It had taken every bit of her far-reaching ability to get her letter to the infamous Jacob Frye with her father not being able to know about it. One that said only her name, the date, time of the Featherton Ball, and instructions to meet her in the depths of the gardens.
She didn't think the stone walls would be a problem for an assassin of his ability. So Jack had ever told her to terrify her childhood stories of just what they were fighting against. Hiding in the depths of the shrubs of Lord Featherton's latest English Landscape Garden, that hung heavy with willows, cluttered with bushes loosely taped to give many a guest privacy. It was marriage season, and many a girl was trotted out to her have hooves inspected and teeth checked for a buyer.
In contrast, none of that was on her mind, what was she now? Twice married to men that had no idea what they were getting into. That didn't even see their deaths coming and - Angel, now, dowager to a considerable amount of lands, titles, and a wretched reputation to go along with it... but not in England. So that was where they were, now. It took jumping through hoops and excuses about feeling unwell for Jack to let go of his prize horse in this race. At least she had one thing on her side, the absolute knowledge that Jack was not as clever as he thought he was. It was her that made him the powerful man he was. It was her that played the stocks, and it was her that knew how to watch, play her hands, and Jack took the benefit from it with a heavy amount of his own mercilessness to ever come out on top.
She might have even been proud of how they worked together. Helping her father seemed like her whole world, once. When she didn't know what he was capable of. When there wasn't so much blood on both her hands. Now - now, she fiddles with the bow that Jack insisted on her pure white dress in silk and lace and made her feel like a cloud whispering over the ground, - she tosses her options like she played cards. That ... Jacob, he would listen. He would want to work with her.
Or that he would put those blades they all apparently carried, straight into her throat.
If there was ever proof of this feeling in her stomach, it was the realisation was that she knew it would be a mercy to her if he did.
But only time would tell, as she sunk back into the depths of greenery, half ghost-like and sickly for it. Waiting for which it would be with an eagerness she would never otherwise express. ]
[ As busy as they were trying to prise London free of the Templar's death grip, Jacob was not unaware of the wider events in the world. Correspondence between the Brotherhoods of various countries was not unknown, even if it was a stretch to call it regular. But he had heard about the various brutal murders that had happened elsewhere, attributed to an Angel. Jacob, as many of the other assassin's had, assumed the name was some vulgar reference to the Angel of Death. Very little was known of this so-called Angel, murders had occurred in various far-away places, but always those who had some financial or political clout. Clearly, the Angel was making room for someone to benefit, but the reports they received in London were disjointed, weeks out of date, and more often than not supposition rather than solid fact. There was no obvious evidence either way for who the Angel was, or who was their patron.
Even so, they had made what notes they could, Jacob had instructed the Rooks to listen out of further information on the Angel in the dank pubs and dens of London, and the message filtered out to their contacts at every port in the country. And then, one day, a whisper came back. The Angel was in England. And some days after that, the short note arrived for Jacob.
The Featherton Ball was an event that he was only vaguely aware of. He had as little to do with events of high society as possible, and the Featherton Ball was for the best in the land to bring their eligible sons and daughters together and treat them like livestock. It was one of the few things Jacob had to be thankful for: despite all of Ethan's faults, he had not attempted to marry either of his children off. Evie would never have submitted to it of course, but perhaps that was why he had not done it. Evie worshipped the ground he walked on, forcing her to marry would forever have turned her against him.
The invitation intrigued him. There was no explanation, no detail, only a name, a time, and a place. He did not connect the invitation to the notorious Angel of Death, if only because it seemed completely ridiculous that a woman of such status could have anything to do with a violent string of deaths. But he attended, if only to satisfy his curiosity.
The evening was dark enough, save the silvery light of the moon when it appeared from behind the light clouds. The garden, which was larger than most streets in Whitechapel, was planted densely enough for him to arrive sometime before the party began, and settle in to watch the carriages pull up on the drive. He could identify most of the guests but not all, and he certainly wasn't sure which of them was the young woman who had invited him here. But as the time for their meeting drew closer, and he made his way to the deepest part of the garden, perched up in a tree over the main path, he caught sight of a bright flash of white through the foliage. A dress, elegant in its design and almost certainly more expensive than most party frocks, and worn by a slight creature even smaller in stature than Evie.
He paused, remaining in the shadows a little longer to see if the young lady would be followed by a suitor or a chaperone, but it was clear after a minute that she was alone. Ah, this must be the girl. A moment passes in which he slips from his hiding place, and steps out from the undergrowth.]
I was expecting a garden party, not a Ball. But I suppose you haven't asked me here to dance.
[ Her skirts stay gathered up in one hand as she moved, unsure waiting. It's not that she is afraid of the meeting, she doesn't think, but that she is afraid of meeting. Being in close proximity to someone who she could not control, the way that her father exposed her and then cloistered her.
If he caught her alone outside so long, there will be one thing for her, she will be locked back in her chambers. She will stay there on meagre bread and water until she is reminded about everything she had to be thankful for. Did she know what he had come from, did she want to live like that?
The sound of his voice so suddenly in the dark makes her whirl, skittering on her heel like a startled deer. Her gloved hand reaching up to cover herself before she made a noise. Because for all her infamy, for her terrifying name to some, her eyes go wide, and she looks...
... Very much just like any young woman, barely grown, and terrified. But once she adjusts, her fingers slowly lower, curling in on her hand. ]
[ This is why no one has any idea of the blood that stains her hands. She looks as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, like a well-mannered, innocent daughter of some Lord or Financier, a young lady of impeccable breeding who, for some unknown reason, knows of Jacob Frye and wants to meet him out here in the dark.
