Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve Rogers does not come back from the war.

He packs his bag; he boards the airship; he makes the journey. But there is a part of him that knows he is not really going home. Even as the wind is in his face and he stares out at the horizon, he feels the truth of it settling right under his skin. He is stuck there, beyond the sea, where the bodies lie.

Not that there were any bodies.

He braces himself on the bulwark and looks out over the railing. The air up here is biting cold, even through the thick gloves he is wearing. Below him the world is a sea of cloud and haze, the occasional hint of grey ocean peeking through. Steve forces himself to relax his muscles to keep from shivering, although the icy breeze has struck him.

The ship is on course for Brooklyn. The war is over. He should feel relief. The airshipmen around him are all going home. The Falcon will be put into dock and they will return to their lives.

People are whistling, men call out to each other. There is an air of joy on deck, but it slips right past Steve without touching him.

He should feel something. But all he feels is the cold and the strange echoing nothing in his chest, like he’s been hollowed out and stripped down.

The wind whips his face, surely turning his cheeks a brilliant red, but he ignores it, still staring downwards. The clouds look soft and inviting below them, almost solid. But he knows if he touched them they would disappear like an illusion.

“Not much of a view on a night like tonight, Captain Rogers,” the voice of The Falcon’ s captain says to him. Steve had not registered the footsteps coming up. He turns to give Captain Wilson a tight smile. The man is good-natured and has been very welcoming, although he has no idea who Steve really is. It’s better that way. Steve has no desire to hear himself congratulated or praised. Not today, not ever. He has already overheard enough from the airmen without announcing his identity to them. They do not need to know that the army captain they are returning to home shores is the same one that they salute with their rum rations in the evenings.

He is glad that they are going home, glad that he had some part in making that happen. But he can barely listen to the praise when it is directed into the ether, to some man they know only as ‘The Captain’. He couldn’t take it if they were to direct it at him. Not when he knows that he doesn’t deserve it.

He has been silent for too long. He can tell from the expression on Captain Wilson’s face. Time is problematic now, coming and going without any pretence of regularity. He has lost the thread of it, and lost more than that as well. Steve should say something, but there are no words that come to him, he has nothing to say.

Luckily, Captain Wilson seems to have no problem filling in the space.

“You may see the lights when we get a bit closer. It’s a magical sight, the golden glow beneath the clouds. Not a thing like it on the ground.”

“Magical,” Steve echoes. He has seen magic. It has never conjured the sort of awe that Captain Wilson is implying. But then, he hasn’t exactly seen it at its best. There must be something in his voice, because Captain Wilson’s eyes narrow slightly and he nods, his face becoming a little more sombre. He walks over to stand against the rail as well, leaning against the wood with a relaxation that Steve cannot find in himself.

“I guess magic loses its appeal when you’ve seen it used for war. I’ve heard what Hydra was doing on the front lines was…” He pauses.

“You haven’t seen it used for war?” Steve asks. He would have thought even the airships - especially the airships maybe, with their grand aerial battles, powered by the magical cores - would have seen the savagery of magical warfare. Captain Wilson shrugs.

“Magic users are not so common that Hydra could afford to put one on every airship. Also, we have a different perspective, up here. Our battles don’t go the same way, or so I’ve heard. You’re an army man, you see things more personally. ”

Steve grits his teeth and concentrates hard on the clouds in front of him, the grain of the wooden rail, the broken corner of his thumbnail, jagged and uneven, barely hanging on. Anything but the stench of the dead men’s breath in his nostrils, the taste of someone else’s blood in his mouth.

“You could say that,” he says out loud.

“I hear things,” Captain Wilson says, and Steve jerks to look at him.

“What sort of things?” he asks. He knows – thinks he knows – that Captain Wilson cannot know who it is he has on board his ship. No one associates Captain Steve Rogers of the 18th Regiment of Foot with The Captain of the Howling Infantry.

“Things about what Hydra was capable of, what their sorcerers can do, what they have done. I’ve seen the aftermath too. We get called in sometimes to… lift people out.”

To lift out the survivors , Steve translates in his head, after Hydra had cut them down.

There is a moment that stretches into a minute.

“I hear things,” Captain Wilson repeats. Steve doesn’t say I saw them , but they both know the words are there, caught behind his lips.

“We’re heading into Brooklyn skyport,” Captain Wilson says, snapping the silence between them. “You been there before?”

“Grew up there,” Steve says. With Bucky , he doesn’t say. It seems like half of all his conversations are unspoken now, like he’s forgotten how to speak. Sometimes he wonders if Bucky used to fill in all these gaps.

“Going home to see the family?” Captain Wilson asks.

“Just me,” Steve replies. He’s aware he’s dragging the mood down. The captain is trying to be friendly. Steve would swear he used to be better at this. Maybe he never was. Most of his conversations ended with the other person walking away, or with them punching him. That’s probably not a good track record. “What about you? The Falcon ’s going in to dock, right?” he says, searching for a topic of conversation he won’t kill.

“Yes,” Captain Wilson agrees. “They’re going to fully outfit her as well.” He pats the wood affectionately and rubs his fingers along it, like the ship is a favourite pet. “Apparently some genius has come up with new armour and there are rumours of new weaponry and even a new propulsion system. Don’t know if I’ll recognise her the next time I see her.” He smiles across at Steve. “But with the war over, I’ve got time to spend with my family, and with the prize money I’ve won, I’ve got some money to spend as well.” He pauses and assesses Steve thoughtfully. “You’re welcome to stay with us, if you want. Usually my first mate, Riley comes with me.” Captain Wilson nods over his shoulder to the man standing at the helm with 1st Lieutenant’s bars on his epaulets. “But he’s been promoted to Captain. He’s getting a ship of his own, and being sent to the other side of the world to hunt pirates for his troubles. So I find myself without company while he gets all the adventure.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Steve says. He doesn’t know what he’s intending to do with himself. He will have to visit the families of his men. The idea turns his stomach stone cold, but staying with any of them – even the Barnes family, who have always welcomed him before – sounds like a torture he could not bear.

“You wouldn’t be imposing,” Captain Wilson assures him. “My family gets sick of my face all too quickly. A fresh face and some fresh conversation will be welcome.” The captain looks at him and Steve cannot see a lie in his face. He is not sure what Steve Rogers, who has been nothing but awkward and lost since he stepped aboard, has done to deserve this offer of friendship, but he knows he cannot refuse it.

“That would be very kind of you, Captain Wilson,” he says. The words are stiff and cold in his mouth, though he means them sincerely.

“Then I suppose you’d better call me Sam,” Captain Wilson tells him, standing up straight again and giving Steve a grin.

“Steve,” Steve replies and he offers his hand, which Sam takes immediately, with a smile.

As their hands release, Steve sees it, catching the glow out of the corner of his eye, and turning towards it instinctually.

The blanket of the cloud below them glows golden and green, spreading out softly. It is as though the clouds themselves are lit up from the inside. Steve’s breath catches in his chest at the sight of it, the sea of light.

“Is that…?”

“Brooklyn,” Sam confirms, he turns to shout an order to his crew, then turns back. “Welcome home, Steve.”

*

Brooklyn is not as Steve remembers it, and yet it is. Everything is where he left it, from the shoe shine on the corner to the razor he left by his wash basin. Of course, there is a thick layer of dust over it all. He should have thought to put down dust sheets.

But it is as if everything is just that much smaller than when he last saw it. The paint peels morosely off his windowsill, the dark bricks have crumbled a little more, and his footsteps seem too loud. Military boots, no doubt.

The uniform wins him a nod or a brief curtsey from the people he sees on the street, people he doesn’t know, people he barely recognises, people who no longer recognise him. He is no longer Little Stevie Rogers who grew up round the corner, his lip split and his shirt untucked; he is an army captain.

His first port of call is his solicitors, who have been keeping his wages and prize money in trust for him.

The offices of Nelson and Murdock are clean and almost disturbingly tidy – the reason for which becomes clear when he meets Mr Murdock and discovers him to be completely blind. They also contain an inordinate number of empty chairs, as if they had prepared to meet with an entire regiment, rather than just one man.

Once the niceties are done with, Steve asks after his funds. He has rent to pay for his time overseas, and he refuses to fall behind on it. He needs to check that the upkeep has been paid as per the instructions he gave. In all her life, his mother never failed to pay her rent. Come rain or shine, she would scrape together what little money was left after his father had drunk his fill and Steve’s medicines were purchased and she would pay the rent. She had kept a roof over his head. He had wondered, sometimes, if she had ever regretted marrying his father rather than a gentleman with money, as she was expected to, but if she had, she had never let Steve hear of it.

“Yes, we’ve been maintaining the payments for your rent,” Mr Murdock assures him. “And deducting our own fees, of course.”

“Of course,” Steve agrees.

“Not that either of those makes much difference to your funds,” the solicitor continues. “What is it you wish to do with the rest?”

He should give some to Bucky’s family – his mother and the girls – they’d be needing more support without… without Bucky’s pay coming in.

“May I ask how much?”

“It’s your money, Captain Rogers,” Mr Murdock says. “The total amount is a not inconsiderable sum. You have been handsomely rewarded by your regiment on a number of occasions. You’ve become quite a rich man.” Steve stiffens in his seat. He is struck by a sudden wish that he had never come here, because now he must ask the obvious question.

“How much?” he says, his mind blank. The number he is quoted has far too many zeroes. The ticking of the grandfather clock counts out the hollow silence as the figure sits in his mind – and then sits on paper before him as well when Mr Murdock pushes a piece of paper over to him.

Steve wants to push it back.

“As I said, the rest of your funds are yours to do with as you see fit,” Mr Murdock says.

“I…” Steve stares at the number, written out in flawlessly elegant handwriting. This cannot be true. This cannot be his. What has he done to deserve such riches? He remembers his mother struggling to put food on the table and now he has this laid out before him. Rewards for ‘heroism’, but he cannot think of a thing he has done to earn it, not really. No more than anyone should have done when faced with Hydra.

“There must have been a mistake,” he says. His voice sounds far away over the rushing in his ears.

“No mistake, Captain Rogers,” Mr Murdock says. His lips curl in amusement. “We have a full accounting of all your finances, if you would like to see it.” Steve nods, then remembers the man won’t be able to see him.

“Yes, please. I mean if you would be so kind,” he says quickly, reaching up a hand to run it through his hair.

“Of course,” Mr Murdock says, reaching for another folder on the corner of the desk. He runs his fingertips over the embossed leather briefly, then holds it out. “I believe you’ll find everything is in order, Captain.”

Everything is indeed in order, laid out in black ink on heavy cream paper. It is a history of his whole career, every attack, skirmish and offensive he had been part of, cut down to a name and a financial measure of how valuable it was, and alongside them, his wages, and subtracted neatly, the monthly rent and lawyer’s fees.

And this was what it all amounted to. So much blood and fear for a list of numbers in a book on a man’s desk. It was as if those place names were nothing but names, like the roaring in Steve’s ears - the screams, the thunder of the guns - was never even there.

He shuts the book, the thwip of paper meeting paper overly loud in the grave stillness of the room. The clock still ticks behind him, marching on unstoppably. Steve’s heart is pounding in his chest, his shoulders tight, he is poised -

Poised to do what? There is no war for him to fight here. There is no threat here. Mr Murdock sits quite calmly on the other side of the desk and from the antechamber behind Steve, there come the sounds of someone filing papers. He forces his shoulders to relax.

“Are you alright, Captain Rogers?” Mr Murdock asks.

“Fine, thank you,” Steve assures him. “I… really should be going. Thank you for your time and… for looking after things for me.”

“It is what you pay us for,” Mr Murdock says, another small amused smile on his face.

Steve beats a hasty retreat, heading back out into the dim streets of Brooklyn. He can almost hear Bucky’s voice in his head.

“ Looks like you’re rich, Stevie. What you gonna do with all that dosh? ” He knows Bucky would be laughing at him right now, running scared from a number written on a piece of paper. Some brave captain he is.

Before they had gone to war - before Azzano, Erskine, Stark, and the lot of it - before Hydra and Peggy, he and Bucky had used to talk sometimes of making their fortunes and becoming proper gentlemen. They had planned to settle down in some country home, get married and live like aristocrats.

It feels like another lifetime, but Steve has won his fortune.

He realises as he looks up that his steps - and maybe the memory as well - have led him along the streets towards Bucky’s home, where his mother and sisters still live. Steve freezes in place.

He should go to see them. They deserve that much. With his newfound fortune he could see them well cared for. And they should… they deserve his apologies. They deserve at least that much. They have already heard the worst, of course they have, but it is his duty to offer them what comfort he can.

But what comfort will they find in seeing him, when he came back and Bucky never would? Will he be any help at all to them, or will he just be salt in a fresh wound?

His hands have clenched into fists at his sides, his teeth are gritted together.

“ Never took you for a coward, Stevie ,” Bucky’s memory says. “ Always the first into the fight. Ain’t that what everyone says? Leading the forlorn hope.”

This is not a battle. This is not an enemy city they are besieging. Hydra does not lurk behind these walls, just people he has known all his life. People he has failed.

“ Bet my ma cried when she heard ,” Bucky says. “ But Becca probably thought it was a mistake .”

Steve ignores him.

“ They’re right there, Stevie .”

Steve draws in a deep breath, so deep it almost chokes him, but it still doesn’t seem to fill him up. He squares his shoulders and advances.

Before he knocks on the door, he checks his appearance.

“ Don’t be a moron, ” Bucky’s ghost tells him. “ They’ve seen you when you were a kid, half-covered in horse shit, a few patches on your coat ain’t gonna raise an eyebrow. But if you plan on marrying you might want to smarten up a bit. No self-respecting person’s gonna take you when you look like a rag and bone man .”

“Shut up, Buck,” Steve mutters automatically, before remembering that Bucky isn’t there. He shakes his head, as though that will rid the chaos from his mind. He straightens his jacket again and reaches up to knock, but before the first blow lands, the door is swinging open and a familiar face appears - the Barnes’ servant, Nancy.

“Captain Rogers,” she says with a nod. “The ladies are waiting in the parlour.”

He remembers that same voice scolding him for stealing a cookie from the kitchen when he was a boy. Now he is taller than her, his head having to duck under the low door frame to get in. He feels caught off balance. Of all places in the world, this one should be familiar to him, but it still feels alien.

There should be children running around, getting underfoot. There should be Bucky’s warm hand on his shoulder. This place used to be lively and as bustling as a marketplace, but now it’s as quiet as a tomb.

Every step feels heavier, like he’s dragging himself up a hill, but the hallway is as level and straight as it has always been, even if it feels more constricting. His shoulders seem to be almost colliding with the walls every time he takes a step.

The door to the parlour creaks open with a weary sigh and Steve steps through.

Winifred Barnes and two of her daughters rise to greet him in unison, their faces wearing identical expressions of calm.

“Steven,” says Bucky’s mother.

“Mrs Barnes,” he replies.

They refuse his money. Bucky had won his own small fortune, it seems, which goes to the family as he had neither wife nor child. The conversation passes in fits and starts, awkward pauses and stuttering words that seem to trip over themselves.

Steve knows these people. They are as close to him as family, but it feels like he has ended up in the wrong household.

As he finds his way out again, unsettled and uneasy in his skin, there are quick, uneven footsteps behind him.

“Steve!” It's the first time he’s heard that shorter form of his name spoken since Sam on board The Falcon , and he freezes instantly. He turns to see Rebecca Barnes standing in the hall, her hair coming loose as it has always done, her teeth worrying her lip. “Did he…” she starts. “Was it… Did he suffer, in the end?”

Steve remembers the look on Bucky’s face as they both realised he was falling and that Steve was not going to catch him. He remembers the scream. He will never forget Bucky’s scream.

“No. It was quick,” he says, because honesty won’t help him here. She nods, but looks unconvinced.

“ You never could lie worth a damn, ” Bucky’s ghost tells him.

“I hope that’s true,” she replies, then she takes another step forwards, looking up into his face with eyes that are too like her brother’s. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Steve’s not sure he knows how to be anything else anymore, but he nods and bids her farewell before stepping out the door and into the hard daylight on the street.

He waits two more days before he sends word to Captain Wilson - Sam - that he will take him up on his offer. There is nothing left in Brooklyn for him but the savage chill of memories.

