Chapter Two
Players – Sherlock Suspects – Jack Parrish – The Butler Did It – New Wave, Old School – Confidences.
###
"Absolute nonsense," Sherlock stared briefly out of a window overlooking Baker Street before throwing himself into his usual seat, mobile phone at his ear. "Your father will die in harness," he added. "They'll probably have to pass a new law enabling his desiccated corpse to be disinterred from the deepest vaults of Whitehall. Retirement? Rubbish."
There was a whisper of sound at the other end of the call.
"Nope," Sherlock was adamant. "He's up to something. Either he's blackmailing the government to acquire more funding for his nefarious misdeeds, which is entirely like him, or he's playing some convoluted power-game of chicken, no doubt using the upcoming royal baby scandals as bargaining chips."
A faint squawk had him rolling his eyes.
"Very well," he sighed. "Nefarious tactics, if you must," he looked skywards and sighed again, the burdens of unclehood heavy upon his shoulders. "And no; not that baby, the other ones. Are you still planning on coming by on Friday afternoon? I will have the samples by then."
Another soft whisper.
"Excellent," Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "Don't forget the plastic sheeting this time."
Murmuring a soft acknowledgement as she ended the call, Blythe turned to her sibling.
"Something's up," she pursed her lips and looked serious. "Even Uncle Sherlock says it's impossible for Dad to think of retiring just like that," she said. "He said Dad was probably using it as a ploy to get his own way in something particularly important."
"I knew it," Jules nodded sagely. "Which is why he asked us to keep this whole thing quiet," he said. "Clearly, there is a delicate balance of things in play here."
"Yes, but what things, and why is Daddy making it personal this time?" Blythe frowned in thought. "Normally when he's playing one of his games, he does it all at a distance, but this time ..." her words tailed off.
Julius scowled, his dark eyebrows achieving a grimace of which his uncle would have been proud. "Then perhaps this time the problem actually does involve him," he spoke thoughtfully. "Maybe this time, the game he's playing isn't about anyone else."
"You think he's in trouble?" Blythe's eyes opened wider as she watched her brother's face. Though Jules was a boy, he did sometimes have reasonable ideas.
"I think that, whatever the problem is, it's having some direct effect on him to the extent that he needs to make someone think he's leaving the game."
"The Game?" Blythe lifted her eyebrows.
"That's what I said," Jules nibbled his bottom lip.
###
"Mycroft's up to his old tricks again," Sherlock crossed his legs and stared hard at the nearest wall, fingers tap-tapping on the chair-arm.
"What now?" John looked over the top of his reading glasses, a book opened in his hands. "Which particular old tricks did you have in mind? There have been quite a number, as I recall."
"He claims to be retiring from the service," Sherlock snorted inelegantly. "In addition to writing his memoirs, of course."
John bent his head as he pulled the small gold spectacles from the bridge of his nose, the light from the window catching the silver hairs at his temples. His expression part-way between a faint smile and puzzlement.
"Your brother," he said. "Retire? As in ... retire?" John's mouth curved upwards. "The empire will crumble," he shook his head, eyebrows high. All movement was arrested as his brain digested the second half of the sentence. The blond man looked across the room, an entirely different expression forming the planes of his face into alert concern.
"Wait ... memoirs?" he asked, a growing look of horror in his eyes. "Mycroft has made it known he intends to write his memoirs?"
"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face, his gaze suddenly distant and brooding. "It's unlike someone even as self-interested as my brother to make such an intention public before he was actually on his death-bed," the younger Holmes mused aloud. "Besides, they're not even finished."
"What's not ..." John frowned again, pausing. "Are you telling me that Mycroft has already written his memoirs? That this isn't just some irresponsible threat? That he, your brother, the great hope of the Western world, has actually written his account of everything that's shaped his life, and when I say his life, I really mean the life of nearly all of us on this little island?" John gaped. "Has he suddenly developed a death-wish?"
Sherlock pursed his lips and inhaled deeply.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "That's not Mycroft's style. Whatever else he may be, he's not about to set himself up for a fall, not with Cate and the children, no," he shook his head again. "Though I suspect him of pushing the boundaries of good sense and putting his head far too high above the parapet for safety. Obviously, he wants someone to take a pot-shot at him."
"Mycroft's setting himself up as a target? Why?"