Jacob steps a little closer, taken in by the innocent demeanour. He's used to helping London's poor, but his duty should extend to anyone, and everyone, who needs his help. What exactly this young woman, probably not much different in age to him, needs him for is beyond him. Perhaps she wants him to get her out of a marriage, or a potential marriage. Well, he can help with that, and without killing anyone. It won't be as much fun, but so be it. ]
Why wouldn't I? I assume you need my help, Miss. But before I help you, I need to know exactly what it is you want my help with.
[ It bubbles up in her lips, her face that society constructed thing, where her expressions are minimal. The flicker of her surprise, then fixed, smoothed, that softness that effuses into each little movement.
The bigger tell is the clench of her fingers against her shawl, crunching it in her slender fingers. No, no, it was gallant, it was gallant as all the stories made him out to be. Sweeping in to help a frazzled maiden in a secret alcove.
It might be romantic if it weren't for the pause of truth that rolls on her tongue before she lowers her too-bright, too sharp blue eyes, wets her lips. ]
No, Assassin, it's me... that wants to help you.
[ Angel, you look like a slice of cake and about as sturdy, what on earth are you saying? ]
[ Jacob has no idea that anyone considers him gallant. He isn't. He's a thug that has been trained to kill and continues to do it now not out of necessity but because he enjoys it. He runs a gang, he takes part in Fight Clubs and dangerous carriage races back and forth through London's packed streets. He's not a hero, a knight in shining armour. He's nothing like that at all.
He notices the way she clutches at her clothes, but the strange impassive look on her face. He's met women like this before, who hide what is really going on and what they think. He was betrayed by one of them and he can't help but begin to feel a little concerned.
That only increases tenfold when she says she wants to help him. He doesn't laugh, he doesn't dismiss her. Instead his expression, never well schooled in remaining neutral, twists. He remembers all too well what Pearl did to him, how she used him. She promised she was helping him as much as he was helping her but nothing could have been further from the truth. ]
[ She shakes her head, briefly. Fixing herself, that little, and - she does the decent thing of taking a step away from him, reaching the little stone bench set out. Smoothing her fingers across it. Before she tucks her skirts underneath her, and sits.
Because she knows these games, how to be small, how to be out of the way. Most often, it worked, but it was some time since it hadn't. But thankfully, it had been some time since Jack took his temper out on her. ]
I'm Angel. I know you've had letters about me, I intercepted some of your communication about it from time to time. The one, in France. Then in Spain, and the Netherlands.
[ Jacob doesn't follow. He stays stood, watching her motions. The practised grace of someone with more strength then fragile lace would lead you to believe, the small and controlled movements of someone who knows just how to snub out a life with quick professionalism. He had been reminded of Evie but he hadn't realised why. Perhaps because there was marked difference between them, perhaps because he knows Evie better than any other soul in the world.
But now this girl speaks, and as she speaks, he understands. Angel is not some nom de guerre, meant to conceal identity or even a poor nod towards Azrael. It is, quite literally, the girl's name.
A murderer's name. She probably has as many kills to her name as he does, she's been a person of interest to the Assassin's for the last few years and certainly a target if, as they suspect, she's a pawn of the Templars or a Templar herself. She looks too small and too delicate to be such a danger to society, to be such a monster. The hidden blade slides free, almost unbidden by any higher thought processes, and he suddenly looms over her, the thin light of the moon catching on the edge of the blade as he aims at her throat.
And then he hesitates.
It is not something he has done very often before. He normally acts too quickly, without proper thought but now sense has stepped in. She said she wanted to help him. Giving herself up is probably not the help she intended, maybe she has something else which she intended to offer up. ]
[ For someone who has lived the life she has, she doesn't respond like a fighter, or even like a killer.
She looks plainly terrified, her eyes big, wide before she screws them shut. Her lips pressing together before the whimper can get out. Waiting for - what, she doesn't know. Her happiness, relief, that comes like a silver needle. The regret of what she was and the chance dashed to ever be anything else. Her fingers curling up even tighter as she roots her feet to the spot. He'll kill you, Angel, he'll kill you, is that what you want? ]
Because I am the only person smarter than him, and if you want to stop the Templar plans, you need someone who sits on all their meetings. Who knows all their plans. That is the one that makes their weapons so powerful. You need me.
[ The blade hovers a moment longer, still ready to plunge into her neck, still poised there, but after a second more it retracts, still clean and free from any blood. Jacob is looking at her, his lips pressed together as if still uncertain about her. As he has ever reason to be. This offer is too good to be true, just like Pearl and just like Roth.
And while he should have learnt his lesson, something in her expression makes him pause. It is too good to be true, but she didn't try to fight him off. She waited for death to come. Frightened, yes, but she'd accepted it. That was... that was strange. He had expected her to fight him.]
Why would you sell out the Templars?
[ He doesn't understand. Normally the Templars are vehement in their beliefs. He's heard of Assassins becoming disillusioned and switching sides but never it happening the other way.]
[ She sags away when his blade retracts, taking a deep, dizzying breath. Her shoulders falling back, her fingers loosening. She doesn't want to cry in front of an assassin. He was someone - serious. Someone that knew his business.
She was just a silly little girl in comparison, probably, to him. She was to everyone else, most of the time.
