Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur.

A/N: Many thanks to everyone who read the opening chapter of this story, and special thanks for those of you who sent reviews, or set alerts and favorites for this story – the encouragement is so appreciated! It would be great to keep hearing from you; the plot is pretty well set but the chapters are still in progress; I'm about two chapters ahead right now, so your input may help the final touches as the story goes along.

A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE

Chapter 2

The next morning both Gibbs and Anthony were up and moving about before Timothy was, despite his own relatively early rise. He felt a trifle guilty; had he more fully considered the events of the evening prior, he would have realised that both men would have sent for word of Miss Dawes' sister and of Miss Dawes herself at daybreak, to assure themselves that both women were well and to be ready for whatever action might be necessary should additional assistance be needed of them.

But his feelings of guilt at the hour – and at his failure to anticipate his employer's actions – were soon replaced by a return of the petulant disappointment he had initially that he had not been included in the plot, or at least in the information he had managed to glean from the interchanges late the night before. Thinking matters over again as he dressed, he felt even a bit more flummoxed that he had not been informed of Miss Dawes' troubles, as he was not only a member of the household in which she now made her livelihood, but was more and more a part of Gibbs' various adventures, both large and small. Surely a matter relating to one of the servants should warrant a mention, should it not? Such a courtesy was not an unreasonable expectation. Granted, Gibbs was not one to spare more information than was absolutely necessary, but his tendency toward a 'need to know' response was particularly frustrating for a matter so close to them all. Even more bedeviling was the silence about it all from Mr. Anthony, who could hardly be said to be taciturn and was rarely at a loss for words...

Coming into the breakfast room, Timothy saw that, as usual, Mrs. Williams had anticipated his arrival, no doubt by hearing him stir, and had set a place at the table across from Mr. Anthony, who was uncharacteristically seated for his breakfast and happily slathering a frightening amount of good, rich jam onto a freshly baked scone. Although bedecked in bruises that had blossomed into a new range of colours overnight, Anthony appeared, to McGee's surprise, otherwise no more injured than he had represented to them the evening before. It was therefore most likely a combination of his own relief at his friend's well-being, and Anthony's continued demeanor that nothing at all was amiss, that led Timothy's vague sulkiness to resurface into pointed pout. It was also likely abetted by the absence of Gibbs in the immediate vicinity, who still had a bit of a chilling effect on anything less than a brave and manly front.

Still, at least a basic courtesy was demanded of him, so Timothy nodded primly to his breakfast companion as he sat. "Anthony," he began. "Other than some rather garish colouring around your jaw and knuckles, you do appear in the peak of health this morning. Are you feeling any the worse for your adventures last night?"

Not looking at Timothy, but instead looking down his nose aristocratically to his scone, working the jam onto it thickly as if he were a great master working paint onto canvas and never letting his expression change, he said in a low, cautionary tone, "I am fine, thank you, McGee; but let that be the last we discuss last night's matter here. Some things are not fit breakfast discussion..."

The response surprised him; it was wholly unlike Anthony not to take advantage of an opportunity to expound on his more heroic adventures. "But if I am to truly be a part of this household and Gibbs'... uh ... employ," he protested, summarizing their merry band as best he could manage in the moment, "of what benefit is it to keep secrets from me? Did it not occur to either of you that I might have ideas too? Some of my ideas and inventions have been of great help..."

"That is true, McGee," Anthony said even lower and more pedantically, "but not now..."

"Then when? After all, I may not have seen as much of the world as you, and certainly not as Gibbs, but..."

McGee's words were most abruptly cut off by the perfect intersection of Anthony's suddenly hearty words and the appearance of the person to whom they were addressed. "Miss Dawes, I daresay these may be the best scones I've had in many a month! You did say you made them yourself, did you not?"

The woman blushed a bit as she automatically curtseyed in a quick bob, clearly pleased that her efforts were well received. "Yes, sir. And the jam, sir, from me own mum; I haven't quite the time or the kitchen for such preparations at the moment."

"Well, thank her for me as well. McGee, what are you waiting for? You'll not taste the like very often, and you're missing a treat if you don't snap them up while they're still warm."