The days pass treacle-slow without the rhythms of army life to keep them regimented. His small rooms seem both smaller and larger than ever before, and he rattles around them. The dishes mount up in the basin without him having the will to clean them. Knowing he may never return to this place - or at least not for a long time - is the only thing that forces him to clean them in the end.

*

Sam’s family is large and boisterous. Steve is not the only guest and the place is full of noise at all times of day. Some days it is almost enough to drown out his thoughts.

There are four generations under the same roof. Sam’s grandmother sits in state, surrounded by the scraped knees and tearaway hair of her great grandchildren, who she deals with according to some secret inner hierarchy that only she knows.

Sam’s parents receive Steve with all the hospitality of family, even though Steve can’t respond as effusively himself. He feels a little like he is constantly in the way as the family carries on around him. It is a pleasant atmosphere, but he cannot help disappearing to the library every so often, or for a turn around the grounds, just to clear his head.

Sam also has some very persistent cousins, one of whom seems to have set her mind on Steve with a determination that is as admirable as it is disturbing. She seeks him out for conversation, although Steve knows he cannot be any great entertainment for her, and she volunteers to show him all her accomplishments. She plays the piano well, but Steve cannot find anything more than a polite admiration for it.

It would be easier if he liked her. He can tell from the looks Sam’s aunt and grandmother give him that he is being judged and valued, like a piece of meat. It is not obvious, but there is a sense there that he is an eligible bachelor and while they are subtle enough in their attempts to matchmake, Steve feels on display. So he hides, and Sam finds him to commiserate with him.

He has been there for two weeks, and feels as though he has spent most of those in the library, when the letter catches up with him, redirected in the neat hand of his landlady.

“What does it say?” asks one of Sam’s nephews before Steve has even got it open. His mother shushes him, but that doesn’t stop the eyes of all the children from fixing on him.

“You’d think no one had ever got a letter before,” Old Mrs Wilson says. “Leave the Captain alone.”

“Is it a love letter?” another of the children asks. “Is it from your sweetheart?” There is a ripple of giggling, and Sam’s determined cousin is poked from multiple sides, which Steve studiously ignores.

“One day, young man, you’ll be getting letters from your sweetheart and we’ll all giggle at you,” the little boy’s great grandmother says.

“It is not from my sweetheart,” Steve says. “I don’t have a sweetheart.” He carefully avoids Sam’s cousin’s eyes again. “I expect it is a matter of business.” He does not say that he has little business that could require a letter to be sent to him. His only business is soldiering and that is all done for the time being, or so he hopes.

The seal on the back of the envelope is familiar, but it takes a second for him to place it. In the end, it is the motto that reminds him: Faber ferri non flectere. He can remember those words in Howard’s voice.

Sir Howard - call me Howard - had not been a close friend, but the recognition of a familiar acquaintance might as well be a lifeline to a drowning man. Steve excuses himself to open the missive in privacy and as he leaves, he hears “see, I bet it is from his sweetheart,” followed by a loud shh as the door closes behind him.

Steve is unsure what Sir Howard might be contacting him for, but he does not care at this moment in time. He cuts the envelope open and withdraws the thick paper from it.

Captain Rogers.

    Hoping this letter finds you in good health. I heard of your return from the war overseas and made myself free to reach out to you with such news as I have, though I am afraid it is not happy.

I am given to understand that you were acquainted with my father, Sir Howard. He spoke of you often.

If you have not already heard, then I regret to inform you that my father passed away not two months ago. In dying, he left behind several bequeathments, which it has fallen on me to carry out according to his wishes. One such bequest was to you: a small house and a modest living in the village of Marvel, adjacent to our own estate.

The property, Lakefield, is small but well situated and is furnished with all that you may desire. Servants are kept and you may keep them on as you see fit.

Yours faithfully,

Sir Anthony Stark, 3rd Baronet of Marvel

Upon reading the letter, Steve sits in the leather armchair in the library, astounded and overwhelmed. To have been handed a lifeline and had it snatched away in the same breath. It seems like there is nothing left at all of what he had lived before. The grief is flooding him. Howard is dead. How can it be true? The man had not been young, but he had by no means been infirm or of a delicate constitution. Dead. And no indication given as to the cause. The letter is abrupt on the matter. A stiffness perhaps born from grief. Steve does not think he could manage to write a good letter in such circumstances.

And on top of that, there is the matter of the bequest. He had never thought. Never considered- He and Sir Howard had occasional conversations, but nothing to indicate this level of generosity.

He feels like the world is removed from him, like a window stands between him and it. The letter sits in his hand and the words are still there, but the knowledge of it is far away from him.

The letter crumples in the fist that holds it and even the sound of it, the feel of it, seems like it is miles away. Or maybe it's Steve who is miles away. Maybe Steve is still out there in the war. Maybe he never came back either.

He sits there floating in his own body for an age, staring at the crushed remains of the letter. Until a knock on the library door pulls him back to himself as Sam sticks his head in.

“Bad news?” he asks, his eyes flickering over Steve’s face. Steve wonders what he sees there. Does he see the grief that Steve can barely feel, or does he see the strange blankness that seems to be all that Steve can summon up?

“I…” Steve says. He heaves in a breath and starts again, forcing his fingers to relax as he does so. The paper crackles as the pressure is relaxed and he offers it to Sam, who steps forwards to read it, his brow wrinkling.

“My condolences,” Sam says after a moment. “Were you and the baronet close?”

“I didn't think so at the time,” Steve says, but as he thinks about it, there had been no one else left that he might have called a friend. And now it seems that Howard, too, is gone.

“He appears to have believed you close,” Sam says, gesturing to the letter. “Have you seen the property?”

It takes Steve a moment to realise what Sam is talking about, then he recalls the rest of the letter. The bequest.

“No, I have not,” Steve says slowly. “We never met in this country, only during the war. Howard - Sir Howard - would come to work on the weaponry. He would talk about having us stay at his home, meeting his wife and son, but we never…”

“You should go to see it, and to pass on your condolences to his widow and the new baronet,” Sam says.

“You cannot possibly think I should accept it,” Steve says, taken aback by the very idea.

“I don’t see why not,” Sam smiles at him. “You're a gentleman of standing now. An eligible gentleman at that. You can’t return to your boarding rooms and hide away from the world. My grandmother wouldn't hear of it, and she is a very determined woman when she gets a thought into her head.”

“Sam.” Steve pauses. He doesn’t know how to convey just what he means. Why is it that sometimes words come so easily to him and at other times they abandon him completely?

“You deserve this,” Sam says. He cuts right to the quick of the matter, as is his way. That is the core of it, isn’t it? How can Steve be rewarded with this when he failed to bring anybody back with him? He feels like he has cheated them all somehow and stolen what should have been theirs. “Maybe this is the universe’s way of trying to apologise. You don’t speak of what happened to you. I respect that, although maybe you should. But whatever it was, you still get to be happy. Good things can still happen to you and you don’t have to reject them. Whoever you lost, if you meant as much to them as they meant to you, they wouldn’t want you to punish yourself.”

“I know,” Steve says, and he does, because he can just imagine them all telling him what an idiot he is.

“So when are we going to visit your new home, Captain Rogers?” Sam asks.

“We?”

“What? You weren’t planning on inviting me?” Steve honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“You just want to avoid the honourable Miss Throckmorton a little longer,” Steve says with a laugh that only sounds half broken.

“If I have to hear another word about how accomplished she is, I’ll run off with the travelling players,” Sam says.

“But she plays the piano and she paints, Captain Wilson,” Steve says. “And she speaks three languages.”

“Don’t you start,” Sam says with a sigh, going to fetch himself a drink from the decanter on the desk. “Steve, you have to rescue me.”

“Scared?”

“Of my grandmother when she’s got her heart fixed on something? Definitely.”

“So you’d expose me to her wrath instead?” Steve asks.

“You’re a guest, and more than that, she likes you,” Sam tells him. “You’ll be fine. I, on the other hand…” he waits and gives Steve an assessing look. “You’re going to own the place, don’t you think you should at least take a look?”

“I’m not going to-”

“Then you owe the new baronet the courtesy of saying no to his face, don’t you think?”

Steve sighs because Sam has outplayed him and he knows it.

“Fine. We shall go to Marvel,” he says and Sam grins at him.

“Excellent. Reply to the letter and I’ll go tell my family that we’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Steve asks, but Sam is already out the door.

The reply is difficult to compose. Steve knows very little about Howard’s son beyond the fact that his father finds - found - him simultaneously a source of great pride and great frustration. The man is supposed to be a genius. Howard had boasted that Tony’s - Sir Anthony, now - designs were at the forefront of the army’s resources. The kind of technology that blew their opponents right out of the sky, but he was also rumoured to be a flirt and barely on the right side of scandal. How should Steve address a man like that?

Steve starts five letters before he manages to complete one to his satisfaction. It is short and to the point, but then that is only a mirror of Sir Anthony’s own letter. Steve merely conveys his sympathies for the loss, his gratitude at the generosity and his intention to come to Marvel as soon as possible.

He hands the letter over to the footman for the post, with the assurance that it will be dispatched this evening.

The Wilson family is sad to see Sam go, and Steve cannot doubt their sincerity when they express regrets over his leaving as well. Their welcome has been a warm one and he is honoured that they have accepted him so generously. This is what he fought for, he reminds himself.

Steve sleeps uneasily that night. He dreams of the cold and the screams again, but that is nothing new.

Sam’s parents let them go with admonishments to be wary of bandits on the road and the pair of them set off, riding with the morning light.

“Are there many bandits on this road?” Steve asks. Sam shrugs.

“We’ve had a few incidents of highway robbery, but nothing serious,” Sam tells him. “Mostly opportunists, I think, after the rich folk. We’re unlikely to be bothered.” Steve tells himself that the pang in his chest is not regret.

“It’s a two day ride at a civilised pace,” Sam tells him. “And there is an inn we can stop at tonight. It’s not exactly homely, but we’ve slept in worse places.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Steve says as the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves dulls in the mud of the road. “Your family will miss you.”

“I told you - anything to avoid the honourable Miss Throckmorton,” Sam says, his ready grin steady as a rock.

“Sam-”

“You are my friend,” Sam says, cutting him off. “And travelling alone is a miserable business. I honestly can’t think of anything I would enjoy more.”

“Thank you,” Steve says.

They make good time and the sun is barely setting when they reach the inn. The stable is full of horses and four carriages are set down. It must be a popular place, more likely because of its situation on the main road to Brooklyn, direct from the military bases in the north, than through any fault of its owners, Steve deems after seeing the inside.

The food is simple and filling, if a little bland, and the company is good. Crowded into the small, smokey taproom, it reminds him of other places and other people. Steve half expects to feel Dum Dum’s hand slap him on the back or hear Morita arguing with the barkeep. He swallows down his resentment and listens to Sam describe the antics he got up to as a midshipman on a flying vessel.

Steve sits with his back to the wall, unable to get comfortable with himself exposed to the other patrons, but he doesn’t pay much attention to them on the whole, which he comes to regret.

The moon is just a sliver in the sky, the crescent barely giving enough light for Steve to see his way to the outhouse, though the sky is full of stars, swathes of them. The metal for his shield had come from the rock of a fallen star, he remembers. He wonders what Sam must see from his airship at night. It is beautiful.

“I’m telling you, if someone finds out what we’re carrying, we’ll be hanging from the gallows before the sun’s even risen.”

The voice catches Steve unaware and he startles. He opens his mouth to call out when the content of the words and the hushed tone register. He freezes.

“You’d better not be getting cold feet on me,” a female voice responds. “You knew the risks when we started this. It's steady work and the gentleman’s paying us handsomely for our troubles.”

“It’s still treason,”

“Hush your mouth, you idiot. You don’t go shouting words like that out just anywhere. And where’s this newfound patriotism coming from?”

“It’s not. I’m not. Fuck the lot of ‘em. Hydra can have ‘em for all I care. I’d just rather not end up with a rope around my neck.”

“Which is exactly why we shouldn’t be talking about this. Not here.”

“There’s no one around.”

“You don’t know when the shadows have ears. I’ve heard Lord Fury has spies who can turn themselves invisible.”

"If Fury has magic users, do you think he'd waste them in this place?" The other voice scoffs, then there’s the creak of a door and the voices fade away.

As they had been speaking, Steve had tried to get closer, but the walls of the courtyard and the echo had made it impossible to get a fix on where the pair were. Their voices seemed to come from a different direction depending on where he stood.

But the words! What they had said! A conspiracy against the crown in a place like this. And Hydra! The word is burnt into his memory. He cannot have been mistaken. Had it just been a turn of phrase, or was it a sign of some greater evil to befall?

Steve hurries to return to the taproom, looking around frantically for anyone suspicious or anyone who seems alarmed by his sudden appearance. No one seems out of place. The room is full of people. There’s no way to distinguish which were the ones he heard talking. If they are even in here. The door he heard open might have led to any part of the inn, or even the stables.

He hurries to where Sam is still sitting and slides into his chair once more.

“Did you see anyone enter this room before me?” Steve asks. Sam starts and looks at him in puzzlement. “A man and a woman. Did they come in here?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention. They might have done. Who are they?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. “I heard them talking outside about…” He lowers his voice and relates the conversation he overheard. Sam’s eyes grow wider by the second.

“So you think these two are smuggling something?”

“Or conveying a message,” Steve agrees. “They said it was steady work, so it sounds more long-term than immediate.”

“Did you hear anything that might distinguish them?”

“No, nothing. Just that it sounded like a man and a woman and that they work for a gentleman. They mentioned Hydra - but... ” He shakes his head.

“That hardly narrows it down,” Sam points out. Steve slams his fist down on the table in frustration and it cracks under the force, their tankards and the candlestick all jumping.

Sam eyes the crack in the solid oak table and then looks up at Steve, who forces himself to relax. He hasn’t lost control of his strength in years.

“I think I made it worse,” he says, as though the crack had been there all along. “These tables look quite old.” Steve can only hope that Sam was not paying so much attention to the table, but he doesn’t look convinced. In a transparent attempt to avoid the subject, Steve changes it back quickly. 

“We have to stop them.”

“But how?” Sam asks, looking back up from the crack. “You didn’t overhear what they’re transporting, or how. It could be anything.”

“I know.” Steve frowns at his ale, his teeth grinding together. “If only I’d seen their faces.” He looks around at the other patrons again, but they all seem far too calm for people engaged in treason. But that’s how you would want to seem, wasn’t it? “They might not even have come in here,” he says. “The creak might have been a window, not a door. But we can’t just ignore it.”

“There must be someone we can inform. The crown has people to deal with things like this,” Sam points out, reasonably.

“What would we inform them of?” Steve asks, and although he knows that Sam is right, it feels wrong somehow to pass this on to someone else. “That a man and a woman - we don’t know who - are transporting something - we don’t know what - on behalf of a gentleman - whom we also do not know - that will in some way harm the country… but we don’t know how. And Hydra, whom everyone knows is gone, since I- Since Red Skull fell, is possibly involved.”

“I think that’s our only option,” Sam tells him, leaning back in his seat, his face screwed up in thought. Steve is grateful to see that the idea sits poorly with him as well. Steve doesn’t disagree. He has no love for the crown itself, but he does love his country. He fought for his country and for the freedom that it stands for. To have gone through all that and to return home to find it threatened from within…

He wants to punch something, but there is nothing around to fight. Instead he balls his hands into fists.

Chapter Text

The feeling does not leave him that night, or throughout their ride the next day. Sam makes conversation, but both of them are distracted. Steve had tried listening to all the people in the inn as they spoke to each other, but none of them had sounded like the two voices he had heard. He is plagued by what may happen because of his own shortcomings. Those people could be doing anything, and he knows only one thing for certain: it wouldn’t be good for anyone in this country.

“Ready to see your new home?” Sam asks, cutting into Steve’s circular thoughts.

“I told you, Sam,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not keeping it. We will stay in the local inn this evening. I’ve only come here to decline the baronet’s offer and to offer my own sympathies.”

“Right,” Sam says. There is a hint of laughter in his voice, but Steve ignores it.

Steve is not ready for the sight when it comes.