But the one thing that is honest, when she opens her eyes at long last, to look up at him with something fierce there, fixed in a way that all this frippery, this delicacy. ]
I hate them. They're monsters. They have to die. I won't be used by them anymore.
[ He's not expecting her words to be so determined. She spits them, full of bile and hatred and he doesn't for a second believe the words are a lie. He's heard people speak about something they truly believe and while he has several reasons to doubt her, good reasons, he finds himself taking her at her word.
And so he sits down on the bench next to her, slouching habitually.]
I need names. If you can give me names, I can get rid of them.
[ She doesn't join him. She's still a consummate actress to this role she never asked. Her back straight up, proper in her corsets. Her hands loosening enough to settle into her lap. ]
It won't be that easy. I wish you could just get rid of them, and then it would just be done with. But Handsome Jack is -
[ She's about to go on, explain further, in detail of that name, that name that hung around like a disease. Of a cruel man. The rest of what Jacob needs to know, about how to move, to follow after it.
But their quiet alcove wasn't going to last right now, it seems. She hears the voice, the approach of shoes. The voice that - if she had withdrawn from his knife, that voice makes her flinch. Like she wants to crawl into Jacob's lap and hide herself away. ]
Angel! Where the hell are you?! You can't get attention if no one can see you, honey.
[ She does none of it, no matter how she wants to shrink away into the ground. Rather she snaps to whisper to him hurriedly. ] Hide if he comes closer. I'll try and keep him distracted.
[ And with it, she stands up, jumping onto her feet and scurrying off like no one of half her reputation should rightly be doing. Her long white skirts trailing after her as she disappears around the hedgerow. Well at truly out of Jacob's direct sight before she speaks. ] I'm here, Jack. I just wanted to get some air. It's a crush in there.
[ Typical society lady nonsense. The note in her voice completely different to the ire of before. It's strained, weak, supplicating, a soft murmur of a lady with no serious thoughts in her head. ]
[ They say there's no rest for the wicked. And that's very much true, if Jacob Frye's schedule is anything to go by. Angel and her father are not the only Templar threat facing England, he still has everything in London to contend with. Besides, with Wilhelm dead, he has a little breathing space. No doubt Angel's father has a few things on his mind, and won't cause too much trouble in London yet. Or so he hopes.
He doesn't need more trouble right now. With Evie in India, Jacob has everything to deal with on his tod. He likes that. He can do things his way, he can focus on what he must do and not split his time between his priorities and Evie's little treasure hunts. He supposes that's unfair, really, but it is hard to come away from that thinking quickly. And he knows that Evie would never have looked into this.
Thankfully, Mrs Disraeli still has a soft spot for him, and when troubling matters pass through parliament, she more often than not will request he look into it. That is how he has come to hear of this new Automatic Gun. He's seen a Gatling Gun first hand, and hasn't much liked it. A weapon even more powerful than that, which does not require a man to crank and fire it, can never be allowed to fall into Templar hands. Unfortunately, the man who seems to be developing such a weapon is a known associate of some of the Templar Captains of Industry, and Jacob is willing to bet that if the man is not a Templar yet, he will be soon.
That is why he's sneaking into the man's home. There is a workshop in his estate, and Jacob plans to blow that to kingdom come as soon as the man himself is dealt with.
The man seems to be having supper with guests when Jacob slips through an upstairs window, glancing around the room and moving out into the corridor. There's a muffled noise of conversation and music from downstairs, and that's good, it means everyone is distracted by being social. Jacob can see if there's any plans hidden away in the man's private rooms and study, and then wait for him to come up to bed before getting rid of him.
It sounds like a fantastic plan. What could go wrong? ]
[ What could go wrong? It was hard to sneak away from the gathering when it came. After all, how Disraeli pawed at her, wanting her. His new little bauble. Praised her soft white skin. Her eyes, everything but that fact that she could beat him in a game of chess, checkers and cards.
Erg.
It was boring, having to praise him so insipidly. Heaping the words onto him. It was pathetically easy to lure him where she wanted him past a point. He was so sure he would have her this time, so sure that just as she thought she could get away ( excuses that she just wanted some quiet to go and be alone for a moment, with that weak little cough that was only half faked for the thick haze of cigars, no one thought much of it, she, after all, was so slight, so fragile ) to start digging through his room for the plans for his factories. Then, he had appeared after her.
Shit, is the first thought. Go away, is the second. But what comes out of her face is a smile, a little laugh unbeknownst to someone else be in the room but him and her. ]
You found me, at long last.
[ How sweet she sounds, how forlorn, a painters idea of a lover waiting on the desk as Disraeli moves in closer, too involved to think about the fact she was in his study for any other reason. She sags against the edge of the desk, her skirts blue this evening, flickered with gold thread, her hair piled up in braids on her head.
Waits for him to come close, how he boxes her in. Tilting her head back so he could kiss her - Good, concentrate on that you great dolt.
Just as he seems so sure of himself, smugly involved in kissing her, she jabs him in the neck. Not with her fist, God knew there was no strength in that, and not even harshly. But with the concealed needle hidden in her cuff of lacey sleeves. It takes a few seconds, enough time for him to roughly slide his hands everywhere.
Then all at once, he slides down onto the floor in a pile. Snoring loudly almost immediately. Angel's face scrunches up, wretched. ]
You dolt, why couldn't you stay downstairs like you were supposed to you? Now what am I going to do with you, you useless fucking -
[ The angle of the desk to the door doesn't give her a great view of the door, and that's the truth. She's also got a little more on her mind than keeping an eye out for even more intruders. But Jacob hears the commotion, the noise of voices from his sweep of the corridor, and his senses flash- through the next door, a man and a woman. Not just any man either, but his target.
