Author's note: for a lighter beckington. AU. The hurricane and DMC never occurred. And I am reusing OC characters from Guardian Angel even though this fic has nothing to do with GA. / yeah, it's a bad habit. Also, I have the additional bad habit of being too lazy to do sufficient research, so I'm sorry if the (mild) OCD seems very unlikely.

1

Bets

"I am so bored."

James arched an eyebrow. "You're the one who insisted on accompanying me to England."

"You're the one who had to get promoted in England." Petulant.

"Now, sister, James can't help it if the Royal Navy has inconvenient covenants."

James rolled his eyes and pointedly turned his attention back to the helm. The EIC frigate Stormy Petrel was sweet to the touch, but for what could be his last chance at captaincy before he settled into the duties of a Rear Admiral in Port Royal, he would have far preferred to be on his Dauntless. His. No longer his, technically. Admirals didn't captain ships (so difficult to remember, especially since his… the… warship was clearly in sight, majestic, to the right, an intimidating escort). Unfortunately, necessity dictated that…

"He's sulking again, Victor."

"That's been obvious since Southampton, Kathie."

"I could go back to the Dauntless, you know," James growled. The twins were bored, and when they were bored, they were trouble (James recalled, with a faint shudder, the one time they had decided to pull an elaborate prank involving soap, horsehair and lemons, on the fat and aged Lord Amberly, in Port Royal, in the fort. That had taken a week for him to clear up all misunderstandings to his satisfaction, with the terrible two smirking behind him all the while). He spared them a brief, withering glance.

Both in their late twenties, Lady Katherine Tembury-Lysander was a beauty by any bar that society might care to set. Wheat-gold hair was in a wild, silky tumble about slender shoulders encased in the white lace frill of her sea-green dress, embroidered with startlingly elaborate designs of cockatrices. A confection of white gold and sapphires nestled at a pale throat, the same hue as dancing ice-blue eyes set over delicate cheekbones. Rosebud lips were drawn in a little pout behind a lacy fan, snapped open and shut by white-gloved hands stitched with their family crest.

Nature had also seen fit to bestow her brother, Lord Victor Tembury-Lysander, with equal gifts. His pale blond hair was neatly bound at his skull with a blue ribbon, the trailing ends mingling with the soft cream scarf about his neck that the wind tugged behind him. Elegantly sculpted, firm jaw and the same delicate cheekbones as his sister, sensuous lips curved in a wry smile, identical, expressive blue eyes. His coat was the same hue as his sister's dress – under that he wore a white shirt, its elaborate cuffs brushing black gloves stitched with a family crest. Pale brown breeches of the softest leather, and embroidered bucket-topped boots were crossed casually atop the other.

Lounging against the rail, both looked like any young members of the English nobility, out for a jaunt on the high seas. If one ignored the discreet crests on their gloves, and the casual air of confident power that they emanated, or this very frigate.

"That's no way to talk to an Earl," Lord Victor said with playful reproach.

"Perhaps if you acted like an Earl," James muttered. Only two days out from Southampton, and he could feel the building mischief. No longer a stranger to the silent cues that passed as a form of communication between the twins (a brush of the elbow, a slight weight shift, a tilt of the head) – so much part of their interaction as siblings that it was almost subconscious for them now – he could tell that they were on the verge of another madcap suggestion.

He had been dreading that for a while – the twins had been (for them) actually on good behavior on the trip to England (except for a few minor incidents), and once in England, had been too busy with East India Company business and various lines of politics to misbehave. Now, however, flush from political triumphs in England, James knew that to celebrate, they were going to let out their inner children, in a way to create as much mayhem as possible. In his presence.

And it would not be pretty.

At New York, he was going back to the Dauntless.

If he survived the trip with sanity intact.

Damnit.

"You wound me," said the young Earl of Southsend, even managing to sound hurt.

"Good."

"It's certainly no way to talk to your future brother-in-law." Katherine grinned.

"I question why I agreed every day. Sometimes more than once." James retorted.

