25 November 1893

Eighteen-year-old Maximilian Walker paced the small room, filled with documents, files, and thick folders filled with letters, charts, and various other records that needed to be sorted out by five pm. Instead of working on them as was his secretarial role, however, his mind was clouded by thoughts of the meeting he would have today.

Earlier this week, nearly six months after his eighteenth birthday, he had received a mysterious note from an unknown sender, telling him to meet the note's sender in a gentleman's club in the wealthiest area of London. Under normal circumstances, he would have ignored the note, even if he was willing to admit that a hint of curiosity piqued him. Its unfamiliar but sprawling, learned hand and the heavy paper indicated wealth, as did the wax stamped with a signet ring. It was a signet that he did not recognize, even after poring over Debrett's Peerage one night with Dahlia.

No, this man was in all likelihood foreign. Yet he addressed Maximilian by name, knowing where he lived and where he worked (in a drafty old office, for a rather cantankerous Scottish businessman by the name of Ian McInnes who refused to burn any more firewood than necessary to heat the building, leading to him wearing scarves and gloves to work and even when indoors). It was unsettling. He had not gone by that name in years, instead taking on his preferred alias of Marcus Wakefield. Wakefield had not been his favoured choice, but it did remind him of Gideon and his wife, Caro, which he did not mind very much.

He had not answered to that name in six months. So how could this man suddenly show up and claim to know who he was and seek a visit with him? Whatever the reason was, he did not have time to ponder it. Instead, he got to work on the documents at last, hoping that sifting through the abundance of paper would allow him to finally put his mind to rest.

Working through noon and nearly missing tea until his stomach growled, Maximilian ate two measly, cold hardboiled eggs that he had wrapped and tucked into his coat pocket on his way out the door this morning, before continuing with his work. He blinked in the light of the setting sun as he read the words on the page, confused.

Edgar Wakefield

Would this man never cease to haunt him? Ever since Maximilian had escaped his clutches, he had thought himself free of the man. Yet clearly, he was not. He haunted him no matter where he went, and for what reason? He examined the paper more closely and his heart sank into the pit of his stomach. He had accidentally filed one of his own reports along with the rest of the business papers, since he always carried the reports for and from Redmond Flynn with him. This one was a dossier of sorts, one he had not read before.

Edgar Wakefield

Born: 1854

Aliases: Edwin Porter

Family: a sister, Cornelia Winthrop (b. 1859), nee Wright, sometimes known as Eliza Wright. Adopted into the family of George Wakefield at the age of ten. An adopted brother, Gideon Wakefield, and a sister-in-law, Caroline Wakefield. Niece's name is Daisy Wakefield.

Notes: Helped his sister, Cornelia Wright, marry into the well-connected and wealthy family, the Winthrops of Grenledge. Specifically to Lord Samuel Winthrop, Duke of Grenledge. Shortly after conceiving a daughter, Rosalie Winthrop, Cornelia left her husband and was rumoured to have run away with her lover to Paris. However, we suspect that she may be hiding somewhere in England.

Accomplices: Possibly, Lord Oliver Dennings, the Duke of Marlborough, who is well known for supplementing his estates' rents with gambling, smuggling, and other nefarious activities that are never fully proven due to his having bought out the local magistrate and constable. His only heir, of unknown age (thought to be born in the year 1875), has not been seen since birth. This Duke is sometimes seen with Edgar Wakefield at Pall Mall or even in coffeehouses, though presumably on business.

He read on and on, his eyes roving over the page with avid curiosity until he heard McInnes shout his name and thump the floor with his walking stick, his words tempered by a thick Scottish burr. "Max, I am paying you to work!"

"Yes, Mr. McInnes," he said, hurriedly tucking the report away into a secret compartment of his coat before going back to sorting the papers.

The rest of the workday crawled by until five pm, when he dashed out the door, scarcely remembering to take his hat. Snow swirling around him, he hailed a hansom cab to Pall Mall. The driver gave him a skeptical look, seeing his slightly tattered and hardly fashionable attire, but when Maximilian handed over a handsome fare, his cynicism was erased by obsequious subservience.

"Thank you kindly, sir!" the driver said when he hopped out outside Pall Mall.

As he entered, the man standing outside clad in fine clothing gave him a disdainful look of contempt. Ignoring the sneer, Maximilian continued to walk forward, until he was stopped by the... guard? "And where do you think you're going, sir?"

"I have a meeting with someone," he said, before realizing that he had no idea who this message-sender was, and in all likelihood, it was a trap laid by Edgar.