The young lady glimmers a strange gold too, and he can't resist. He won't strike now, not if it might cause her distress, but he might step in as her distress seems evident even from several yards away. When he arrives on the threshold of the study, it's evident she's got the situation under control, an unconscious form crumpling at her feet. Jacob doesn't think he would have left it so long if he was the one being groped, nor does he think he'd settle for knocking the man out, but each to their own. He steps forward, and over, the prone figure, a grin spreading over his features.]
Am I interrupting?
[ He does glance over her, hopefully not in a way that makes Angel suppose he'd like to take the bastard's place, because nothing is further from his thoughts at this moment. Thankfully, she looks unhurt, albeit unhappy, and he can't blame her for that. He reaches into the interior of his coat, for the hipflask that he carries when there's too long a distance between pubs, or he's stuck watching a target, and offers it out to her.]
Brandy, and nothing more than that, I assure you. What were you looking for?
[ He hopes they aren't after the same thing. He can't let her take the plans, or the prototype that sits in the grounds. Bugger, he should have destroyed that first.]
[ She really wasn't expecting anyone, that was for certain, that she can't help but yelp when he speaks out of the darkness. her hand lifting up to cover her mouth before she says something worse. Terrified for a moment who it might be.
But it's... Jacob.
Jacob?
Her shoulders sink back physically. Her body relaxing under his gaze, and at least - he isn't here to cause her problems, she doesn't think. But that does beg the question what he is doing here anyway.
But she doesn't say it for the moment, rather she reaches for that brandy flask and... in true ladylike fashion, tips her head back and down half the bottle. Jack wasn't here, Jack didn't have to know what his little Angel got up to.
When she's done, she drops the back of her hand to cover her mouth, smothering the little hiccup that comes with a harsh drink too quickly, flushing in her cheeks. Which is the odd realisation that she trusts him, this assassin, and maybe that trust is based in spite, but it is trust all the same. ]
They... [ Templars. Looming like shadows in the corner, ventures it after a moment, hovering on the right words the right way. ] ... want to blackmail him. They want to be sure if I can't make him fall in love with me...
[ They didn't believe it could work, of course, but then, when did a bunch of men ever believe women were capable of anything? She takes another mouthful for good measure and at least screws the flask shut. Rage hot with the burning of liquor leaves her pink and bright and sorely tempted to kick the unconscious man. ] Like he'll be different to the last one, or the one before that, or the one before that.
[ Jacob may well be surprised by the way she knows back the drink: he might be used to ladies who stab rather than play harpsichord but all of the high class ladies tend to sip their drinks. The flush on Angel's face when she passes the considerably lighter flask back might betray the fact she doesn't always drink like a fish.
Or isn't used to doing it with an audience. ]
I'm afraid I can't give you the chance.
[ He's well aware that might cause her trouble, it might give her cause to explain herself to her father, and he doesn't want to put her through anything horrible. Or worst than they would already. But he has a job to do and a duty to the innocent people of England and for that matter, everywhere else. He moves to the man's desk, beginning to go through draws in the search for his notes. ]
You can tell them that I had already killed the bastard by the time you got up here. And trashed the place.
[ She looks downright alarmed, but not necessarily because the man is going to be killed, or that they're talking of murder. ]
You can't!
[ She jumps forward, taking a step over his body and - it takes her a moment to gather up all her skirts in her hands, so she doesn't trip on him. That would be the last thing she needs right now, as she goes to follow after him around the desk. ]
[ Jacob doesn't much like being told what to do, or what he can't do. It's all too reminiscent of Ethan and his iron-grip on his children. His face hardens as he looks up at her, straightening from the open desk drawer. ]
Do you know what that man is working on? Do you know what he's building?
[ He doesn't mean to sound so angry, this isn't hurt fault. She's been sent here, and she has no choice. He tries to remember that, but the very fact is that he's here to do what is right, not because some Templars told him so. Not because Ethan told him so. Or Evie or Greenie. He's here because he knows this is right, that he can't allow this man to finish the gun he is building, a gun that will fire like a machine, and mow men down like grass in the wind. ]
That man is going to kill more people than you and I could ever do, if we worked dawn to dusk every day for the rest of our lives. Until we drowned in blood.
[ He looks over at the prone figure, a man who might be considered by some to be an inventor, a great scientist and engineer, a tinkerer who furthers the goals of empire. Jacob sees a terrible threat to the freedom and happiness of every man, woman and child on the planet.
With a graceful movement, Jacob pulls the revolver from where it's tucked into one of the many belts, cocks it, and fires.
[ It's jumped back, and she's scrambling, scrambling to stop him. Trying to catch his arm as she sees that gun, sharp, quick, merciless metal and chemicals.
The sound of it shatters the air, so loud she feels deaf afterwards. A sudden sharp horrible realisation she's never been around a bullet before. Seen the aftermath, the carnage, the blood. But heard it? Felt how it split the air? She shudders, breathless and dizzy from that sound more than the man that was so suddenly dead. That, at least, was almost routine.
Half-deafened, she lurches, back to him. ]
Run! You have to run!
[ It's tripped, but she pushes him, shoving against his chest towards the window. If they find him in here, they'll - do something awful. Jack will do something awful. ]
[ Jacob doesn't understand her panic, the wide-eyed look of horror that twists her delicate features. Surely she's shot a man before, or seen one shot? It's just the same as slicing a throat, aside from the acrid smell in the air, the hole it leaves not unlike a tear in flesh. As she pushes at him, he stands his ground, the gun slipped away as he catches her arm.