"Excellent question, John," Sherlock nodded now as his thoughts raced off, far and wide, examining potentials, dismissing impossibilities. "The twins have already worked out there's something rotten in Denmark," he halted, taking a shallow breath. "Blythe and Jules are getting themselves involved in my brother's schemes, when they really really shouldn't," he added, reaching for his phone again. "This is a family problem and I think my brother is going to need to consult the services of an expert in this situation," he said, stabbing a fingertip down on the screen of his phone.
"Someone in the police?" John leaned forward. "Are you going to get Greg Lestrade?"
"Not police and not Lestrade," Sherlock grinned alarmingly. "Me."
###
Cate sat at the table and sipped her tea, her eyes never once leaving the figure of the young man who, after respectfully requesting permission to continue exploring her kitchen, was now going through every single cupboard and drawer, testing every surface and examining each and every pot, pan and sharp-edged knife.
"This is James ..." Mycroft had introduced the newcomer.
"Jack," the tall blond stepped forward, a pleasant smile on his face. "Jack Parrish," he added, holding out his hand. "I'm a cook."
Still not entirely sure what was going on, Cate shook the hand that didn't look remotely cook-like and turned back to her husband, a single eyebrow asking all manner of questions.
Mycroft smiled, sliding an arm around her shoulders.
"Mr Parrish is too modest," he smiled briefly. "Not only is he a qualified Cordon Bleu chef, but he's also well-versed in many areas of domestic management, and was only too happy to accept my offer of a paid practicum with the family for a little while."
"I'm training to be a Butler," the blond stranger sounded hopeful. "I've already been certified in a pile of stuff and can do the whole chauffeur thing or manage your cellar, or organise a grouse shoot if you fancied one," he suggested optimistically. "Maybe offer some advice on etiquette and protocol?"
"Thank you, Jack," Cate found Mycroft's arm and pulled him away with her. "My husband and I are going to have a little chat about some protocols of our own and then we'll see what happens from there, shall we? Won't be long. Please," Cate waved at all the opened cupboards. "Carry on with the circumnavigation."
Grabbing Mycroft's hand, she pulled him along the passage from the kitchen toward his office at the front of the house. Closing the door behind them, she put her hands on her hips, an expression of some acerbity on her face.
"Explain to me why there's a strange young man making friends with my good china without me knowing anything about it," she demanded, folding her arms and looking more than a little peeved.
"You said you'd do anything to help me," Mycroft sat on the edge of his desk and folded his own arms.
"And having Mr Parrish in our house is going to help you, is it?"
Lifting his eyebrows a fraction, Mycroft allowed a faint smile to curve his lips. "It is," he nodded slowly. "At the very least," he added, "it will give me an ace up my sleeve."
"Seriously?" Cate watched his eyes.
"Seriously, and I'm sorry this is all so precipitous; the opportunity arose and I had to take it."
Feeling a little mollified, Cate let her arms drop to her sides. "Well ... if this is really going to help you with the situation, then I imagine we can manage to cope with a stranger in our midst for a while," she said. "Is he really learning to be a butler? Do you want him to stay? I suppose he could have Norah's old room, if so."
"Darling, would you mind awfully if he stayed with the family for a while? I know his father and it would be so helpful to me," Mycroft leaned forward and pulled her towards him. "And yes; he really is learning how to buttle. I know how you feel about people pursuing a vocation."
"As long as you are comfortable having him around and the children aren't going to be in harm's way," Cate leaned into his solid warmth, knowing that she would probably give in and let her husband do whatever he wanted if it was this important.
"You never fail me," he murmured as he pressed his face into the side of her neck. "Have I told you recently how much I love you?"
Not today," Cate smiled against his chest. "Which is terribly remiss of you."
Pulling her closer, he stared down into her bright brown eyes. "Then I must make it up to you somehow," he said, a deliciously suggestive tone in his voice as his eyes scanned her face. "Perhaps an early dinner at Apsley's and then the theatre?" Mycroft's smile matched hers. "A night at the Langham?" his fingertips stroked the soft skin at the side of her face. "An evening away from the children ... just the two of us ..." his lips brushed her brow as his arms settled firmly around her. "A long bubble-bath where I can scrub your back," he whispered the words into her hair.
"Deal," Cate didn't want to move, didn't want this feeling ever to change. "But not tonight," she sighed, leaning back and becoming practical again. "Tonight I have to get a room ready for our new guest and work out just exactly what everyone expects of this situation," she dropped a quick kiss onto his mouth. "And not tomorrow; we're both expected at the Winchester parents' evening," she paused, smiling. "But Thursday's free, if you're interested?"