"He's with me," said a man in a gravelly baritone. He wore a fine suit in darkest blue, almost dark enough to appear black, and his hair was raven, slicked back with pomade. A handlebar mustache and a full beard obscured the lower half of his face, which was set in a stern expression. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes were the same shade as Maximilian's own. He smelled of meerschaum pipes and newsprint. "Hello, Maximilian. It seems we have much to discuss."

The rude man gulped audibly, surveying the navy-suited man. He bowed deeply. "Your Grace, I had not realized..."

"Well, you do now," responded the Duke. Was this the Duke of Marlborough? The one who was an accomplice with Edgar? "Come along now, Mr. Walker, we have plenty to do and not much time to do it, I am afraid."

Maximilian hurried along in an attempt to keep up with his long strides as the man took off his hat and coat before passing both garments to a coat room attendant. "Who, exactly, are you, sir?"

"I am the Duke of Marlborough," he introduced himself, though never pausing to look Maximilian in the eye or even to wait for him to catch up. "Some know me as Oliver Dennings, others address me by my first name. You will, of course, address me as Lord Dennings."

"Only peers should refer to you that way, should they not?" he said, daring to speak up as they walked briskly past cigar smoke-filled rooms. The card tables were populated by men who turned their heads when they saw the Duke passing them, tipping their hats toward him, or turning away as though to shun him from polite society. "I am no peer, Your Grace."

"You will call me as I see fit, Maximilian Walker," the other man said sternly. "I am, after all, your superior."

He paused, the other man ignorant to his plight as he attempted to duck around a man dressed in a butler's uniform, carrying something on a silver salver. "Wait... are you my father?"

Maximilian had no idea why he asked the question. What would be the purpose of such a foolish query? Even if the man was his father, would he not have identified him by now? If he was his father, why had he abandoned him for so long?

Does any of it matter? He asked himself. If the man was not his father, then he had simply botched a new acquaintance, who, from the looks of it was extremely wealthy and powerful.

"That is a question best answered at a later time," Lord Dennings said, finally seating himself at a table. "Ah, here we are. My preferred room at this particular gentleman's club. You will, of course, be dining with me. Ashcroft, please bring my usual order for me, and my guest will have the same. No whisky, though. He looks as though a hot cup of tea could do him good."

Ashcroft hurriedly scrambled off, a white serving cloth folded over his arm, a well-polished pair of shoes on his feet signifying that he was one of the higher-ranking servants at Pall Mall.

"Now that we are well settled and waiting for our meal, tell me, Maximilian, a little bit about yourself. I must confess that I am painfully ignorant of your goings-on, something I would rather remedy before I invite you to accept my proposal," Lord Dennings said. "I do prefer to know a bit about my associates, and by that, I mean a bit more than their name, age and station. It does make doing business a bit easier."

His brows pinched together. "You are recruiting me into your business, my lord? Would you not rather speak with my employer, Mr. McInnes?"

Lord Dennings waved a hand, a carefree gesture that Maximilian would not have thought the man capable of, considering his stiff exterior and gruff manner. "Not at all. That old Scottish crank, bah! No, I must confess that your work history seems a bit more fascinating. You did work for that associate of mine, did you not? Edgar Wakefield?"

"Er..." The scrutiny which he was being placed under reminded him of that time when Billy from the orphanage had stolen a magnifying glass and used it to burn ants in the courtyard. He had, of course, blamed Maximilian for the act promptly after being discovered.

"Come now, don't be bashful. Edgar, with his hooked nose, dark hair, about ye tall... Do not play the fool now, Max," said the man, but though his tone was cordial, there was an undercurrent of danger that suggested his patience was rather thin.

"Yes, I worked with... I worked for Edgar, for several years," he said carefully. Did this man know that he had been a double agent and fed information to Redmond Flynn and thus, the Crown? If so, was he here to warn him against doing so, or to punish him for it? Surely he was not about to be murdered in one of the finest gentleman's clubs in London, was he? Even Tattersall seemed like a better locale to be killed; one could blame the body's appearance on the trampling of horses or an escaped stallion. "What about it? What sort of business did the two of you participate in together?"

Lord Dennings gave a chuckle. "Oh, our food has arrived, how lovely. I do adore their prime rib."

Ashcroft set down two steaming plates and Maximilian's mouth watered despite the unease that the conversation was brewing in his stomach. Lord Dennings spoke once more. " And come now, Maximilian. As I said, now is not the time to pretend to be innocent. We both know that anyone who works for Edgar Wakefield will eventually become aware of his... certain proclivities."

"Yes, you are correct, Lord Dennings. I was aware of his activities," he said, feeling as though he were moored in a pit of quicksand: one wrong step and he would find himself buried underground, a living corpse. "What else would you care to know about me?"

"Oh, a great deal," he responded. "After all, you are my son."