Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. The brilliant Victorian universe of NCIS – and the original characters, Smith and Stebbins – courtesy of Sequitur.

A/N: if anyone wants to yell about how long this update took, feel free, and please accept my apologies. I had no intention of taking so long to update, and have only my RL schedule as explanation. For those of you who have asked about it, my sincerest thanks; for those who have kept up with this for a while, I do know that long delays upset a faction of the NCIS readership, and I appreciate your coming back anyway. I hope the fact that this chapter is quite a bit longer than the others both makes up a bit for the delay and explains it in part.

A SPECIAL THANKS to Fingersnaps, who lent her geographically closer 'ear' to one of the characters here, to help him sound as if he'd truly had been born within the sound of Bow Bells and not on the soundstage of a bad Hollywood movie. Any remaining clinkers were my additions or changes done after her review, and certainly not her doing.

And I still appreciate any and all comments - hope the updates from now on won't be so long...

A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE

Chapter 14

Timothy made his way slowly along the market stalls, forcing himself linger here and there, stopping to count to himself as Anthony had suggested. It was one of the many little tricks Anthony had taught him, this one to pace himself, to avoid rushing off from bin to bin, the better to look as if he were simply idling away the time as his young lady did her shopping. Amid his efforts to keep an eye on those around him without seeming too vigilant, he allowed himself a moment's reflection of the day's events, and decided that, were he to try and explain the day to his family, settled as they were into the uneventful rural life in which he'd spent his youth, they would think he had wholly lost his senses.

Not an hour out of bed that morning, he'd been whisked off to Marlborough House to find a noblewoman spread out dead as a doornail across the floor of Prince of Wales' family rooms, sent to fetch Dr. Mallard, dispatched again to enlist the Lady Ziva in their secret investigation, and now tasked to a fact-finding mission of his own, back to a part of the City he'd hoped he'd never see again, all in a deepening intrigue of murder amid the Royals. It was so very far from what he thought his life might be when he'd first set off to London to make his fortune, but, at the moment, were he to be honest with himself – even in circumstances as dire as they were – he could not say that he would trade events for a life he once thought more fitting.

And now, as he allowed an increasing distance to grow between himself and the gaily chattering Miss Abigail, who was at the moment throwing herself into her own role in the investigation Ziva had conceived for them, McGee began to suspect that, instead of feeling dismay that the innocent young woman had been co-opted into the sordid mess, he ought to be curious why, as between the two of them, Miss Abigail seemed the better able to assume the façade required by the moment.

Indeed, on the ride over to the Market, Timothy had been distracted, worrying alternately about others he'd left behind at Marlborough House, about the cruelty of the murder they were investigating, and above all, about the prospect of his returning to the seedy, grimy docks and the dangers awaiting him there. But Miss Abby had been in her element: filled with purpose and excited at the prospect of gathering information, she danced like a thoroughbred at the gate, filled with anticipation for the race ahead. He'd have been more curious – and, quite likely, more enamored – with her response had he not concerns of his own, commanding attention.

Shaking off all reflection, Timothy knew it was time that he make his way to the river, and that he dare not venture into such a part of town without his wits about him and his focus outward, not idling within. With a step, and another, and another, he allowed himself to be pulled toward the stalls leading away from Miss Abby, taking less and less time with each feigned stop. In only another few minutes of his "shopping," McGee reached the edge of the market and the alley behind them where the empty wagons and push-carts awaited the end of the day. As unobtrusively as he knew how, he glanced along the alley. Seeing no one, made his way out of the stalls and on toward the docks.

The stable and carriage house behind Marlborough House was, as expected, a grand affair, as large as many of the finer homes in London and, Gibbs expected, allowing the horses who lived there a better and healthier life than that had by many of the city's inhabitants. The buildings were situated at ninety degrees to each other, which provided a generous work yard, exercise yard and paddock beyond.

The buildings sheltered the outdoor work areas from the view of the main house, so the hands could wash down the carriages and polish the tack out of doors, as weather permitted, without their dirty work disturbing the Family, and on this rare sunny day, a stablehand, not much more than a dozen years old, was hard at work burnishing the leather fittings on a harness. Three more awaited at his feet. Other than the soft scupping sound of his work, it was quiet; birdcalls and occasional whinnies of the horses nearby were the only other sounds of life. Gibbs took the boy's presence in such an environment as a gift from Providence, and did not hesitate to take advantage of it as far as possible.