"I'll make the arrangements," he pulled her back to him, his mouth caressing hers with a lingering touch. "Keep your diary free for me."
"Always," Cate breathed, closing her eyes.
A loud crash from the kitchen snapped them open again.
"Assuming there are no problems for me to deal with on the home front," she added, sounding philosophical.
"I'll make sure of it," Mycroft kissed her again, briefly but with definite intent, before taking her hand and going to see if he needed to buy his wife some new china.
###
By the time the twins arrived home from school, harmony reigned once more.
Upon realising that she hadn't lost anything valuable or irreplaceable, and that the young man who might or might not end up being a butler, had not, in fact done anything deserving of her wrath, Cate had set him to making dinner as a test of competency. Informing him of the menu she'd planned for that evening, she left young Mr Parrish to it while she went off to see about getting a room organised for him. Mycroft had vanished into his office.
Norah's room had always been on the second floor of the house, a problem for her increasingly aging knees. But the tall blond would have little problem with the two flights of stairs up from the ground floor.
Opening the windows up to freshen the air a little, Cate looked around, but knew there wasn't a great deal that needed doing; she'd emptied and cleaned the place once Nora had left for her sister's house. Though it wasn't a huge room, neither was it tiny, and was right next door to the general bathroom on this floor.
Pulling out some dark green bed-linens, Cate fluffed up the duvet and added a couple of extra pillows. The walk-in-wardrobe was clean and empty, and there was nothing in any of the drawers of the tallboy or the dresser. Everything was pristine and ready for its temporary occupant.
Now to see if Mycroft's unexpected cuckoo was actually able to demonstrate the culinary skills he claimed. She had planned steak and mashed potatoes with baby carrots for dinner, and something vaguely puddingish involving pears and custard. Not exactly haute cuisine, but this was the middle of the week and time, as ever, was short. If Mr Parrish didn't make too much of a dog's breakfast out of this, she might let him try something Italian tomorrow. Pasta and sauce was fairly easy; how much damage could anyone do?
The first thing that alerted Cate to the fact that all might not be as she expected was the smell. Coming down to stand at the foot of the stairs, the delicate aroma of red wine and ginger and the warm spice of fresh crushed pepper wafted along from the direction of the kitchen. It smelled very good, but nothing like the meal she had planned. She hurried along the passageway into the bright warmth that was the heart of the house.
With a shiny pair of red headphones over his ears, Jack Parrish, wrapped from chin to knees in a long white chef's apron, was bouncing on his toes to the music as he prepared the carrots. His back was to the door, so Cate was unobserved. She quickly took in the marinating steaks, the soaking potatoes and the peeled pears adjacent to a bowl of thick fragrant batter. The small oven was pre-heating and there was a stack of plates and silverware ready for formal laying on the dining room table. A bottle of decent red had been opened, its rich tang added to the overall sense of a very reasonable dinner-in-the-making.
Thinking she could at least lay the table, Cate began to gather up the plates in one hand, reaching out for the silverware in the other.
"Oh, no no no," Jack Parrish turned at the sound of clinking china, one hand pulling the headphones from his ears, the other stretched out towards her, gesturing for her to put the plates down. "This is what I'm here to do for you, Mrs Holmes," he smiled lopsidedly. "There is nothing for you to do now except relax; Mr Holmes told me how busy you are all the time, so I really think you should put your feet up with a cocktail before dinner, and let me get on with all this stuff," he waved a hand at the preparations behind him. "Everything's under control, though I hope you don't mind that I've made a couple of tiny alterations to your menu."
Cate wasn't entirely sure which bit of that shocked her the most. Put her feet up? With a cocktail? Everything was under control and she didn't have to do anything at all?
"Are you sure my husband didn't abduct you from some very nice hotel and drag you here under false pretences?" She wasn't sure what to do. Should she leave the boy to handle everything, or should she at least make some effort to help out? Cate felt a real desire to do all the things he'd suggested, immediately followed by a wave of guilt.
"Why don't you go and read the evening paper in the lounge and I'll bring you something to tempt your palate before dinner?" the tall blond smiled. "There really is nothing for you to do in here."
The tone in his voice convinced her.
Very well.