McGee wasn't thrown for more than a moment at the sudden sharp change in Anthony's behaviour, and sensed it was all due to the servant's connection to last night's unpleasantness, but he knew he was still missing something. Nonetheless, as he had begun learning the art of instant dissembling from not only Anthony but Gibbs, he put his best face on things and nodded with a smile, looking up to face the girl. What he saw in her face, though, stilled his intended words – there was such a mix of pain and weariness and relief and gratitude there, all at once, it was difficult to imagine the depths of this injury to herself and her sister. Suddenly finding more honest words, Timothy smiled up to her and said in all candour, "clearly I'm missing a treat, then, as there are few I've ever known who can put such passion and carefree vigour into a good meal as can our Mr. Anthony. If there is anyone an expert on what is good to eat, it would be he."

McGee was rewarded with almost as much of a blush from Miss Dawes as Anthony had been with his own words earlier, but even greater measure of his successful choice of response was the very subtle yet approving glance and nod he received from his associate. "We've plenty of them left, sirs; Mr. Gibbs even had a couple himself this morning." McGee was moved to note how important it seemed to be to the young woman that she find a way to express her appreciation to Anthony and Gibbs, and realized how few people might have been willing – or able – to help her or her sister, no matter what, exactly, their circumstances had been.

And scones were not the limit of Miss Dawes' thanks. As she moved about the room clearing away empty plates that, despite their having no company, Anthony had actually used, the maid had seemed extra solicitous about getting Anthony's overly sweet tea just as he liked it and asked several ways if she could bring them anything more, offering to fetch more food or to warm another kettle for tea. She was careful to include Timothy in her offers, but McGee saw clearly that where she held general appreciation for him, there was a bit of awe about Peggy Dawes as she looked modestly for approval in Anthony's response and when she mentioned Mr. Gibbs in her solicitations.

Understanding began to dawn in McGee, at least for Anthony's insistence that they not discuss the previous night's events over breakfast. With Miss Dawes so close at hand, and her own sister clearly the focal point of whatever adventures had taken place, she could surely overhear anything they might have said. Once again Timothy was struck with a vague confusion, about Mr. Anthony specifically at this moment but in the end about both men and this household, as such concern for servants and their problems was clearly not the usual course for the quality. Even his own merchant father and his humble mother did not view servants as those for whom one needed to spare more than the most basic of attention, providing them of course with shelter and food but giving them no more thought otherwise than one would one's horses. Yet as confident as McGee was in his growing certainty that Anthony's shrouded history was one of quality itself, his care and concern for the lower classes, as was Gibbs,' seemed more what Timothy would have expected from men who had grown up as the servant class themselves and therefore more likely to be sensitive to whatever thoughts and feelings they might have.

Still, nobility or pauper, it appeared that a part of Anthony's 'madness' was to find no less dignity in the lowliest serving wenches than he did in the daughters of Dukes and Earls. While it certainly was an eccentricity of his, he appeared to share it with Gibbs, and neither man wore his feelings lightly or falsely. With this sudden clarity of thought, McGee realised he still might not fully understand all the details of the previous night's adventures, but now understood that Anthony's refusal to discuss it with him, at least this morning, was not to hold him apart from it all, but to avoid upsetting Miss Dawes. McGee took it all in as Anthony breezily responded to the young woman's attentive puttering, finally assuring her they were very well set for breakfast and that she should go enjoy some of her own scones before they cooled.

Suddenly his own childish self-absorption about not being included seemed very petty indeed, and just as Timothy resolved not to dwell on it, Anthony spoke again, his voice even lower than before. "McGee, your ignorance of matters was no plan or device to keep events hidden from you, but simply an effort to preserve a bit of Miss Dawes' privacy. Surely you took enough from the conversations last night to realise that the matter at hand was her family's affair, and one that she might not wish to air, especially to those with whom she has only recently begun to work? No benefit could possibly come from her sister's travails becoming common knowledge. Much ill, however, both great and small, could result from the wrong person gaining the information. But even more important, McGee – it is a matter that is Miss Dawes' to share, not mine and not Gibbs'. And you will find that, in this business of ours, discretion is often the single most important element of the work we're asked to do."

Timothy nodded solemnly, once again realising that his acceptance into Gibbs' household held far more for him than mere shelter and food, and even more than the continuing lessons in handling guns, knives and himself provided by both Gibbs and Anthony. He didn't know if it would ever be fully explained to him, what and who, exactly, his benefactors were, and why they did what they did, but the evening's events had only added to his conviction that both men were of the noblest of character and that, no matter their eccentricities, he owed them his respect and loyalty for their inclusion of him in their midst. "I understand, Anthony, and ... I am ... gratified ... to know that you and Gibbs are as solicitous of Miss Dawes and her sister as you were of, say, the Lady Bennington and her family," he said carefully, hoping to be understood. "It says much of the sort of men you are."

