A/N: Right, this is the re-do of this chapter. I realised that for some reason I hadn't put in the last bit of this chapter, and that it made no sense without it.

Chapter Ten

Diana frowned. "I'm afraid I do not understand you, Mr Wayne."

"I meant that there are certain subjects best discussed outside of the public domain."

"Then where, pray tell, may we discuss them?" she asked, days of not sleeping and overstretched nerves beginning to seep their tension into her voice.

"Would you have dinner with me, tonight, at my home?"

She raised an eyebrow. Surely he was not suggesting-? "And how many would our party consist of?"

At least he was direct. "Two. As I said, these matters are best discussed with a few people as possible being privy to them."

"For me to dine with you alone would be quite impossible, as I am sure you are aware. Good day to you, Mr Wayne."

He did not touch her, nor make any move she saw, but he managed to place himself in her path anyway. "Please, Miss Prince, I understand your hesitation, but I give you my word I would never do or say anything dishonourable towards you."

"You would not be given a chance," Diana said scornfully.

He smiled faintly. "This would only be to exchange information, explain to you the methods I intend to use in finding your sister—you have no idea of our true chances of success otherwise."

She hesitated still, the ethics and morals of almost twenty five years hanging over her. They were being bravely attacked by her curiosity though. He seemed so confident, and it was the confidence tat came from knowledge, not affectation. Finally she nodded. It would harm her reputation, but, as it had just been very clearly demonstrated, her reputation hung in tatters anyway.

"Very well," she said. "But not for dinner; for tea this afternoon, and I will stay for no more than an hour."

"More than acceptable. I will send the carriage for you at four 'o' clock."

He bowed, and Diana walked away asking herself what on earth she was doing. This was not only unwise, it was unorthodox, rash and left caution to be consumed by wolves. All for more information on a man she barely knew. But a man, she reflected, her father had told her to find if she ever needed help. That must mean he was trustworthy. It must. At least that was how she would be justifying it to herself, and to Mr and Mrs Kent when she returned to the house in Bloomsbury.

The diplomat made sure to stop his hand from shaking before he knocked on the door. His employer would sense his fear anyway, but there was little dignity in allowing him to see it.

"Enter."

"Good morning, sir."

"Well?"

The man unlocked a chest he had brought with him, and pulled out a vial of clear, viscous liquid. "The shipment from Hong Kong arrived this morning, sir."

The vial was snatched from him. "And it will work?"

"It should, sir. Our supplier was positive—as long as the subject has the previous disposition for the condition. If not then administering the oil will be fatal."

"That will not be a bother. All we need do in that case is choose a test subject who is disposable. You may go."

The diplomat automatically shrank from his employer, instinctively going towards the door as he had been ordered. But still, he felt that he must inquire. "Sir…how exactly might we test whether the oil has had the desired effect?"

"Leave that to me."

Dismissed, the diplomat scurried from the Whitehall office, leaving the other man alone. He walked to the window, looking out over the muck and slime of London. He fingered the vial in his hand lovingly. Soon…if this worked…soon he would cleanse this city of its underclasses, of the rats who squalled and begged for crumbs. And from London, England would follow. And where England went, the Empire inevitably followed.

There was another knock on the door, surer and firmer this time. The knock of his secretary, who respected but did not now why he should fear. "Enter."

"Sir, Mr Kent is here, from the Daily Planet."

"Kent?"

"The foreign affairs editor, sir. He made an appointment to speak to you about the situation in Bohemia."

The vial disappeared into a pocket. "By all means, send him in."

The carriage Mr Wayne had promised was prompt, and at four on the dot, Diana had spent most of the afternoon changing her mind back and forth about whether to go. She eventually decided she really must. If only for her own family's sake, there was an enigma here that she had determined to reach the bottom of. When the maid knocked on the drawing room door and announced that the carriage had arrived for Miss Prince, Lois—who had agreed with her logic—seemed slightly worried now.

However, she made no effort to prevent her going. "Please be careful, Diana."

"I will be."

The carriage journey was short, as the contraption took her swiftly out of London. The footman holding open the carriage door for her had been very polite, but they obviously had instructions not to delay. They did not go far, only to the far edge of Richmond, but it was enough to leave the hustle and bustle behind. They came to a gatehouse and then eventually to Wayne Manor. She had certainly expected it to be large, but she had not anticipated the hulk of gothic grandeur that confronted her. Despite the bright sunshine, it looked rather a grim, forbidding place. Exactly right for a man who kept secrets, she thought, and who lived alone.