Coming as close to the clearing as he could without first stepping into open view, Gibbs looked about for a few small pebbles and, grabbing a few, lobbed one then another toward the lad, as near as he could without striking him.

The boy looked up in surprise and scanned the area for others. Just as he was about to look back to his work, Gibbs stepped sideways, partly revealing himself in the bushes, and put a quick finger to his lips, shaking his head to encourage his silence. The boy went still, gulping in alarm, but did not run. Trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, Gibbs held his empty hands out in a shrug, then beckoned him over.

At first, the lad remained unmoving, except for a tiny shake of his head. Gibbs gestured, but couldn't think of how to express in gesture that he only wanted to ask a question or two. The next moment, and refraining from smacking himself in the head for not thinking of it sooner, he dug around in his pocket to pull out a few coins and hold them out. That got the boy's attention and a furtive look around, but again, no movement. Finally, Gibbs rattled the coins softly and reached as far as he could to lay the coins in the dirt before him at the edge of the clearing, gesturing as best he could figure for the boy that the coins were for him. Backing off a step then to seem less intimidating, took off his hat and coat and Gibbs sat in the bush at its edge, gestured one more time, then rested his hands palm up against his protesting knees. He'd run out of ideas and hoped this would work.

After another few moments, and another glance around, the lad quietly put down the harness he held and came close. When he was near enough to reach for the coins, Gibbs said quietly, "good lad. The coins are yours, for being brave enough to come talk with me. I wish only to ask about the party here last night. Will you talk with me?"

The boy's movement had frozen at Gibbs' words, but as he finished, he shook his head mightily. "Ain't allowed, sir. 'The Royals' business is the Royals' business,'" he recited. "They'd 'ave me 'ide if they knew."

Gibbs nodded quickly, "I understand," he said sympathetically. "And if you weren't even here last night..."

"But I was, sir! Not the biggest party ever they 'ad, but enough carriages an' 'orses they needed all of us boys 'ere."

"I see." Gibbs nodding slowly, moderating his voice and movement as he might for a spooked horse, and working not to let his growing hopes show. "How many horses, you figure?" At the boy's reticence, he added, "that's not really the Royal's business at all if you just tell me about your work last night."

To his surprise, the boy blushed deeply and looked away, his hand pulling back from the coins in a sad sort of sigh. "Don't rightly know anyways, sir; more'n the numbers I 'ave to count." He mumbled, "I never was no good at numbers, sir, and me dad said schoolin' was a waste of time when I should be out earnin' me own keep."

Gibbs nodded his encouragement, and tipped his chin toward the coins. "Go on – I meant it when I said the coins are yours, for talking with me. I'd rather have your honest answers than some tall tale." He saw the boy blink, his surprise becoming appreciative, and Gibbs urged, smiling softly, "Take them. I'm not all that good at numbers myself." He watched as the youngster pounced on the glittering metal and continued gently, "boy, d'you know the horses and carriages by their owners?"

"I should say so, sir!" He seemed pleased to be able to redeem himself.

"Good lad." Gibbs kept his demeanor steady and tried, "did you see the Danforths' carriage last night?"

The boy's eyes flickered at the mention of the Danforths' name, but after only a moment, he asked, "'ers were never 'ere last night, sir – Peters was sent to collect 'er. 'Is carriage warn't 'ere 'til long past dinner, after some of 'em 'ad already left."

Gibbs started, slightly, and asked, looking hard at the boy, "you saw Lord Danforth's carriage here last night – but the Lady came earlier with one of the Prince's drivers, here?"

"Yes, sir." The lad nodded, clearly certain of his information, but seeming a bit wary – maybe only because they'd moved back to people from horses, but Gibbs noted it nonetheless. "Peters got back before they was servin' dinner up at the 'ouse – I know, because..." He suddenly paused, as if realizing he was about to spill more secrets than he had right to do. "I ... I ..."

Gibbs did his best to soothe. "It's alright, lad – whatever you have to say, it's safe with me."