"Indeed?" Anthony's eyes sparkled at that, and he responded to the younger man's sincere praise by shoving the remaining scone into his mouth whole, affecting a clownish leer as jam dribbled out onto the plate below him. "Not at all something that should be advertised, McGee," he managed over his mouthful of breakfast, "unless you want further attention drawn to our ... peculiarities. Do you not know what they say about Gibbs, out on the street?"

"I know what they say about you," Timothy muttered, rolling his eyes at the sudden antic performance before he could help himself.

"Ah, yes, that I'm quite mad, eh?" Anthony finished chewing and swallowed, reaching for his tea. "Helpful in some matters and less so in others. Still, one can manage a goodly number of activities when one is mad that would be questioned in a more sane and somber man."

McGee considered him for a moment, eyes narrowed as he imagined just how far such a reputation could take him, and made bold to ask, "how did such a tale begin?"

He was spared a sideways look of appraisal. "Are you so sure it's a tale, McGee?" Anthony baited him.

"Well, I..." McGee stopped short, and thought about all he had seen and heard in his months under their roof. Several rather long moments later, while he was still weighing the matters of foolhardiness and blind loyalty with legitimate madness, Anthony snorted in a most ungenteel manner.

"And there you have it, McGee. Madness or not?" Timothy was quite literally saved by the bell, as the sound of the doorbell skittering in the hallway surprised them both. At the sound, Anthony stood abruptly and lay his napkin neatly on the table. "Now here's madness – an unexpected visitor at this hour? Surely nothing good comes of such intrusion ... Sir," Anthony amended as Gibbs suddenly materialised in the doorway, clearly as surprised by the bell as were his employees. "It is then an uninvited visitor?"

"We shall see, Anthony, if you can bear waiting another moment," Gibbs cautioned.

It was only just that, another moment, before Miss Dawes appeared in the doorway as well and, with a murmur and curtsey to Gibbs, went on to Anthony to hand him an envelope. "For you, Mr. Anthony. The coachman is waiting for a reply."

With a frown, Anthony took the proffered envelope and tore into it, shaking loose the folded note it held. Clear surprise took his features, and although Gibbs waited in silence, trusting that the information would come, McGee worried, "it is nothing to do with last night's matter, is it?"

"I hardly think so, Timothy," Anthony's voice was strangely quiet. He looked up to Gibbs with some question in his expression as, without further discussion, he handed the correspondence to Gibbs. As he did so, McGee caught a brief glimpse of an embossed gold mark of some sort on the front of the snowy, rich paper, spelling the wealth of its sender – and catching the immediate attention of his employer. The room was silent as Gibbs read the note, his expression darkening as he did. After several moments Anthony spoke. "While you need not go, sir, I can hardly refuse."

"You'll not go alone. And ... I am as included as you are in this," Gibbs waved the note in between them. "It just does not bode well, this vague summons; you know that..."

"Your preternatural sense of doom again, sir?" Anthony asked flippantly, yet not quite hiding the seriousness of his words that were more statement than question, as he took the note back in hand. Even Timothy had been in the household long enough to know just how accurate Gibbs' sense of equilibrium could be and had come to trust that when Gibbs said all was well, it was, and when he said the opposite, it was time to take care. At the look Gibbs offered Anthony in return, McGee spoke up, looking from one man to the other.

"Sir – Anthony," he implored tersely. "Please."

Given the discussion of the morning, Anthony's response was swift if not still a bit cryptic. "It is a request, McGee, that I might go to meet an acquaintance immediately about a matter of some urgency – and that I bring my employer. From the tenor of the note it would seem our professional option is sought."

"But ... that is highly irregular, isn't it? Sir?" McGee looked from Anthony to Gibbs in confusion. "That you'd be called out like this?"

"Not unlike what you did in pulling me out of the theatre, McGee," Anthony managed to grumble despite his otherwise grave response to their caller. "But I suspect that this may bear even more need for haste – and, more's the irony, given our discussion this morning, the need for our discretion."

"A likely reason he has called on you rather than the Met," Gibbs murmured, then drew a deep breath, straightening. "This is your engagement, Anthony; if you accept this summons I will go along unless you ask me not to join you, but in either case it would seem wise that you proceed without delay."

"What, dressed like this, sir? I cannot; I anticipated only breakfast and a morning back at the stables to work the horses, not such an engagement."

"Anthony, surely if time is of the essence... " Timothy dared to interject.

