Illya Kuryakin seemed relaxed behind the wheel of the town car, but he was, in fact, very focused. These narrow British country roads were quaint and picturesque, but the hedgerow was a concern. Anything could pop out at a moment's notice. He wasn't just worried about THRUSH, but also any wild or barnyard animals that might scurry in front of them. He kept his speed down and his attention heightened just in case. He was sure his passengers would appreciate not having to watch him scrape something off their hood.

Happily, he didn't have to worry about keeping up his end of any conversation. Napoleon was handling all of that with his usual aplomb.

"Are you enjoying yourself, ma'am?" Napoleon was in the front seat with his partner, but he sat turned toward the back seat, so he could keep up his side of the discussion. "I'm hoping that you didn't find the flight too tiring."

"I truly am, Mr. Solo. The flight was delightful and I was able to catch a bit of a nap on the way over. I have to admit that Heathrow was a bit of a tangle, but when isn't it? UNCLE was so kind to let us use their plane."

"The advantage of running an international agency, my dear." Mr. Waverly looked like a spring about to escape its housing and run free. Away from the demands of the agency, he seemed a younger man without a care in the world.

"Isn't the countryside lovely?" Mrs. Waverly practically bounced up and down in her seat with excitement. "I can't believe you finally agreed to a holiday with me, Alexander." It had been practically the only way he had to get back into her good graces after his recent health scare. She knew it and Alexander Waverly knew it, not to mention the doctors. Their orders had been exact – a mandatory month away from the pressures of UNCLE or retire.

"Hedgerows could be a bit more groomed. People don't take any pride in their property any longer," he observed as he puffed away at his pipe. "When I was a boy here, these hedges were cut so perfectly you could practically nick your finger and draw blood."

"Now, now, don't fuss, Alexander. The weather is perfect, the birds are singing, now all we need is a handsome highwayman to cut us off and tell us to stand and deliver." She sighed. "Wouldn't that be romantic? Then you could defend my honor."

"I'm afraid that my agents would take matters into their own hands before I could do that. If he was lucky, there would be enough of him left to drag him up in front of the local magistrate."

"That town was large enough to have one, too," Napoleon said. "Odd name, though, Tender Bottom, Upper Bottom and so forth. Where do the Brits come up with these names?"

"As opposed to Greasy Corners, Arkansas, Jackass Flats, Nevada, or Ding Dong, Texas, to name a few," Illya muttered and jumped slightly as Mrs. Waverly laughed and hugged him from the back seat.

"Don't annoy the driver, my dear," Waverly cautioned, noting the Russian's reaction. "Agents can be rather high strung and you should restrain from sudden outbursts of affection."

Illya patted her hand and smiled at her in the rearview mirror. "We are proud to be of service, ma'am."

Just then something burst through the hedgerow in front of them and Illya was all attention, mouth and eyes narrowed. It took him a moment longer to realize it was some sort of riding mower and the person on it was struggling for control. Illya slammed on the brakes and the car stalled in its tracks as the mower wove and danced before them.

"MAVIS! HELP ME!" the rider cried as the mower continued down the road. A young woman ran behind him, clutching her apron.

"Just you hold on, Mr. Humphries, and take your hand off the throttle!"

The riding mower spun around twice in a tight circle and disappeared back through the hole it had created.

For a long moment, they just sat there as the sound of the mower and the frantic shouts disappeared into the distance.

"Now that's something you don't see every day," Napoleon said, deadpan, breaking the silence. He started to chuckle then and Mrs. Waverly joined in, soon followed by her husband.

"Quite so, Mr. Solo. Quite so." Mr. Waverly reset his hat on his head. "They need a sign, "Beware the charging lawn mowers' up there as a warning, just as they do deer."

Only Illya remained solemn and Napoleon leaned closer to him. "Are you all right, Illya?"

"Yes, of course, but, Napoleon…" Illya's brow lowered, a sure sign he was deep in thought. "I think I know that man."

Suddenly Napoleon was all focus, his current assignment in mind. "THRUSH?"

"No, I don't... I think he's the one who tried to sell me a checkered made-to-measure suit a few years ago." Then Illya shook his head. "I must be mistaken. That was in London, and I'm sure you will agree that we are not in London," Illya said, started the car back up and put it into gear.

"Not for a few hundred kilometers, no." Napoleon relaxed a bit. It had obviously just been one of those unexplained incidents they were so familiar with. When someone traveled as much as they did, it was easy to see familiar faces everywhere.