The boy gave him another look, but seemed to trust the man who seemed more kind and encouraging than most he'd met in his young life. "Well ..." he began again, slowly, "I know 'e'd done, because I was up at the kitchen to collect the supper Cook 'ad ready for the stable'ands..." Again he stopped short suddenly, and looked more fearful than he had a moment before as he added, "please don't punish 'er for it, sir, she was just bein' kind because there was more food than what the party needed," he begged.

Gibbs was aware that more time was passing than he wanted, with Ducky and Anthony at the mercy of Battenberg's certain ire, but he had stumbled upon a wealth of unexpected information and he didn't want to let the opportunity go. "I won't, lad – just like you, I'm trying to do a bit of work for them." He nodded toward the House.

"You a copper?" The boy's eyes suddenly narrowed in distrust, and Gibbs couldn't help but feel a small tug at the quick insight – the sort of life the boy must have away from the stables probably hardened him early to policemen and the sort of men they pursued, right to his doorstep, maybe even inside. He found himself wanting to be as honest with the lad as he could.

"No. Sometimes my work is like theirs, looking into what and who's about, but not for the Met. People hire me to look into things for them." The boy nodded, sensing Gibbs' candor more than the import of the words. Seeing it, Gibbs nudged him gently back to telling what he knew. "What time was it when Peters got back, d'you know? Was it after sundown?"

"Oh, yes, sir." The nod was again certain. "When they 'as their dinner parties, dinner ain't served when normal folks would 'ave it. It's much later, bedtime, like," he offered. "Maybe nine o'clock, by the Great Bell."

"And did you hear the Great Bell strike when Lord Danforth arrived?"

The boy frowned, thinking back, then finally nodded. "It were after midnight, sir, because the Bell was down to one or two strikes again. Two, I think. But that was when they brought the carriage back 'ere, sir. No telling when 'e actually arrived, not if the lads thought 'e might be leavin' again real soon like." Seeing Gibbs didn't quite follow, the boy went on, "the livery 'ands leave a visitor's carriage up at the 'ouse if they ain't stayin' for long. Sometimes they knows 'oo's stayin' right away, but others, they gets told one thing and then another and another..." the boy shook his head at the folly of the wealthy friends of the Prince. "So alls you can know when a carriage gets back 'ere is when it gets back 'ere."

This time Gibbs smiled at the boy's insight and what appeared to be his inherent understanding of where observation stopped and assumption took its place. At that, and having sensed Gibbs' growing appreciation of his observations, the lad allowed himself a bit of a smile himself at his successful report.

Gibbs nodded his approval. "Clever boy," he said, watching the smile widen at his words. "Anything else you remember about the Danforths, anything said or any of their comings or goings?"

Again, the boy paused to think, then shook his head. "No, sir," he shrugged. "But ..." he glanced once over toward the stables, and hesitated. Gibbs gave him another look, urging him on, and he simply shifted a bit uncomfortably.

Trusting the boy's instincts more and more, Gibbs urged softly, "there's more?"

Another silence and another squirm, and the boy finally asked, "if ... if you were t'go looking, like, and they catches you at it ... you won't say it was me what told you?"

"No, lad. I promise you that."

The boy frowned, staring at the ground for another moment, then looked back up to Gibbs. With a shrug, he said "don't know anythin' about Lord or Lady Danforth, sir – but 'is carriage is still in there." At Gibbs' surprise, he added, "just like before – it don't tell me where Lord Danforth is – but he ain't been in his carriage since it was brought 'round 'ere last night. An'..."

Gibbs held his breath, mentally urging the boy to keep going. He had a sense there was much more to be found from this young source, and a good bit of it 'the Royals' business.'

"...well, some of 'em from the 'ouse, sir ..." Gibbs' gut bellowed that one of "'em" was Battenberg. "They was 'ere last night, a couple a' toffs, talkin' real quiet like, about ... about 'is carriage, and ..." The boy frowned and grew still, clearly torn. Looking away for the moment, he seemed to come to a decision, and looked Gibbs square in the eye. "They was on about 'avin' Mr. Thomas clean up the carriage real good like. But Mr. Thomas don't ever do any of the cleanin' or the tack work hisself – 'e's the Stable Master, sir; 'as been, since before I were born, from what they say. 'E has us lads do the work, and for them to tell Mr. Thomas 'e needed to take care of things 'isself, it just warn't natural."