She walked up the steps to find the huge front doors already open, and a smartly dressed, elderly man waiting for her. His diffident air identified him as a servant of some kind, but he had a friendly, open smile. He bowed as she reached him.

"Miss Prince. Welcome to Wayne Manor."

"Thank you, Mr…?"

"Pennyworth, miss. Alfred Pennyworth. I am Mr Wayne's butler. Please, do come in." She did so, and he took her coat and bonnet and then said, "This way please." They walked in silence for a few moments, and when they paused in front of a large doorway, Alfred said, "Please accept my condolences for the death of your father, Miss Prince. He was a truly great man."

Diana blinked, stunned. Bruce Wayne was one thing, but his butler had known her father too? What on earth was going on here? "Th-thank you," she managed.

She followed him through the house, up a flight of stairs and to a surprisingly well-lit room, which turned out to be a study. Bruce Wayne was sat at the large mahogany desk, looking through some papers.

"Your guest has arrived, sir," Alfred said.

"Thank you, Alfred. Bring us some tea, would you?"

Alfred went, and Bruce stood, bowing as she curtsied. "Thank you for coming, Miss Prince."

"I am still not sure I should be here at all," she replied honestly, taking a seat. "But I was curious, I will admit. You said you had sent out 'agents' to look for your ward and my sister. What did you mean?"

"Miss Prince, how much do you know about your father's career?"

"My father? What has he to do with this?"

"Much." At her dark look, he elaborated. "I am attempting to give you a sense of context, else you will not understand the rest of my answer."

Annoyed, Diana said, "He was a colonel in the army; he had a long and distinguished career; sacrificed his personal happiness many times during said career, and then quite unaccountably was arrested, tried and hanged for treason. Now, will you kindly explain why precisely you are raking through the worst period in my life? Especially since, as a I recall, you are as convinced as myself of his innocence."

Bruce's expression remained grave. "I am sorry, Miss Prince, I do not mean to wound you, and nor did I intend to remind you of painful moments."

"Then why have you?" she asked angrily.

At this point, Alfred entered again with tea. It apparently did not occur to Bruce that the conversation was inappropriate for the ears of a servant, since he continued. Diana attempted to ignore Mr Pennyworth and focus on what he said.

"Because your father, although his career started in the army, did not spend his entire career there. He, like me, worked within the secret service."

"Which is what?"

"A separate branch of the military, very small, reporting directly to the ruler of the land—now the Prince Regent."

"And operating in secrecy, presumably."

"Yes. We deal primarily in intelligence, and gather information from both the army and the navy, as well as from civilian sources. Indirectly, Mr Kent works for us, as well as directly for me personally, of course."

"So you are the head of this 'secret service'?" Diana asked, now not bothering to conceal the sarcasm in her tone. "And what are are you known as—the 'discretion division'?" She stood, shaking her head. "Thank you for the tea, Mr Wayne, but I did not come here to you could insult my intelligence and humiliate my family any more!"

"Miss Prince, I am perfectly serious."

"Oh yes, I can see that!"

She got to the door, and he grasped her shoulder. "Diana, please. One moment, and I will prove it to you."

She stopped, both shocked that he had addressed her in such a familiar way and half-convinced by the genuine plea on his voice. "How?" she asked over her shoulder.

"There are some paper on my desk; things that no one outside of government would be able to access, and most people not inside Whitehall."

She still hesitated, but then did go to the desk at the far end of the room. Bruce stayed by the armchairs and continued sipping his tea, apparently unconcerned she might find anything lacking. The confidence of the man that had been alluring was now only infuriating.

"Preposterous," she muttered.

She sat down at the desk, sorting through the letters, documents and other papers she found there. They did look official, some of them obviously state documents—occasionally one was scribbled over in red ink: secret. She recognised the signatures of famous politicians and noblemen. But these could all be forged, however clever they were… At the bottom of the pile, there was a letter written entirely in French. Diana spoke, read and wrote French very competently, and in her experience, something written in that language by a non-French citizen (unless the writer had lived in that country) would never be perfect. There would always be a mistake, no matter how tiny—a circumflex in the wrong place, for instance, or the tone might be wrong. This appeared to be a letter between friends (neither of whom was Bruce Wayne), so she searched for any additional formalities, anything that should not be present, anything that did not belong. She found nothing. On the sixth time of reading through it, scanning, she suddenly realised what an inflammatory piece of writing she had under her fingers. It was a letter, addressed to a high-ranking admiral in the British navy, from Napoleon Bonaparte.