After Elizabeth married Turner, James found that he seemed to have lost any interest or inclination in forming lasting relationships, concentrating instead on his career and assuaging the occasional need with whores, or with the occasional discreet subordinate. His peaceful life, however, marked as it was by the occasional soiree that Governor Swann saw fit to inflict on Port Royal, had become more and more harried by wealthy merchants or petty Lords attempting to marry daughters off to the next Admiral of Jamaica.

Around that point, the demands of Lord Sythe of the East India Company for Naval aid in merchant endeavors became louder and more outrageous. The man was senile, James had decided, after one too many vituperate interviews. But unfortunately, he held much clout in England. Just as the situation was really becoming inconvenient…

"And we did you so very many favors," Katherine pouted. "That distasteful Lord Sythe."

"You both said he was a threat to your influence in Montserrat," James said mildly, and more quietly, aware that they were, after all, in public, and some things, even if one was affiliated to or was the Earl of Southsend (and one of the most powerful Lords in the East India Company), one still had to have a care for potential scandal. "I was probably only collateral."

"Very charming collateral," Katherine said, with a wink. "It's really a pity, you know, that you won't…"

"If you try any antics right now, I am going to return to the Dauntless even if I have to swim."

"I don't know, James. It's probably very cold down there." Victor glanced over the rail with studied innocence.

The newly appointed Rear Admiral sighed. Of all the people in the world with whom he had the mind to agree to a marriage of convenience, he had chosen these. At that time, he had been a little light-headed on cognac, gratitude for the resolution of the Lord Sythe problem and awe at their blue blood, but that was really a poor excuse. Objectively. They had needed a marriage to stifle gossip over Katherine's (and Victor's, actually) little flings, real or constructed by the societal mongers, he had (vaguely) wanted a solution to the little problem of feminine pursuit by eligible daughters. At that time, it seemed very logical and reasonable to agree.

Besides, although he would never admit it to them (or he would never have any peace, for the rest of his life), James rather liked the twins. He had never had siblings, himself. That didn't mean he trusted them, of course. Especially if it came to doing anything sensible, outside of their little games in power in the name of the East India Company.

"I know! Why not we have a little bet?" Katherine said, with a dazzling smile. "That'd be fun, wouldn't it?"

A little toss of hair, a slight twitch of the little finger. James often wondered if the twins knew that he had long decrypted their silent language, or if it was so integral to the siblings that they couldn't stop even if they tried. Right on cue, Victor said, doubtfully, "What dare?"

"We have lots of Lords and Ladies on this luxury ship who'd be dropping off in the New World," Katherine tapped her cheek with her fan. "We'll pick one out. First one to seduce him or her before we reach Jamaica wins."

James groaned, and rested his forehead against one of his hands, on the spokes of the wheel. "Good Lord."

"What's wrong? You've played this with us before. And won." Victor arched an eyebrow.

"Not on a ship. And not with anyone of… anyone who can…"

"Nobody here is of any real threat to our influence, James. Especially now that you're Rear Admiral of the Red." Katherine said persuasively.

James took in a deep breath. "Are you both going to pester me incessantly until I give in?"

"Just like the last time." Victor said brightly. "It's a long, cold swim to the Dauntless, Rear Admiral James Norrington."

"I could take the cockboat."

"We could follow you to the Dauntless and play there. Though the last time our target was already a marine. So it'd be a little boring to repeat the same old thing." Katherine batted her eyelashes. Her fourth finger, stretching back on the rail, seemed to accidentally brush her brother's elbow.

"We'd be good for the rest of the trip," Victor promised.

"Word of honor."

"Regardless if you win or not."

"And what are the terms?" James asked, dryly. "Just out of curiosity."

"If we win, we get to name your next ship." Victor smiled.

"… and what name would that be?" James' expression and voice was a picture of suspicion.

"Nothing scandalous, don't worry," Katherine said with a flutter of her fan, as her brother's right boot moved back a fraction.

"And if I win?"