They round the corner and the road dips down, leading to a vista that Steve has rarely seen. He grew up in the city, went from there to the war, where the views were pretty enough, but marred by the situation. The green hills roll down, filling with thick green trees and nestled among them, is a house, the glassy surface of a small lake visible beyond it.

The word house isn’t quite enough, Steve thinks, because he has seen houses before, and this is nothing like them. It is far bigger than Steve had imagined and, at first, he believes it must be Stark Manor, but as they approach, he sees the name carved into the gatepost, Lakefield.

“If you don’t want it, I’m more than willing to take it off your hands,” Sam says, clearly appreciating the view. Steve can’t summon up the words to respond.

Sir Anthony’s letter had declared the place small. It is small in the same way an elephant would be small if it were to stand next to a blue whale. The Wilsons' family home, which houses twelve of them quite comfortably, is less than half the size. There are so many windows, Steve thinks his eyes might fall out of his head as he looks at them all, sparkling in the bright noon sunlight.

Steve stands before the wrought iron gates and gapes.

“Want to go take a look at what you’re turning down?” Sam asks. His grin has grown even wider.

“Yes… I mean no,” Steve says, shaking his head. “We should- It would be rude to decline after having entered it. And it would be presumptuous to enter before visiting the baronet.” It would seem as though the place was not deemed good enough, as though he had looked at it and found it wanting.

“You sure you don’t want to know what you’re missing?” Sam asks.

That as well. Steve is worried that if he crosses the threshold, he won't be able to decline. This house, it is as though someone has plucked it from the dreams of his childhood.

“We stay at the inn,” he says with as much conviction as he can muster. Sam doesn't argue, thank God. Steve is not sure he could hold up much longer.

“Whatever you say, Steve,” Sam agrees amicably.

They find the inn, a comfortably furnished place, and Steve manages to write another letter to the baronet, giving him word of their arrival and asking if he will be at home for visitors at some point in the next few days. There’s a boy - Peter - who offers to take it for him and scampers off with the note.

“You’re new to the village,” the innkeeper says. “Just passing through? You’ve got the bearing of military men. We get a few of your lot through here, on their way up to the bases in the north, over to the airfield, sometimes, or down to Brooklyn.”

“You’ve got a good eye,” Sam says. “I’m with the Aerial Battalions, but this one’s an army man - stick in the mud, you know how it is.”

“Better than my head in the clouds,” Steve retaliates automatically, and Sam and the innkeeper both laugh. 

“But we’re here to stay for a few days, actually, not passing through,” Sam continues. “My friend has business with the baronet.”

“Ah yes,” the innkeeper says. “That’ll be why you sent my nephew with that note. Good man, Sir Anthony. Comes in here for a drink sometimes. Has done since he were a lad. I don’t put much credit in the rumours, myself.”

“Rumours?” Steve asks, looking up. The man’s face shuts down immediately.

“Like I said, I don’t hold with them.”

“Of course not,” Steve says. “I’m a friend of the family - Captain Rogers. I’ve not had the pleasure of an acquaintance with the new baronet. Does he take after his father?”

“Some say so, others’d say he’s more of a kind with his mother. A charming woman, she was. Beautiful too.”

“Was?” Steve asks, his voice hollow, he feels the bottom of his stomach give way again. “Is she…?”

“Died in the same accident that took Sir Howard, god rest their souls,” the innkeeper says. “You didn’t know?”

“Only about How- Sir Howard,” Steve says, feeling that strange numbness come over him again. “I had not realised the tragedy was so compounded.”

“It was an ill-favoured night, and no mistake,” the innkeeper says, nodding to himself.

Steve struggles to come to terms with the idea. He's been expecting to pass his condolences on to both mother and son, but now it seems there is only a son.

It shouldn’t hit him so hard, he has - had - never met Maria Stark, but it feels like another part of the ledge he is standing on has crumbled out beneath him.

The too-loud noises of the bar are now too much for him, and the shifting press of bodies seems to cut off half the air.

“You’ll forgive me,” he says, nodding to the innkeeper and then to Sam. “I believe the day has caught up with me. I shall take my leave. Good night.” The words almost trip over themselves in their eagerness to leave his mouth. Sam looks concerned, but wishes him a good night, and Steve mounts the steep, uneven stairs to the cold of his bedchamber.

As he sits on his bed, he does something he has not done in months. He pulls back the bag from his shield and holds it in his hands. The metal is ice cold against his skin and the weight is unwieldy at this angle. The hard light of the moon shines off the colours, washing them out to shades of grey.

“ You ain’t looked at that enough? ” Bucky’s voice asks in his mind. “ I don’t think it's going to change if you blink or something. We get it, it’s real pretty. ”

“Howard’s dead,” Steve tells the empty room and it’s lingering shadows. “His lady, too.”

Everyone’s dead, he doesn’t say, but he feels it right down to his bones.

“ And you think you could’ve saved them? ” Bucky asks from his memories. “ You were half a world away. You heard the man downstairs: a tragic accident. You’re not all powerful - or has all this fame and fortune gone to your head, that you think you could change fate? ”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Steve tells Bucky - or himself, he supposes.

“ Do you believe you can conquer death, then? You’re still that kid from Brooklyn, no matter how many medals they give you. ”

“I know. But what good is a shield if you can’t protect anyone?”

“ Fuck if I know. You couldn’t have saved them. ”

“I could have saved you.” It seems that Bucky’s shade has no response to that. The silence stretches accusingly and the disappearance of his ghosts makes the room seem so much emptier.

Steve shoves the shield away again - it is not time to pick it up; he doesn't need it here - and readies himself for sleep.

* 

Sleep only comes in fits and starts again, he pulls himself out of a doze again and again, coming awake in high alert only to find that what woke him was a mouse or the bang of a door.

Dawn brings with it breakfast and a note from the manor. Sir Anthony would be honoured to have their company at their earliest convenience. The note is abrupt and scribbled in a careless but distinctive hand, with smudges of dirty fingerprints on it.

“Would you like me to take a reply?” Peter Parker asks, looking eager to be of assistance.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Steve tells him, patting the boy on the shoulder. “We are expected at the manor, Sam,” he says, turning to his companion.

“When?” Sam asks, taking a slice of toast from the plate in the centre of the table and slathering it with jam.

“Sir Anthony says any time,” Peter says. Steve turns to look at him. “I didn’t read the note!” Peter adds hurriedly. “It’s just - that’s what he said while he was writing it: that you might as well show up at any time, since you’re here.” Steve frowns a little at that, it doesn’t sound as though Sir Anthony wishes to see them at all, but that cannot be much of a surprise. The man recently lost his family; it must be a difficult time for him and Steve can only imagine what pressures he must be under to fill his father’s shoes.

At the same time, given that he was the one to initiate the correspondence, he must have expected Steve to come. Perhaps Steve has arrived too soon. He may seem overeager for the property, like a vulture picking over Howard’s corpse.

All the more reason to go to the manor and decline the offer as soon as possible.

He is still not as comfortable in his frock coat, waistcoat and breeches as he was in his uniform. He feels strangely exposed as he and Sam ride out to Stark Manor, although he is technically more covered than he ever was in uniform.

Perhaps it is because he left the shield behind. He hasn’t ridden into battle without its weight by his side for years. He feels unbalanced, but that may also be due to the sheer scale of Stark Manor. As they enter through the gates, he looks up and up again. He feels as small and insignificant as he once was and he does not doubt that feeling is intentional.

“Whoa,” Sam breathes out beside him, looking up at the towering edifice.

Whoever the architect was, he designed this place to make a statement. Severe grey columns shoot up to the sky. A monumental staircase deigns to lower itself to their level, and they will have to climb the slab-like grey steps to reach the looming door, which stands shut against all intruders.

“I think we found the right place,” Sam says. “You know some interesting people, Steve.”

“Knew,” Steve corrects as he dismounts. A tall blond groom with broad shoulders and wind-bitten cheeks walks up to take the reins and tips his hat to the pair of them. “I have never met the current baronet.”

“You will soon.”

The groom leads the horses away with barely a word.

They mount the stairs one by one and the door at the top swings open as soon as they reach the final step, revealing a butler in full livery, a black band around his left arm. He looks them up and down. They must meet muster as he nods and steps back to allow them entry.

“Captain Rogers and Captain Wilson to see Sir Anthony Stark,” Steve says, smoothing down his coat, aware that the butler has not a hair out of place.

“Yes, Captain. We have been expecting you,” the butler says. “Please come in. Mr Stane is in the drawing room.”

“Mr Stane?” Steve asks in confusion.

“A friend and business associate of the late baronet; he has been staying with us since the accident,” the butler provides.

“And Sir Anthony?” Steve asks. He wasn’t expecting business associates, he feels uncomfortable enough without more strangers. But the man was a friend of Howard’s. Steve straightens his shoulders and reminds himself that he is the interloper here. Mr Stane has more right to this place than he does.

“In his workshop, Captain,” the butler says. “I shall have him sent for.”

“I would not bother him if he is in the middle of something. I imagine he must be a busy man,” Steve says hurriedly. “But we were given to understand that he was expecting us.”

It might be Steve’s imagination, but the butler seems to have a sparkle of amusement in his eye.

“He is,” the butler assures him. “But Sir Anthony is given to forgetting things when he is working. I shall send someone to inform him of your arrival.”

As they are talking, the butler leads them through a grand hallway, their footsteps echoing on the patterned marble floor, and along a dimly lit corridor where portraits of men and women with forbidding expressions glower down at them. Steve forces himself not to goggle at them. This place makes him feel every inch the lowly city boy he was born.

They reach a dark oak panelled door and the butler steps through.

“Captain Rogers and Captain Wilson,” he announces and Steve and Sam step into the room and bow to the man who has risen to greet them. As he straightens up, Steve takes in his appearance.

Mr Stane, for that is who Steve assumes this is, is a large man, but built in a powerful way rather than a portly one. His status is evident in the fine fabrics he is wearing and the comfortable paunch of his cheek. His smile is welcoming, but there is something about him that catches in Steve’s mind, like a hangnail.

In the man’s hand, a tumbler of dark brown liquid hangs almost negligently, and in the other hand dangles a cigar.

“The errant Captain Rogers,” Stane says, his tone jovial. “I have been awaiting your arrival most avidly. But… which is Captain Rogers?”

“That would be me,” Steve says, holding out his hand. “And you must be Mr Stane.”

“That’s me,” Stane agrees. “Obadiah Stane, at your service.” The words drip from his mouth, as rich as the brandy he’s drinking. “I’ve been keeping an eye on our boy since the accident - dreadful business. Just dreadful.”

“Yes,” Steve agrees, then realises that he is expected to fill the silence. “It was a shock to hear about it.”

“For all of us. So sudden. A tragic accident - although it’s not all bad for you, it seems.”

Steve feels his back straighten at the insinuation and he can see Sam’s stance change out of the corner of his eye.

“I would not say so at all,” Steve says, aware of the tightness in his voice, but the very suggestion that Howard’s death might be a source of happiness for him. “Howard was a dear friend and a good man and I would sooner give all the houses in the country to have him safe.”

“Thus speaks the righteous captain!” a voice declares from the door. Steve turns to see a man standing there, leaning against the door frame.

He has a handsome face that is unmarred by the slightly vicious smile that graces his lips. His hair is dark and tousled, his eyes large and filled with bitter amusement. He, too, wears the black band around his upper arm, but his is of silk, practically a fashion statement rather than the dour symbol of mourning it is intended to be. The rest of his outfit has no concessions for grief. It is bright red and heavily embroidered, as well as not being quite done up properly, as if he had just dressed himself in a hurry and that adds an element of the disreputable to him.

“Don’t insult the captain by accusing him of such base motives as may affect us lower men, Obie. Do you not remember my father’s stories? We are in the presence of the perfect gentleman.” Steve starts, taken aback. Although Sir Anthony’s tone is jovial, there is a steely bitterness underneath it. This can only be Sir Anthony, after all. His countenance is reminiscent of his father’s, although with an elegance to it that Howard had never had. His mother, Steve notes, must have been as beautiful as Howard always claimed.

“I would never dare declare myself perfect, Sir Anthony,” Steve says as politely as he can manage. “I'm all too aware of my own flaws.”

“Of course you are,” Sir Anthony says. “For a man could not be perfect without also the humility to believe himself flawed.”

“You twist my meaning to your own ends,” Steve says with a frown. “Please believe me, sir. I'm not assuming false modesty. I am as human as any other person.”

“If it were false modesty, then it would not be perfection,” Sir Anthony says. The bitterness is still there, well hidden, but there is a strange pleased expression on Sir Anthony’s face, surprised perhaps, by the fact that Steve is responding. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Sir Anthony cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “No, no. I see you ready to defend your dishonour. You're determined and who am I to argue? I daresay you're the foremost authority on yourself, whatever my father may have said. If you are convinced you have flaws, then I suppose I must concede the point - as the perfect man cannot be wrong. I look forward to our further acquaintance and discovering them for myself.”

Steve risks a glance at Sam, who is failing to conceal his amusement at the exchange, and at Mr Stane, who is frowning as he pours drinks at the sideboard.

“You are mocking me, Sir Anthony,” Steve says, trying to make his voice sound amused, but it does not work. “But your logic is faulty. If I'm perfect then you say I cannot be wrong, but I say that I'm not perfect. How do you answer that?”

“The perfect paradox,” Sir Anthony says. “Maybe true perfection is not flawless, maybe it simply involves having the flaws that are needed.”

“In that case there would be no such thing as ‘the’ perfect man, only the perfect man for the situation,” Steve says. Sir Anthony smiles as though he has won a point.

“Precisely. And what is your perfect situation, Captain Rogers?” Sir Anthony asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Probably not arguing with baronets in their own drawing rooms,” Steve says.

“On that we may disagree,” Sir Anthony says. There is a moment of silence that Sam interrupts by clearing his throat and Steve starts, remembering his manners.

“My apologies, I have forgotten my manners,” he says and gives a half turn towards Sam, extending his hand. “Sir Anthony, give me leave to introduce my good friend Captain Samuel Wilson of her majesty’s Aerial Battalions.” Sir Anthony turns and gives a bow as Sam bows in return.

“Of course, Captain Wilson,” Sir Anthony says. “ The Falcon ’s a fine ship, captain, and from all reports you’re a credit to her.” Sam beams in delight, as he always does when his ship is mentioned.

“She’s done me well,” Sam says. “But it’s the efforts of the entire crew that-”

“Lord save us from modest men!” Sir Anthony exclaims. “Obie, do you hear this? We must be training our armed forces in humility as much as firearms. Learn to take a compliment, gentlemen.”

“My thanks, Sir Anthony,” Sam says, inclining his head.

“There you are! Was that painful? It looked painful,” Sir Anthony says with a shake of his head. “Captain Rogers, won’t you follow your friend’s example?” But he does not give Steve a chance to comment, instead ushers the pair of them to sit on the well-stuffed sofa. “But you must tell me how she flies, Captain Wilson. It's so rare I get to hear feedback from anyone but the admiralty - and Colonel Rhodes, but his ship, The War Machine , you know, is a battleship, not a brigantine like The Falcon , so the data’s all wrong for your needs. How are the aetheric engines holding up?”

It seems that Sir Anthony is as well-versed with military technology as his father had ever been, if not moreso, and there is not a man in the Aerial Battalion who could not talk about his ship for hours, especially to someone with such enthusiastic interest. Steve doesn't doubt that Sir Anthony has made a friend for life in Sam Wilson. The talk flows about bow cannons and steering mechanisms, segmented air bladders and a thousand other intricacies of flight that Steve is unfamiliar with, leaving him to awkward conversation with Mr Stane about the weather and Brooklyn society, which Steve knows even less well than flying ships. He has the constant sensation of being judged, which he supposes is fair enough. Neither of these men has seen so much as a glimpse of him before, and now he has turned up in the aftermath of a tragedy to claim what should have rightfully gone to the new baronet, along with the rest of Howard’s estate.

“And Captain Wilson, you must explain to me - as you are the only man who can help me understand - why it is young Peter Parker reported to me that you are both staying at the Queen’s Arms when you could have slept in far more comfort in Captain Rogers’ own home last night.” Sir Anthony says suddenly, his voice cutting into Steve’s halting conversation with Mr Stane. “For that is why you are both come, is it not?”

