Chapter 12

Mark stretched out on a soft comfort, feeling better, and then froze as pain ran up his body. He had felt that pain before. Bruises that would take weeks to heal. He had bandages around his middle. Broken ribs? Too hard to tell.

The hand complaining the most was wrapped up like a mummy. After the pounding he had received, there was every right to complain. He pulled himself fully awake and opened his eyes. Unfamiliar territory–a pleasant-looking room. Someone was sleeping on a cot nearby. That would be Jules. Quietly, Mark toed his way into shoes and carefully got his shirt back on. The bandaged hand didn't fit, so just tugged it over his shoulders and got into his pants. That took more care, as bending happened with a lot of hissing and pain.

Mark vaguely remembered his ride in a carriage to Savile Row. All he had been thinking at the time was getting help to find Matt. Once he had arrived in the neighborhood where Jules said he lived, Mark had faced a long street of town homes that looked exactly alike. Jules had never mentioned his exact address, so Mark started with door number one.

The first few occupants of the houses had thought him drunk and slammed the door in his face. The lady in number five had offered to tend his hand, but had known no one named Verne living on her street. When the door to number seven had opened to Verne's face, Mark had nearly fainted in relief. Then things went fuzzy.

I talked to someone. Who was that?

Mark gingerly made his way down the stairs. He took in a few familiar pieces of furniture, walked into a study at the foot of the staircase, holding the threshold for support. It was tidy. There was no evidence of his ever having been in there, bleeding and battered or not. All he recognized was the sofa and red wallpaper.

Mark moved in, feeling lightheaded. This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have come here. I need to get back to the hotel, get something to eat, find Matt. Last night's rush to a familiar face was instinct, but I didn't think through involving Jules in our problems.

He turned to go back upstairs to get the rest of his clothes. As he did, he came nose to nose with a tall man fully dressed in this early hour, looking around forty. The older gentleman had a stern look on his face. He wasn't built as big, but in foolish moments; Mark had been taught not to try his strength against mature men of his own size. Age did something to a man's body, making it denser and harder than it looked.

"If you give me my clothes, I will leave," Mark said. "I need to find my brother."

He tried to back up a step. Either he caught his foot on the carpet or dizzy spell caused the world to swing to the left. An iron hand reached out to catch him, impressing on him the wisdom of not getting belligerent. It was as if an oak tree had caught him.

"Steady there," the gentleman said, holding him until he found his feet. He was led to the sofa to sit. "I don't think you should go anywhere," his host said in a cultured English voice.

Mark looked around the room again as his head cleared. His surroundings showed that whoever Verne was staying with was wealthy. His family hadn't been wealthy until recently, but Mark had visited well-to-do homes often enough to know what they looked like.

In that moment, he heard a soft rustling behind him by the door. It was the unmistakable sound of petticoats as a woman walked. Mark tried to stand as, presumably, this man's wife entered the room. He was held in place. Mark turned his head to see a tall, gorgeous redhead come into view. Mark instantly recognized her. In another instant, he placed the man holding his shoulder. Confusion, fear… "What is going on here?"

Mark pushed the man's hand off his shoulder and stood to get away from them. The older man grabbed his arm as he took his first step. It twisted to an unnatural position, sending a shock of pain up Mark's arm and through injured ribs.

Dizzy spinning. The room lurched around him. Mark gasped in pain.

"No one here is going to harm you," Phileas said firmly. "I would suggest you settle back into the sofa and let us introduce ourselves."

Mark sat, was helped to sit as directed, and faced his host as the man released his wrist.

"That's better," Phileas said. "I am Phileas Fogg. This is my cousin, Rebecca. I take it you recognize us from your first day in England? There is no reason to be concerned. You told us some of what happened last night. You and your brother were attacked at the hotel, and he was taken away? Later, you came to my house looking for Jules. He told you where I lived?" There was no secret about his residence in London, but Jules would need to learn not to announce his address under these circumstances.

"Jules did not tell me exactly where he lived, just the street. I was dropped off at the front of the neighborhood," Mark said.

"For my neighbor's sake, we will be glad I live close to the front of the block." Phileas looked at Rebecca, who was suppressing her mortification. "Who took your brother? Tell me as much as you can."

"Mister, I really shouldn't get you involved in this," Mark said, trying to stand.

I don't know these people. I can't bring my troubles to their door.

Phileas put his hand on Mark's shoulder again to keep him in his seat. "We are already involved in your problems, young man. We have been since that first night on the docks."

Rebecca took over the conversation. "We work with the English government. Shipments of arms to the former confederacy since the war's end have become a problem between our countries. We have been ordered to find those deliveries and stop them. You arrived on the same day we were given our orders. You and your brother have been watched to see if your uncle sent you to arrange for more shipments."

"My uncle sent us to attend Cambridge." Mark said, only just holding his anger over being spied on. "Uncle Matt converted to peacetime trade a year ago. One of his suppliers won't get that through his thick English head. We went to his offices to tell him so, in person, and have since been attacked twice."

"Why was your brother taken?" Phileas said, cutting through the tirade.

"I don't know." Mark heard himself sounding like he was about to cry. He forced his voice back under control. "Maybe it's because he is Uncle Matt's namesake. All they told me was to get their new contract off to our uncle and see that shipments resume."

"Where is this contract?" Rebecca asked.

Mark blinked a few times, trying to remember. "I think I left it in our room. I don't think I picked it up when I woke."

"Then will go to your hotel," Phileas said. "You will need some breakfast and your clothing back. For the time being, you will be under our protection. I expect you to accept that and not try to go off on your own. You are on English soil now. This is our territory. We will know how to proceed with the information available. Understood?"

It was not really a question, but a demand for confirmation. Mark nodded. If these people were working for the English government, he had best step down.

"Excellent." Phileas said. A moment later, Phileas led him to the kitchen where Passepartout was told to feed him and have him ready for the trip back to his hotel.

Passepartout looked over the young man. A nineteen-year-old ate like continuously famished. Jules had verified that the Americans ate enormous meals. The valet went back to the kitchen to start sausage links, eggs, and added fruit.

Jules came down halfway through his cooking. Together, the two went through a half dozen eggs and two of his breakfast rolls apiece. Passepartout hoped the American would not be staying long. If he did, the household food budget would not make it to the end of the month.