"What do you want?" Victor purred, sidling up to James and slipping an arm around his shoulders. James shot him a look that would have sent any marine under his command scurrying for cover. On the Earl of Southsend and his maddening twin sister, however, it merely provoked merriment. He did, however, step back when the arm was shrugged off.

"Peace from pranks, mischief and any sort of tomfoolery for… half a year." James said.

Both twins pouted. At the same time. Katherine was the one to speak – James nearly missed the cue from Victor – fingers pulling at one elaborate cuff. "But James…"

"Honestly. The both of you are nearly thirty."

"The word is 'nearly', Rear Admiral," Victor said with a woeful expression. "You're trying to steal our youth away."

"You're both no longer in your youth by any measure."

"Two months." Katherine said plaintively.

"Five."

"Three."

"Four, and that's my final offer."

"Fine." Victor glanced at the nobility wandering about the deck, some of whom were making admirable efforts not to gawk at the Earl. "But it's the both of us against you. Especially since you won, the last time."

Dryly. "When has it ever not been the both of you, against me, in any inconvenient little dare you care to shanghai me into?"

"And… we get to pick who." Katherine added.

James arched an eyebrow.

"Don't worry. We'd be fair. It won't be fun otherwise," Victor assured him. "In return, if neither of us win, we'd still give you your aforementioned peace of mind for a month."

James sighed. On one hand, he would likely receive no peace at all until he agreed, and four months – even just a month – was a long, blessed time of peace which he would need to settle properly into his new rank, if he won. On the other hand, even if he lost, or didn't bother to play properly at all, the matter of having the twins name a ship couldn't be too bad, could it? After all, he had looked at the ships that they did, technically, own, and none of them had particularly odd names (the strangest being one of the corvettes, Mad Fancy. After all, their flagship was called the Stormy Petrel, a relatively harmless name…). And the last time they'd had this little bet, there had been no resulting scandal, although the marine had asked, wryly, to be transferred, when he'd found out.

"All right." A deep sigh. "Try not to make it anyone troublesome, please."

"Come, brother. We have work to do." Katherine said dramatically, snapping her fan shut.

James waited for the both of them to wander off the bridge and mingle with the brightly colored nobility, before leaning his forehead against one of the spokes of the wheel and cursing under his breath. Come to think of it, only a month ago he had vowed to himself (and rightfully so, what with the terrible incident of the gelding and the painted feathers) not to take part in any of the twins' ideas.

And the month before that (misloaded pistol and oranges). And before that (salmon and a Post Captain's left boot).

Broodingly contemplating this apparent glaring flaw in his self-control and rationality, the Rear Admiral of the Red presented such a forbidding picture that even the marines skirted around him.

--

It was two days into the voyage and Beckett could feel cold, familiar strands of anxiety plucking at him. Out of his schedule and far away from any place of comfort. He had, of course, undergone voyages before, far lengthier than this, to the Indies, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He forced his mind to linger on the few things of comfort that were close. Caesar, in the stalls below decks, the spirited stallion probably heartily bored of the confinement, even though Beckett had seen several other beautiful animals of likely extensive pedigrees being led into the ship along with his prized horse. English Lords could be so unwittingly cruel, in the name of vanity. Need, in his case.

The much-beloved brown coat, a little spotted from the surf. Beckett's fingers crinkled slightly as he saw the asymmetrical blots, and he forced his eyes to his hands, taking deep, even breaths. He had to control this. There were too many potential enemies on this ship for him to show the slightest sign of his weakness. Especially since he was venturing into unknown territory – a new post.

Mercer noted his master's too-measured breathing, from where he stood at his side on the rail, hands crossed behind his back, no evidence at all in his dour clothing of hidden stilettos, glanced around, and lowered his voice. "Sir?"

"I'm fine." Beckett whispered, and closed his eyes. Curled his nails into his palm, and dragged the cold mask into place. When he spoke again, his voice was the even, distant tone of Lord Beckett. "Fine."

"What's fine?" Beckett half-turned at the sound of a inquisitive, feminine voice. He blinked when he saw Lord and Lady Tembury-Lysander bearing down on him, the latter with her hand lightly on her brother's arm.

