but this time, it was she who pulled back – rather more quickly than the first time.

"You said you had something else to ask me about?" she said softly.

He sighed. "You've been sleeping with this under your pillow," he said, removing a compass from his frock coat pocket.

She drew in a sharp breath, turning bright red. "It's… it… it belonged to Orson," she said finally, head dropping. "I… forgot it was there."

Beckett didn't believe that for a minute. His face darkened at the thought that Orson still occupied a portion of her heart. "You should let him go," he said in a low voice.

"Far easier said than done," she whispered. "Please, give it back…"

His fingers clamped tightly around the article in question. He glared at it, as though he were looking directly into his enemy's face. He flipped open the compass lid and watched as it spun to point directly in front of him, towards Victoria. "A compass is quite an interesting gift for a lover," he said curiously. He turned and started to move away from her; strangely, the needle moved to a different position, still pointing at Victoria. He frowned slightly and turned his back to her. It spun southwards, pointing directly behind him – still at Victoria. "Strange compass," he said, turning back to her. "No matter where I move it points in the same general direction. Is it broken?"

"Maybe," Victoria said, moving closer and coming to stand at his side. "Where's it pointing?"

The needle moved until it was pointing at her again. Beckett stared hard at it, brow furrowed. "At you, apparently," he said. "It moved when you did." He looked at her penetratingly. "What exactly does this compass do?"

Victoria reached out for it, but he pulled it away. "It's just broken," she said quickly. "That's all."

He raised an eyebrow. "You truly are a terrible liar," he said. "What's it do, Tori? Something important, I take it."

She heaved a sigh. "It points to thing you want most in the world," she said. "Can I have it back now?"

His whole face seemed to light with excitement at this development. "Does it, now?" he said, flipping it open again and watching as the arrow moved to her again. "Well, you ought to feel quite special, then."

"I will when you return it to me," she said in frustration. "Please, Cutler, it's mine. I want it back."

"You can have it back, so long as I can see what it is you want most," he said boldly.

She looked sharply at him. She hesitated a long time, but finally gave in. "Very well," she said, holding out her hand.

He returned the compass to her, watching as the arrow spun and pointed –

Directly to him.

They both stared at it in momentary shock. Victoria abruptly turned away from him, walking in a circle to stand directly behind him. He turned to look over her shoulder – and watched as the arrow turned once more, still pointing to him.

"I see," he breathed in her ear, laying his hands at her waist and turning her to face him again.

"Cutler…" she stuttered, plainly still in shock. Apparently she hadn't realized what she wanted any more than he had.

He smirked. "Surprised, are you?" he said.

"Yes," she said faintly, her eyes wide.

He chuckled. "I'm not," he told her – not true, but he couldn't keep himself from saying it. He moved to kiss her again, and did so when she didn't stop him. The intensity built between them, searing him. He slid one hand to the back of her head and pressed her mouth closer to his, pulling her body closer with one arm. She slid her arms around his neck, returning the kiss with a fierce passion he imagined she'd never shared with any other man, save Orson. He might easily have continued far longer, but Victoria jerked back and gasped out, "… can't breathe…!"

His eyes widened, remembering Victoria's earlier exclamation about her corset. He swept her up off the floor and carried her to a couch that he carefully set her upon. He sat next to her and waited for her to recover, watching with a worried frown as she pressed a hand to her stomach. "You may need to loosen your corset for the dance tonight," he noted wryly.

"God, yes," Victoria whimpered. "It bloody hurts…"

He ran his fingers lightly against her cheek in a soothing gesture. She didn't seem to notice, still caught up in breathing as best she could. After they'd been sitting for a few minutes, she seemed to be breathing fairly normally. He was about to suggest they finally go to tea when she spoke.

"Cutler, why do you find it so easy to believe that the compass is… well… magical?" she asked suddenly.

He was taken aback by the question. "I… I've seen many strange things in my time with the Company," he said. "Such objects exist all over the world."