“I came to extend my condolences on the passing of your parents,” Steve says. “Which I realise I have been remiss in doing. Please forgive-”

“Your condolences are gratefully received,” Sir Anthony says quickly, his voice harsher than it has been all morning. Steve looks at him then, sees the slight shake in his hand as he lifts the drink Mr Stane has poured for him, and something clicks into place in Steve’s mind. For all his bluster and conversational trickery, this is still a young man who has just lost his parents. Steve knows what that is like and he doubts that the title or the riches make it any easier to contemplate.

“I also came to thank you for your offer, but I must decline,” Steve says. He sounds too stiff, he knows he does, but he doubts Sir Anthony would appreciate sympathy.

“Decline?” Sir Anthony asks, his mouth falling open into a perfect red ‘o’. “You must decline? You must do nothing of the sort! Am I hearing this correctly? Captain Wilson, Obadiah, I fear I may have temporarily taken leave of my senses, for the man says he must decline.”

“While I am grateful for the offer-” Steve begins, bulling his way into Sir Anthony’s speech through sheer stubbornness.

“You said that already!”

“It is very generous - too generous, in truth. It's too much. I cannot possibly accept,” Steve says, staring at an ornate vase that sits rigidly on the mantelpiece.

“Too much?” Sir Anthony says. “To you, perhaps. To me it's nothing, barely a thing at all.”

“Still, it would not be proper.”

“And we must do what’s proper,” Sir Anthony says, distaste filling his voice.

“I try always to do what is right,” Steve says, still staring at the vase, standing unrepentant exactly as he imagines it has always done.

“Of course you do,” Sir Anthony says.

“And I cannot accept.”

“Since you are so desperate to do what's right, then I say you cannot decline the offer without at least looking at the property and seeing if it is to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be to my liking,” Steve says, turning away from the vase to look at Sir Anthony. He has a slightly manic look in his eye.

“Then why would you not accept?” Sir Anthony asks. “Do you already have accommodations? Where is he living at present?” Sir Anthony directs the last question to Sam, who is sitting quite casually in his chair, amused by Steve’s predicament.

“I believe he keeps rooms in a boarding house in Brooklyn,” Sam says.

“A boarding house in Brooklyn?!” Sir Anthony sounds outraged at the very idea and Steve can feel his hackles prick up again at the snobbish nature of the comment. “As if that is suitable for a strapping young captain who has won his glory and his fortune against Hydra.”

“I find they suit me well enough,” Steve says. “I am just one person.”

“I am surprised your shoulders even fit into a boarding house in Brooklyn. You may be just one person, but you have enough shoulders for an entire household.” Steve shifts a little under the man’s appreciative gaze. “And when you marry? What then? You would expect to keep your wife or husband where? Under your bed perhaps?”

“I have no intentions of marriage at this time,” Steve says. His throat closes up at the very idea. Maybe once, but he has no business attaching himself to anyone. He is broken, possibly beyond repair. No man or woman should have to put up with that. 

“A young, strong, military man with a sizeable fortune and a handsome face - not to mention-” Sir Anthony waves a hand, “-good manners. You may have no intention of marriage, Captain, but I fear that marriage will have intentions upon you.”

“You seem determined to insult me with flattery, Sir Anthony.”

“My name is Tony, Captain Rogers. I would be pleased if you would use it. And it is not flattery if I only speak the truth. But all this talk of declining the property. I will hear no more about it. Obie, tell him I will hear no more of it.”

“The man knows his own mind,” Mr Stane says. “If he is resolved not to accept-”

“Obadiah!” Sir Anthony says. “You cannot be against me as well. Captain Wilson, tell me you at least are on my side.”

Sam looks between Steve and Sir Anthony.

“I think we should at least take a look at the place, since we’re already here,” he says, giving Steve a shrug when Steve narrows his eyes at him.

“At least one of you has some sense,” Sir Anthony says, grinning at Sam. The smile is genuine and lights up his face. Steve has to look away again quickly, only to see Mr Stane looking back at him, his gaze assessing. “Then it's settled,” Sir Anthony continues. “We shall walk over to Lakefield after lunch. And no more can be said on the subject.”

Lunch is delicious. Sir Anthony has the best of all things, it seems, including chefs. Sam and Sir Anthony, who insists on being Tony, keep up the conversation while Steve founders terribly. Talking to Sir Anthony is like chasing a rabbit and never quite catching it. The conversation darts here and there and Steve is left with the distinct impression he is being laughed at, although he can't put his finger on any specific incident that might lead him to that conclusion.

Mr Stane is affable and polite, but still watches both Steve and Sam with the air of a suspicious guard. It is a good thing, Steve tells himself, that Sir Anthony has a person who is so careful of him.

When lunch is done, they set out for Lakefield. It's not a terribly long journey. As they crest the top of a hill not half a mile from Stark Manor, the roof of Lakefield is visible in the distance.

To Steve’s surprise, both Sir Anthony and Mr Stane prove themselves hardy walkers, forging ahead without becoming the slightest bit out of breath, though Sir Anthony does accept Steve’s help over a particularly uneven stile, his eyes still full of that amusement as he gives his thanks for the assistance.

Lakefield is no less impressive than it had been the day before, but Steve can see how someone who lives in Stark Manor might view this place as ‘of little consequence’. If given a choice, though, Steve would take this over the bombastic elegance of the manor.

“I shall give you the full tour,” Sir Anthony says as he opens the door.

The place is still and empty on the inside. Sheets drape every surface, leaving a grey, ghostly outline of how the place had once been. And through the still quiet, Sir Anthony charges, his voice and manner forcing life back into the place, although the empty halls do their best to swallow the noise he makes.

Steve follows in Sir Anthony’s wake, pulled along by the sheer force of the man’s determination.

It is a beautiful house, and very pleasantly situated. Steve knows he cannot find fault in the place. He can very well imagine himself living here, though it is too big.

He lingers in the morning room, where a standup piano sits in the corner of the room, still recognisable even covered as it is. He waits as the others leave the room, heading for the library, and looks out the window, down towards the river. It's a peaceful view, a peaceful place, but without Sir Anthony’s liveliness, Steve can feel the quiet settling on him like dust.

He can imagine this place full of people. That much is true, but none of those people is ever going to be here.

Steve shakes off the melancholy as best he can, turning away from the window, where he can all too clearly see Gabe and Bucky laughing together.

His gaze falls on the piano, sleeping under its dust-covered shroud, and his hands lift the corner of the sheet almost without his permission.

Beneath the covering, the instrument is a warm walnut, inlaid with what looks like ebony and mother of pearl. A beautiful instrument that shouldn’t have been silent so long. Steve lifts the lid and gently presses a note.

It splits the silence of the room and he winces at how sour it is.

“My mother’s.” Sir Anthony’s voice comes softly over the dying reverberations. “She loved to play.” Steve looks up, surprised at the tone. Gone is the garrulous wit and the sharp tongue. Sir Anthony’s face is soft, too, as he looks at the piano. “This was my parents’ first home together, before my father had Stark Manor built as testimony to his…” Sir Anthony pauses, his eyes darting to Steve’s and he seems to censor himself. “When he inherited the baronetcy, he felt they should move somewhere more suitable.”

Sir Anthony crosses over to Steve and reaches out to play a second note on the piano. It brings him closer to Steve than he has been before. Close enough that Steve can see the faint laugh lines around his eyes and the bags under them and… a smear of what looks like grease behind his ear.

The second note is as sour as the first.

“And, of course,” Sir Anthony continues. “The new grand house came with a new grand piano. And all of this was covered up and forgotten.” He looks up at Steve and his eyes are a warm shade of brown. The same colour as the piano wood. “It’s suffered from its abandonment, but with a bit of love and attention it could be in its prime again.” They stand and look at each other for a moment. The silence of the room seems too heavy to lift.

Finally, Sir Anthony pulls back, brushing his hands together abruptly.

“So, as you can see, you’d really be doing me a favour by taking the place off my hands. It needs an owner and I-”

“Perhaps, if I were to rent it,” Steve suggests, because he knows he can no longer say no to it all.

“Rent? What use have I for rent?” Sir Anthony asks. “I have quite enough income altogether. I hardly know what to do with it anyway. Take the house. I have no need of it. You are… my father spoke very highly of you. I've no doubt you will take good care of it. Take the house and live in it in good health.”

“I…” Steve’s protestations die in his throat as he looks Sir Anthony in the eye. The man seems to be pleading with him. “Thank you, I will.”

Sir Anthony smiles, brilliant and a little triumphant and all that Steve can think is ‘what have I done?’

Chapter Text

Once Steve has said yes, Sir Anthony becomes even more of an unstoppable force. The house is a flurry of activity. Servants are hired, sheets are removed and the china and silverware are pulled out of storage. Steve is at the centre of a domestic hurricane as he comes to terms with the fact that he knows nothing about housekeeping whatsoever.

“And that is why you have Mrs Templeton,” Sir Anthony says, waving the new housekeeper forwards. Eliza Templeton is a kind looking woman who takes control of the household with an iron grip. Steve cannot be more grateful to Sir Anthony for hiring her, even if he is overwhelmed by the idea of needing a housekeeper at all. His family had never been able to afford one growing up.

It is not only the housekeeper, but also Rick, the valet, Delilah the maid, and a handful of other servants, who all seem to have separate, but very important jobs that Steve has never really considered before.

Sir Anthony turns up almost every day with some other new thing that Steve must have. He brings books and tables and an old desk of his father’s.

On one day he even brings his tailor.

“Sir Anthony, this is-”

“Too much, too much,” Sir Anthony says. “Do you ever grow tired of saying the same words over and again? Captain Wilson has informed me that your wardrobe is in quite dire need of a change.”

“My wardrobe is perfectly fine,” Steve says, turning to the tailor. “I am sorry for any inconvenience this has-”

“Perfectly fine, he says, do you hear him, Philip? When his coats do not fit right.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his coat again, flushing a little as he turns to the tailor, who is eying up his body like a cut of meat.

“The shoulders need taking out,” Philip says, talking to Sir Anthony as though Steve is not even there. “And the waist taking in.”

“I know,” Sir Anthony says. Steve walks to him and leans in, lowering his voice.

“Sir Anthony, I am more than capable of handling my own wardrobe,” he hisses.

“If you were, then I would not be here,” Sir Anthony replies, then he pauses with a sigh. “Captain Rogers, you are a good man, but you are now a man of consequence and it is no great secret that all of this-” Sir Anthony spreads his hands wide - “is new to you. Allow me to make it easier, please. Clothes that fit you properly will make the world of difference, both in how the world sees you and how you see yourself.”

“My current clothing suits its purpose tolerably well,” Steve says, though his resolve is wavering.

“In society, the right clothes are as important as the right uniform is in the army,” Sir Anthony says. “Not to mention I am holding a dinner in a few weeks, and I insist that you be properly attired for it.”

Steve looks at him, trying to find a catch or some malicious intent behind this, but all he sees in Sir Anthony’s expression is honest concern.

“Very well,” Steve says. “But within reason.”

“Certainly,” Philip says, darting in to lead Steve away to be measured before he can change his mind.

*

It is not merely clothes, that Sir Anthony seems concerned with. He declares one day that Steve needs a phaeton.

“Liberty is more than enough for my needs,” Steve says, patting her neck as though Sir Anthony’s words will hurt her feelings. “I need no carriage.” She knickers quietly and endures his petting good-naturedly.

“You still do not seem to understand that you are not that same captain who lived in a boarding house in Brooklyn. Captain Wilson, will you tell him that every fine gentleman must have a carriage. What are you intending to do should you find some lady or gentleman you wish to take on a drive? Will you hoist them up and fling them over the saddle? You cannot possibly have a lord or lady riding around everywhere on a horse.”

“I have no lord - or lady,” Steve points out.

“And you never shall if you do not outfit yourself properly!” Sir Anthony exclaims. “What do you do with your possessions as you travel? Do you roll your garments up in your saddle bags?” Steve does not reply as he takes in the aghast look on Sir Anthony’s face. 

“He has a point, Steve,” Sam says, unhelpfully.

“Liberty is not built to pull a phaeton,” Steve says.

“Of course she isn’t, and that is why we shall be buying horses as well,” Sir Anthony says. “I know a good man nearby, in Melward, who breeds the finest horses you have ever seen - present company excepted, of course.” He actually gives a small bow to Liberty and Steve cannot hold back a smile at that.

“I do not need more-”

“Yes, you do! And I am offering to assist you in obtaining them, or are you refusing my assistance? I should warn you that I’m not often so benevolent, Captain Rogers. You should take advantage of my kindness while you can.” He pauses and looks at Steve askance, as though he cannot figure out what to make of him. “Usually I don’t have to convince people to do so. You’re a very unusual man.” Steve frowns at the implications of that statement, but before he can comment, Sam interrupts.

“Yes, Steve. Take advantage of the man,” Sam mutters and Steve glares at him. He does not know why his friend has taken to being so… Steve sighs, deeply.

“I suppose it cannot hurt to look,” he says.

“That’s the spirit!” Sir Anthony tells him with a grin.

The ride to Melward is pleasant, and Steve is surprised to find the baronet a good conversationalist. Or perhaps it is that he is surprised to find that they can hold a good conversation together. Steve has met plenty of rich and titled men over the years, and seldom have their areas of interest overlapped in such a way as to make conversations enjoyable, but Sir Anthony is not what Steve had expected. He has a way of looking at and describing the world which makes Steve see things differently, and, on occasion, Steve is even startled to find himself chuckling at some observation or other Sir Anthony has had about Brooklyn, or the military.

They arrive at the stables and Sir Anthony is greeted enthusiastically by the horse dealer. There is no standing on ceremony here, and Steve is astonished to see Sir Anthony strip off his coat and roll his shirt sleeves up as he proceeds to examine the horses himself.

He handles every single one of them with care and consideration, talking to each one as though it is a favoured child, calling for Steve to come and see them. Steve watches as the horses are paraded out in the ring, and notes which seem splayfooted, and which might overreach themselves a little.

“You’ll be looking for something more along the lines of the bay rather than the chestnut over there,” Sir Anthony says, and Steve hums for a second.

“Perhaps, but the chestnut seems more surefooted,” he says and Sir Anthony looks at him in surprise. “I may have been an infantry man, but I have been around enough horses in my life. The bay has the easier temperament, but the chestnut will put in the effort.”

“You do not think him too spirited for a draught horse?” Sir Anthony asks, clearly amused.

“A bit of spirit is never a bad thing,” Steve says.

“I had thought I would be guiding you in this,” Sir Anthony says with a delighted laugh. “But I’m not surprised that you should want a more difficult horse.”

“In my experience, it is the things that come with greater difficulty, that end up more worthwhile in the end,” Steve says. Sir Anthony eyes him curiously and then nods, a small smile crossing his face.

“I think you may be correct on that point.”

“But on the subject of carriages, I know very little,” Steve says. “On that, I confess I will need your guidance.”

“And I am more than happy to provide,” Sir Anthony says, his smile growing.

Sir Anthony does not only provide much guidance on what to look for in a phaeton, but also manages to persuade the dealer to decrease the price quite considerably for Steve. He proves invaluable, obtaining both carriage and the two horses to pull it for far less than Steve would have paid had he been alone. Of course, Steve probably wouldn’t have purchased any of them on his own, but he cannot deny that having a carriage will most likely prove useful.

In fact, Sir Anthony seems to have taken it upon himself to be invaluable in every way. He has determined that he must become Steve’s guide to Marvel society. Steve had not been aware that so small a village would have so many intricate relationships to negotiate. Sir Anthony is aware of them all, and takes pains to be present when the notables of the area come to introduce themselves. Steve still is uncertain how much of what the baronet says is intended to be a joke at Steve’s own expense, and how much is honest, but his presence in Lakefield is a breath of fresh air, and Steve seldom has time to dwell on his own thoughts with Sir Anthony around to chase them away.

Sam sticks around, probably because watching Steve founder is the most amusement he’s had in years. But even he finds himself stymied when Mrs Templeton, Steve’s new housekeeper, and Mrs Arbogast, the formidable lady who runs Tony’s own household, come together in some perfect storm of efficiency and common sense.