"Not quite the highwayman I was expecting, but that livened things up," Mrs. Waverly said as if Napoleon and Illya had planned it just for her.

"So, where are we headed, Ma'am?" Napoleon asked, resettling in his seat.

"Millstone Manor," Mrs. Waverly answered. "The gentleman I spoke with was delightful and promised us a lovely stay. I forwarded the name on to UNCLE's travel agency and they vetted the site. In fact, there's royalty just over the hill."

That caught Illya's attention. "Royalty?"

"Apparently there is a very active riding community here." Mr. Waverly referred to the brochure he carried. "They have horses at this place and promise you a spot in the hunt if you are so inspired."

"Chasing after something clever and unarmed strikes a bit close to home for me," Napoleon murmured and Illya nodded.

"As long as it's quiet and we attract no attention, it will be just fine in my book." He slowed at a signpost and read, "Millstone Manor."

"That is us," Mrs. Waverly said as they entered the drive and she gasped. "Isn't this lovely?"

They rolled up in front of a stately manor and Napoleon climbed out, opening up Mrs. Waverly's door and offering her an arm. She giggled and took it. Mr. Waverly was soon around to take over. Napoleon bowed and went to the back of the car.

"You're such a gentleman," Illya murmured as he opened the trunk and took out their luggage.

"One must push the envelope now and again," Napoleon said, tipping his head back. "Grand old manor home."

"Imagine what it must be like to live here." Illya looked over as a young woman guided her hunter into his stall. "I wonder if that's one of the staff."

Napoleon appraised the trim figure as she bent over to easily heft up a hay bale and carry it in. "Definitely staff... very attractive staff."

"There's probably a rule about you flirting with them."

Napoleon grinned. "I hope so."

Just then the mower raced by, cutting a zig zag path in the lawn. The man at the wheel had both feet in the air and was holding on for dear life. "HELP!" he cried as it disappeared around the corner of the building.

"I swear I know that man."

"How can you be sure?"

"He wasn't the sort of man you forgot after he measured your inside leg."

The same woman they'd seen in the lane, ran up to them. She wiped her face on the corner of her apron before spotting them. She ran up to them, her face lined with worry. "Excuse me. Have you seen Mr. Humphries?"

Wordlessly, both men pointed in the direction of the path the mower had taken.

"Thanks! Use the brake, Mr. Humphries!" she yelled and raced off in that direction.

"Obviously more staff." Napoleon picked up the two closest suitcases and carried them to the front door. Mr. Waverly was standing there, a bell pull in his hand.

"I didn't even pull it hard," he murmured.

"Never you mind, dear. You just don't know your own strength these days." Mrs. Waverly was busy admiring the flowers as she patted his arm. "These grounds are lovely and I love the swirly pattern on the lawns. It's so freeing from the ridge straight lines you see so often these days."

Illya joined them and pounded on the front door. A stout gentleman opened it and all the blood drained from his face. He looked as if he was about to faint and clutched at the door frame for support.

"Oh my word, not you again!"

"I could say the same thing… Rumbold, wasn't it?" Illya stepped aside "You remember my employer."

"M-m-m-mister Waverly… I didn't connect. Oh, dear…" He looked out over their heads. "You didn't bring along any of those other unfortunate fellows, did you?"

"Alexander, what is he talking about?" Mrs. Waverly turned to face the man, her expression firm.

It took him a moment, then Waverly replied, "The last time we met up with Mr. Rumbold, we discovered that THRUSH had a hideout next door to the department store he worked in."

"Grace Brothers! That was it." Napoleon snapped his fingers. "The suit you sold me shrunk horribly."

"No refunds," Rumbold said, automatically.

"No problem. That suit is long gone."

"You – you- you are our guests?" Rumbold stammered out.

"You are in charge here?" Napoleon asked. The man nodded and Napoleon offered him a suitcase. "Then, yes, we are your guests."

"P-p-p-perfect…" He gestured inward without taking the luggage. "Please come inside, mind the step down."

"I hope the whole trip isn't going to be like this," Illya murmured to Napoleon. He adjusted his load and headed in.

Napoleon watched as the stable hand walked across the driveway, eyeing the sedan. He caught her eye and smiling, nodded politely. Her responding smile blazed a path straight to his…

"Napoleon?" Illya's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you going to join us?"

"Yes, of course."

"Oh, my." Mrs. Waverly clutched her hands to her chest. "Isn't this just incredible? Oh, the flowers…" She stopped at a small table and reached out to touch one of the blooms." Just then she spotted a pair of women, "Excuse me, who arranges your flowers?"