"Do they, indeed?" she said. There was a hint of something dark behind the words. Beckett was about to inquire about her meaning when she stood, turning to him with a sweet and innocent smile. "I believe, my Lord, that your tea is growing cold."

He stood. "I suppose it is," he agreed. He offered her his arm. "I don't suppose you planned to give me your answer any time soon?" he said offhandedly.

She smiled secretly. "Not yet," she said calmly. "Just wait."

Beckett gave her a sidelong glance. "I have waited," he pointed out, "For a very, very long time…"

"You'll just have to wait a little longer," she said shortly, and that ended it.

The day passed pleasantly enough, although Beckett spent the entire day awaiting whatever grandiose plan his (he hoped) future wife intended to enact – but nothing happened. She walked with him again in the gardens, fell asleep on a bench in one of the orchards, and didn't stir until he carried her into the house and set her down on the couch in her library. When he made to leave, she awoke quite suddenly and gasped, "I wasn't asleep!"

"Like hell you weren't," he laughed, coming back into the room. "You've been sleeping for nearly two hours."

"Dear God," Victoria said, standing and critically studying her quite disheveled coiffure. "Why did you let me sleep so long?"

"You looked sweet," he said, "Which, I imagine, only happens when you sleep. I thought I ought to treasure the moment."

"Presumably, my Lord, you'll be sleeping with me every night in the near future," she said as she attempted to replace a loose curl.

"Ah, so you're accepting!" Beckett said triumphantly.

Victoria looked calmly at him. "I believe I said 'presumably,' my Lord," she said, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes narrowed. "Damn you," he growled. "When are you going to give me my answer, wench?"

"Soon, if you cease calling me a wench," Victoria said impertinently. "It's dark out; it must be time for me to prepare for the masque."

"It is," Beckett said with a nod. "Shall I have my answer before the masque?"

"When you see me, you'll know your answer," she said evenly, moving smoothly past him out the door.

"Wait – Victoria!" He made to go after her, but she hurried down the hall and disappeared into her rooms. He frowned and stalked off to his own chambers to prepare for the masque, impatient and even more irritated than before. He was usually very good at waiting, but for this…

Well, he'd simply been waiting too damn long.

Mercer noted Beckett's agitation as he handed Beckett the various parts of his costume, including an elaborate mask designed to resemble a panther. "When's she going to answer you?" Mercer asked as Beckett fiddled in displeasure with the cuffs of his frock coat.

"She says I'll know when I see her costume," he said, frustration edging his tone. "If she's dressed as a pirate, I'm going to hang that miserable bastard Orson from a wall with irons and listen to him scream as I skin him alive."

"You know," Mercer said thoughtfully, "She sent me out to find her a Company flag. Think it had something to do with her costume?"

Beckett stiffened abruptly at this news. "It had better," he said after a moment. "Mercer, did you notice the compass she's had hidden under her pillow."

"I did, sir. Bloody thing's broken, not much use," Mercer said with a derisive snort.

"It's not broken," Beckett said. "It directs whoever holds it towards what that person wants most."

Mercer looked astonished. "Really?" he said. "A useful thing. Is it hers?"

"She told me Orson gave it to her, but I can't imagine that's true," Beckett said contemplatively. "If he had such an object I doubt he'd simply toss it to his lover. It's someone else's; of that I'm certain. In fact, I believe I've seen it before."

"Oh? Where?"

"That's the hell of the matter," Beckett said angrily. "I can't remember. But it looks very familiar. Whoever gave that compass to her is a mutual acquaintance. And for me to have noticed that compass, I must know the person quite well."

"How many pirates are you that familiar with?" Mercer asked dryly. "It must belong to a pirate, after all… a nobleman would hardly pay attention to a compass."

"True," Beckett agreed. "But the only pirate I know well – " His eyes narrowed abruptly. " – is Jack Sparrow," he finished. "That compass belongs to Jack! I've seen it on his belt!"

"Then why does Victoria have it?" Mercer questioned with a frown. "You think Sparrow's made a deal with her?"