Gently. She might be a killer, but he's never seen that evidenced first hand, and her reaction now makes her seem even more unlikely to be one, in his mind. She seems so naive, so innocent to his world.]
Not yet.
[ He offers her a smile, charming, reassuring as he can, and turns back to the desk, still searching through it, looking for papers, plans. There's a little raised knot of wood under the lip of the desk and as his fingers run over it, a little hidden drawer slides out, revealing blueprints. He opens them, briefly, to check they are what he's looking for, and then he gathers them up and tosses them into the fire burning in the grate. ]
Now we run. Come on.
[ He nods towards the window, opens it up wide, and holds his hand out to her. ]
[ Her head is still reeling, the body lifeless, pooling blood like a similar verse to an old song, heard from far off. Her head snapping from watching him - to the sounds from outside. Voices calling to try and work out where the sound of the shot.
The only thing that makes sense is to lock the door, slamming it shut quickly. Pressing her back into it as she tries and works out... what to do. Jack would - Jack would be furious, and she knew who he'd take it out on.
Her eyes shut, shaking her head briefly as he fiddles with the desk. Burns the paper, only opening when he's speaking again. Blinking wide, confused - ]
Jacob, I can't - He'll -
[ But, as he stands there, arm outstretched, she wants to go, more than she thinks she's ever wanted anything in her life. That thought is so clear, so sharp, so desperate, she feels like she'll choke on it. ]
[ And with that he moves back to her, taking her hand in his and knotting their fingers together, before moving back to the window. There's voices in the corridor outside, muffled by the door, and they have little to no time.]
You can climb, can't you?
[ He hopes that's a yes, even in that dress. Either way, he's stirring her towards the window. There are thankfully lots of handholds in the brickwork, enough windows and ledges to make it down easy.
He has, at least, something of a plan. The house is going to be a mass of panic and confusion for at least three or four minutes, hopefully, before anyone has the sense to really search the gardens and grounds. That should give him time to get to the workshop and prime it. And then he can get out, and Angel can tell her father that she chased him down, or, if she feels like really brave, she can come with him back to town.
[ He was touching her. Of his own free will. Not because money, or prestige, or because she was some beautiful glass object to be placed on a mantle. He was touching her because - he just wanted to her to come with him? Even if -
Jack will kill him.
For a moment, he gets her to go along, hurrying little steps as he brings her across the room. Dizzying heights from the window and she can climb, climbed trees and rocks and bed posts as a little girl, even if now she has this tight corset and bustle to consider.
Angel nods, swallows, tries to come to grips with it. ]
I can.
[ And with more nervousness perhaps she shouldn't have, she tugs up the bell of her skirt, bring it up to her knees. Delicate white stockings underneath and shoes that could be - worse, certainly, little booted heels good for dancing and not much else, but at least she wouldn't fall out of them as she begins to descend, terrifying, this thing for herself, this escaping. Out into the dead of night in a ballgown like lovers running off to Gretna Green.
But far less romantic for the dead body that caused them to bolt than a badly planned engagement. Gloved fingers hanging onto the windowsill then disappearing as she takes hold of another jutting brick and a piece of weaving trellis vine, gently beginning her journey down. ]
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Even so, they had made what notes they could, Jacob had instructed the Rooks to listen out of further information on the Angel in the dank pubs and dens of London, and the message filtered out to their contacts at every port in the country. And then, one day, a whisper came back. The Angel was in England. And some days after that, the short note arrived for Jacob.
The Featherton Ball was an event that he was only vaguely aware of. He had as little to do with events of high society as possible, and the Featherton Ball was for the best in the land to bring their eligible sons and daughters together and treat them like livestock. It was one of the few things Jacob had to be thankful for: despite all of Ethan's faults, he had not attempted to marry either of his children off. Evie would never have submitted to it of course, but perhaps that was why he had not done it. Evie worshipped the ground he walked on, forcing her to marry would forever have turned her against him.
The invitation intrigued him. There was no explanation, no detail, only a name, a time, and a place. He did not connect the invitation to the notorious Angel of Death, if only because it seemed completely ridiculous that a woman of such status could have anything to do with a violent string of deaths. But he attended, if only to satisfy his curiosity.
The evening was dark enough, save the silvery light of the moon when it appeared from behind the light clouds. The garden, which was larger than most streets in Whitechapel, was planted densely enough for him to arrive sometime before the party began, and settle in to watch the carriages pull up on the drive. He could identify most of the guests but not all, and he certainly wasn't sure which of them was the young woman who had invited him here. But as the time for their meeting drew closer, and he made his way to the deepest part of the garden, perched up in a tree over the main path, he caught sight of a bright flash of white through the foliage. A dress, elegant in its design and almost certainly more expensive than most party frocks, and worn by a slight creature even smaller in stature than Evie.
He paused, remaining in the shadows a little longer to see if the young lady would be followed by a suitor or a chaperone, but it was clear after a minute that she was alone. Ah, this must be the girl. A moment passes in which he slips from his hiding place, and steps out from the undergrowth.]
I was expecting a garden party, not a Ball. But I suppose you haven't asked me here to dance.
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If he caught her alone outside so long, there will be one thing for her, she will be locked back in her chambers. She will stay there on meagre bread and water until she is reminded about everything she had to be thankful for. Did she know what he had come from, did she want to live like that?