Gibbs nodded his understanding and, tamping down his concerns about just what sort of cleaning had been requested, murmured, "very good, lad. Did you know the toffs, who they were?"

The boy hesitated, but then shook his head. "Don't think so, sir."

"Very well." Gibbs stewed a bit with the information and a sense that the boy suspected who it might be, but for the moment he did not wish to press the child so far that he would no longer respond. In some concern for the boy, he added, "you know that they did not intend for you to hear them, don't you?" At the serious nod in reply, Gibbs went on, "It will be better for you to be careful about who hears this – but I think you know that, too."

"Yes, sir," the lad agreed, seemingly relived to share his burden.

"Good boy," Gibbs repeated automatically, his mind rushing ahead. 'In for a penny, in for a pound,' he swear he could hear as he told himself he'd not likely have the chance again. Swallowing his worry for the ever-growing delay in his return, he asked quietly, "No one else is about?"

"No, sir." He wavered, and asked again, more softly, as if he knew what was coming. "Sir ... you won't tell them, you swear?"

"No, lad, you have my word." Knowing his "word" meant little to one who had no reason to trust him or to know his reputation, especially a child in his circumstances, Gibbs offered a rueful smirk. "Those who know me would tell you that I am well known for getting into all manner of trouble and secret places without anyone's help. Were I to be caught, it may not even occur to them that anyone was needed to guide the way."

His words struck a chord with the boy, even let him relax a little. With a nod, he said softly, "yes, sir."

Gibbs inclined his head in response, then dared one more imposition on the boy's trust. "So, lad – can you describe Lord Danforth's carriage? I should like to go take a look for myself." As the boy's eyes widened slightly, Gibbs added, "only a look," he promised, hoping with his words that there would be nothing more to be done but look. At the uncertainly on the boy's face, he added, "I would have you remain outside, tending to your work. No one will find me, I promise you that. Even if they did – I will swear to all who hear me I stole in without your knowledge, with no one's help. You can just tell me which is his, and I shall be in and gone all the faster with your help."

Long moments passed as the boy weighed his moments with this man, his kindness, his willingness to look him in the eye and to treat him like a man. Finally, straightening slightly with resolve, he nodded. "Faster for me to show you, sir." And with a final, keen glance around the yard, the boy turned toward the carriage house, trusting that his new acquaintance would follow.

McGee had always been rather an oddity on the docks, and all the while he'd been there he was well aware of that fact. On first arrival, he'd been spotted as the country boy he'd been, there to make his fortune and likely a penniless hayseed, not worth the effort to rob. Later on, when he was known as the man with the clattering trinkets and little else, they'd looked at him as if he was a bit touched, but he was left alone for the most part; whether they did so from their fear of his inventions, or their sure knowledge by then that he hadn't a penny to his name, McGee had never been quite sure.

However, if it had been thought that he had anything worth stealing, neither the most nightmarish invention he could ever conceive, nor the most alarming madness he might display, would have been enough to hold off the boldest thieves among them. Returning now after so many months away, no doubt he'd be gawked at once again, and this time he'd look to the locals an easy mark, his better health and meatier bones the best indication that he was likely to have money for the taking.

'Better health,' indeed, he thought, giving himself a mental cuff to the head Gibbs could have envied. Just that was bad enough. But as he walked the damp, close alleyways between pubs and shops – clad as he was in the coat and cravat Anthony deemed suitable for calling upon Royalty – he never been so wrongly turned out for this place as he'd been rightly suited for earlier in his day.

A worm on the end of a hook, tossed in the rivers of his youth, could not make a better or more captive lure for these streets than he was at the moment, clothing loudly proclaiming his new-found 'wealth' and an apparent ignorance of what could befall such a man in this place. The resulting likelihood of an assault, and his consternation that events had them all in such a rush that neither he nor the ladies had thought through to such a glaring detail, made him hurry through the streets faster than ever, head down, toward his goal, the Green Parrot, never more grateful for his tutors' patient training and Gibbs' Ninth Rule but profound in his hopes that neither would be needed.