"He wouldn't have left her something so valuable if he hadn't," Beckett said, gritting his teeth. "Bloody hell… I may yet kill that woman…"

"You won't," Mercer said certainly. "Not yet, at least. You've no proof that she means to betray you."

"What would Jack possibly want with my wife?" Beckett asked himself, ignoring Mercer's comment.

"Most likely what any other man would want with your wife," Mercer said in amusement.

Beckett turned on Mercer with a vicious growl. "If he lays a hand on her, I really will skin him alive!" he snarled.

"Although he doubtlessly finds Victoria attractive, I can't imagine that would be the sole reason he would come to her," Mercer soothed. "He must have some other pressing need."

Beckett laughed bitterly. "A more pressing need than his desires? Jack Sparrow? The only thing more pressing for him is the need to protect himself."

"And what do you have that could protect Jack?" Mercer asked.

Beckett's eyes widened. "Excalibur," he said in a low voice. "He knows about Excalibur. And so does Victoria – just as I'd feared."

He began to pace again, his face troubled. "We have to keep that sword out of her reach," he said finally.

"You don't seriously think she'd still give it to the pirates?" Mercer said incredulously. "After Orson's betrayal, I don't think she wants anything to do with them."

"We can only hope," Beckett sighed. "I suppose I shall have to wait until I receive her answer to know…" He stopped abruptly and glanced at the clock. "Bloody hell!" he swore. He grabbed his mask from the table and strode rapidly towards the door. He hurled it open – and found, much to his surprise, a very astonished-looking Catherine Whitlock.

"Miss Whitlock!" he said sharply. "Have you been eavesdropping?"

She looked genuinely hurt by this insinuation. "Of course not!" she cried. "I was just… looking for Victoria."

"A bit bloody early, aren't you?" he said crossly. "I haven't even seen her yet. Let me look at her costume first and then I'll bring her to you. Mercer can keep you company."

If Beckett hadn't been so distracted, he would have noticed the smile that broke across Catherine's face. "That will be fine, my Lord," she said, dropping an elegant curtsy. "Take your time."

"I intend to," he said absently, turning and hurrying down the hall without another word.

Catherine looked after him, perplexed, until Mercer spoke. "Looking for Victoria?" he repeated, cocking an eyebrow at her.

She blushed. "I might have been," she said with a huff.

"Were you?"

"Well… no," she confessed, blushing even more. "I… ah… wanted to show you my costume." She stepped back and turned in a circle so Mercer could admire the beautiful blue and green dress complete with a tail full of real peacock feathers.

"You… you look lovely," he said awkwardly. He was not remotely used to complimenting a woman, and the words felt strange on his tongue.

She beamed. "Thank you," she said, holding up her mask.

"It doesn't suit you, though," he said, frowning thoughtfully.

She looked crestfallen. "You don't think so?" she said sadly.

Mercer realized he'd said something stupid. "I mean, it… it's just peacocks usually represent vanity," he said, stumbling over his words. "And… well… you're just… you're not vain at all. Even though you'd have every right to be. If…" He trailed off into embarrassed silence, mentally berating himself for even opening his mouth.

She smiled sweetly, understanding what he meant despite the clumsy way in which he'd said it. "Thank you," she said softly. After a moment of awkward silence, she asked, "Are you coming to the ball?"

"No," he said fervently. "No, masquerades and the like are not places for someone of my rank and personality."

Catherine looked surprisingly sad to hear this. "Oh," she said quietly, looking down.

Suddenly Mercer wished he was going. "I mean, I could go," he said hurriedly. "Beckett told me if I wanted to I could come. I just… it's not a place for a mere clerk. And I don't have a costume. But it sounds… quite extraordinary."

"You could at least sit in the balcony above the dance floor," Catherine suggested cautiously. "That way you could… ah… see what everyone's doing, but not be seen."

Mercer nodded quickly. "Yes," he said. "I could do that."

"You should," Catherine advised. "It will be quite the spectacle."

"I'll be there," he assured her.