"Then I'd love a cocktail," she smiled. "Something with gin would be lovely," Cate pointed. "The main drinks cabinet is in the dining room, although the extra bottles of spirits are ..."
"...in the long cupboard at the back and to the left, in the pantry," he finished for her, smiling. "It's the first thing we're told to do when we go to a new residence," the young man smiled again. "Find out where everything is."
"If you're absolutely sure I can't do anything to help ..?" Cate made one last effort to offer assistance.
"I'm absolutely sure you should go and read the paper and I'll bring you something to assist with your unwinding," he held up a hand. "No disagreement until after you've had dinner and decide if you want me to stay or not."
Fair enough.
"Then I'll just be through here," Cate pointed to the doorway of the rear lounge.
"Excellent. And would Mr Holmes enjoy an aperitif before dinner?"
"Um ... Mycroft usually has a scotch when he feels like it," Cate was already half-way through the door. "He's in his office though, so I don't know.
"Leave everything to me, Madam," there was an air of competency in the assurance. "I shall see to all the details."
Well. In that case ...
Leaving the young man to it and heading into the lounge, Cate found herself in the unusual situation of having a good half-hour before the twins arrived home, and nothing to do. Picking up the evening paper, Cate found her favourite leather couch, lifted her feet up onto a convenient ottoman and sighed with pleasure as she turned to the arts pages.
Almost before she'd had a chance to get beyond the first couple of articles, the trainee butler arrived at her side bearing ... yes ... a silver salver. Where on earth had he found a silver drinks tray? He offered her the nearest of two glasses, this one tall and clear and scented with gin and lime.
"Your Gin Ricky, Madam," he announced, holding it closer so Cate could lift it easily from the tray.
The second glass was properly cocktail-shaped and the fragrance was definitely that of whisky.
"Is that a Manhattan?" Cate asked. "He likes those sometimes."
"Then hopefully, he shall like this one now," the blond smiled cheerfully, the diamond stud in his nose glinting in the light of the lamp beside her. "When are the children expected home from school?" he asked. "If I am able to serve dinner at six-thirty, would that be agreeable with you, Madam?"
"They usually get here around half-past five or so, so half-past six would be ideal," Cate sipped her drink. It was perfect. She smiled. "But please don't call me 'madam'; I'm really not the madamy type."
"You prefer Mrs Holmes? Or some other title?" he sounded uncertain.
"I don't need a title; my name is perfectly fine, you know," she offered laughingly as she sipped her cocktail again. "We're not exactly traditional around here. Unless you want us to call you Mr Parrish?"
Standing upright, the young man looked uncomfortable. "Oh, please," he looked awkward. "I really would prefer everyone to call me Jack, if that's okay, but they tell us at butler school never to be too informal with our employers," he said dubiously. "In case it causes offence."
"I won't be the least offended if you call me by my given name," she smiled, waving her drink. She lifted her hand. "Hi, I'm Cate," she said, waiting.
Sighing, the newcomer shook her hand for the second time that afternoon. "And I'm Jack," he looked vaguely pleased.
"Good. Now Jack, please go and see if my husband would like to try that delicious-looking cocktail."
"Yes, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... Cate," he nodded, shrugged in amusement, and was gone.
She grinned to herself and shook her head. Poor man.
The twins were going to eat him alive.
###
In his office, Mycroft had just ended a phone conversation with his brother. It had not been an easy conversation to have, mainly because Sherlock refused to believe a single thing that was said.
"You are most certainly not retiring and the idea of you publishing your ... memoirs ... is beyond preposterous. This is clearly some stratagem designed to smoke out those whom you suspect of doing whatever it is you refuse to discuss. It is equally obvious you require professional assistance in identifying and neutralising this problem. Loath though I am to become embroiled in the reptilian nature of your byzantine intrigues, I feel obligated, in the name of family, to render my assistance."
"The less anyone beyond myself knows of this matter, the safer we all shall be, Sherlock," Mycroft was not so easily swayed by his sibling's rhetoric. "I am fully cognisant that you do not offer your help lightly or often, but I really am in no need of your specific services," he said. "I have the situation under control."
"So under control that not even your own children believe you?" Sherlock was not about to hold back if the wellbeing of his niece and nephew might be in the balance. "They are afraid for you, Mycroft; I call that irresponsible."
