Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to DanaanB, Analena, angharrabit, piewacket, TheHeadphoneGirl, fireelfmaiden, Poodle warriors, Zoey Lamoureaux, thedragonaunt, Katya Jade, Saskiamq, MizJoely, alyxoxd and shazzykins. And now, onwards...

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: BOTHERATION

Anthea floats in, a cloud of pale blue silk and French perfume, her hair up, her eyes hidden behind blue-tinted glasses.

She's so lovely she makes Mycroft stare on general principles, something he hasn't done since he was naught but a young, green boy.

He finds this realisation ever so slightly mortifying.

Without standing on ceremony she smiles flirtatiously at him, sits. Takes off her ridiculous little spectacles and puts them away. She also takes off her gloves.

With a small smile she nods to Jenkins in thanks for pouring her coffee and Mycroft's tea before gesturing tersely for the servant to leave.

The young footman's eyes flicker to Mycroft in question and she clucks her tongue.

"He'll be quite safe in my presence, I assure you," she says. She sounds amused. "Now run along, that little shop girl you're keeping company with won't appreciate you making her wait outside on her day off."

And she reaches into her reticule, pulls out a large, silver penny.

She tucks it coquettishly into the footman's pocket, getting rather closer than Mycroft feels is strictly necessary to accomplish her task.

"Buy her something sweet from me, there's a good chap, and leave myself and your master to handle our own affairs," she says before making a shooing motion, ignoring the young man's stammered protestations.

Recollecting himself and his usual role as Older Prude and General Voice of Reason, Mycroft rolls his eyes and nods. Gestures for the footman to leave.

This the boy does with remarkable alacrity.

The door to the small parlour closes leaving Mycroft and Anthea staring at one another, the latter amused, the former (if possible) even more mortified.

Silence stretches out, each of them staring at one another, before Anthea opens her bag again, takes out a badly-crumpled newspaper. It's The Daily Inquisitor.

Of course, he thinks, of course it's The Daily Inquisitor.

"So, darling," she says gamely. "Where were you thinking of holding the ceremony?"

Mycroft opens his mouth to answer her and for quite the first time in his career, he finds there are no convenient lines forthcoming.

Drat.

Meanwhile,

Magnusson licks his lips, gestures to the seat before him.

It is at this precise moment that Sir Henry Knight realises- The man makes his flesh crawl.

"I'd say welcome, Sir Henry," he drawls, "but since I know why you're here, I doubt you'd appreciate the sentiment."

Instead he gestures to the tray his servants had set out. There are cakes. Scones. Tiny sandwiches.

It all looks surreally appetising.

"Tea?" Magnusson asks silkily. "Coffee? I know how you British love your hot beverages."

Henry shakes his head sharply, unwilling to feign enjoyment of this visit. Good manners towards one's host may be expected but he's not sure he could deliver even an approximation of them right now.

Instead he takes the seat offered, his gaze fastened on Magnusson. He may not, as a rule, be an intimidating person but he is rather bigger than the newspaper magnate and he feels grateful for that, right at the minute. So-

"I don't know how these matters usually go," he says pointedly, "but hadn't you better start making your threats? I mean, that's why I'm here, isn't it?"

And he gestures to the note Magnusson's man sent him last night. The one which drew him from Sal- Ahem, from Ms. Donovan's bedside. In it the man before him suggests that he has information, information which would result in Ms. Donovan's good name being damaged, and being damaged though her association with Henry, specifically.

The young engineer will not permit that to happen.

Ms. Donovan's reputation may have no champion-beyond Molly- within her own class, but he is more than happy to defend it within his.

His expression must say as much because Magnusson's smile widens. "I would say you're here because you have rather poor taste in women, Sir Henry," he retorts jovially. "That and the fact the you English have a rather salacious interest in gossip, one which has made me very, very rich."

He smiles jovially as he says the words, the expression making him look rather… wolfish. Predatory. Henry doesn't like that at all.

He is not, however, going to be bullied by it.

"I have no idea what you mean," he counters stiffly. "There's nothing scandalous or gossip-worthy about my association with Ms. Donovan. She works in a medical clinic in Whitechapel; Philanthropy is my family's passion, and given that it's not surprising I took an interest in her work. An interest. I might add, encouraged by Ms. Donovan's benefactress, the respectable heiress Margaret Hooper-"

"Margaret Holmes, now," Magnusson says, speaking over him. Henry hears a touch of chagrin in his voice. "She got married to that unbearable Bohemian just last night, didn't she? So I suspect her respectable days may be behind her."

Henry inclines his head. "She and Mr. Holmes will make a fine pair, I'm sure you'd agree."

"Indeed." Magnusson's eyes narrow. "I'm sure they will. They're rather well suited, perhaps painfully so." His gaze flicks up to Henry, glee moving into its depths now. "But be that as it may, what of you and Sally?" he asks innocently. "Do you two make a fine pair?"