Her face lit up at this. "Wonderful!" she said. "Maybe I'll come up."

"You'll be too busy dancing with some rich suitor," Mercer said, a note of envy creeping into his voice despite his best efforts to keep it out.

Her smile was mysterious as she turned away. "If I choose," she said airily. "But I might prefer to sit instead. It does get so hot in those ballrooms… Good evening, Mr. Mercer."

"Evening, Miss Whitlock," he said, bowing slightly to her. "Shall I tell Miss Thorne you called on her?"

"No," she said, waving a hand. "She doesn't need to know."

"As you wish, Miss Whitlock," he said with another small bow.

She paused on the stairs. "It's Cat, Mr. Mercer," she said, glancing significantly at him over her shoulder.

He flushed. "It's David… Cat," he said quietly.

She smiled. "Good evening, David," she said. She hesitated, then turned and rushed down the stairs, hurrying towards the ballroom.

Mercer watched her go, then shook his head and muttered, "What the hell just happened?"

He didn't give himself time to ponder the answer. He turned and strode rapidly in the direction of the balcony. The ball might be quite interesting, after all…

Beckett knocked lightly on Victoria's door, doing his best not to fidget. Damn the wench for making him so nervous. Damn her for making him wait so long. Damn her for being so stubborn… and so beautiful…

The door opened, but it was the maid who answered. "Mary," Beckett said, keeping his voice carefully controlled. "Where's Victoria?"

"Here," he heard her voice call from one of her adjoining rooms. "I'll be out in a minute."

"I'm coming in," he called back.

"No!" she said sharply. "You can't see it until it's finished!"

"Like hell I can't!" Beckett retorted, pushing past Mary and moving towards Victoria's voice. "I am going to come in, right now, and you aren't going to –!"

His words were cut off when the door flew open and Victoria stormed out, hands on her hips. "Damn you and your natural impatience!" she exclaimed, glaring at him.

He, however, wasn't looking at her face. He was staring at her costume, a slow smile growing.

The dress was, essentially, a map of the world, with England decorating the bodice of the dress and the rest of the continents circling beneath it on the skirt. The dress was trimmed with pearls and jewels from all over the world – items that trading companies like East India almost always carried back with them. A long cape hung from the back – the East India Trading Company flag. To top off the ensemble, Victoria carried a wooden mask in her hand, carved, apparently, from the wood usually used to crate and ship the Company's cargo. Written on the mask in small, delicate lettering, were the words, "Property of," and a picture of the Company's symbol.

"Property of the East India Trading Company, my dear?" he said with a characteristic smirk.

"Isn't all the world their property, my Lord?" she replied softly.

"Are you?" he asked, staring intently into her eyes.

She bit her lip, drew in a deep breath, and nodded.

He smiled brilliantly, swept her off the floor, and kissed her fiercely. This unusual display of emotion left the maid gaping in astonishment as they broke apart, Victoria giggling and Beckett looking nearly ecstatic. "I take it you're pleased," Victoria laughed.

"'Pleased' is too mild a word," Beckett replied with a grin. "I will be announcing our engagement tonight."

"I assumed as much," she said, reaching up to pat her hair carefully into place. "You wouldn't give up such a chance to flaunt the wealth you've gained."

"Neither would you, if you'd worked as hard as I have," he told her.

"I have worked as hard as you," Victoria fired back. "I've merely been working against what you want."

"Unfortunate," he said. He tilted his head to one side, frowning slightly. "What made you change your mind?" he asked.

"A lot of things," she said, moving away from him. He caught her hand before she could walk away completely and pulled her back. She looked at him in irritation. "Can we discuss this later?" she requested. "I hear guests downstairs."

"Ah, yes," Beckett sighed. "I forgot how late we were. Very well, I'll visit you before you go to sleep tonight."

Victoria nodded shortly, accepted his arm when offered it, and permitted him to lead her out and to the ballroom.

Mary watched them go, then turned and hurtled towards the kitchens. This the other servants needed to hear…