The sound of his voice so suddenly in the dark makes her whirl, skittering on her heel like a startled deer. Her gloved hand reaching up to cover herself before she made a noise. Because for all her infamy, for her terrifying name to some, her eyes go wide, and she looks...
... Very much just like any young woman, barely grown, and terrified. But once she adjusts, her fingers slowly lower, curling in on her hand. ]
You came. I didn't really think you would.
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Jacob steps a little closer, taken in by the innocent demeanour. He's used to helping London's poor, but his duty should extend to anyone, and everyone, who needs his help. What exactly this young woman, probably not much different in age to him, needs him for is beyond him. Perhaps she wants him to get her out of a marriage, or a potential marriage. Well, he can help with that, and without killing anyone. It won't be as much fun, but so be it. ]
Why wouldn't I? I assume you need my help, Miss. But before I help you, I need to know exactly what it is you want my help with.
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[ It bubbles up in her lips, her face that society constructed thing, where her expressions are minimal. The flicker of her surprise, then fixed, smoothed, that softness that effuses into each little movement.
The bigger tell is the clench of her fingers against her shawl, crunching it in her slender fingers. No, no, it was gallant, it was gallant as all the stories made him out to be. Sweeping in to help a frazzled maiden in a secret alcove.
It might be romantic if it weren't for the pause of truth that rolls on her tongue before she lowers her too-bright, too sharp blue eyes, wets her lips. ]
No, Assassin, it's me... that wants to help you.
[ Angel, you look like a slice of cake and about as sturdy, what on earth are you saying? ]
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He notices the way she clutches at her clothes, but the strange impassive look on her face. He's met women like this before, who hide what is really going on and what they think. He was betrayed by one of them and he can't help but begin to feel a little concerned.
That only increases tenfold when she says she wants to help him. He doesn't laugh, he doesn't dismiss her. Instead his expression, never well schooled in remaining neutral, twists. He remembers all too well what Pearl did to him, how she used him. She promised she was helping him as much as he was helping her but nothing could have been further from the truth. ]
How exactly are you going to do that?
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[ She shakes her head, briefly. Fixing herself, that little, and - she does the decent thing of taking a step away from him, reaching the little stone bench set out. Smoothing her fingers across it. Before she tucks her skirts underneath her, and sits.
Because she knows these games, how to be small, how to be out of the way. Most often, it worked, but it was some time since it hadn't. But thankfully, it had been some time since Jack took his temper out on her. ]
I'm Angel. I know you've had letters about me, I intercepted some of your communication about it from time to time. The one, in France. Then in Spain, and the Netherlands.
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But now this girl speaks, and as she speaks, he understands. Angel is not some nom de guerre, meant to conceal identity or even a poor nod towards Azrael. It is, quite literally, the girl's name.
A murderer's name. She probably has as many kills to her name as he does, she's been a person of interest to the Assassin's for the last few years and certainly a target if, as they suspect, she's a pawn of the Templars or a Templar herself. She looks too small and too delicate to be such a danger to society, to be such a monster. The hidden blade slides free, almost unbidden by any higher thought processes, and he suddenly looms over her, the thin light of the moon catching on the edge of the blade as he aims at her throat.
And then he hesitates.
It is not something he has done very often before. He normally acts too quickly, without proper thought but now sense has stepped in. She said she wanted to help him. Giving herself up is probably not the help she intended, maybe she has something else which she intended to offer up. ]
Tell me how you intend to help me, Angel.
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She looks plainly terrified, her eyes big, wide before she screws them shut. Her lips pressing together before the whimper can get out. Waiting for - what, she doesn't know. Her happiness, relief, that comes like a silver needle. The regret of what she was and the chance dashed to ever be anything else. Her fingers curling up even tighter as she roots her feet to the spot. He'll kill you, Angel, he'll kill you, is that what you want? ]
Because I am the only person smarter than him, and if you want to stop the Templar plans, you need someone who sits on all their meetings. Who knows all their plans. That is the one that makes their weapons so powerful. You need me.
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And while he should have learnt his lesson, something in her expression makes him pause. It is too good to be true, but she didn't try to fight him off. She waited for death to come. Frightened, yes, but she'd accepted it. That was... that was strange. He had expected her to fight him.]
Why would you sell out the Templars?
[ He doesn't understand. Normally the Templars are vehement in their beliefs. He's heard of Assassins becoming disillusioned and switching sides but never it happening the other way.]
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She was just a silly little girl in comparison, probably, to him. She was to everyone else, most of the time.
But the one thing that is honest, when she opens her eyes at long last, to look up at him with something fierce there, fixed in a way that all this frippery, this delicacy. ]
I hate them. They're monsters. They have to die. I won't be used by them anymore.
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And so he sits down on the bench next to her, slouching habitually.]
I need names. If you can give me names, I can get rid of them.
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It won't be that easy. I wish you could just get rid of them, and then it would just be done with. But Handsome Jack is -
[ She's about to go on, explain further, in detail of that name, that name that hung around like a disease. Of a cruel man. The rest of what Jacob needs to know, about how to move, to follow after it.
But their quiet alcove wasn't going to last right now, it seems. She hears the voice, the approach of shoes. The voice that - if she had withdrawn from his knife, that voice makes her flinch. Like she wants to crawl into Jacob's lap and hide herself away. ]
Angel! Where the hell are you?! You can't get attention if no one can see you, honey.
[ She does none of it, no matter how she wants to shrink away into the ground. Rather she snaps to whisper to him hurriedly. ] Hide if he comes closer. I'll try and keep him distracted.