She dropped the letter. "Exactly what are you involved in, Mr Wayne?"

"Exactly what I told you. It is my job to protect this nation, and the empire, from any and all threats it faces. There are some plots so insidious and subtle that turning cannon on them would be worse than useless. I swim in waters where there are no ships to help."

"And my father…he did this too?"

"Actually, he jointly founded the service. Spies have always existed, and we have been well organised since the days of Elizabeth I."

"Because of Sir Francis Walsingham?"

"Indeed. However, the Stuarts allowed the network to fall into decline, and eventually began to persecute us actively. When His Majesty came to the throne, men like your father saw there was a need for us again. We now serve His Royal Highness Prince George, until the king recovers."

"And what do you do with the information you gather?"

"It's used as a tactical advantage, that other countries will not have, be they enemies or allies. Sometimes it is simply stored; at others it can mean the differences between victory or defeat."

"Then if my father knew about this, if he provided such valuable intelligence to the empire, why was he convicted of treason?"

"Because there are not only British spies. And I believe convincing information was fabricated by another European power that incriminated your father."

"But if he was some kind of…of…master spy, then surely he could have proven his innocence!" Diana protested. "There must have been some way-"

"Precisely," Bruce nodded. "That is why I am convinced within myself that there was something else happening—a traitor very high in government, perhaps, or something I was meant to find that I did not… I cannot tell you, Miss Prince, that your father's death could not have been prevented, nor that it was not my fault. The truth is that I simply do not know."

Diana struggled for calm in the midst of all these revelations. "When I last saw him, just before- He kept saying that it would be better for him to die. That it was the only way. Do you think he was protecting something, or someone?"

Bruce nodded. "I've requisitioned most of your father's papers—but sifting through them is slow going."

"You have everything? All his diaries?" she demanded, frowning.

"Better a man who thinks him innocent than a man convinced of his guilt."

She could not argue the logic of that, though she disliked it. "Have you found anything?"

"Nothing, except something I cannot read. It looks like Ancient Greek."

"Show me," Diana commanded.

"You can read Ancient Greek?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"You can't?"

He smirked. "Touché."

He rose, crossed to a portrait of a man and woman, posing together in such an attitude of intimate happiness that she knew them to be a married couple. He ran his fingers down the side of the frame, then pressed a hidden catch and the painting swung forward on hinges she could not see. Embedded in the wall was a black metal square, with a dial, white numbers engraved on it. Bruce twisted the dial around one way and then the other, pausing occasionally while it clicked. Finally he pulled the door open with a creaking noise. Inside was a small cupboard, with piles of papers inside. He pulled out a bundle wrapped with red ribbon. Diana could not hide her interest.

"What is that?"

"That? I do not really have a name for it. But it is to keep important documents safe—it is fire retardant and extremely difficult to break into, were a thief to try."

"You invented it."

"Yes."

He handed the bundle to her, and immediately her attention was diverted. She ran her fingers over the familiar handwriting. Pappa… When she opened her eyes, having needed a moment to calm herself, Bruce was looking compassionately at her. In order to distract herself from the intensity of that look, Diana motioned to the portrait.

"Your parents?"

He glanced at it. "Yes."

"Were they involved in any of…this?"

He nodded. "My father and yours actually went to Cambridge together. Before Hector went to Sandhurst."

"And they did things like this together?"

"Before my father was murdered, yes," he said tightly.

Diana put her cup into its saucer with a sharp tap. "If what you've said is true, then my father was also murdered."

He did not apologise, but his tone was lighter the next time he spoke. "My mother was involved too, though not through any choice of her own at first."

"What can you mean?"

"My father intended to use her," he said, with a startling frankness. "He intended that she should be an unwitting asset, a source of information about the dealings of the American government—her father was the Secretary of Trade at the time."

"So what happened?" Diana asked. "Surely the deception did not extend into their marriage!"

"No—he fell genuinely in love with her and confessed everything. Then he proposed."