"I am she." The woman drew herself up, her expression just this side of haughty. "I am Mrs. Slocomb."

"You did a lovely job. The monkshood, lavender and campanulas are lovely. I was admiring them as we drove up.

That broke the woman's front and she actually giggled. "Thank you! It's a big job, but they turned out ever so nice."

"'Specially after Mr. Multurd fertilized them and all." Her companion was younger by a few years and Mrs. Slocomb wasn't having her steal any of her thunder.

"That will do, Miss Brahms." The younger woman made a face and walked away. "It's so hard to get good help these days," Mrs. Slocomb said to Mrs. Waverly, who nodded in agreement.

"Perhaps you be able to give me a tour of your gardens, later? We are just checking in now and I think my husband could use a bit of a rest."

"My pleasure," Mrs. Slocomb stopped just short of bowing to her.

"My word, we who are about to die salute you." her husband muttered, looking up the staircase and offered his arm again. "My dear?"

"We do have an elevator," Mrs. Slocomb said, gesturing grandly to an ornately-decorated door.

"Our hero." Mrs. Waverly gave her husband's arm a tug.

"It took them nearly an hour, but they are out." Illya Kuryakin entered the room he was sharing with his partner. "Mr. Waverly has vowed to take the stairs from now on."

"Well say what you will, at least they have decent plumbing here." Napoleon looked up from where he sat on the narrow bed, toweling off his hair. "I wonder how this group managed to get up here from a store in London."

"Apparently when the store owner died, the remaining staff of five learned that their pension had been used to buy this place. It has a working farm attached, so they live here and they run it as an inn to supplement their monthly stipends." Illya stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes.

"How did you find all that out?" His voice was muffled by the towel.

"I asked one of them… Miss Brahms, I think she said her name was while we were getting Mr. and Mrs. Waverly out of the elevator. It's amazing what people will tell you with a bit of a smile and some charm."

"I've been telling you that for years, partner."

"Just because I don't do something, Napoleon, it doesn't mean I haven't heard you. I'm just… selective."

"Mr. Solo?" There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Waverly's voice tunneled its way through the heavy wooden door.

Napoleon stood, walking quickly to the safety of the bathroom and the bedroom immediately filled with steam. "Just a moment."

Illya waited until he was out of sight and then opened it. Billowing white clouds of steam preceded him and Mrs. Waverly laughed. "You know how to make an entrance, Mr. Kuryakin."

"I do my best, but it's hard with Napoleon around. May I help you, ma'am? He's a bit indisposed at the moment."

"Not sick, I trust?"

"Just attending to his toilet in case he bumps into Miss Lovelock again."

"Is that the pretty girl with the horse or the sweet girl with the apron?"

"The first one."

"I suspected as much. The reason I'm here is that I would very much like to stretch my legs after that time in the elevator. Alexander is busy studying the insides of his eyelids and I was hoping for an escort."

Illya offered her his arm. "I would be delighted, ma'am."

Mr. Kuryakin led Mrs. Waverly out the front door. The mower had finally come to a stop in the middle of the drive

"He must have finally run out of fuel," Mrs. Waverly murmured as they passed it.

"Or he figured out how to let go of the gas."

He held her hand as she carefully crossed the rutted farmyard. "It's very rural here, isn't it?"

"The cows have turned it into a bit of a minefield, too." Illya made sure their path avoided the numerous cow pats that littered the ground.

"But you want that! It's good for the garden!" A short gnome of a man shouted as he approached them. Between his overcoat and the hat he wore pulled down over his head, it was hard to detect life within the mass of fabric. "You must be guests at the Manor."

"Yes, Illya Kuryakin and my employer's wife, Mrs. Waverly."

The man spit in his hand, wiped it against his pants and stuck it out. "How do. I'm Morris Multurd, M-U-L-T-U-R-D."

"Are you the gentleman in charge of the farm?"

Morris took his hat off and made an awkwardly stiff bow. "Yes, ma'am. There's been a Multurd here for as long as there's been a Manor." He put his hat back on and grinned mischievously. "And there's a right story there!"

Mrs. Waverly laughed. "You must tell us about it sometime. Now, we mustn't keep you from your tasks."

"Right. There are cows to milk and muck to chuck. I just need to find that girl."

"That sweet girl? She seemed very worried about-" she paused and looked at Illya for help.

"Mr. Humphries," Illya supplied. "She was trying to catch him with the mower."

"She'll have to do a right bit more than that to have him. I'm off."