"And I call it none of your business," Mycroft felt his irritation rise. The years had not mellowed his brother, though they had taught him the value of kinship. Sherlock, knowing he was not one of nature's family men, had taken to Blythe and Jules since they were infants. He treated them as if they were his own, and would cheerfully risk his all for their protection.
Mycroft knew this was the reason behind his brother's offer. Not the wellbeing of himself per se, but for the protection of those Sherlock deemed irreplaceable in this world. The knowledge of this tempered his response.
"Sherlock, there really is no need for you to concern yourself with the welfare of the twins. I promise you that I have taken every precaution to ensure the absolute safety of all involved."
There was a stony and obstinate silence at the other end of the conversation
Mycroft sighed. He rubbed a hand across his face. It was ever thus with his brother.
"But," he said, eventually. "I concede that it would not hurt to have your opinion on my basic strategy in this instance, if you would be interested in offering such an opinion, of course."
"John and I will be there at eight," Sherlock was magnanimous in victory. "It would be helpful to arrange for the rest of your family to be absent so that they are not further concerned by the fact of our presence."
"Ah," Mycroft paused. "That might not be achievable this evening. We have a ... guest staying with us temporarily."
"Guest?"
"Possibly a guest, yes," Mycroft was not about to be further hounded by his younger brother. "And quite possibly beyond the realms of this discussion," he added, happily. "I agree to review my current situation and my plans for its successful resolution, but nothing more, at the present time."
"I cannot work without the requisite data," Sherlock sounded fractionally huffy.
"It is your decision to involve yourself in this issue, dear my brother," Mycroft was practically purring now. "I will not be coerced into providing irrelevant information. Come or not come, the choice is yours," he added. "Goodbye, Sherlock. My regards to John."
He had barely replaced the Nokia in his jacket pocket when a soft knock at the office door made him lift his eyebrows. Of the three people currently in this house, only one would knock.
"Yes, Jack?"
Opening the door just enough to enter with a silver tray balanced on his fingertips, the young man walked over, offering the dark cocktail.
"Mada ... Mrs Holm ... Cate said you might like a cocktail before dinner, Mr Holmes," he held the tray steady.
Observing the open gaze, steady hand and hopeful tone, Mycroft was assured there was nothing amiss here. His lifted the glass and took a sip.
"Very nice Jack, but slightly less vermouth next time, please," he smiled. "And lemon rather than the cherry."
"Of course, sir," the tall blond nodded, filing the information away for future use. "Will that be all you require before dinner is served at six-thirty?"
"That will be all, thank you," Mycroft kept his inner smile completely unseen until the boy had left the room. Such propriety for one so young. He allowed his mouth to curve up as he tasted the drink again. It really was rather good.
Heading back into the kitchen, Jack smiled, pleased at his success in getting to know his new, albeit temporary, employers. She was new wave and he was old school. Cate and Sir.
With luck, they might even let him wear his uniform.
###
"What's in this sauce?" Jules looked deeply thoughtful as he worked out the specific ingredients and ratios. "It tastes fantastic, but I can only make out garlic and pepper and red wine," he said, turning his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Jack's a great cook, Mum. You should let him do all the cooking from now on."
Though Cate was delighted the meal was far better than she'd hoped, the lack of culinary loyalty on the part of her children stung a little.
"Jack is only going to be with us for a short while," she said, sampling the accompanying red wine the trainee butler had matched to their classic Steak au Poivre. The meat, she acknowledged, was perfectly done and delicious. The sauce was light and piquant.
Blythe loved the authentic twice-cooked pomme-frits and even managed to persuade her father to let her try some of the wine which, she found, was not to her taste; the flavour far too dry and bitter for her young palate.
"Most pleasant," Mycroft dabbed his mouth with a corner of his linen napkin, his eyes innocent but plainly amused as they met Cate's across the table. "A definite score on the plus side there, I think."
"Apparently, there's pudding to follow," Cate tweaked her eyebrows teasingly as she sipped the wine again. "Going by the quality of the first course, I bet it's something outrageous and decadent."
Looking immediately pained, Mycroft sat upright in his chair. He had expected to deny himself pears and custard.
"I smell ginger and pears and ... some kind of liquor," Blythe closed her eyes and sniffed.
"Brandy syrup over a sticky pear and ginger pudding," her father sighed folding his napkin to one side of his plate in preparation of a serious show of stoicism and intestinal fortitude.