"Kathie," her brother admonished, then flashed a charming smile back at him. "I must apologize for my sister's behavior, Lord Beckett. She gets a little too… excitable, when we have so many esteemed guests aboard our Petrel."

"I do beg your pardon," Katherine agreed, though the gleam in ice-blue eyes were anything but repentant. Beckett had the distinct feeling that he was being evaluated, and pulled his lips up in a thin, polite smile. The Earl of Southsend had made a name for himself in the East India Company, at such a young age. Based in Montserrat, he reportedly was the one who organized all strings of power in this aspect of the British Empire in Jamaica, possibly even the entirety of the New World. A little uncomfortable with the amount of power that he was beginning to accrue, a few of the other Lords had attempted to send counterpoints to Port Royal, Saint Clemens, Bridgetown, New York, Boston – but so far, all had been either eliminated or hobbled. No thread of evidence or causal link could be stretched back to the Earl.

They were scoping him out, then. As the competition. Through the corner of his eye, Beckett could see Mercer tense almost imperceptibly. "Lord and Lady Tembury-Lysander." An incline of his head, anxiety pushed back in the face of a potential threat. "I must thank you again for the invitation to sail aboard your fine ship."

"It's no problem. We're really glad of the company," Katherine's fan had snapped open, and although she hid her mouth, her eyes were faintly coy. Beckett managed not to frown – the reputation of her brother, at the very least – told him not to take anything at face value.

"We do hope the accommodations were adequate," the Earl said, earnestly, both of them apparently playing at being a pair young adults too bemused at their good fortune in the world to question the characters of any they may care to approach. Despite likely knowing that Beckett had their measure. He wondered what their game was.

Beckett found himself watching them carefully as he engaged in small talk. There was something about the way they spoke, and their movements, that didn't strike him, after the third topic, as being entirely regular. Likely to be missed by most common folk, or ignored, but Beckett, determined not to end up like any of his predecessors in the New World, decided to err on the side of caution. At the fifth topic, he conceded that caution had been correct all along.

The twins were speaking in concert.

Issues of the Company were quickly sidelined by a playful Lady Katherine, with neatly feigned feminine impatience for 'masculine' issues. Issues that touched, if barely, on anything personal were fielded by the Earl, turned into topics of gentlemen's sports. Beckett learned nothing of them, in exchange for a little of himself.

"I heard you have a horse on board," Lady Katherine was saying, as, maneuvered by the Earl, Beckett touched on the issue of equestrian sports. "Out of the Sleipnir line?"

Beckett winced inwardly at the name, picked out by a far too fanciful ancestor. "Yes. Caesar is of direct descent, in pedigree."

"That's very interesting," Lady Katherine said brightly, words carefully picked, to appear shallow on the topic to anyone who didn't listen too closely.

"Do you race, Lord Beckett?" the Earl smiled boyishly. "We have some fine animals back in Montserrat. Their bloodlines trace to Araby."

"Once you've settled in, of course," Lady Katherine added.

Beckett hesitated only a moment. "Of course." His eyes flickered to how Lady Katherine seemed to then grasp her brother's arm with just the middle finger and thumb. When he looked up, he realized that they had both noticed that he had observed their silent language – identical thoughtful expressions. Beckett excused himself as quickly as he could without giving offense. The slip had made the anxiety return, more insistently than before. His hands felt filthy.

--

Lord and Lady Tembury-Lysander watched Beckett and his ever-present bodyguard disappear below decks, and shot each other satisfied smirks.

--

"We've found our mark," Victor announced, when they were back on the bridge.

James mustered the most bored expression he could come up with, hoping he could diminish some of their enthusiasm. No such luck. "Already? Did the both of you vet all the potentials on board in the space of one short afternoon?"

"He's young, he's rather handsome and very intelligent," Katherine said, ignoring the sarcasm. "And he's probably your type, as well."

"I don't have a type," James contradicted her automatically.