*

“You know, I would have thought that a war hero like yourself, Captain , would not be so scared as to run away from your own household,” Sam says, as they ride out one morning to escape the furore. There is something in the way he says Steve’s title that gives Steve pause and he turns to him, eyes sharp. Sam is looking back at him, gaze steady and his mouth twisted up slightly with the smallest hint of amusement.

“You didn't really think that I would not guess,” he says. “There were far too many coincidences for me not to notice. And I had my suspicions from the start, although I did not wish to say anything when you so clearly wanted no one to know.”

“I am sorry for the subterfuge,” Steve says, his words halting, his heart pounding in his chest.

“No need for apologies,” Sam says, waving his hand. “It is your own business, and I suppose you must have your reasons. I just thought that it was time you were aware that your secret identity was not so secret as you may have assumed.”

“I… thank you,” Steve says, for lack of anything better to say. Sam just smiles.

“No need for that, either. But if you really want to thank me, you’ll take my wager that I can reach the far side of the field before you can, and you’ll let me win.”

“Not a chance!” Steve says. “Liberty and I will never concede a-” Sam has already urged his horse into a canter and Steve laughs as he and Liberty take up pursuit. The question of Steve’s identity fading away - at least for now.

*

In spite of Steve, they manage to get the house up and running and Steve finds himself the master of a comfortable home and in unexpected possession of several acres of land.

The flurry of activity has been enough to keep Steve’s mind busy, pushing most other concerns out of it, but lingering at the back of his consciousness is a niggling memory of the conversation he overheard at the inn.

He sends a letter to a man he met a couple of times during the war - Lord Fury, the crown’s spy master - but all he receives back is a letter thanking him for the information and requesting that he stay out of it.

Steve brings it up again as he and Sam are out one day.

“Whoever they are, their cargo of whatever sort has been delivered long ago,” Sam says.

“They did say it was steady work,” Steve reminds him, taking the stepping stones in the river, probably not as carefully as he should.

“You think they’ll do it again?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow at Steve and then hopping across the river from one stone to another as though rising to some sort of a dare.

“If they haven't already.”

“That makes the situation a little less impossible,” Sam concedes. “But you must allow that you still do not have a face nor a name. Nor do you have any idea what manner of thing it was they were transporting. What do you intend to do?”

“I know their voices, and it's possible I should know the treason if I should see it. You cannot wish to do nothing.”

“Of course not,” Sam pauses and looks over to him with a sigh. “I risked my life for the same thing you did. I’m just trying to manage your expectations. Did you write to anyone about what you heard?”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“And did you receive any response?”

“A brief and politely worded note of gratitude for the information and the strong insinuation that I should leave well enough alone.” Steve glares at a nearby tree. It continues to wave gently in the breeze, unperturbed by Steve’s internal conflicts. Nature is beautiful, but unfeeling, he thinks with considerably less delight than he should probably find in their idyllic surroundings. He feels at a loose end in this place. The views are lovely, the society charming, but he feels always as though he should be doing something. He is not built to be a man of leisure.

“I take it from your expression that you don't intend to leave well enough alone,” Sam says. “Although I have known you less than a year and already I could have guessed that without seeing you at all.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve tells him.

“Following orders doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“I was in the army,” Steve points out, but Sam simply smirks at him.

“And you survived the war. I’m given to believe that it’s the soldiers who view their orders more flexibly who survive the longest.”

Steve thinks of the others. The men who had fallen just because they followed him.

“That often seems to be the case,” he says. Sam must sense that he has strayed too close to the edge of the cliff and he pulls back.

“I still don't know how you intend to do anything,” he says. “You can hardly stop and search every traveller on the road to Brooklyn. That would be madness!”

“You’re right,” Steve says, glancing up at the sky. The clouds are beginning to gather, if they stay out much longer they will most likely be soaked. “There’s no way that would work.”

Sam looks at him curiously, but doesn’t say anything and Steve wonders what it is he sees in Steve’s face when he looks. It cannot be anything good.

*

They are invited to dine at Stark Manor - and Steve is uncomfortably aware that he is running out of time to return the favour. There is only so long you can spend ‘settling in’ and he has been invited for tea at least to every house in a ten mile radius, with exceptional enthusiasm by every household with children of marriageable age. It's beginning to feel a little like a cattle auction, with everyone taking a look at the prize bull. Steve is surprised some of the parents have not asked to see his teeth.

It is taken as given that he is looking to marry and, while Steve has tried to deter them, it is difficult to comment without insulting someone. Sam, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying the attention, though he shows no partiality for anyone.

It is somewhat of a relief, therefore, to be bound to Stark Manor, where Steve does at least know that his host has no interest in marrying him off, for all Sir Anthony seems amused by the machinations of the rest of the neighbourhood, which is probably why he has invited them all tonight.

No, that thought is uncharitable. Sir Anthony is a generous host, and it is not as if he is lacking in space. Of course he would invite everyone.

“Captain Rogers,” Sir Anthony greets him with a firm handshake. “My thanks for coming this evening. I know these sorts of occasions are not your idea of a good time.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” Steve says and Sir Anthony laughs good-naturedly.

“You are not good at concealing your feelings. Your face shows them all. And whenever you are in a gathering like this, it says very clearly that you would prefer to be anywhere else.”

“Not quite anywhere else,” Steve says, allowing himself a rueful smile. “I have been to places I enjoyed less. I did fight in a war, you know.”

“Glad to hear that my hospitality is not quite as terrible as Hydra’s,” Sir Anthony replies. “But do try to enjoy yourself. It is not good for my ego to have a handsome young captain out of sorts at one of my soirees.”

“I shall try,” Steve says with a slight bow. “As my host wishes.”

“Yes, you shall smile through gritted teeth and try to bear it,” Sir Anthony says in a sorrowful tone, shaking his head in mock despair. “If you feel you are being overwhelmed give me a signal and I shall rescue you.”

A large hand with a drink in it appears from the left, inserting itself between the two of them. Steve follows the rich fabric of the sleeve up to Mr Stane’s face.

“Here you go, Tony,” Mr Stane says, and Sir Anthony takes the drink unthinkingly. Obadiah leans in a bit closer, a heavy hand coming up to rest on Sir Anthony’s shoulder as his voice lowers to an unctuous whisper. “You cannot monopolise the good captain’s time; he is much in demand and you have other guests to greet.” Sir Anthony nods and grimaces slightly, though the expression is gone in a moment and replaced by the bright, fake smile he often puts on in public. “Captain, we have a bridge party in the other room desperately in need of a fourth. Do you play?” His hand slips to Steve’s elbow and Steve pulls away instinctively.

As they step away from Sir Anthony, Obadiah says, just a little more loudly than necessary: “his mother, Lady Maria, was an excellent hostess. Her parties were the talk of the county. But Tony takes after his father more, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I can’t say I have,” Steve says firmly. “Sir Anthony seems to me entirely his own person. But I did not know the Lady Maria. If she is responsible for even half of what Sir Anthony is today, then she must have been a highly remarkable woman and I'm sad not to have made her acquaintance.”

It might be Steve’s imagination, as he finds himself disliking the man so much - though Mr Stane has done nothing to merit such distaste - but he fancies that the smile on Mr Stane’s face is concealing just the slightest hint of anger. A better man would not have felt pleased at such an expression, but Steve acknowledges the fact.

He is ushered to the parlour, where a good number of guests already sit - though he and Sam had not been late by any means. He nods to Ms Van Dyne, who sits to the left, probably one of his favourite new acquaintances as she has just the one child, who is not yet two years old, and therefore only has interest in Steve for himself, not for his lack of a spouse. She smiles back, but before they can exchange two words, Mr Stane is leading him further on again, to the small bridge table in the corner, where two young women and a young man are sitting. Steve sighs internally, for he recognises all three as being unmarried and very much interested in changing that status. It seems that he shall not escape them today, not if Mr Stane has his way.

“Oh Mr Stane!” says Miss Penelope Highcombe. “I declare you have found us the perfect bridge partner. Do sit down, Captain.”

Bridge is not really Steve’s game, at least when you are not in the sort of company that accepts cheating. Card games with the Howlies had usually degenerated into unscrupulous battles of sleight of hand. But there is strategy involved and Steve manages to acquit himself adequately. It helps that his partner is an accomplished player. Of course, the cards aren’t the real star of the evening. As Steve is learning, these activities are all just window dressing for the gossip that goes on.

The army had its fair share of gossip, but some of the men and women in this county could give even the most knowledgeable sergeant a run for his money. Steve has heard any numbers of rumours, from illicit love affairs to tales of a witch living in secret in the woods. How many have any truth to them, he could not say. Though he would daresay that if he were a witch in Marvel, he might choose to keep to the woods as well.

Naturally, as they are in Stark Manor, conversation turns to their host. Wealthy and titled, Sir Anthony must be considered the most eligible bachelor in the room, but it seems he does not line up with everyone’s expectations.

“Mother always says that whoever he does marry in the end will want for nothing but a husband,” Penelope says before making her bid. The comment earns her a daring giggle from Mr Moore on her left.

“Oh yes, if he is not travelling on business then it is said he is always down in his workshop, which no one has leave to enter,” Mr Moore whispers, clearly more concerned about being overheard in his commentary than his friend is.

“That too, but that isn’t what I meant,” Penelope says. “I meant that he is the most incorrigible flirt.” Steve clears his throat.

“I am not sure that such rumours should be repeated,” he says.

“Of course, Captain, but what I am saying is no secret. Everyone in the village knows it - and probably most of the town as well. Sir Anthony is not discreet in his attachments. There was Miss Frost, and Sir Tiberius, and it was terrible what happened to Miss Fujikawa. And then Miss Potts - or Mrs Hogan now, I should say. All of them jilted.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He is uneasy with hearing such things about his host. But what she says does ring true with Howard’s reports of his son.

“I wish he’d jilt me,” Mr Moore says and the two young ladies look appropriately scandalised at the comment.

“Of course you would not be so inconstant, Captain,” Penelope says, looking across to Steve through lowered eyelashes. “I cannot believe you would ever jilt someone you professed to care about.”

Steve can feel the blush rising at the undercurrent of her words. If Bucky could see him now, he would be in fits of laughter at the very idea of this moment. Wherever he is now, he’s probably laughing anyway, not even knowing why.

“I would not presume to profess to care for someone I did not,” Steve says carefully. “And if I cared for someone, I would not wish to see them suffer.” Penelope and Mr Moore both beam at him. “Though the situation has not yet arisen.” Their smiles fall.

“Captain Rogers!” Ms Van Dyne’s voice comes from his right and he turns to her with a genuine smile. “As I perceive the rubber has finished, might I steal you away, for there is some business I wish to discuss with you.”

“Certainly,” Steve says, struggling to keep his relief from showing on his face. It's not their fault that they are lavishing their attention where it is not wanted. “My apologies, but I am sure you will find someone else to make up your number.”

Ms Van Dyne whisks him away on her arm and off to a chaise on the other side of the room.

“What was the business you wished to discuss?” Steve asks and she looks at him with a sly smile.

“Nothing of consequence, but you had the look of someone who was about to be eaten by lions and Tony thought you might wish to be rescued, so I set myself the task of being your gallant knight.” Steve chuckles and Ms Van Dyne smiles sunnily at him.

“My thanks, Ms Van Dyne,” he says. “Your rescue is appreciated. I fear I'm not suited to such gatherings.” He scratches at the back of his head. “And my appreciation of bridge is…”

“Oh, I know,” she agrees. “Can’t stand the game. You’ll find they settle down soon. A valiant war hero arriving in the area has set everyone off,” she says. “No doubt they were filling your ears with gossip as well. What was it this time? My scandalous marriage to a man beneath my station? Who is secretly engaged to whom?” She peers at him and frowns. “Oh no. They were talking about Tony again, weren’t they?”

Steve tries not to react, but Sir Anthony was right that his face betrays him. He glances over to where Sir Anthony is talking to Mr Pym, Ms Van Dyne’s husband, and catches his gaze. Tony smiles, but Steve has to look away.

“Don’t mind them,” Ms Van Dyne says. “There is nothing they like better than to talk about things they know nothing about.”

“And you do? Know something about it?” Steve asks in spite of himself. Ms Van Dyne frowns.

“I know Tony. We grew up together,” she says. “I cannot believe him capable of all the things they accuse him of. I will confess that I did believe he and Miss Potts - Mrs Hogan, now - to be engaged, but then she married Mr Hogan and they are now on their honeymoon, so I must have been mistaken.”

“I don't know the people in question,” Steve says, “but you are yourself just returned from town. How was the journey?” His attempt to change the subject is transparent and clumsy. To someone like Ms Van Dyne, who has been a part of society for years, it must be painful to witness, but she goes along with it without batting an eyelid.

“Most uneventful, which I suppose I should be grateful for, but Hank was anxious that we might be beset by bandits. I find myself sorely disappointed on that case, not a highwayman in sight.” She sighs deeply, looking heartily disappointed. “No adventure at all. I like the countryside as much as anyone, but several hours in a carriage gets very tedious without something to break it up.” She looks very put out at the inconvenience of not being inconvenienced. Steve can’t help a small laugh at her expression.

“Though I do not doubt your ability to deal with one were they to appear, I believe you may be disappointed by the reality of the event. I fear that highwaymen aren't so romantic as you believe.”

“You are probably right,” she allows. “Although I maintain it would have made the trip a good deal less dull.”

“I daresay you are right about that,” Steve says. “Is there a problem with banditry in the area, then?” he enquires.

“Not really. We have occasional bands of opportunistic thieves, but the militia tends to deal with them quite smartly. Although…” Ms Van Dyne leans in, her eyes sparkling. “The same could not be said a hundred years ago. Has anyone told you the local ghost story?”

“I believe they have all been too busy telling me the local gossip,” Steve replies. “Which is a shame, as I do enjoy a good tale.”

“Excellent,” Ms Van Dyne says, clapping her hands together. “Then listen carefully, for it is a tale of woe and magic.”

“The best sort of story,” Sam says and they look up to see him standing over them. “May I listen in?”

“Of course, the more the merrier,” Ms Van Dyne says and Sam settles into a seat on her other side.

“It was back a hundred years ago,” she starts. “When magic was still viewed as the work of the devil and witches and sorcerers alike were hunted down. A young nobleman fell in love with a warlock who was in hiding, and he decided that he would support the cause of the persecuted magic users. So he set out to raid the carriages that transported witches to Brooklyn for their trials and executions. He waylaid them on the road, dressed all in black. But!” She pauses for effect, her eyes and hands wide open. “He was betrayed and they came for the warlock he loved in an attempt to capture him. He ran into the trap - although he knew what it was - and managed to save his lover, but he could not free himself. To save the life of his love, he gave his own, and it is rumoured that on moonlit nights sometimes you can see him - or hear his hoofbeats as he goes riding along the road, his spirit never at rest.”

She beams as she finishes the tale.

“You’re not scaring my guests with ghost stories again, are you, Jan?” Sir Anthony asks. He has a fond smile on his face and a drink in his hand.

“I’m sure the captains are not scared by a little ghost story,” she protests. Steve shakes his head.

“It is a good story.”

“A true story,” Ms Van Dyne asserts.

“Based in truth,” Sir Anthony says, waving a finger at her. “There was a highwayman who operated in the area during the worst of the magic purges. The Dark Avenger, they called him, I've seen the warrant written for his arrest, signed by the king, but the part about him rescuing his lover and dying in the attempt is a fanciful embellishment, I’m afraid. As far as I know, he evaded capture until The Purge was ended and then probably lived out a long and unremarkable life. I sincerely doubt his ghost haunts the road.”

“Yes, but the story’s more fun my way,” Ms Van Dyne says.

“It is indeed,” Sir Anthony admits. “I am sorry to have polluted it with my terrible boring facts.” He bows to her in supplication. “I beg your forgiveness.”

Someone, somewhere begins to play a reel on the piano and Ms Van Dyne’s face lights up.

“I shall forgive you if you dance with me,” she says, holding out her hand. “Hank never does.”

“It would be my honour,” Sir Anthony says, taking her hand.

They are both good dancers, their steps light and keen to the rhythm. They make it seem as though they are skipping on air.

“Are you going to dance?” Sam asks, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “There are many people hoping you will.” Steve tries not to look around, though he can feel the eyes on him.

“I wouldn't want to step on their feet,” he says, trying not to think of Peggy and the dance they never had.