"You can't refuse to try the boy's first dessert," Cate leaned over the table as she spoke in a low voice. "He'll think you don't approve and he's trying so very hard to get everything right tonight."
"I have no desire to hurt anyone's feelings," Mycroft looked mildly slighted. "But you know how easy it is to let the weight creep up."
"Then you should join me in the gym tomorrow morning," Cate suggested tartly. Her husband was almost as svelte and elegant as he had been when they first met. His measurements barely wavered no matter what he ate or drank; all the nervous energy he used in his thinking kept him lithe and absurdly attractive.
"Well, if you think it best ..."
"I think you should give Jack's effort a fair trial, especially as you were the one who brought him here."
"If you don't want it Dad, then I'll make sure none of it goes to waste," Jules finished the last of his chips and smiled, helpfully.
Cate had no idea where her son put all the food he ate. If anything, he seemed to be getting skinnier and taller. It was clearly something unnatural to do with the Holmes side of the family. Thank god Blythe was more like her, though she seemed to have inherited Mycroft's mind and thought-processes. But at least both children had healthy appetites and energy to burn.
Both of them had also inherited the Holmes curiosity.
Upon arriving home that evening, it had proven impossible to drag either of them out of the kitchen as Jack completed the last of the dinner preparations beneath the acute scrutiny of two scalpel-sharp sets of eyes.
Undeterred, the young man in the long apron ignored them both utterly as he focused on his work, unwittingly making two friends for life. It was so rare that the twins were ever ignored like ordinary people that they savoured the moment in their hearts. If felt good to be treated like everybody else. And as if that wasn't enough, Jack could really cook, too.
Jules wanted to know everything about being a butler.
Blythe wanted to know why her father had brought a newcomer into this particular household at this particular time. He never did anything without a precise reason, so while it was a plausible excuse to say that Jack Parrish was here to help out their mother while she was so busy, Blythe knew there had to be more to it than that.
And she meant to find out exactly what it was.
"Sherlock and John will be here around eight, but won't be staying long. We'll be in my office, darling," Mycroft rose from the table after dessert had been served, investigated and eaten with relish by all.
Cate sighed. Her pears and custard were never going to cut it in the future.
"But it's been a while since we've had them both over," she protested. "At least we can all have coffee together?"
"Not tonight, my love," Mycroft kissed her cheek, quite certain he did not want any excuse for Sherlock to meet Jack Parrish just yet. "We shall be rather busy and I think my brother might be in one of his moods; you know what Sherlock's like once he has the bit between his teeth. I shall invite them for dinner an evening next week," he said. "Would that suit?"
Reading between the lines for Cate was fairly simple after so many years of practice. Tonight's discussion was obviously connected to his recent announcements, not that she really believed either of them to be true. Mycroft was far too young to retire; he'd be insane with boredom within a month. Nor did she credit the notion of his memoirs being a likely rationale. There was something very odd going on, but he was not yet ready to bring her fully into his confidence, which usually meant that not all the pieces of his scheme were quite in place. Once they were, and once he'd assured himself of eventual success, he'd relax and then she'd know. But it never hurt to let him know that she knew he was playing at something
"I can't help if you keep me in the dark, darling," she murmured, resting a hand on his arm.
Mycroft smiled. "Sherlock said the same thing earlier, but I promise," he squeezed her shoulder. "There is nothing for you to worry about."
Giving him a look that said she'd heard that before, Cate turned and walked back towards the kitchen to tell Jack there were fresh towels in his bathroom, but to help himself from the linen-cupboard if he wanted more. Standing in the doorway, she was privy to part of a conversation, which she felt was better left undisturbed. She tiptoed away.
"So, you're both fourteen," Jack was back in his long apron, hand-drying wine glasses. The twins sat at the table watching him work; they hadn't been so entranced by anything since their uncle had managed to set fire to a rug in the front lounge as he was demonstrating the power of his magnifying glass when they were nine. Mummy wasn't half so interesting to watch. They nodded in unison.
"And have you decided what you want to do when you leave schoo ... university?" the tall blond turned his attention to another glass, holding it up to the light, checking for any blemishes.
"I think I might want to be a painter or a photographer," Jules rested his chin in his hands, observing how Jack polished every part of the glass twice before putting it down on the table.
"An artist? That's' really ..."
"Or a detective like my uncle, or a zoo vet, or a Cosmologist, or an ambassador ..."