"She must have been a remarkable woman, to forgive him," Diana commented.

Bruce's eyes grew briefly warm. "She was."

Diana pulled the stack of letters towards her, sifting through them until she came to Hector's journal, bound in red leather. She leafed through the pages until English became a row of indecipherable—if neat—characters. What had been recorded in English had been nothing confidential, and certainly nothing that Diana would call inflammatory or valuable. The end few pages, however, were utterly different. All she could see were letters she recognised, but with no connection between them. There were no words here. Plenty of letters of the Cyrillic alphabet, and grouped together as though they should be words, but were not.

She shook her head. "I cannot read this."

"You do not read Ancient Greek then?"

"I read that perfectly; this is not it. I do not know what this is."

"Russian?"

She shrugged. "I would not have said so—I know only what it is not, Master Wayne, not what it could be."

He gave a small motion of disappointment. "No matter."

There was a pause between them, then Diana asked, "So your agents…they will find my sister? Are you certain?"

Here he hesitated. "I do not wish to lie to you, Miss Prince-"

"And you should not try. Had Donna actually given me a falsehood then none of us would be in our current entanglement. As it was, all she did was to conceal the truth."

He nodded. "Then I shall not lie—if it were your sister alone they were searching for, then yes. They would find her before she came to any mischief. However, she is not alone. She is with Dick."

Diana nodded pensively. "I remember you saying you had trained him 'too' well. Presumably you meant this—as a spy?"

Bruce replied, "Yes, unfortunately. Dick discovered a long time ago the truth of what I do, and in order to protect him, I trained him, gave him the skills he might one day need."

Diana felt a thrill of cold fear. "So Donna…?"

"I cannot guarantee she will be safe. I can only swear to you that Dick will do everything in his power to keep her that way."

Diana took a deep breath and fought for calm. Suddenly scandal and disgrace sounded utterly laughable. Actual physical danger was inconceivable, surely. But looking at Bruce now, at this man who dealt in secrets and who lived a lie, she knew that he told the truth. Donna was in danger. She wondered if Dick had told her that, when he had asked her to share his life.

Knowing Donna, she would only have found it all the more romantic for that, Diana thought.

But this was not romantic, and it was not a story, fairytale or any kind of fable. This held the very real possibility of harming her sister's health, if not removing her life altogether. Revenge for her father was now only a secondary concern.

"In that case, Mr Wayne," she said slowly, "I can think of only one appropriate course of action."

"Which is?"

"For me to join this secret service of yours. Because then, if my family is ever placed in danger, if they are ever threatened, I can protect them. I have obviously failed hereto forth. So let me join, and ensure I do not fail again."

He looked at her frankly. "You do not have the necessary skills."

"I can learn them," she replied, prepared for some resistance. "I can already ride, I can handle a rapier and I speak several languages, all fluently. The only thing I am unable to do is shoot."

He barked out a short laugh. "There is slightly more to it than that, Miss Prince."

"So teach me."

He sat back in his seat, his physical attitude very relaxed yet his gaze anything but. Diana felt his mind scanning her all over, in her, looking through her. She held herself very still, knowing without any doubt that he would find what he sought. Her mother had once told her she had a core of steel, and for the first time since Pappa's death, she felt it in her again now. She fully embraced it. It gave her strength, resolve, purpose. When his eyes swept over her body—with perfect objectivity—she did not blush, did not look away. And when he looked back into her eyes, she knew she had won. Finally he leaned forward again.

"I cannot allow you-"

"But-"

"I cannot allow you now," he said, "because there are certain things you must understand that, presently, I do not think you grasp."

"Such as?"

"In order to give you these skills you need, your training would be intensive, and it would be extensive. You will in essence need to come and live here, at Wayne Manor. Society will assume you are my mistress. It will damage your prospects permanently, perhaps destroy them."

Diana allowed herself a bitter smile as she prepared her answer. "Mr Wayne, I am almost twenty five years old; I have two younger sisters, one of whom is currently the scandal of London; we none of us have any money whatsoever; and my father is an infamous traitor to the Crown. I doubt my prospects could sink much lower. Do you?"

He remained stoic. "Nevertheless, I need you to go back to Mr and Mrs Kent and think about it, truly think about every possible thing that might be required of you, and I do mean every last thing. Come back this time tomorrow afternoon, with your decision."

A/N: Review please!