[ And with it, she stands up, jumping onto her feet and scurrying off like no one of half her reputation should rightly be doing. Her long white skirts trailing after her as she disappears around the hedgerow. Well at truly out of Jacob's direct sight before she speaks. ] I'm here, Jack. I just wanted to get some air. It's a crush in there.
[ Typical society lady nonsense. The note in her voice completely different to the ire of before. It's strained, weak, supplicating, a soft murmur of a lady with no serious thoughts in her head. ]
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okay even I want to punch Jack rn
the universal state: punch jack
sounds like a good option
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He doesn't need more trouble right now. With Evie in India, Jacob has everything to deal with on his tod. He likes that. He can do things his way, he can focus on what he must do and not split his time between his priorities and Evie's little treasure hunts. He supposes that's unfair, really, but it is hard to come away from that thinking quickly. And he knows that Evie would never have looked into this.
Thankfully, Mrs Disraeli still has a soft spot for him, and when troubling matters pass through parliament, she more often than not will request he look into it. That is how he has come to hear of this new Automatic Gun. He's seen a Gatling Gun first hand, and hasn't much liked it. A weapon even more powerful than that, which does not require a man to crank and fire it, can never be allowed to fall into Templar hands. Unfortunately, the man who seems to be developing such a weapon is a known associate of some of the Templar Captains of Industry, and Jacob is willing to bet that if the man is not a Templar yet, he will be soon.
That is why he's sneaking into the man's home. There is a workshop in his estate, and Jacob plans to blow that to kingdom come as soon as the man himself is dealt with.
The man seems to be having supper with guests when Jacob slips through an upstairs window, glancing around the room and moving out into the corridor. There's a muffled noise of conversation and music from downstairs, and that's good, it means everyone is distracted by being social. Jacob can see if there's any plans hidden away in the man's private rooms and study, and then wait for him to come up to bed before getting rid of him.
It sounds like a fantastic plan. What could go wrong? ]
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Erg.
It was boring, having to praise him so insipidly. Heaping the words onto him. It was pathetically easy to lure him where she wanted him past a point. He was so sure he would have her this time, so sure that just as she thought she could get away ( excuses that she just wanted some quiet to go and be alone for a moment, with that weak little cough that was only half faked for the thick haze of cigars, no one thought much of it, she, after all, was so slight, so fragile ) to start digging through his room for the plans for his factories. Then, he had appeared after her.
Shit, is the first thought. Go away, is the second. But what comes out of her face is a smile, a little laugh unbeknownst to someone else be in the room but him and her. ]
You found me, at long last.
[ How sweet she sounds, how forlorn, a painters idea of a lover waiting on the desk as Disraeli moves in closer, too involved to think about the fact she was in his study for any other reason. She sags against the edge of the desk, her skirts blue this evening, flickered with gold thread, her hair piled up in braids on her head.
Waits for him to come close, how he boxes her in. Tilting her head back so he could kiss her - Good, concentrate on that you great dolt.
Just as he seems so sure of himself, smugly involved in kissing her, she jabs him in the neck. Not with her fist, God knew there was no strength in that, and not even harshly. But with the concealed needle hidden in her cuff of lacey sleeves. It takes a few seconds, enough time for him to roughly slide his hands everywhere.
Then all at once, he slides down onto the floor in a pile. Snoring loudly almost immediately. Angel's face scrunches up, wretched. ]
You dolt, why couldn't you stay downstairs like you were supposed to you? Now what am I going to do with you, you useless fucking -
[ Language, Angel. ]
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The young lady glimmers a strange gold too, and he can't resist. He won't strike now, not if it might cause her distress, but he might step in as her distress seems evident even from several yards away. When he arrives on the threshold of the study, it's evident she's got the situation under control, an unconscious form crumpling at her feet. Jacob doesn't think he would have left it so long if he was the one being groped, nor does he think he'd settle for knocking the man out, but each to their own. He steps forward, and over, the prone figure, a grin spreading over his features.]
Am I interrupting?
[ He does glance over her, hopefully not in a way that makes Angel suppose he'd like to take the bastard's place, because nothing is further from his thoughts at this moment. Thankfully, she looks unhurt, albeit unhappy, and he can't blame her for that. He reaches into the interior of his coat, for the hipflask that he carries when there's too long a distance between pubs, or he's stuck watching a target, and offers it out to her.]
Brandy, and nothing more than that, I assure you. What were you looking for?
[ He hopes they aren't after the same thing. He can't let her take the plans, or the prototype that sits in the grounds. Bugger, he should have destroyed that first.]
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But it's... Jacob.
Jacob?
Her shoulders sink back physically. Her body relaxing under his gaze, and at least - he isn't here to cause her problems, she doesn't think. But that does beg the question what he is doing here anyway.
But she doesn't say it for the moment, rather she reaches for that brandy flask and... in true ladylike fashion, tips her head back and down half the bottle. Jack wasn't here, Jack didn't have to know what his little Angel got up to.
When she's done, she drops the back of her hand to cover her mouth, smothering the little hiccup that comes with a harsh drink too quickly, flushing in her cheeks. Which is the odd realisation that she trusts him, this assassin, and maybe that trust is based in spite, but it is trust all the same. ]
They... [ Templars. Looming like shadows in the corner, ventures it after a moment, hovering on the right words the right way. ] ... want to blackmail him. They want to be sure if I can't make him fall in love with me...
