Author's Note: This is a story based on the TV series 'Hooten and the Lady'. Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

~*~

Baron Brinkerhoff

I said which way do I turn
I forget everything I learned...

Flynn lounged against a Grecian pillar, carelessly straightening his cravat, dark eyes narrowing above his false moustache. "Jenkins," he said into his gold fob watch, lifting it to his lips, "are you sure Baba Yaga is at the British Museum? It doesn't seem like her kind of joint."

"She's acquired a taste for the finer things in life," Jenkins said dryly, his voice emanating oddly from the depths of the fob watch, "classic literature, opera, Victoria Sponge. The British Museum is more or less like a trip to the beach for our dear Baba."

"My main question is why she's here in the first place," Flynn said, glancing around, becoming distracted by a woman further up ahead. She was tottering towards him in high heels, looking rather like Bambi trying to navigate the ice, her pale face a mask of rigid concentration. "She's not just going to climb out her coffin and say, oh, I really fancy a trip to the British Museum today, is she?" he said, retreating behind the pillar out of sight.

"I share your suspicions," Jenkins said reluctantly. "What Baba wants, Yaga gets. But exactly what Baba Yaga wants is a complete conundrum worthy of Confucius."

"Maybe she really does want to soak up some culture," Flynn said, smoothing back his slicked back hair, "but we can't take the chance."

"You can't take the chance," Jenkins corrected him, "Eve and the others are out on a case. You're on your own, boy."

Flynn puffed out his cheeks at the mention of Eve. That was a ship that had long sailed, regret running through his veins at what could have been. There was a frosty friendliness between them now, but he had taken to avoiding the Library whenever Eve was around, knowing he only had himself to blame.

"Remember the rowan stakes," Jenkins continued, rousing Flynn from his reverie, "but preferably you'll take her alive."

"I'd rather not spill blood over my new tweed suit," Flynn said with a frown, "not unless it was absolutely necessary. Such style is almost impossible to attain."

"Yes, that amber and gold check really brings out the flecks of green in your eyes," Jenkins said sarcastically. "Blood would just serve to spoil the effect."

"Speaking of style, what's with the facial hair?" Flynn demanded, watching the woman totter past until she was out of sight, her thick black fringe falling into bright blue eyes. "I do not suit a moustache."

"But Baron Brinkerhoff does," Jenkins said coldly. "It would not bode well if Baba Yaga recognizes you."

"But why?" Flynn whined, collapsing dramatically against the wall. "Why would you inflict such pain upon my beautiful face?"

"Do not speak of your beautiful face, that work of art," Jenkins drawled, "I cannot live if it is not before me. I have to soothe my wounded heart with the sound of your dulcet tones instead."

"Hey" -

- "I also take comfort from the lock of your hair I keep under my pillow," Jenkins continued, warming to his theme, "bestowing upon me the sweetest of slumbers."

"Well, it's nice to know that a single strand of my hair can bring light to the darkest of places," Flynn snapped, "but we're not here about my split ends" -

- "Do not destroy the illusion," Jenkins intoned. "But enough of my admiration, we have to address the issue of Baba Yaga."

"Which is precisely what I'm trying to do," Flynn said peevishly, adjusting his monocle, "but we keep getting sidelined by my supernatural sex appeal."

"Who wouldn't?" Jenkins observed ironically.