“ You’ve got to dance with someone, ” Bucky’s voice insists from his memory. It's a conversation they'd had a thousand times. “ It’d be rude not to. And there are a lot of good-looking people around tonight .” Steve breathes out through his nose, long and calm, reminding himself that it is only his mind. Bucky is not there. This is not a ghost, except in as much as it is a ghost of Steve’s memory.

He should dance, he knows that's true. It is rude not to, just as Bucky has always said, but it's not something he knows how to do. When he was younger, he was laughed away whenever he tried, and no one would return the favour. Now… now he feels as if he will shatter if he takes one step towards the dancefloor and the laughing couples upon it.

“Don't feel that you must keep me company,” Steve says, giving Sam a tight smile. “I’ll be fine by myself. There are just as many people looking at you.”

“Oh, I know,” Sam says, straightening his collar. “I’m just taking my time, weighing up my options.” He stands up. “Seriously, Steve, you should think about dancing. It doesn’t have to mean anything - it’s just a dance.” Steve nods and Sam disappears into the crowd, no doubt to sweep someone off their feet. 

Steve manages to sit through two dances before someone comes up to him, a striking young woman with bright red hair set in perfect curls.

“Captain Rogers,” she says. “Do you dance?”

“Not in my experience,” he says. “That is, I haven't up to this point,” he corrects. Bucky and Sam’s words are echoing in his head. He knows what it is to be rejected and Sam is right, it is just a dance. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Mrs Natasha Romanoff,” she says, her lips curling in an amused smile. Steve recognises the name - a young widow and the subject of almost as much speculation as their host. Excepting himself, she seems to be the newest arrival to the village, having lived there not yet eighteen months. He bows

“I thought that as two people new to the area, we should stick together before we are overwhelmed by the locals.” She looks him up and down with a gaze that is a bit sharper than he would have expected.

“I assure you that dancing is not as difficult as it seems,” she says. “You just copy everyone else and smile like you’re having a good time. A bit like the rest of society, but set to music.”

“Is that what you do?” he asks.

“That's what everyone does,” she gestures to the dancers. “The baronet, you’ll agree, is very accomplished at it.”

“Dancing, or pretending that he’s having a good time?” Steve asks before he can stop his big mouth. Her comment draws his eyes to Sir Anthony, who is now dancing with another young man who stares at him with astonishment.

“Both, I should say,” she says. “So will you dance, Captain Rogers, or must I find another partner?”

“If your feet are prepared for it,” Steve says. “I’m afraid I may leave them bruised.”

“I am tougher than I look,” Mrs Romanoff informs him and there is steel in her eyes that leaves Steve in no doubt that what she says is true.

“Then if you do not mind my clumsiness, I can't either,” Steve says and rises to bow to her before taking her hand. He tries to ignore his nervousness. There are many other people dancing, no one is staring at him. She asked him and she will not turn him down and refuse him now.

But all these people have undoubtedly done this before.

Steve draws in a deep breath as she turns around to face him and they bow and curtsey to each other and the steps begin.

He goes through the steps as best he can, one by one, all the while he knows he is stiff and wooden, like a tailor’s dummy, but Mrs Romanoff keeps up the conversation, asking him how he is enjoying the area, how he is settling in.

That inevitably brings the conversation back to Sir Anthony and how he has been of invaluable assistance.

“You will want to be careful with Sir Anthony,” Mrs Romanoff says as they promenade around each other, hands touching lightly.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks - step, step, back two, turn and promenade.

“Only that the man has been watching you all evening. I believe he has designs upon your virtue.”

Steve manages not to stumble as he looks over to where Sir Anthony is dancing. He's not looking their way and gives no indication that he is aware that they are even there.

“You are mistaken,” Steve says.

“He looks away when you look back,” Mrs Romanoff tells him. “But he does look.” Steve can feel himself tense up more, his shoulders rising stiffly. “If you're interested in a brief affair, you could do far worse.”

“I am not sure this conversation is appropriate,” Steve says, arching an eyebrow at her. She mirrors the expression.

“But if you're not interested in dalliances, you may wish to be careful. He has somewhat of a reputation.”

“So people keep telling me,” Steve says. “My friendship with Sir Anthony is none of your business, but I will inform you that I have no aspirations to romance at the moment.”

“Indeed,” she says. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I only wished to give advice as you are new to the area as well. If you change your mind then-”

“You are beginning to sound like you have designs upon me yourself, Mrs Romanoff.”

“I, Captain, am independently wealthy and have no interest in finding a second husband or wife. Love is not something I need, but you and I are cut from different cloth. If you change your mind, I know several young people who I believe would be good matches for you.”

“My thanks for your concern, but if I am to find a partner, I should like to do it on my own initiative.”

She smiles at him, amused, but the music draws to a close and all the couples separate.

In spite of his best intentions to fade into the background for the evening, Steve finds himself out on the dancefloor more than a couple of times. He does not, he is grateful to report, trip over his own feet, but the same cannot be said for his tongue. It seems that he still has not uncovered the secret of talking to pretty people in social situations.

A few times, when Sam is dancing near him, he sees his friend smothering a laugh at Steve’s faltering conversation and attempts to side step flirtation, and he’s reminded of Bucky’s despair over ever finding him a dance partner. Bucky would be just as amused to see Steve now, he knows, at last able to get a dance, but still as terrible as he has ever been at any conversation that does not end in a fight.

The thought lends a sour note to proceedings, as Steve sees the ghosts of people he knew at every turn. He will think he spies an old friend in the crowd, but a blink will resolve the familiar face into that of a stranger.

“I am afraid I must get some air,” he tells his current partner, and slips through the crowd to the balcony doors.

The cool of the night hits him as he braces himself on the balustrade, drawing in a deep, cold breath of air.

“ That was rude ,” Bucky’s ghost says. Steve can almost see him leaning back against the balustrade next to him. They could have come here, Steve thinks, sudden and blindingly painfully. This had been Howard’s house and he had invited them all around. In another world, in another time, he would not have been alone in the sea of strangers, he would have been surrounded by friends. His heart aches for something he will never have and he feels the loss of it all over again. That is what he has found. The grief does not go away, it merely hides itself somewhat and waits for a moment like this to seize his breath again and stab him deep once more. Every time it feels fresh, every time it makes his heart stop momentarily in his chest, as though it is trying to join the others.

“You are dead,” Steve says to the spectre. “You're dead and you'll never dance again and I am… at a party.” It feels horrific just to contemplate the idea, that he has the nerve to stand here at a party he does not wish to attend, when Bucky was the one who loved to dance, who would have enjoyed flirting with all the pretty young people looking for a heroic husband.

His hands grip into the stone, so hard that he almost feels like it’s grinding against the bone. He has no business being here at all. This was never his place. He lets out the breath he is holding in his lungs, sees it fill the spring night with mist before dissipating into nothing.

“May I join you?”

Sir Anthony’s voice is not unexpected - although Steve couldn’t say why he was anticipating it - but he does not welcome the intrusion.

“If you must,” Steve says, grinding the words out of his gritted teeth without considering them. It is an abominably rude thing to say to one’s host, but Steve finds he does not care. He has worn out his social graces for the evening.

“I fear from the look on your face and the damage you are threatening to do to my stonework that I may need to,” Sir Anthony says. “I'm sorry if anyone said anything to offend you. I can ask them to leave if you wish.”

Steve forces himself to release the masonry, relaxing his hands before he half turns to look at Sir Anthony’s face, which is watching him with concern. Sir Anthony looks as though he would call the whole party to a halt if it would make Steve feel better.

“No one has said anything,” Steve says carefully. “I merely… I find I am not in the mood for such a gathering.”

“I told you that if you felt overwhelmed you were to give me a sign.” Sir Anthony looks away and Steve studies his profile. It would make a fine silhouette. “I would have rescued you,” Sir Anthony continues. “You didn't have to suffer alone.”

“I did not wish to interrupt your enjoyment,” Steve says.

“How could I enjoy myself if you- if any of my guests were not enjoying themselves? It is my duty as a host.”

“Then rest easy in your duty, as I am fine. I am recovered,” Steve says, trying to believe it as he says it.

“The honest captain lies,” Sir Anthony says. “You're not fine. You're not recovered. Your face is as white as a sheet. Your hands are in fists again, now you are not thinking about them. You look as if you have seen a ghost, but you will not let me help you. You are as stubborn as a mule. You see - I am discovering your flaws, Captain.”

Steve huffs out a breath, another plume of mist that disappears into the night.

“How-” he starts, but then bites his tongue. He does not know the man well enough for such a personal question.

“How what, Captain?” Sir Anthony asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says, pushing himself upright. “The question would be impertinent.” 

“My favourite kind of question,” Tony replies. He spreads his hands wide, a grin on his face. “Ask whatever you want, Captain Rogers. I am an open book to you.”

“I misspoke.”

“No, I insist! The question bothers you. You are my guest. I demand you let me put you at your ease. Let me make you easy. Ask your question, I’m not easily insulted. If I were, I would never leave my rooms. Ask.”

“How-” Steve hesitates, but Sir Anthony’s face is so open, he continues in spite of his misgivings. ‘How do you do it? How do you smile and dance and entertain when they died and they aren’t here?’ Is what he wants to ask, but the words will not come. “How long can they cope without you?” he asks instead. They have been out here alone together too long. People will talk. This evening has proved that people do little else. The thought is uncharitable and he chastises himself for it. These are good people and they take an interest in each other’s lives. He has seen nothing truly malicious in it.

But the fact remains that they will be talking.

“You should return to the party,” Steve says. “Your guests will be missing you.”

Sir Anthony scoffs.

“I daresay they have not missed a hair on my head. You, on the other hand-” he sweeps his eyes over Steve’s body in a way that makes Steve flush and reminds him of Mrs Romanoff’s words. “You have a very noticeable presence and I would-”

Whatever Sir Anthony would or would not do is lost as the door swings open again, the noises of the party spilling out between them

“Tony, my boy,” Mr Stane calls, his voice booming jovially. Sir Anthony’s softer look falls away and he straightens up again to turn and smile at Obadiah Stane. Steve takes a moment to neaten himself up again.

“Obie, what’s the matter?” Sir Anthony asks.

“Just coming to see if you are alright. I know this must be hard on you, since the accident, but I see you have company.” Stane gives the pair of them an amused look, his eyes finding the way Steve’s fingers are smoothing his coat down and checking his buttons. There is nothing said, but Steve feels exposed and ridiculed, like when he was small and other people would look at him with disdain, refusing to take him seriously. He straightens his back.

“I know you like your fun,” Stane says, “but remember your guests. We wouldn’t want anyone to… well, it’s important that your behaviour be above reproach, now. You are no longer the prodigal son, you’re a baronet and it’s important that you act like it. Think of what your parents would want.”

The insinuation is clear and Steve can’t help but blush at it a little.

“My apologies, Mr Stane. This is my fault,” he says. “I was feeling a little out of sorts and I needed to catch a breath of fresh air. Sir Anthony was merely enquiring after my health, as a considerate host. I assure you that he has been nothing but the picture of hospitality.”

“I’m glad he has been so solicitous of your needs,” Mr Stane says and somehow the words are made oily as they leave his lips, dripping from his mouth.

“I am recovered now, though, so I shall return to the festivities,” Steve says. “Sir Anthony, my thanks for your kind concern.” He bows smoothly and smiles as politely as he can manage at Mr Stane before stepping back inside.

For anyone else, the noise and hubbub of the gathering would drown out the fainter sounds from the balcony, but Steve’s hearing is acute and he can still make out Mr Stane’s voice.

“I thought we talked about this, Tony. You need to be more discreet with these sorts of things. After what happened with Miss Potts-”

“Mrs Hogan,” Tony corrects. Steve forces himself away. He has no wish to eavesdrop on conversations, particularly those discussing the personal lives of strangers.

He finds Sam and allows the conversation to surround him in a mass of words and murmurs that fade into each other. Luckily, he is not expected to provide much conversation, just agree or laugh at the appropriate moments.

*

Finally they return to Lakefield and Steve is honestly surprised when they are greeted at the door. He keeps forgetting that he has servants now. It feels like too much of an indulgence, but he would never be able to manage the house without them.

“You’re not going to sleep?” Sam asks as Steve goes to open the library door.

“Not yet,” he says. “I always feel awake after large groups of people.” It’s not a lie, but it isn’t quite the truth. “I’ll head to bed in a while. Some reading will settle me down.”

“Not me, I’m exhausted,” Sam says. “I haven’t danced that much in years.” He looks at Steve curiously. “Are you sure you’re alright? You seemed out of sorts all evening.” Steve shrugs.

“I’m just not accustomed to society any more,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure.” Sam lingers, then his expression of concern is marred by the yawn that splits his face.

“Go to bed, Sam,” Steve says. “I’ll just read a book, that’s all.”

The truth is that he hasn’t been able to sleep properly since he returned. His sleep is fitful, shattered by nightmares. He does not need much, these days, which is fortunate. But he would appreciate one night where he wasn’t awoken in the dark by the echoes of screams and the scent of death in his nostrils, choking him.

The library has become a friend in his insomnia. It is filled with books of all sorts.

He has finished his current books so he peruses the shelves, running his fingers over the thick leather spines. There is a peace here that grounds him.

The nearer shelves he has explored already, so he walks a bit further this time - to the far wall, and looks at the titles there. There are some atlases and a few books in long dead languages.

A title catches his eye. Buried between the treatises of an ancient general, whom Steve has read half a dozen times, and a book of erotic love poetry that he’s only read once, is a thin title. He probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t been for talking to Ms Van Dyne earlier. The title is The Highwayman’s Secret and he chuckles as he pulls it out.

There is a loud click and a rumbling scraping sound as he pulls. Steve steps back in amazement as the whole bookshelf moves smoothly out and slides to the side. He stares in astonishment. Behind the bookcase there is no wall, but instead a darkened room. He grabs an oil lamp from the side and steps in.

The room is mostly bare apart from a small desk and a heavy wooden chest. Steve looks behind him as there is another scraping sound and he sees the hidden door shut behind him, leaving him bereft of the moonlight that had been coming through the library window. He is alone with only the flickering flame of the oil lamp.

Steve feels a thrill in his chest, like the flutter before a battle. This place is secret. It is different. He sets the lamp on the desk and leans down to the chest. It is locked with a heavy padlock, but Steve takes a moment to snap it open and pulls up the heavy lid. The hinges let out a low, sad groan as they are put to use for the first time in decades.

Was this a private room of Howard’s, Steve wonders, perhaps a private study that he had emptied when he left or-

Steve angles the lamp down to see the contents of the chest more clearly. There is a box, some cloth, and what appears to be a diary.

He lifts it up gently and opens the cover, wondering what Howard may have left here.

Steve reads the first line and blinks in surprise. This is not a notebook of Howard’s, forgotten when he moved. This chest has been unopened for longer than that. The date at the top of the page is over a hundred years ago.

‘ I leave this record that in the event I should meet with misadventure, my beloved husband and our daughter may learn of what I have been a part, and what has brought about my fate.

If you are reading this, my love, then I fear I am lost to you, whether it is by the sword or the gallows I have been stolen, I am sorry I could not stay with you as I promised and I hope that one day you will forgive me, but I cannot be sorry for doing what I know has to be done. There are some things in life that you cannot stand by and allow to continue and if you have the opportunity to help those who cannot help themselves… ’

Steve settles down against the wall, his back to the cool stone, and he reads and reads.

No name is given, but it is the diary of a woman who has chosen to take action, although she knows it is illegal, and though it means that if she is captured it will mean death for her and possible ruin for her family.

It is the diary of the highwayman that Ms Van Dyne spoke of. A description of a dark time in the history of the country. The Magic Purges seem long ago now, but in the pages of the diary, they are fresh and real. Steve can feel the desperation in every line of it.

In the chest are also the clothes and the mask that they wore, and a pair of pistols, outdated by modern standards, but they look like they would still work.

The fact the room was locked, the fact that all of these things were locked away, that would mean that, whoever they were, they had come back. They had repacked their tools and closed the door to this room forever.

Perhaps Steve is the first one to read these pages since they were written.

He looks around the room, to the door he came in by and the narrow door on the other side that he knows, from his reading, leads to a passage down to the stables.