[ They didn't believe it could work, of course, but then, when did a bunch of men ever believe women were capable of anything? She takes another mouthful for good measure and at least screws the flask shut. Rage hot with the burning of liquor leaves her pink and bright and sorely tempted to kick the unconscious man. ] Like he'll be different to the last one, or the one before that, or the one before that.
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Or isn't used to doing it with an audience. ]
I'm afraid I can't give you the chance.
[ He's well aware that might cause her trouble, it might give her cause to explain herself to her father, and he doesn't want to put her through anything horrible. Or worst than they would already. But he has a job to do and a duty to the innocent people of England and for that matter, everywhere else. He moves to the man's desk, beginning to go through draws in the search for his notes. ]
You can tell them that I had already killed the bastard by the time you got up here. And trashed the place.
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You can't!
[ She jumps forward, taking a step over his body and - it takes her a moment to gather up all her skirts in her hands, so she doesn't trip on him. That would be the last thing she needs right now, as she goes to follow after him around the desk. ]
You can, later, but I need him. I need him alive.
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Do you know what that man is working on? Do you know what he's building?
[ He doesn't mean to sound so angry, this isn't hurt fault. She's been sent here, and she has no choice. He tries to remember that, but the very fact is that he's here to do what is right, not because some Templars told him so. Not because Ethan told him so. Or Evie or Greenie. He's here because he knows this is right, that he can't allow this man to finish the gun he is building, a gun that will fire like a machine, and mow men down like grass in the wind. ]
That man is going to kill more people than you and I could ever do, if we worked dawn to dusk every day for the rest of our lives. Until we drowned in blood.
[ He looks over at the prone figure, a man who might be considered by some to be an inventor, a great scientist and engineer, a tinkerer who furthers the goals of empire. Jacob sees a terrible threat to the freedom and happiness of every man, woman and child on the planet.
With a graceful movement, Jacob pulls the revolver from where it's tucked into one of the many belts, cocks it, and fires.
The man's snoring stops.]
This world doesn't need people like that.
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[ It's jumped back, and she's scrambling, scrambling to stop him. Trying to catch his arm as she sees that gun, sharp, quick, merciless metal and chemicals.
The sound of it shatters the air, so loud she feels deaf afterwards. A sudden sharp horrible realisation she's never been around a bullet before. Seen the aftermath, the carnage, the blood. But heard it? Felt how it split the air? She shudders, breathless and dizzy from that sound more than the man that was so suddenly dead. That, at least, was almost routine.
Half-deafened, she lurches, back to him. ]
Run! You have to run!
[ It's tripped, but she pushes him, shoving against his chest towards the window. If they find him in here, they'll - do something awful. Jack will do something awful. ]
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Gently. She might be a killer, but he's never seen that evidenced first hand, and her reaction now makes her seem even more unlikely to be one, in his mind. She seems so naive, so innocent to his world.]
Not yet.
[ He offers her a smile, charming, reassuring as he can, and turns back to the desk, still searching through it, looking for papers, plans. There's a little raised knot of wood under the lip of the desk and as his fingers run over it, a little hidden drawer slides out, revealing blueprints. He opens them, briefly, to check they are what he's looking for, and then he gathers them up and tosses them into the fire burning in the grate. ]
Now we run. Come on.
[ He nods towards the window, opens it up wide, and holds his hand out to her. ]
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The only thing that makes sense is to lock the door, slamming it shut quickly. Pressing her back into it as she tries and works out... what to do. Jack would - Jack would be furious, and she knew who he'd take it out on.
Her eyes shut, shaking her head briefly as he fiddles with the desk. Burns the paper, only opening when he's speaking again. Blinking wide, confused - ]
Jacob, I can't - He'll -
[ But, as he stands there, arm outstretched, she wants to go, more than she thinks she's ever wanted anything in her life. That thought is so clear, so sharp, so desperate, she feels like she'll choke on it. ]
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[ And with that he moves back to her, taking her hand in his and knotting their fingers together, before moving back to the window. There's voices in the corridor outside, muffled by the door, and they have little to no time.]
You can climb, can't you?
[ He hopes that's a yes, even in that dress. Either way, he's stirring her towards the window. There are thankfully lots of handholds in the brickwork, enough windows and ledges to make it down easy.
He has, at least, something of a plan. The house is going to be a mass of panic and confusion for at least three or four minutes, hopefully, before anyone has the sense to really search the gardens and grounds. That should give him time to get to the workshop and prime it. And then he can get out, and Angel can tell her father that she chased him down, or, if she feels like really brave, she can come with him back to town.
But first, getting out of sight.]
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Jack will kill him.
For a moment, he gets her to go along, hurrying little steps as he brings her across the room. Dizzying heights from the window and she can climb, climbed trees and rocks and bed posts as a little girl, even if now she has this tight corset and bustle to consider.
Angel nods, swallows, tries to come to grips with it. ]
I can.
[ And with more nervousness perhaps she shouldn't have, she tugs up the bell of her skirt, bring it up to her knees. Delicate white stockings underneath and shoes that could be - worse, certainly, little booted heels good for dancing and not much else, but at least she wouldn't fall out of them as she begins to descend, terrifying, this thing for herself, this escaping. Out into the dead of night in a ballgown like lovers running off to Gretna Green.
But far less romantic for the dead body that caused them to bolt than a badly planned engagement. Gloved fingers hanging onto the windowsill then disappearing as she takes hold of another jutting brick and a piece of weaving trellis vine, gently beginning her journey down. ]
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