Chapter Seven

The little cottage in the Highlands was entirely unremarkable. Its two stories of dull quaintness stood on the outskirts of some backwater village, bordered by a white picket fence and harboring a small, picturesque garden at one side. For an agent of the League of Darkness, left to his own devices after having failed in his mission, it was a perfectly unlikely place to go to ground. The Secret Service could well have searched for a hundred years and never found it.

For the self-appointed angel of death who stole into the cottage one night, it took exactly nine days.

The upstairs bedroom was small and uncomfortable. Paneled with dark-stained wood, the narrow space was gloomy and claustrophobic, especially when lit by just one small candle. The effect was increased by the dominance of a massive four-poster bed, hung with heavy dark-green curtains.

Somewhere in the hallway, a clock was chiming midnight. Phileas Fogg sat on a hard wooden chair beside the bed, his chin resting on his hand, as he silently studied the face of its occupant.

In his sleep, Nicol McLean looked as if he could have been someone's grandfather, aged and gentle and wise. His breathing was soft and steady, his face a vision of saintly peace. He was a small man, his wrinkles settling most deeply around his eyes and mouth, crafted by years of mirth.

He was a little man, with a cruel wit and a shrewd mind, who took his pleasure in others' pain.

Phileas thoughtfully flicked his thumb across the blade of the knife in his hand. It was sharp, as McLean's intellect was sharp. He remembered at least a few of the dry, intelligent jokes, the ironic turns of phrase that brought humor to the most mundane remarks. He remembered the twisted smile of indulgence that looked down upon him as he sat drowning in grief and self-hatred, covered in what he thought was the blood of those he loved.

Nicol McLean was an exceptional man. Exceptionally intelligent, and exceptionally evil—a charming old serpent with venom behind his smile. The venom of words, wielded with the precision of the deadliest weapon, poisonous to the mind and soul.

But not before real poisons had weakened Phileas. McLean was a coward, afraid to match his cunning against a strong, clear mind.

He had no thugs and drugs and illusions to hide behind this time.

Still, Phileas would give him a fair chance. Honor demanded that much.

Leaning forward, he reached out, and tapped the flat of the knife blade against McLean's nightshirt-clad chest. The old man stirred, faded blue eyes slowly opening… then growing wide with horror, as his vision focused on the face which leaned close to whisper a deadly promise.

"Do I not say… 'I will be avenged'?"

McLean made a soft, strangled noise… and suddenly clutched at his chest. On instinct Phileas recoiled, poised to defend himself—and watched in astonishment as McLean's frail body was wracked by spasms and choking gasps.

It happened so very swiftly. A final, grotesque sound emerged from the old man's throat, and he fell back against the pillows, his mouth agape and his open eyes unseeing.

Untouched by his would-be avenger, Nicol McLean was dead of a heart attack.

Phileas stared down at him, feeling the floodgates of his rage burst open. McLean had inflicted madness upon him, had threatened the security of his country and the lives of everyone he cared about, and forced him unwittingly to do the same—and now, at the last, had even denied him vengeance. The coward had fled to the ultimate refuge, to a place where Phileas could never touch him, never make him feel any part of the pain he had caused. It was impossible, intolerable, unbearable.

The knife clattered to the floor. With a wordless cry of fury, Phileas reached out to seize McLean's lifeless body, to tear it to pieces with his bare hands.

Surely all men take pleasure in violence, Fogg… It is the nature of the beast.

The remembered words—McLean's words—stayed Phileas' hand. The lost memory, a vision of standing on Castle Banquo's battlement on that chill, misty night of agonies, resurfaced in his mind.

Man is one of the beasts, Fogg, dispute it as one might.

I assure you that my father did not take, and I have never taken, any pleasure in violence.

You're not a monster.

Phileas closed his eyes and breathed deeply, remembering. Truly remembering, letting himself feel and understand without fear. On that morning at Balmoral Castle, with Rebecca's help, he had made the choice on his own to step back from the edge—from the violence McLean himself had instilled in him. From that moment, he was as free of McLean's power as he chose to be.

He had been, and was, master of himself.

Opening his eyes, he looked down at McLean's lifeless figure. His fury was gone. That serpent's tongue could never harm him again.

McLean had died in fear—fear of Phileas, of his vengeance, certainly. But as he leaned a little closer, studying the staring face contorted in terror, he realized McLean's gaze in that final moment had not rested upon him. Those open eyes instead had gazed past Phileas, into something infinitely more frightening and inescapable.

Perhaps a higher justice had claimed him, after all.

"You were wrong," Phileas announced to the body, or to McLean's spirit if it could hear him. "And I have beaten you."

Quietly he picked up his knife, extinguished the candle, and left the room as he had come, through the open window. Balancing on the narrow sill, he reached out to grasp the trellis by which he had ascended, then paused to gaze up and outward. The rain clouds of the evening had been swept away, leaving the sky clear and full of stars.

The night was peaceful again.