Perhaps it was Sir Anthony’s ancestor who had sat here, making a decision that she knew could destroy her, but making it anyway, again and again, because she knew that she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t make it.

Steve looks down at the mask in his hands. It is leather, moulded to fit the face, dyed dark blue, with fabric to tie the back.

He should tell Sir Anthony and show him the room. Steve thinks that Sir Anthony would be interested, especially if it was a member of his family who wrote this diary, who saved those people.

Or…

There are some things in life that you cannot stand by and allow to continue . The words resonate in his mind. It was that thought that had sent him to the army and to Erskine. It was that thought that had taken him across the sea to fight Hydra. And it is those words that remind him of those people in the inn, weeks ago, plotting something that could lead to more war and more good people dying, something that could lead to Hydra rising from its shallow grave.

Sam had had a point. There is no way Steve can search every traveller and cart on the Brooklyn road.

No legal way.

But a criminal, a gentleman thief, a highwayman? They could do it and no one would be any the wiser. He could search out the conspirators without alerting them and find real information for Lod Fury. He could be useful again.

Steve tries on the mask.

It is a little small, but flexible enough to stretch and he can see out well enough.

It is a silly idea, a fanciful whim, but his heart is thumping double time in his chest and - with the mask on - there is a sense of freedom, a lightness that comes into his spirit.

As Ms Van Dyne had said, there is a certain romantic adventure to the highwayman. They are a figure of mystery and Steve could make it work. He would not really steal anything, it could be returned or left where the relevant people would find it, and he can search for the traitors and discover what it is they are transporting… and even who they are working on behalf of.

He stands, the mask still in place and in the flickering shadows it is easy to imagine that Bucky and Peggy are standing with him.

“ Looking good, Stevie ,” Bucky says. “ Maybe this time you’ll manage to stop it .”

Maybe this time.

“ Sometimes you have to do what’s right and damn the consequences ,” Peggy’s shade tells him, like she did once years ago.

He can do this.

Chapter Text

Once he has set his mind to a path, it has often been observed that Steve is not easily swayed. But he is not so foolish as to set out with no plan. The mask and the secret passage are a start, but there are other plans that need to be put into place before he can put his plan into action. He will need to disguise Liberty, his horse, but some soot from the fire should take care of that, blacking out her mane and the white star mark on her forehead.

And to disguise himself?

It is possible that Steve gets a little carried away in the idea of it, but he takes the mask as a guiding point. Midnight blue and a shirt to go with it. He has a pair of breeches that he also dyes blue and some riding boots that reach almost to his thighs. A hat, of course, with three corners, the sort of hat that Steve would never wear and, to complete it, a dark blue cape with a golden lining.

He stands in front of the mirror and does not recognise himself.

It is not Steve Rogers who stands there, not is it The Captain; it is a stranger, a mysterious masked man.

He needs a name, something to call himself by. The highwaymen in tales always have them. The Dark Avenger, the Moonlit Rider, something with a bit of flair.

Steve knows that Bucky would laugh at him, but there is no way anyone would see respectable Captain Rogers in the masked knave he has created and that is the point. 

None of the names he thinks of fits. They are all too dark sounding, or too deadly. He doesn't intend to hurt a soul, not unless he happens upon the traitors themselves, and even then it is information he needs.

Steve frowns. He would not have thought that coming up with a name would be the most difficult part of this.

The knock at the door startles him and Sam’s voice can be heard through the wood.

“Are you up? You have nearly missed breakfast and I thought you might want to join me for a walk over to the village. I told Mr Lawrence last night that I would look at his hunting bird. He has promised that it is the finest raptor I’ll have ever seen. I know that can’t be true, of course, Red Wing, my falcon back home, is the finest, but I'll allow that it may be the second finest.”

“I'm just dressing,” Steve says, looking around frantically for somewhere to hide the mask and outfit. “I shall join you presently.”

“I’ll wait downstairs, then. Don’t be too long. I did tell him I would see him in the morning, not the evening, after all.”

“I’ll be down shortly, Sam. You have my word on it.”

“The word of The Captain should be enough, I suppose.”

Steve listens avidly to the sound of Sam’s footfalls on the hallway carpet as they gradually move away and he draws in a deep breath to calm his heart rate.

He has not been caught. He is still fine. But now Sam is waiting for him downstairs. Steve does not believe he has ever dressed so fast in his life, and he is out of the door in less than five minutes.

Sam is waiting in the hallway and turns to see Steve come down the stairs, grinning as he takes in the picture.

“I told you I would be down presently,” Steve says. The collar of his coat is sitting strangely and he tugs it away from his throat, where it refuses to sit flat.

“Not enough time to look in a mirror, I take it,” Sam says. Steve looks back at him, nonplussed. “Your coat is buttoned wrong. You can’t go out like that, what will the neighbours think?”

“I honestly couldn’t care less,” Steve tells him, but he does rebutton his coat before they set out.

As Steve had noticed the first time they had made this journey, when they were newly arrived, it is a beautiful area. The woods are thick and old, so dense in places that you need to pick your path carefully or end up stranded in the underbrush.

The pair of them end up taking a longer route than they should as they get turned around and they end up in a field right besides the Brooklyn road.

Steve hesitates. This is part of his idea that he has not yet had a chance to plan out - how he will actually approach the travellers. The forest will be his best bet of coming upon them unseen and making a clean getaway. He would like to know the lay of the land before he embarks on his mission.

“Sam,” he says, cutting through the birdsong and the rustle of leaves on the breeze. His friend turns to him. “I'm struck by the peace and solitude here. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to complete your errand alone and explore a little more. It has been a while since I’ve done any sketching.”

Sam looks around.

“If that's what you want to do,” he says. “Though I would have thought that you would have enough peace and solitude at your home. You know your way back, I suppose.”

“I do, but even if I didn’t, this road will be easy enough to follow.”

“Then have fun,” Sam says, patting Steve on the shoulder. “I shall see you later.”

He sets off and Steve watches him walk across the field towards the village a little longer, then turns to the road and the forest with ambush in mind. He pulls out the pocketbook he always carries, although he hasn’t put pen to paper in months, and sets about finding the place with the greatest strategic advantage.

There are a few likely places. The road is not straight and the twists and bends allow for cover. Steve is sketching out a battlemap of the third such location when he hears the sound of hooves on the road with a start.

He goes to conceal himself before he remembers that he is doing nothing wrong at the present moment. Instead, he stands his ground, turning a page on his sketchbook to begin sketching a small songbird not far away.

“Captain Rogers!”

Steve turns at the sound of his name and looks up to see Sir Anthony approaching on horseback. “I was not expecting to see you out here… alone… drawing.” The baronet pulls his horse up and slides out of the saddle to land on the muddy ground. “You like to draw?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “I always have, since I was a boy. I had a sickly disposition and was bedridden much of the time. Sketching was an escape.” He's not sure why he says so much, a quick ‘yes, it is an enjoyable diversion’ would have sufficed, but instead he fills the air with nonsense about his childhood.

“You seem to have made a robust recovery in your adulthood, I'm glad to see,” Sir Anthony replies. “I don't believe there is anyone who would look at you now and call you anything other than a fine specimen of manhood.”

Steve raises his eyebrows at the comment and is amazed to see Sir Anthony look a little abashed.

“I mean only to say that you look well,” Sir Anthony says hurriedly.

“I am well, thank you,” Steve responds, amused.

“And you are sketching,” Sir Anthony adds, seemingly fascinated by that fact.

“I believe we have established that.”

“I had no idea it was a pastime of yours,” Sir Anthony says. “I do not remember you mentioning it before - or my father having mentioned it when he spoke of you.”

“It must have slipped his mind,” Steve says. “I have a few sketches of him that I drew, back at the house. If you wish to see them-”

“I have enough images of Sir Howard’s face looking down disapprovingly from the walls of my own house,” Sir Anthony says. Steve knows there is no reason to be disappointed, but there is disappointment mixed with his irritation at how disrespectfully Sir Anthony speaks of his dead father, Steve’s friend. It must show in his face again because Sir Anthony’s eyes go wide. “That is not to say that I do not wish to see your work. I would be delighted - just perhaps a different subject. Sir Howard and I were not close. We were both difficult men - I still am, and I somewhat doubt the grave has made him less severe - our relationship was likewise difficult.”

“He spoke highly of you to me,” Steve says.

“In amongst the times he spoke not so highly, I expect.” Steve cannot dispute the statement. Howard had always worried about his son’s profligate lifestyle and lack of propriety. “Your silence tells the truth of it, Captain Rogers, though you're too kind to speak ill of a man to his face.”

“I am more than willing to speak ill of a man to his face if I believe he deserves it,” Steve says. “Believe me, it has got me into many scrapes, but you have been nothing but polite to me since my arrival. You have done far more for me than your father’s bequest could possibly have entailed. Whatever my opinions of your private life might be, it is your private life and as long as you do not harm anyone by it, it should remain private. It is not my business to pry into it.”

Sir Anthony opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again.

“True. It is none of your business, I suppose, but I gather from your words you do hold opinions. I am sorry my private matters meet with your disapproval. I am sure you have no regrettable incidents in your own past.” He steps away, turning his back to Steve and going to mount his horse. Steve has the sinking feeling that he has trampled on something fragile. Sir Anthony looks back down at him once he is again astride.

“My father spoke highly of you to me, as well, but perhaps it would have been better for everyone if he had given his good opinions to the people they were intended for. I shall leave you to enjoy your sketching, Captain. Good day.” Sir Anthony digs his heels into the flanks of his horse to urge it into a walk, but Steve steps up. He doesn’t know how to recover the moment. He does not wish to lose a friend over a misunderstanding.

“You are welcome at Lakefield at any time,” he says. “If you still want to look at my sketches.”

“Thank you,” Sir Anthony says, without even looking at him. “I’ll see if I am free, but I would not wish to inconvenience you.”

“You wouldn’t-” Steve begins, but Sir Anthony starts to ride in a trot, then a canter. “-inconvenience me.” He sighs. Sir Anthony is impossible to understand and it seems that Steve has put his foot in his mouth again.

“ If you want to see my sketches ?” Bucky’s voice asks. “ Seriously, Stevie. You’ve got nothing better than that? ” Steve closes his eyes and rests his head against the nearby tree. “ You must’ve learnt something from watching me .” Steve pulls back and frowns, because Bucky is not real. He knows Bucky is dead and this is his imagination, his own mind punishing him. But if this is his imagination, then why is Bucky implying that-

“ It’s better this way, ” and, oh, there is Peggy’s voice, calming and steady. “ We must concern ourselves with duty before pleasure .”

Right. Yes. He has the mission. Sir Anthony is something he can worry about later. Steve forces the encounter to the back of his mind and returns to examining the lay of the land.

He winds up back at Lakefield splattered with mud and with his mind full of plans of attack. It is strange to be planning for just one person, rather than a whole team, and it hits him that he won’t have backup. That’s not something that has ever really been true before. Even when he thought he was alone, Bucky somehow always managed to be there.

He enters the parlour and scowls at the painting over the mantlepiece, its depiction of the glories of war nothing he wants to think of at the moment. He turns from it in agitation and finds that Sam is ensconced in one of the high back chairs.

“You’re back late,” Sam says, looking up from the newspaper he’s reading. He takes in Steve’s expression and his appearance. “Are you alright? You seem a little off.”

It strikes Steve that he could have backup. He could tell Sam his plan, ask for his assistance. But the path he has embarked upon is not a safe one. It is illegal and dangerous for other reasons besides. Steve cannot be so selfish as to put Sam in danger merely because he wants a safety net. Sam has a family and a promising career in the aerial forces. Steve will not put that in jeopardy.

“I got a bit turned around in the woods,” he says. “I also met Sir Anthony on the road.”

“Ah,” Sam says, as though that explains everything. Steve looks at him in question. “It’s just every time the two of you talk you end up confused, angry, or like someone shot your horse.”

“And which do I look like this time?” Steve asks.

“All three,” Sam replies promptly. “So, what did you discuss with Sir Anthony?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Steve says, pacing back and forth. Sam does not look convinced. “My enjoyment of drawing. His father… my opinion of him.”

“Your opinion of him?” Sam asks, his eyebrows going up.

“I told him that he had been nothing but courteous and I reassured him that his private life was his own business and none of my concern.”

Sam pauses, takes a deep breath, then pauses again.

“You know,” Sam says finally. “You are a great advantage to my ego.”

“How so?”

“You’re The Captain . The Living Hero of the Hydra War. We used to hear about you, how many Hydra strongholds you had taken, every valiant victory, leading the way. We heard about the last fight too. How it was all nearly lost, how you still won through. I toasted in your name that night, we all did. You won the war for us. You let us go home.” Steve opens his mouth, but Sam won’t let him. “No. Just listen. You don’t understand how big you are. But then I met you and you are still this hero, you’re good and honest and sometimes it’s physically painful standing next to you because you’re just too much, but then you do something like this-”

“Like what?”

“Like tell the man - the rich, titled, unmarried man - who obviously has a certain regard for you that his private life doesn’t matter to you.”

“That’s not what-” Steve pauses. “Sir Anthony does not have any special regard for me.”

“That man was ready to fall in love with you from the moment he saw you and I don’t believe you’ve done anything to dissuade him.”

“Love? Sam, be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” Sam says. “Haven’t you seen the way Mr Stane glares at you? Word around the village is that he has plans for Sir Anthony’s marriage. You are quite the fly in his ointment.”

“You’re being absurd,” Steve says. “And clearly we have heard different rumours if you believe Sir Anthony is the kind of man to fall in love.”

“Please tell me you didn’t mention these rumours to Sir Anthony during your conversation,” Sam says.

“I… not directly,” Steve says, flustered. “I wanted to let him know that they did not damage my good opinion of him.”

“So now, as far as he’s concerned, you think him a libertine and you do not care about him at all,” Sam says.

“That is not what I said,” Steve says quickly. His words had been awkward, yes, but he had not been that discourteous.

“But I'd wager that's what he heard,” Sam says. “Do you have any plans to fix things between you, at least? Our time here could be very uncomfortable if you fall out with the man who owns half the county.”

“I invited him to see my sketches,” Steve says. That surely should not be taken the wrong way. Sam blinks.

“Steve,” he says slowly. “You really are terrible at this.”

“I’m not trying to court him, we’re just friends.”

“Then why do you find it so difficult to talk with him?”

Steve opens his mouth, but finds he has no answer.

*

Steve pushes Sir Anthony from his mind again and by the evening he is all but forgotten, or so Steve tells himself. He will ride over to see the man tomorrow and address the misunderstanding. For now he has more pressing concerns.

Like sneaking out in the middle of the night, changing Liberty’s markings with the soot bucket and riding out to lie in wait.

He does not mount Liberty until he has left the grounds, he does not want the hoofbeats to draw attention.

Once on the road, he does not hold back. Liberty’s hooves echo his heartbeat, which seems to be leaping out of his chest at the sheer joy of it all. The howl of the wind past his ears drowns out his brain as he thunders on.

Steve had forgotten how good it feels to ride somewhere, and more than that, to ride somewhere with a purpose. Idleness does not suit him.

It's almost a disappointment to reach his destination, but the stillness of the woods serves only to lend a strange solemnity to the occasion. The infrequent hoots of the owls and the cries of the foxes split the night.

His hands are steady and he has no doubt in his mind that he is doing the right thing. If he is caught - but he does not intend to be caught. He has thought this through and planned it out thoroughly. As thoroughly as he would any other battle, though the field may be a little different and the combatants fewer in number.

“ Reminds me of the convoy we intercepted a few years back, ” Bucky’s memory says, putting words to Steve’s thoughts. “ The one with the weapons Hydra was smuggling. No one to watch your back this time, though. You’d be dead if I hadn’t shot that man before he could run you through. ”

But Steve is not facing Hydra this time. He is facing civilians. They may carry a couple of pistols, but it is unlikely he will get any significant opposition as long as he keeps away from military convoys.

He hears the rattle of a carriage coming towards him, and it is like everything closes in at once. He misses the weight of his shield and his costume seems too vulnerable.

But he cannot stand by and do nothing, so he steps out into the road on Liberty.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says as the carriage skids to a halt. “Please keep your hands where I can see them. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He cocks his own pistol.