"An ambassador? That's ..."
"But I think I'd really like to fly fighter jets, too," Julius looked entirely serious. "It depends on my mood at the time," he shrugged, smiling.
Lifting both eyebrows high, the newcomer looked at Blythe. "And I suppose you're going to want to be a space scientist too? Or maybe a musician? You have musician's fingers."
Not expecting any kind of comment like this, Blythe immediately examined her hands. They were shaped like her mother's, but long-fingered, like her father. She smiled, not having considered the option before. Perhaps she might take up an instrument one day.
"I can't make up my mind what to be, actually," she said, reflectively.
"Between being a superstar musician or a film actor, I bet," Jack opened his eyes wide, grinning.
"No. Between being Prime Minister or Head of MI6, actually," Blythe linked her long fingers together and looked completely at ease with her choices. "Both have their attractions, you see."
"Indeed I do see," Jack stopped polishing the glass in his hands and looked more carefully at the two young people sitting at the big wooden table and watching him with such concentration. "And I bet you could, too," his smile grew wider, but no less genuine.
Blythe couldn't help it. She liked him. She smiled back.
"Are you really a butler?" she asked, watching him replace the crystal glasses into the glass cabinet.
"I'm really trying to be one," Jack smiled again, nodding. "But there's a lot to it that I didn't think of when I started learning."
"Like what?" Jules was still fascinated. Jack was nothing like any of the butlers one saw on the BBC. Or even like those he'd met in various houses. Not one of those had had a diamond nose-stud, for a start.
"Well," Jack pulled out a chair and slid into it, his face animated. "There's all the usual stuff, like learning how to address different people in society, for instance. The widow of the Duke of Mayfair would be ..."
"The Dowager Duchess of Mayfair," the twins chorused.
"Okay, but if a Privy Counsellor Reggie Smith came for dinner, they'd be the ..."
"The Right Honourable Reginald Smith!" Jules laughed.
"What about the titles borne by the children of peers who have disclaimed their peerage?" Blythe asked archly.
"Hmm ... tricky, that," Jack screwed one eye closed in deep thought. "Titles will be given in courtesy as if the title had not been disclaimed," he said. "Next?"
"What colour waistcoats to wear with morning dress in the presence of the Queen?" Jules leaned back in his chair.
"Gentlemen would naturally be dressed in either buff, grey or duck-egg blue waistcoats, above grey or grey-and-black striped trousers," Jack looked superior and knowledgeable. "One cannot have one's gentleman inappropriately adorned for Royal Ascot."
"Have you met the Queen?" Jules leaned his elbows on the table. "We have. Several times."
"You've met the Queen?" Jack held his breath. To be a butler at one of the royal residences was some far-distant fantasy. "Oh, wow. Tell me everything."
"Only if we know you can keep a confidence," Jules drew in a deep breath, sounding both profound and a little pretentious. "She tells us things, you know."
"Elizabeth the Second, Queen of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of Her Other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith, tells you things?" Jack laid one hand over his eyes, waving the other in the air. "Water," he instructed.
"Are you all right?" Jules sounded concerned as he fetched a glass.
"What do you think?" Jack took a swig of the cold water, and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. "I can keep any confidence for however long for whoever asks me," he sipped from the glass.
"Whomsoever," Blythe corrected.
"Yeah, whatever," Jack rested on his folded arms. "So, either of you got a secret you need keeping?"
"Not me," Jules sighed. "Nothing exciting happens to me ..." he looked slyly across at his sister. "But Blythe does," he said, a faintly evil undertone to his words.
"Oh yes?" Jack turned towards the daughter of the house. "Anything I can do to assist with this ... secret?" he said, a smile curving his mouth. "Would it happen to be a confidence involving a young man of the opposite sex, by any chance?"
"Silly," Blythe scorned. "All young men would be of the opposite sex."
"You know very well what I mean," Jack lidded his eyes and sounded knowing. "You got a young man on the QT?"
"Blythe's got a boyfriend," Despite being a certified genius, Jules was still only fourteen and this was his sister. He covered his eyes with both hands, a huge grin on his face. "Dad's going to go spare."
"Jules," Blythe blushed to the roots of her hair. "It's nothing to do with you if I have a boyfriend or not."
"Boyfriend?" Sherlock stood in the doorway.
"Boyfriend?" Mycroft was right beside him.