Henry stiffens in affront at the sheer… presumption in his tone and he chortles.

Again it occurs to the young engineer that this man makes his skin crawl.

"Or do you in fact make a disgraceful duo?" Magnusson continues silkily. "A woman of her low class and morals, paired with a peer of wealth and privilege like yourself?"

And he grins, his enjoyment becoming obvious as Henry tries to rein in what is usually his rather placid temper.

He is irritatingly aware that of his lack of success in that endeavour.

"After all," Magnusson is saying gloatingly, "that is what everyone's going to ask, were I to publish the information I have. They would ponder what skills and enticements so lowborn a creature could have brought to bear in ensnaring a respectable man, what appetites lurk under that placid surface which so many have applauded that respectable man for possessing."

He leans forward, his eyes alight.

Henry feels pierced by his gaze.

"And the conclusion they will come to- the conclusion they always come to- is that you're a normal, red-blooded man who simply couldn't resist a little whoring when the opportunity presented itself," Magnusson says. "They'll assume that you're just like every other good-for-nothing little toff they read about in the papers, a hypocrite like the rest."

He grins.

"I mean, nobody will blame you, of course. You'd know she's a filthy good tup, you can tell as much just by looking at her-"

Rage sparks through Henry like fire through kindling.

"Take. That. BACK. Now," he snaps, his voice so loud it bounces off the walls and Magnusson laughs.

The bastard actually laughs.

Henry's never been the loutish or aggressive sort but he almost doesn't recognise himself, he feels so angry. Just as he almost doesn't recognise for a moment that he's gotten to his feet, that he's leaning over Magnusson's desk as he brings both fists down on the polished, dark wood. He's breathing hard too, trying desperately to keep a hold of his temper whilst the other man stares at him in cool, collected amusement-

"Make me," Magnusson says quietly. His laughter has stopped. "Make me take it back, since school-room tantrums seem to be your forte, Sir Henry."

And he too stands, leans into Knight.

His demeanour is utterly, completely unfazed- Arctic, for all his affable smile.

The silence stretches out as he stares, Henry painfully aware he doesn't have an answer for him.

Still holding Knight's gaze he opens a folder by his elbow, takes out and tosses a set of photographs careless in his face. The engineer catches them easily, looks at them.

What he sees makes him blush.

For in the photographs he leans over Ms. Donovan and presses that scandalous, instantly-regretted kiss to her forehead. Of course their chaperone, Ms. Morstan, is nowhere to be seen. Her eyes are closed and she looks- She looks like she's inebriated. Unaware.

But that's not the worst of it.

For the look on his face is unmistakeable, lustful, and Henry feels a sliver of shame at how obvious his appetites appear in that moment. He shakes his head with the thought, disgusted with himself, disgusted with his behaviour; Were Ms. Donovan to see his conduct she might well shoot him and he's willing to allow that he might well let her. All his life he has fought to be a gentleman, to match his behaviour to that title, so rarely descriptive of his fellows-

And one moment of weakness appears to be all that's necessary to wash such good intentions away.

Silence stretches out again, tense as a cello string. When he looks up at Magnusson he can see knowledge there, knowledge that the newspaper man has him right where he wants him. Were he to publish this Henry's reputation might take a small knock- Or more likely it would soar.

He'd be just another clever little rich boy, getting himself acquainted with the pleasures of the flesh.

The person who wouldn't survive would be Sally. The person who would bear the brunt would, undoubtedly, be she. Sally who risks her neck to defend Molly Hooper and her clinic. Sally, who'd pushed him out of the way of a bullet last night and been pierced herself. Sally, who he finds himself thinking more of than he ever has for another woman-

Sally would be utterly ruined by this, he has no doubt of it, and the thought makes him a little sick.

"Ah," Magnusson says brightly. "I see you understand my point at last."

He gestures for Henry to take a seat.

He's tempted to refuse but in the en, Knight knows that he had no choice in this. If Sally should ever wish to marry, or find a respectable trade, or even live in peace, then this photograph would destroy her prospects completely. The consequences for misbehaviour are, he knows, far more serious for those in her class than those in his. Given that lethal sense of pride she has, it might even break her, and he cannot- will not- have such a thing on his conscience. He will not make her pay for a moment's weakness on his part.

So he squares his shoulders. Sits back down.

He feels revulsion bubble up through him, helplessness, but he forces himself to say it.

"Fine," he bites out tersely. "Then I rather think we should discuss terms, Mr. Magnusson, don't you?"

He gestures to the photographs.

"After all, you already appear to have me," he says. "Tell me what you want to do with me."

The bastard looks at him, his eyes alight and fierce, almost feral. This time is smile is genuine, and it shakes Knight to his core.

"My dear Sir Henry," he murmurs, "I was hoping you'd say that-"

And with those words Sir Henry Knight elects to sell his soul.