Either way, if his luck would only hold, he might make it to the public house intact, and find the ever-vigilant Smith and Stebbins. If anyone knew of the comings and goings of those who wished to keep such comings and goings private, they were the men for it. For the information he needed, he knew he would need to pay, and dearly, particularly as they would take full credit for his current lot in life, having put him upon Gibbs in the first place. Still and all, Timothy was glad he'd decided not to take more than eighty five quid of Ziva's money; it was still a king's ransom, but only half of what she'd offered. Knowing the pair as he did, Timothy knew that Smith and Stebbins would seek to have him empty his pockets to for their information. The less he carried, the less he'd be made to pay, should they force proof of what he had with him.

McGee nearly danced in relief as he rounded the final corner to spy the familiar green and red sign of the Green Parrot, his arrival aided by the earlier hour and the sunny day, neither condition a favorite among thieves. Fairly diving through the door, he blinked toward the bar as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting – and the close, musty smell, only adding to the dockside stench – he was disheartened to see that, where there were normally the two familiar silhouettes at the bar, only one man stood. With his eyes still dimmed by the sunlight, Timothy was uncertain if it were either of the men he sought. It had never occurred to him they would not be there, as before they seemed to be in the same spot all day, each day, all hours. He stood unmoving for the moment, wondering how long he should wait for them to arrive, when the lone man turned and, in a moment, called out in a familiar, gravelly voice, "well, well, well – look what the cat dragged in. Our young inventor has found his way back to us. Were you kicked out then, Mr. McGee, or did he send you back to collect information for one of his ... investigations?"

With a bit of relief, McGee approached Stebbins and noted how the man gave him a look up and down, assessing his state.

"And doesn't the darker side of life agree with you, Mr. McGee?" the man chortled, winking. "You've certainly come 'round a bit."

"Gibbs doesn't live a dark life," Timothy protested sharply, despite his mission there. "On the contrary! He's a fine man; one of the best of ever I've..."

"I meant nothing by it lad," Stebbins interrupted, still grinning, and adding, "but now I can finally ask one what knows him – the mad Mr. Anthony ... is it indeed madness, that drives him? Or a madness of the soul..?"

McGee had his wits about him enough to see the sharp look in the man's eye, and suddenly knew that, all this time, he had underestimated Stebbins and, most likely, his companion. Timothy well knew that the men's sole livelihood was the peddling of information, and to live upon such a ephemeral commodity, they must be adept in its handling. With a deep breath to ground him, and knowing he needed to show his own agility to succeed with his mission, McGee allowed Stebbins a knowing look. He trusted Anthony wouldn't mind.

"Madness? I am hardly a doctor, Mr. Stebbins, as well you know. However..." He drew out the sound, adding a count or two in Anthony's honour. "He is ..." Timothy shrugged, "unique. More like trouble, as you told me some months ago; dangerous, as you implied. But ..." Timothy drew himself up to his full height, and added from somewhere beyond his thinking, in the moment, "I believe I may now also call him friend, and ..." McGee stopped short. Co-worker? In a manner of speaking, but not the manner of their work. "...my employer's employee. For whom I am here, on some business. I had hope of speaking with you and Mr. Smith; if he is not about..."

"He has been abed for a fortnight, but is on the mend, as it were. Were a great fear he had the 'pox, but all in all it appears he has either come 'round on his own, or had merely a random ill." Even if Timothy had not known before, he would have known by his response that Stebbins had long plied his trade, refusing as he did to hop like a hungry bird at the simple mention of business. "All's to say he's as tough an old badger as any and is on the mend. But..." Stebbins gave McGee a one-eyed squint, as if he had only now registered his finery, "unless you'd heard wrong and come to bury your old friend Smith, I'll vow you're not here to waste my time and yours, discussing Smith's health."

He caught the eye of the bartender and pointed to McGee, who reddened slightly at realizing he had not made this simplest of gestures made in such matters of business, and had left Stebbins without his usual brandy. With seasoned patience and a smirk of continued amusement, Stebbins watched as the publican poured his brandy and placed it before him. Raising his glass, Stebbins took a long, languid sip of the drink before looking back to McGee and finally got down to business.

"So, Mr. McGee – whatever brings Gibbs' newest terrier back to his old haunts?"