"There are some conventions that are not easily breached, McGee," Anthony said sternly, turning on his heel to walk to the entryway, where the driver waited. As Gibbs and McGee followed a step behind, Timothy did his best to catch all he could about the man waiting there for Anthony's response. What he saw was a slender, well-kempt man, his clothing plain but clean, and of a finer weave and cloth than most of McGee's own, and his bearing not one bit like that of a servant, but like one used to being served. Following Gibbs' lead to stand behind Anthony some distance but clearly there in his support, McGee was intrigued to see Anthony hesitate the barest moment when he saw the man's face. But with an immediate, unconscious straightening of his spine, Anthony walked the remaining distance to the man and, to the surprise of the others, tipped his head in a deferential greeting. "I regret that I do not recall your name, sir, but well remember your face and station. You are here as driver, then, rather than one of the usual coachman, in order to ...?"

"Provide any further information you may require to accept the engagement, Mr. Anthony, and to provide any ... encouragement ... that you may need to do so."

McGee may not have been raised with the quality, and may have been in London less than a year, but in his employ with Gibbs had begun to develop an ear for the sounds of the many peoples making up the cosmopolitan world in which he now lived. And the man's speech spoke of money and education and culture well beyond his own, and certainly beyond any coachman's; McGee thought he noted a touch of something else, something in the man's pronunciation with which he was not familiar, which simply added to the wholly inappropriate fit between the man and his purported role.

Clearly Anthony knew the man; he was nodding, not surprised at the sound of him, and not asking any more at the moment. "Fifteen minutes, please, and I ..." With a quick look behind him, Anthony met Gibbs eyes and, catching the slight nod, turned back to amend, "we will be ready to go." He started to turn to go but then, remembering his manners, turned back to offer, "we have just been having breakfast, sir, and there is a wealth of fresh scones and jam to have with tea if you would like..."

The man raised a hand to demur, elegantly, and shook his head, "thank you, no – I breakfasted some time ago."

Anthony considered him for a long moment, evidently trying to decide if the words indicated the severity of the matter they were to attend, or the man's disapproval that they had eaten a rather long time after daybreak. Breaking his reverie, he added, "oh – and, as you see, we are now three; Mr. Gibbs has brought along another employee, Mr. McGee here, into his work. It would be our wish to have him join us, with your permission."

Gibbs frowned his surprise slightly at that; the driver hesitated, clearly not happy with the thought either.

"Sir – he is as trustworthy with a matter requiring discretion as are both Gibbs and I," Anthony said evenly, his words surprising and warming McGee with their trust, "and has knowledge of matters of science that we have found to be a great adjunct to our own, more ... traditional ... methods. If you seek my service," his voice dropped slightly, "it would only be aided by allowing us to do our work the way we do it best."

It was only another moment before the man nodded. "Fifteen minutes," he agreed without more, and, with another quick tip of his head, Anthony came back to where McGee and Gibbs stood in the hall. "I don't know about you, sir, but I am going up to change. McGee, go on – put on your best afternoon coat; I'll help you with your cravat. And top hat, McGee, the grey one that suits the coat..."

"Tony," McGee sputtered in a whispered hiss, quite confused now. "Just who is this acquaintance of yours?"

With a look of near exasperation, Anthony wavered only a moment, then flipped the open note under McGee's nose. In a strong, clear hand Timothy read, My Dear Mr. Anthony – I have need of your services immediately. If you would be so kind to come at once, with your employer, my driver will be at your disposal to accommodate you. McGee looked back to the green eyes watching him intently and shrugged at the words, still not seeing what made this so unusual. "And?" he asked Anthony impatiently.

"The signature, McGee."

He looked back at the note and the simple, single name at the end of the note. "Wales?" he asked. He shook his head, stubbornly. "I'm sure whatever this Mr. Wales would have us do would not require..."

But by then Anthony had snapped the note shut and flipped the note back around to face him, the embossed coat of arms glittering slightly as it jiggled before him. "Not 'Mr.' Wales, my young, innocent McGee. Wales." He blinked at McGee in surprise when the revelation still meant nothing to the younger man, then glanced up at Gibbs. "By my soul, sir, he really doesn't..."

"Go on and change, Anthony," Gibbs said in something of a long-suffering sigh, then turned to the younger man as Anthony hurried up the stairs toward his room. "It's how he signs his name, McGee." With a glance to the driver who was waiting and, rather impetuously now, watching them from the hall, Gibbs said evenly, "it is from the Prince of Wales."

...to be continued...