He walked away, rocking stiffly and Mrs. Waverly watched him go. "He reminds me of someone." The wind whipped up, catching the hem of her dress and flipping it above her knees. "Cheeky devil, Mr. Wind." She shivered and Illya immediately took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. "Are you sure you should do that? Everyone will see that you are armed."

The black holster stood out against the white of Illya's shirt. "Good. Then they will know I am one not to bother."

Geary Poole raised his binoculars and studied the house from his hiding place in a hedgerow. "I'm not seeing anything."

"It's the freaking princess, do you think she's going to parade around her balcony for the world to see. I've been told that who's who and knows what's what has sighted her." Monterey Kerr turned his back to the wind to light a cigarette.

"Are we speaking English? What the hell…?"

"Have you spotted her?"

"Better than that. Remember that little run in we had many years ago at Grace Brothers?"

"How could I forget? It cost me… us a rather serious demotion. Why do you ask?"

Poole handed over his binoculars and Kerr stared through them until he spotted a slender blond man helping an older woman across a field. "That Russian basta-"

"You do remember him!" Poole said, grinning.

"Damn straight I do. What is he doing out here?"

"Let's go find out." Kerr stamped out his cigarette and started walking, but Poole caught his arm.

"Monty, we can't just waltz in there."

"Sure we can. They are at Millstone Manor. It's a hotel. Let's go see if they have an opening."

Napoleon was coming down the stairs with Mr. Waverly close behind him when he saw two men entering. He paused, mostly because it was in his nature to be cautious, but also because of his assignment.

"Something wrong, Mr. Solo?" Waverly tried to see around him.

"I'm not sure just yet. Just a moment, please, sir."

"May I hel—? You! I know who you are! You kidnapped me! Off with you!" Captain Peacock's voice carried up the stairs. He was shouting, but Napoleon had a feeling it was more out of fear than an attempt to warn them.

"Sir, would you mind going back to your room and locking yourself in? Until I get what's going on downstairs settled, I'd rather err on the side of caution."

"But my wife!"

"Is with Illya. She couldn't in safer hands. Sir, just do as I ask, please."

Without another word, Mr. Waverly turned and climbed back up to their floor. It wasn't until Napoleon saw the door close that he moved again, edging his way down.

One of the pair has a gun out and was pointing it in Captain Peacock's general direction.

"I'll ask you again, Sunshine, where are they?"

"Where are who? You haven't asked me anything yet."

"Put it down," Napoleon ordered.

The gunman swung and let off a round in his direction. The bullet dug into the wood paneling behind his head while the newel post offered him some cover.

"Show yourself, Solo, or the old man gets it."

"Old man! I'll have you know-" Peacock started.

"What's going on out here? We heard a shot. YOU!" There was a shriek as Mr. Humphries recognized the pair at the desk and collapsed in a dead faint.

"What did you do?" Mavis Multurd exploded onto the scene and went after the pair with her rolling pin. "You leave Mr. Humphries alone!"

The taller one grabbed and disarmed her easily. "Put it down, Miss, we don't have any beef with you and your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend, we're just sleeping together," Mavis struggled in his grip.

"I knew I liked England for some reason. Come down, Mr. Solo, or I'll start shooting people." He let go two shots and grinned. "Her first."

Napoleon realized he was in a bad situation and set his gun down on the floor, then raised his hands. Illya, where are you?

Illya's head jerked in the direction of the Manor at the sound of gunfire. In the quiet of the country, the sound carried for miles. Mrs. Waverly straightened from her admiration of a rosebush to ask, "Mr. Kuryakin, what was that?"

"Trouble and I'll bet Napoleon is in the middle of it."

"What was that?!" Morris Multurd tromped out of the barn, carrying a basket of eggs.

"Something's happening at the Manor."

"We need to go check it out!" He started in that direction, but Illya caught his arm.

"Just a moment, Mr. Multurd. I think we need a plan first."

"We don't plan here. We does."

"Bear with me, please."

Just then, he saw two older women running towards him or at least running as fast as their high heels and skirts permitted. He recognized them as Mrs. Slocomb and Miss Brahms, from the Manor.

"Mr. Multurd, Mr. Multurd!" Mrs. Slocomb shook her hands in the air as she approached. "There are intruders at the Manor."

"Yeah, we was in the kitchen when it started," Miss Brahms added. "They got Mavis and Mr. Humphries."

"And Captain Peacock and that ever so handsome Mr. Solo." Mrs. Slocomb brought a hand to her heart.

"Figures," Illya muttered. "Mr. Multurd, is there someplace where you can afford sanctuary for these fine ladies?"