Although the location was far from perfect, it was certainly not the worst of circumstances for Dr. Mallard to conduct his examination of a body, and he could busy himself for hours with this investigation, should he find himself with that much time on his hands. But despite his many years experience in even more dangerous situations, and despite his well-known ability to conduct a most accurate exam despite decaying conditions, interruptions and even his own rambling yarns to compete, Ducky found his thoughts less on the Lady Margaret and more on the implications of Battenberg's latest visit with them.

Clearly Anthony was, as well. Wholly unlike himself, Anthony had gone off to stand alone against the far wall, brooding, after Battenberg had stormed off again nearly an hour before. The doctor's initial attempts to question his young colleague about it all had gone nowhere; Anthony had begged off tersely, though as politely as he could, the storm clouds of anger and frustration clear in his bearing. So when the man returned to his side, still far quieter than was his usual demeanor, it did not surprise Dr. Mallard, when he looked up, to see an Anthony not all that much less disturbed than he'd been an hour before.

"Dr. Mallard," Anthony began, formally, "I have not had an opportunity to apologize for your unwilling participation in these matters. I am sorry that Battenberg's familiarity with my employment has led us all to this. If I'd given the matter more thought before agreeing to Gibbs' participation, it might only be me in this mix, and not you and Gibbs and McGee as well."

"Nonsense, Anthony," Mallard chided gently. "You have no reason to apologize, and I no reason to accept it. It is in the nature of things in this business to run into matters of such complication, although I daresay I wonder at Lord Battenberg's latest departure. I suppose he is not too worried about us to leave us alone like this, eh?"

"On the contrary, Ducky, I think he's much more worried than he ever anticipated with his decision to bring us in – and clearly it was his decision, and most likely an argument he battled to win, given his apparent surprise at the way things have turned out for him. I have to wonder to whom he finds himself scripting his excuses, to have at the ready should they be necessary. "

"So you really believe that he did not at least imagine this as a possibility?"

"I would not have thought it so of him, but from his most recent reaction, I see no other explanation. Maybe he's too long in the service of the Royals, where it's a rare occasion that those around him won't fall into line either out of deference, or fear, or loyalty, or all of it. And I can't shake the notion that he's less worried about the death of the Lady Margaret than he is the truth being revealed, and in turn is less worried about the truth revealed than the hand behind all of it, pulling his puppet-strings. The stationery and the name, seal and signature of the Prince of Wales were all used to bring us here – but we have no sign of him in all this. Was this request what it seemed, or simply a convincing sham by his second?"

Ducky's eyes went wide. "You mean to say that you were summoned by Wales himself?"

"Or by a letter written and signed to make it look as if it were he, yes – although if Battenberg falsified such a missive without the Prince's knowledge, that might be at least part of the reason for Battenberg's ire at things getting out of hand." Anthony mused. "But whatever the reason, within it all, he is protecting himself, and others too, most certainly. And – this is only a hunch, Ducky, but an insistent one this past hour – he is willing to fall on his sword for at least one other in this affair... but for whom? And what in the world is so terrible that, for the mere escape of Gibbs and McGee from this place, Lord Battenberg contemplates being tossed from the House like a serving girl who spilled soup on the mistress?"

Anthony paced again, working on his concerns as he spoke them. "Whatever it may be, he simply did not anticipate Gibbs and McGee wandering off on their own. No matter that they are doing exactly what he asked of them, despite his failure to recognize it as such, and despite their discretion, no matter how well played, Battenberg runs the risk of information getting away from him – and that information, if it is worth his being given the boot by family, must be either dire indeed, or deemed so by one of those who matter. And for our Prince Louis, Ducky, there simply are not that many who 'matter' enough to mean his dismissal from the affairs of the Family."

"And all that clearly has you more worried than you'd been thus far, Anthony," Dr. Mallard observed. "Why?"

"Battenberg is a military man, like Gibbs. When was the last time you saw Gibbs wholly befuddled, Ducky, no fall-back plan and no alternative course?" Anthony nodded as he saw the understanding dawn in the man's eyes. "For the moment, it worries me more than anything because when he reacts as if he has no options left, it means he is unpredictable – because he himself doesn't know what's next – and because it means that things are quite dire indeed, at least from his vantage point. It doesn't necessarily mean it's so for ours, but if it is – he has resources beyond anything we've faced before on Gibbs' engagements." Anthony fell silent for the moment, his handsome face darkening in thought, before he dared, "I have always wanted to think that those in my sovereign's service would not engage in disappearance and other such intrigue to rid themselves of her more troubling subjects, but while I may be overly hopeful with that thought, Ducky, I am not so naive to not be concerned about the power Battenberg can bring to bear against Gibbs, or you, or McGee, for nothing more than proving him wrong about us. Maybe they do still use the Tower, maybe they don't, but by God people do disappear in this life. Who's to say it's not due to the machinations of such men?"