With a rueful smile, Phileas swung himself out onto the trellis, and began his descent.

Frustrated and weary, Rebecca threw open the front door of No. 7 Saville Row and trudged inside, with the equally dejected Jules and Passepartout on her heels.

The London townhouse had been a sort of impromptu headquarters in the search for Phileas. Naturally, Jules had once again put off his return to Paris in order to join the search; they had even received the grudging assistance of Sir Jonathan and his resources. Yet the effort remained fruitless after almost eleven days, and Rebecca could feel despair beginning to fray her at the edges.

Perhaps if she'd only listened to Phileas that last day…

Something about the small table by the entryway caught her eye, and she paused. It was one of Phileas' plentiful walking-sticks, which, instead of resting in the stand behind the door where it belonged, had been laid across the table at an angle. For Phileas to have left it out of place when he was here last, and even more so for Passepartout to let it remain there, was highly unusual.

…And then she recognized it

This particular walking-stick, a slender spiral of dark wood with an ornately carved handle, was the one which Phileas had carried at Balmoral—the one that had lain between them on the table, as Rebecca knelt there and convinced him that they were both alive. It was the one she had carried from the room when it was over, and the one which, alone in her cabin on the Aurora, she had clutched to her chest while tears streamed from her eyes.

Now it was here, discreetly pointing the way to the library.

Rebecca's heart gave a sudden leap, and she bolted down the hall. "Jules! Passepartout!"

She couldn't fault them for being confused, but they hurried after her. At the door of the library she paused, her pulse fluttering wildly, then with slow and deliberate care she turned the handle. The door swung open without a sound.

In Phileas' favorite seat a pair of long, neatly crossed legs, clad in perfectly pressed grey trousers, protruded from beneath a snowdrift of crisp newsprint. Slowly her cousin's head bobbed above the paper, one eyebrow arched in a look of almost mischievous impatience.

"Well, it's about time you three showed up—I've been waiting for nearly five hours now. Passepartout? A fresh pot of coffee, if you please."

Passepartout's face shone with a tremendous smile of astonishment and delight. He moved as if to step toward Phileas a few times, then at last clicked his heels together smartly and made a slight bow. "At once, Master!" he sang out, and with a knowing grin to Jules and Rebecca, he bustled off toward the kitchen. Jules had broken into a smile as well, but Rebecca continued to stare.

Some part of her was afraid Phileas might vanish if she blinked.

Meeting her eyes with a shadow of a smile on his lips, Phileas put away the newspaper and uncrossed his legs. He'd barely managed to rise from the chair, however, before Rebecca almost knocked him back into it, her arms tight around his ribs and her cheek pressed against his heart. Joyfully she listened to its steady beat, breathing in his familiar spicy scent of lavender and sandalwood.

"Phileas," she whispered, first in undisguised relief, then repeating his name in anxious admonishment. "Oh, Phileas. If you ever, ever, ever do such a thing again…"

Then his arms were around her, and the last ten days didn't matter anymore. "It's alright, Rebecca," he said soothingly, stroking a lock of her long copper-red hair.

Was it? She had to know. Pushing herself away from him slightly, but not so much that he would let her go, she looked up into his eyes. They gazed back at her not peacefully, but contentedly, and his soft smile deepened a little. At that moment, she was sure. Wherever he had been, whatever he had done, he had not taken the life of Nicol McLean.

"It's over now," he said gently. "I've settled it."

He was clearly not going to elaborate further, but it was enough. He was home, and safe, and he had left his self-fears behind on his mysterious sojourn. What was once a wound to his spirit had become just one more scar, and if perchance it should ever pain him in troubled weather, he would smile and say that it was fine. And she would know better, but it would be alright, because he would know that she knew.

Taking a deep breath, he let his arms drop a little and looked toward Jules, who stood in the doorway with a rosy smile and pretended his attention was elsewhere. "I'm sorry to have delayed your return to your studies yet again, Verne."

The young Frenchman shrugged cheerfully. "It's alright. I'll only have to lose about a week's sleep catching up."

"We'll see about that. We can have you started off for Paris in the morning." Phileas looked down at Rebecca, demurely taking a step back from her. "As a matter of fact, why don't we go along? I think we could use a bit of a holiday. I'll even take you shopping, if you like." His mock-grimace did nothing to obscure the lightness of his tone.

Rebecca laughed. "I'd like that more than anything in the world, Phileas."

"Excellent." He smiled and captured her hand in his, and she watched as a thoughtful warmth came into her cousin's eyes.

"But before we leave tomorrow… there's something I intend to do."

Agent Evans was feeling a bit nervous when he strode down the hall to Sir Jonathan Chatsworth's office. As a general rule, a minor operative such as himself was not called upon by the head of the Secret Service every day—and when one was called upon, it was not usually an auspicious occasion.