"Yea… what?" Mr. Multurd looked suddenly confused. "You mean these two?"

"And Mrs. Waverly. Can you hide them and keep them safe?"

"There's my cottage. It's got a good bolt on the door."

"Excellent! Now there's just one more thing…"

Monterey Kerr and Geary Poole studied the group of people they had bound and sitting in various chairs scattered about the lobby.

"Who are we still missing?" Kerr aimed the gun at Solo

"Besides Kuryakin, he means. We know he's here. We saw him with some old broad."

Rumbold sat up straighter. "You can't call her that. Mrs.-"

"Slocomb isn't a broad," Napoleon interrupted firmly. "You can't slander people like that."

"All I know is that I want to hear Kuryakin screaming for mercy." Kerr chuckled at the mental image. "Not that I'll give him any." His smile was predatory.

"Sorry to barge in while you got your snouts in the trough!" The old man burst into the scene with a shout and both men jumped.

"Who the hell are you?" Poole demanded aiming his weapon in a new direction.

He looked at them up and down critically. Then he spit in his hand and wiped it on his soiled pants before offering it. "I run the place. Morris Multurd. M-U-L-T-U…"

"I don't care!" Kerr shouted, waving his gun about in a very unprofessional manner. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I brung the eggs, and the milk. It's outside cuz it's still in the cow." He gave a rope a tug and in walked a cow. She took one look at everything and immediately pooped. "Well, it t'were. Now it's inside. Sorry Mr. Rumbolds…" He looked around at everyone and shook his head. "Must be nice to have a sit down in the middle of the day. Oh, I brung you something else…" He handed Kerr the basket of eggs and Poole the rope. He started patting his coat. "I gots it in here somewhere." He pulled out a limp rabbit. "Oh, you can use that for tea, Mavis." He handed that to Kerr as well. "She can bring it right up."

"What are you doing? Get out of here! Bring help!" Captain Peacock shouted frantically.

Morris jumped and dropped something behind Solo. "See what you did? I might's hurt this fine gentleman. I'm sorry, sir."

"Not at all."

"Now, what has I looking for?" Multurd continued to pat his pockets.

"I'm warning you, old man." Kerr pointed his weapon at the ceiling and fired. It didn't have much effect on Multurd, but there was an immediate effect on Daisy, the cow. She charged, knocking Kerr into Poole. Both men toppled to the floor and were trampled as the cow ran away. Before they could get to their feet, there was a P-38 pointed in their direction.

"I would advise caution in your next actions." Suddenly Multurd's rustic accent vanished, replaced by a more polished, slightly British one. The hat was removed and the cool blue eyes of Illya Kuryakin were staring at them.

Solo, too, was on his feet, a pistol in his hand. "Slowly, gentlemen, very slowly."

"Where did you get that?" Poole demanded, then groaned at the sound of the approaching sirens. "I hate you, Kuryakin. I really hate you!"

He looked over at Mavis and winked. "You win some and you lose some," he bellowed in Multurd's voice, then returned to his own. "Now, what's for lunch? I'm starving."

Staff and guests sat around the dining room table. Mavis didn't seem to know what to do as a table guest. Illya and Napoleon took over the roles of servers for this last meal together. Illya explained that it was the least they could do to apologize for the bullet holes in everything.

Morris Multurd was in Seventh Heaven, though. He and the Waverlys had become fast friends and rather than insult their guests, the rest of the Millstone Manor kept their opinions to themselves.

"Well, I, for one, am thankful that you were able to get the mower to behave, Mr.… Illya, "Mr. Humphries said. "And the elevator. It hasn't performed this well in years."

"And years and years and years," Multurd added.

"I like to keep busy," Illya said, as he set a plate down in front of the man.

"I have to admit that this is a lovely, lovely stay." Mrs. Waverly was beaming. "I feel truly rested. And I know Alexander has enjoyed it. He hasn't slept this well in years."

Waverly took a pull on his pipe and nodded in agreement. "Except for that momentary blip in the radar, I would rate this a great success. I will be sure to pass along the word to my colleagues."

Jessica Lovelock stared wistfully up at Napoleon as he set down her plate. "Yes, it's been ages since we had such fun. Shame they had to ruin the hunt, though."

"They should have thought of that before attempting to escape from the police."

"Imagine their surprise at suddenly being confronted with a dozen baying hounds and riders."

"At least it wasn't Mrs. Solcomb's pussy this time," Miss Brahms said, blowing on her forkful. "That was a right cock up, that was…"