"I am." Battenberg stood in the doorway for another moment, watching as Anthony and the doctor reacted to his sudden arrival, then moved toward them with an amused smirk. "We are a civilized monarchy, Mr. Anthony, in a civilized, modern society. I have no idea why the Tower holds such fascination for you – one of your forefathers met their end there, perhaps? – but I assure you that we've no need of the Tower for anyone these days."

The Prince's manner was again smooth and assured, far more befitting his station than it had been when he left them; to Dr. Mallard's eye, the man was once again in control of himself, relaxed, even. But the good doctor knew the man to be a skilled politician and as familiar with dissembling as ever Gibbs or Anthony might be, and, despite the flitting guilt he had at the thought, Ducky found himself fascinated at the ongoing struggle between the men. It was all so much like an arm wrestling match between closely matched competitors, this battle between Battenberg and his friends. If only the situation wasn't so tragic and their current condition, grim...

As the doctor watched, Gibbs' protégé once again drew on his considerable reserves and straightened to smile charmingly at the Prince, a dangerous glint in his eye, and Ducky realized Anthony took the man's reaction as a success – demonstrating the Prince's capitulation that circumstances were out of his control? Evidencing the Prince's willingness to see Anthony as something of an equal? Something else altogether? He would have to ask Anthony, when the matter was behind them.

But for now, the younger man spoke, his words carrying almost as much charm as his smile. "Your Highness." He then simply waited, never dropping the smile, goading the Prince with his silence this time, certainly also unexpected for anyone who knew the normally garrulous man.

Battenberg even acknowledged the response by continuing. "However ..." he drawled, appearing for the world as if he were enjoying the cat and mouse of things, "as you yourself pointed out, we are not without power, Mr. Anthony – and power brings options. Do you really want to know what can befall your little group if you seek continue to test the limits of your assignment?"

Anthony's nostrils flared at the threat to the others, but he took a moment to gather himself, and when he spoke, his voice was firm and even. "Once again, your Highness, I am familiar with your military record and the unlikelihood that you would enter an engagement without full knowledge of those you take on. I therefore had – and have – no reason to think that you employed us – or me, specifically, after all – to do only half the job we would otherwise do. Should that have been your desire, certainly you would have mentioned it. So for your first allegation, I respectfully remind you that it was not the limits of our assignment we tested, but the limits – or transparency – of the available evidence. Of all available evidence." Anthony's gaze never wavered from his adversary, and, assessing the Prince's reaction during his little speech, he could not resist a little flourish. "So, your Highness – anything else troubling you?"

The man's studied calm did not shift much, but Dr. Mallard watched him as closely Anthony did, and both men saw a small twitch at his jaw, a slight hitch in his breathing. The room was silent for several moments before the Prince suddenly smiled malevolently, his anger barely controlled by his knowledge that he held the upper hand. "Bravo, my dear Mr. Anthony. Such brave words from one who avoided deportation once already, and only by the sheerest of luck. Surely you realize how unlikely you would avoid a second such order, you and your friends. But this order may find you on a ship to of our choosing, and not the streets of New York, as you'd arranged before. How do you suppose your kindly, grandfatherly doctor would fare in the colonies, Mr. Anthony, or even on the voyage itself? Or your young friend, whom you would have me believe is still out in the bushes at war with his stomach?" The Prince stepped closer, dropping his voice menacingly. "Do not play games with your friends' lives, Mr. Anthony. Even if you can survive the worst, they may not."

"What would you have me do, your Highness?" Anthony spat in return. "Conjure Gibbs back? For he is only doing that which we would do for any other engagement..."

"And so you have insisted, repeatedly!" the Prince interrupted, anger erupting.

"Then why, your Highness..."

All heads snapped back to the doorway to see a now-dusty Gibbs stride into the room and near the man threatening his second.

"...do you not just take the man at his word?"

To be continued...