Perhaps it had something to do with his father. He had never really known the man, but knew that his career with the Service had been less than distinguished. He'd often feared that one of the black marks in his father's record would come to tarnish his own somehow. Friends told him it was a foolish worry, but Evans was in the habit of thinking through every possibility in life.

His knock on the heavy door was answered by a curt order of "Enter," and he stepped in. Sir Jonathan was standing at the window. He took his time, shuffling about some of the seemingly irrelevant bric-a-brac on the windowsill, before turning to face Evans. While he didn't look at all pleased, somehow none of that displeasure appeared to be directed toward his guest.

"Please sit down," he said. Evans obeyed.

The spymaster settled himself behind his desk, then paused to give Evans an appraising glance—and a half-smile tightened his lips. "Don't look so grim, Mister Evans. I've only asked you here about a minor personal matter."

It made no sense at all that Sir Jonathan would have anything to do with a personal matter where he was concerned. Evans shook his head slightly. "I don't understand, sir."

For explanation, Sir Jonathan pushed an envelope across the mirror-polished surface of his desk. "This is for you, from a gentleman who must remain unnamed. It is, or so he asked me to tell you, a return for a debt which he feels his father owed you."

Hesitantly, Evans reached out and picked up the envelope. It was unmarked and unsealed; he had no doubt that his superior knew what it contained. In puzzled fascination, he turned it over—and his eyes widened at the cluster of banknotes which slid out into his hand.

"A th… thousand pounds?" His voice took on a decided squeak, and his pulse quickened. As the shock subsided, he stared down at the money for a long moment and started going over every name in his mental index, trying to fathom just whom this extraordinary windfall could have come from.

Sir Jonathan watched him with a neutral expression.

Finally, having drawn a blank, Evans shook his head. "Sir, there must be some mistake. There's no one who owes me money, I'm sure of it."

"That assumes the debt was a matter of money to begin with."

Evans frowned, and slowly replaced the money in the envelope. "There's absolutely no reason I can think of. Really, sir—I don't think I can accept—"

"Then give it to some charitable cause," Sir Jonathan answered shortly. He let out a long breath, and his expression softened somewhat. "He won't take it back, Evans. This is a matter of honor with him. And whatever else he may be, he is… an honorable man."

Evans stared down at the envelope. So be it, then. His conscience could not accept the mysterious gift, but his minister could surely make noble use of it for the orphans he tended.

"Is… is that all, sir?" Really, it was too much, but one didn't say such a thing to one's superior.

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Sir Jonathan was already distracted with some of the files laying on his desk. "Yes, that will be all."

"Thank you, sir." Feeling dazed, tightly clutching the envelope, Evans stood up. He took a step toward the door, but his intense bafflement got the better of him, and he turned. "Sir, if I could only know the name of this gentleman—"

"You may not." Sir Jonathan's tone was final. Only after the stark utterance did he glance up, and he frowned slightly. "You'd better put that away now. You're dismissed, Evans."

"Yes, sir." Evans sighed and headed for the door. As he reached for the knob with his right hand, his left hand was busy trying to stuff the envelope beneath his waistcoat.

Taking a step out the door, he ran squarely into someone, and the envelope fluttered to the floor.

His heart skipped a beat, but the envelope kept its contents. Catching his breath, he glanced up to offer an apology to the man with whom he'd collided. He was tall, immaculately dressed and handsome, with silvering dark hair and distinctively long, pointed sideburns. One hand rested atop a heavy walking-stick; the other clutched a hat and a pair of fine gloves.

The man gracefully bent down and swept up the envelope, then offered it to Evans with perfect ease. "I believe you dropped this." His voice was rich, smooth, and just slightly taut. Likewise his smile was thin, almost fragile, but appeared to be genuine. He had the look of a man who didn't smile enough—which was unfortunate, because even when weak, his smile was remarkable.

Once Evans reclaimed the envelope, the man tucked his walking-stick beneath his arm and extended his hand. "Phileas Fogg. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Evans' eyebrows bounced. Phileas Fogg, son of the founding father of the Service? "Ah… thank you, sir. Lawrence Evans." He accepted the robust handshake, a bit restlessly. Despite the legends or perhaps the myths regarding him, Fogg was a congenial sort to all appearances, but Evans was uncomfortable simply holding the envelope and its enigmatic contents. The sooner it was in the hands of charity, the better. With a small, hasty bow and a breathless "Good day," he stepped past the older man.

"Mister Evans?" Fogg said behind him.

Reluctantly Evans stopped and turned back. Fogg stood looking at him, with a peculiar hesitant look on his face. He seemed on the verge of speaking, then paused, and Evans thought that almost a ruefulness came into those hazel-green eyes. The wan smile deepened.

"Never mind. Good day, sir; I hope we may meet again." With that, Fogg retreated unbidden through the open door of Sir Jonathan's office, closing it behind him.

As Agent Evans walked away, he was certain he heard shouting behind that door, and he had occasion to wonder if Mister Phileas Fogg was such a congenial sort after all.