"Of course you do. You like the slender, almost pretty sort. The not too masculine…" Victor was cut short by James, who, to his personal annoyance, was beginning to flush.

"Fine." The Rear Admiral looked at their almost imperceptibly too-innocent expressions for a moment, then stated, "There's something about this you aren't telling me."

"Would we keep secrets from you?" Katherine's eyes widened in mock injury. "The very idea! You are, after all, my fiancé…"

"Yes, you both would. For the fun of it, just to laugh at the sidelines when it explodes in my face." James said, wearily. "What's wrong with this person you've picked out?"

"Nothing's wrong," Victor said ingenuously. "The word 'wrong' is so hard to define."

"Victor. Katherine." James put all of his Naval bearing and unyielding sense of command into the words. Both twins pouted, at the same time.

"James, you should really allow yourself to be surprised every so often." Katherine said reproachfully. "It adds spice to life. Otherwise, you'd age into a crotchety old man."

"I'm really working right now," James said pointedly. "What about the both of you pester me over dinner instead?"

"We didn't think it'd be fair to have a head start," Victor said, all but radiating artlessness.

"Since I'm technically captain and will be working throughout the trip, you will both have an advantage anyway," James retorted.

"We can't work on him all day, or he'd suspect something," Katherine tossed her hair. "So it's fair."

James gathered his patience – a familiar activity whenever in their company. "Who is this person?"

"One Lord Cutler Beckett," Victor grinned. "We'd point him out to you at dinner."

"Better yet, we'd invite him to the table," Katherine added.

"And there's something about him I should know, yes?" James continued, in the same patient tone.

"Nothing much," Victor said airily, "Other than he's a Lord of the East India Company."

"Lord Beckett… Lord Beckett…" James murmured. The name sounded familiar. Dispatches. Reports on his desk read in a hurry before leaving for England.

"Posted to Port Royal." Katherine supplied.

Ah yes, that was it.

Wait.

Wait.

"I told the both of you not to pick anyone troublesome!" James hissed.

Both Victor and Katherine were the very picture of injured innocence. "He isn't!" Victor protested.

James narrowed his eyes. "Was this your intention all along?"

"You really have a terribly suspicious personality," Katherine fluttered her fan. "No, we fully intended to just have a bit of fun. If we didn't find Lord Beckett interesting, we'd just have passed him over for the bet. But now we can kill two birds with one stone. Fun, and business."

"I still have the feeling that there's something the both of you are failing to reveal to me."

"You're definitely going to age into one of those mean-tempered old men," Victor arched an eyebrow. "Despite our best efforts."

"It'd be obvious at dinner," Katherine grinned. "See you there! Don't be late. Oh, and wear your Rear Admiral uniform."

James glowered at her. "Why?"

"Because if he doesn't look at you – and I mean look – when you're wearing it, it means to be fair to you we probably have to pick another mark," Victor pointed out. "Since it won't be fair if only Katherine has a chance, eh?"

"You mean the both of you couldn't tell?"

"I'm afraid we rather put him on the defensive," Katherine admitted wryly. "What with the whole 'Earl of Southsend' act."

"He noticed?" James blinked. Despite himself, he felt the faintest spark of interest.

"We're fairly sure he did," Victor nodded. "So?"

"Fine, I'd wear the damned uniform." James muttered. "But I would much rather the both of you had selected, say, somebody who would be disembarking at New York, or Boston. Not somebody I'd have to live with in the same area."

"Oh, don't worry, Admiral," Katherine said, fanning herself with an impish grin. "You know what happens to people who get a little too troublesome for us."

"I also recall the both of you agreeing not to resort to any further lethally underhanded methods of culling the competition," James replied tartly.

"And we haven't broken the agreement, have we?" Victor pointed out, with a wink. "It'd be fun, James."

Sensing that trying to throw the both of them off the issue would likely cost him far too much personal aggravation and take up the rest of a fine day for sailing, James caved, if reluctantly. "Anything to get the both of you off my back for the remainder of the voyage."