It goes surprisingly smoothly and Steve manages a fairly thorough examination of the goods and valuables they are carrying and takes a few satchels to look through - and then return - later. No one is injured and everyone goes on with their day.

There are another two travellers that night and Steve hurries back under the cover of darkness, taking the secret passageway back up to the secret room.

He takes his findings back with him to the house to go through them, sitting at the desk in the hidden room well into the early hours of the morning, reading through letters. There is nothing suspicious and none of the items he has taken seems to be anything more than trinkets or practical travel items.

Steve heaves a sigh. He must not feel discouraged. This is only his first attempt. It could not be expected that the villains would be at work every night, nor that he would necessarily be fortunate enough to happen upon the people he is looking for straight away. He has only waylaid three parties on the road. Far more than that must have travelled yesterday, but he cannot lie in wait all day. He will have to vary his schedule in case they are accustomed to travelling at different times of day.

He starts putting the things back into the chest and heads to his bed, heart heavy with unreasonable disappointment. The room is frigid, his sheets cold from disuse and the early morning world is a dismal grey.

He will go again tomorrow.

*

“Steve,” Sam says, glancing up. “Late up again. Half the morning gone. This is not like you.”

“I have been very tired,” Steve says. “And my room faces north, so I do not get the sunlight to wake me.” Sam eyes him suspiciously.

“I’m not used to the luxury either,” he says. “These beds, they’re too soft. Sometimes I’m worried I’ll sink right into it and it’ll close up behind me.”

“More used to a hammock?” Steve asks.

“Not since I was a midshipman. Rank comes with privilege, Captain, as I’m sure you know. One of those privileges is a real bed - with a mattress as thin as a board and about as comfortable, and that you roll off given the slightest hint of turbulence.” Sam laughs. “I find it hard to sleep without the wind rocking me and blowing past my window like a banshee.”

“Well, then I suppose I must apologise for the comfort of my guest quarters and offer you other accommodation. I believe we have four stalls free in the stables.”

“I’m not the one who keeps sleeping until noon. Perhaps you should bed down with the horses yourself.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Steve says.

“The glamorous life of a national hero,” Sam teases.

“The horses were nothing compared to Du-” Steve cuts himself off. Dum-Dum’s snoring had been legendary. Fit to wake the dead. “Horses aren’t so bad. They’re warm at least.” he says. Sam nods.

“So, are you going to call on Sir Anthony today to apologise?”

Steve starts at the remembrance. He had forgotten about the disastrous conversation and his decision to try to reconcile today.

“Yes,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. “I shall go after lunch.”

“Would you like some company?”

“Thank you for the offer, but no. I feel this is best done in private.” He draws a steadying breath.

Lunch passes both too quickly and too slowly. It seems as though every mouthful takes an age, but when the meal is done, Steve feels like no time has passed at all.

He rehearses what he is going to say as he rides over, though he does not know how to address what he said without making the whole matter worse. No matter what Sam might say, he knows Sir Anthony can have no thoughts of him romantically. He has a title and an independent fortune, He will be looking for a match of good family - nobility most likely - or good fortune. Both, probably. Perhaps he had thought of Steve for a dalliance, but no more than that. More than that is quite impossible.

And Steve would be in no position to accept such overtures even if they were made. He is lost since the war ended and his newest exploits would be unthinkable if he were connected to anyone, let alone Sir Anthony. He will risk no one else to his mission.

Stark Manor is as grandiose and imposing as ever, dwarfing everything that comes within its shadow.

The groom takes his horse with an easy grin and a slightly impudent tip of his cap, then Steve mounts the steps to the main door where he is greeted, as always, by Mr Jarvis, the butler.

“Captain Rogers,” he says with an incline of his head.

“Good day, Mr Jarvis. I trust you are well.”

“Quite well, thank you, captain. It is good to see you. Sir Anthony is always the better for your company.” The way he says it indicates that Sir Anthony is definitely not the better right now and Mr Jarvis firmly believes he requires some improvement.

“Is he unwell?”

“He is in rude health, captain. Do not trouble yourself.” He leads Steve to the drawing room. “I shall inform him of your arrival. Please make yourself at home.” He bows again, then departs, disappearing into the house.

Steve cannot imagine himself ever being home in a place like this. He has overcome some of his initial qualms about the place, but he still feels as though he will break something valuable if he looks at it too hard.

He has never been good at waiting, despite it being a major part of army life, and he finds himself no better at it now.

The anticipation does nothing but prolong his discomfort. He paces the room, examines the books on the shelves and hears all the while the slow incessant ticking of the elegant clock on the mantelpiece.

After what seems like an age has passed, the thick pile of the carpet swallowing the sounds of his footsteps, he hears the door push open and Steve turns smartly.

It is neither Sir Anthony, not Mr Jarvis, but Mr Stane instead and Steve has to smother the irritation he feels at the man’s presence.

“Mr Stane,” he says, convincing his mouth to form the words against its preference.

“Captain Rogers,” Mr Stane says. His smile is slow and his lips dark, like blood welling up from a wound. “We were not expecting you.”

“I apologise for the interruption,” Steve says automatically.

“No, no. It’s quite alright. It’s good to see you again. I hope that Tony hasn’t kept you waiting too long. He’s in his workshop. A new project, no doubt.” Stane gestures for Steve to take a seat. His manner is welcoming enough, but Steve does not like the look in his eyes. “Of course, you haven’t known him long enough to know how he is. Tony’s life is a series of projects and obsessions. As soon as he finds a new one, he quite forgets what he was interested in before. He hasn’t found anything or anyone who can hold his interest for longer than a couple of months.”

The message is clear, but Steve forces himself to smile even as he bristles. For all he has heard of Sir Anthony, he cannot believe he turns his back on his friends so easily.

If Steve ever was a friend, and not just a passing fancy.

No. He will not think that.

It is at that moment, as Mr Stane offers him a drink, that Mr Jarvis reappears in the doorway. There is no one accompanying him and Steve doesn’t need to glance at Mr Stane to know there will be triumph in his eyes.

“Sir Anthony offers his apologies, but he is busy at present.”

“Did he give any indication of when he would be free?” Steve asks.

“Oh, probably not for days,” Mr Stane says with all outward sign of solicitousness. “He once holed himself up in that workshop of his for over a week.” He sips his brandy with the air of a particularly smug cat. Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“Thank you, Mr Jarvis, but my business is quite urgent and it should not take very long. Perhaps you may show me to him?”

“I hardly think-” Mr Stane begins, but Mr Jarvis cuts him off.

“Certainly, Captain. As your business is urgent.”

Steve stands and turns to bow to Stane.

“Thank you for the company. I shall be sure to remember it.”

If he takes a certain pleasure in the tightness of Stane’s jaw or his grip on the glass, then he keeps it to himself.

Mr Jarvis leads him through the house again to a door that is plain compared to the other moulded doorways in this place. As he opens it, Steve sees that it opens to a narrow staircase that leads downwards.

“Please stay here,” Mr Jarvis says, then begins to step down the staircase towards the strange banging noise that echoes upwards.

As Mr Jarvis turns at the bottom of the staircase, the banging changes to voices. Steve waits politely and doesn’t try to make out the words. He folds his hands behind his back instead and looks at the ornaments nearby.

Finally footsteps come again and Steve looks down to see Mr Jarvis mounting the stairs towards him again.

“Sir Anthony will see you, but he asks that you please be brief as he is in the process of performing a rather delicate task,” Mr Jarvis says.

“Thank you, Mr Jarvis,” Steve says with a nod and a small smile before descending.

It is as if he is descending into another world. Hephaestus’s smithy, he thinks idly as he goes down again. Upstairs the house is everything one would expect from the house of a man of consequence - elegant and formal, suited for royalty, should they choose to visit. But as Steve takes the stairs down, it is darker, more cramped. The pictures and ornaments are gone, replaced by rough-plastered walls and scraps of paper - notes and diagrams - and even in some places words written directly onto the walls. Steve feels as though he has stepped directly into Sir Anthony’s mind.

Sir Anthony himself stands in shirt sleeves, coat, waistcoat and cravat discarded onto a chair nearby. His sleeves are rolled up, displaying strong forearms, sheened with sweat that glistens golden in the oil lamplight that fills the space. He is doing what appears to be smithing work, beating a piece of metal into compliance.

“Captain Rogers,” he says without turning around. Steve drags his eyes away from the way the damp shirt clings to the muscles of Sir Anthony’s back and down to the papers on the nearest work surface, weighed down by a handful of delicate looking gears. They appear to be designs for some sort of cannon, the like of which Steve has never seen before.

“Captain Rogers,” Sir Anthony repeats, more sharply. “Mr Jarvis said you had a business matter to discuss. As you can see, I am rather busy at present, so it might be best for both of us if you stated your case. There is no need to prolong what must be an unpleasant errand.”

“It is not,” Steve says quickly. “That is - I do not find it unpleasant except for in so much as the reason for my business.”

“So you don’t find it unpleasant, except that you do.” Sir Anthony finally turns, wiping sweat from his forehead with an arm. He raises an eyebrow.

“I am not being clear,” Steve says, sighing in frustration. “I meant to say that I do not find it unpleasant to be here, talking to you, but that I do find the business I must discuss unpleasant by its nature in that I wish it were not necessary.”

Sir Anthony turns to him fully, setting down the hammer.

“Right,” he says in a voice that suggests he does not understand at all. “Perhaps this conversation would be easier if you were to actually state your purpose, rather than telling me how you wish it were unnecessary.”

“Yes,” Steve agrees. “That would be easier.” He draws a deep breath. “I wish to apologise for any offence I may have given you yesterday. I did not intend any-” Sir Anthony holds up a hand to interrupt him. “Please allow me to finish. I have been given to understand that my phrasing may have conveyed unintended meaning when what I wished to say was quite the opposite of what you may have understood.”

“And what did you wish to convey?” Sir Anthony asks. He sounds stilted still, like they are speaking a language he does not know very well.

“Since I arrived here,” Steve says. “You have… I meant to say how grateful and honoured I was to have received your friendship and generosity, when we had never even met before I turned up on your doorstep. You have given me so much, though I have little to offer you in return besides my friendship, as insufficient as that may seem.”

“It is not insufficient,” Sir Anthony says, though the smile he offers along with the words is dim compared to the ones Steve has seen before. “I'm a greedy man, I will take anything you can offer me.”

“I have never met a man less greedy in my life, You have given me-”

“It is easy to give when you have a lot to give,” Sir Anthony says.

“In my experience, that is not true,” Steve says, “I have met many wealthy men and there were few - if any - who would have given a humble soldier even a fraction of what you have given me.”

“And what was a humble soldier doing with all these wealthy men?” Sir Anthony asks, his eyebrows rising in amusement.

“Usually explaining why their plans wouldn’t work,” Steve says, half smiling at the memories. “Money seems to make some people think they are geniuses.”

“Yes,” Sir Anthony replies and he sounds so amused now that Steve has to think about what he just said and examine his words, blushing when he realises.

“I did not mean-” he looks around the workshop, from the haphazard stacks of papers to the curious moving contraptions that whir and tick along in the background. “Clearly you are very intelligent. I did not mean to insult you.”

“That does seem to be the theme of this conversation,” Sir Anthony says. “Do not trouble yourself. I have made the same observation myself on numerous occasions: give a man a few thousand pounds of income and he’ll think himself quite the smartest person in the room - give him a title as well and it’s a wonder any hats will fit his head, the prodigious amount of brains that must be in it. You did not offend me. Nor yesterday.” Steve opens his mouth to protest again because he knows that he must have said something to upset the man before. “No,” Sir Anthony says. “You don’t need to apologise and you said nothing that wasn’t true. Nothing I haven’t heard a dozen times before, either. I am aware of what people say about me.”

“I should not pay attention to idle gossip,” Steve says. There is a tone of self-deprecation in Sir Anthony’s voice that he does not like and he wishes to banish it as soon as may be possible. “You are a good man and I am proud to count you among my friends.” 

“If you say so, I suppose it must be true,” Sir Anthony says, but he says the words light-heartedly, as though he does not believe them. “Sir Howard always said you were honest to a fault.” Steve winces. The statement is true enough, but Howard apparently forgot to mention to his son that the fault was often someone punching Steve in the face for what he had said.

“Then we are friends, Sir Anthony?” Steve holds out his hand and Sir Anthony looks at it for a second before reaching like he’s reaching for a viper that may strike at any moment.

“Friends,” he agrees. The handshake is firm and strong. Steve can feel the calluses of hard word on Sir Anthony’s palm, and the strength that work has given him in his grip. But as soon as it has come, the contact has vanished and Steve is bereft of it.

“Now it is decided and we are definitely friends,” Steve says, “I hope you will take me up on my offer of coming by to see my sketches.”

Sir Anthony blinks at him and opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“You,” he says. “You meant that literally. Of course you did. I would be honoured.”

“Good, I am desperately in need of a critic. Sam says that one picture of a hill looks much like any other.”

“I fear I will not be much better,” Sir Anthony says. “My drawings tend to involve more mechanicals than pastorals.” He gestures around at the diagrams that surround them.

“They’re very skilled,” Steve says honestly.

“They’re very accurate. There’s not much room for artistic sensibilities in engineering.”

“You say that, but-” Steve begins to gesture over to the clockwork machines on the other side of the room. They have a curious charm about them, not like the sleek lines of the airships, but charismatic nonetheless. Before he can explain his point, though, there are steps on the stairs.

He and SIr Anthony both turn and Mr Stane’s voice comes booming down to them.

“Tony! You’ve been working like a dog all day. I’ve-” he comes into view, turning at the bottom of the stairs and freezes, looking between Steve and Sir Anthony.

“Captain Rogers, I must confess I am surprised. I had assumed your business would be complete by now. Tony, I brought you a drink, the dust in this place must be drying you out.

“Thanks, Obie,” Sir Anthony says, taking the glass.

“Everything going well?” Mr Stane asks.

“Ticking along nicely, Obie,” Sir Anthony says with a smile.

“Good, good. You’ll be wanting to get back to it, I daresay. I know what you’re like. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Captain Rogers, shall we leave the genius to his work changing the world?”

Steve looks at Sir Anthony, but he seems to have no protestations.

“Very well,” he agrees. “Thank you for your time, Sir Anthony.”

Mr Stane walks him to the door with a dedication that is admirable. On the way, he is careful to mention how important Sir Anthony’s work is and how it’s crucial that it not be delayed.

“Mr Stane,” Steve says as they approach the threshold. “I fear we may have started our acquaintance on the wrong foot. Please rest assured that I do not mean Sir Anthony any harm and my intentions are only to support him as a friend of his father - as you do - and hopefully also as his friend in turn.”

“I am glad to hear it, Captain Rogers. You understand that I cannot be too vigilant in the matter of Tony’s acquaintances.”

“Your dedication to his safety is commendable,” Steve replies. “It must be difficult to sort out the innocent from those whose intentions are fuelled by self-interest.”

“We have avoided any major problems so far.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Steve says with a nod. “I shall be on my way then. Thank you for your consideration in seeing me to the door.”

“My pleasure, Captain,” Stane says, returning the nod. “You are, of course, welcome at any time, but it may help to send word ahead next time - to make sure Tony is in a proper state to receive you.”

“I’ll be sure to check with Sir Anthony,” Steve says.

“Good, good. Safe journey.”

Mr Stane does not slam the door in Steve’s face, but he does end the conversation a little more abruptly than would usually be considered polite.

Steve turns and sees the groom waiting at the bottom of the steps with Liberty. He thanks the man and mounts.

It is not his place to interfere in Tony’s business. Although, as a friend he feels his concern is allowable. But Tony is an intelligent man, clearly gifted with social graces, and he has known Mr Stane for many years, there can be no cause for concern there.

Then why is it that Mr Stane makes all of Steve’s hair stand on end?

No. The man is doing exactly as he said: looking out for Tony’s best interests. To question his motives would be overstepping the boundaries of friendship in a terrible manner.

Steve urges Liberty into a trot and heads for home.

*

Sleep is a rare luxury in the weeks to come. Steve spends his days sketching and attending to the everyday business of life with Sam and his evenings on the road, holding up coaches as politely as he can.

Tony is mostly missing - his apologies are sent with a note that he is at a crucial stage in the development of his latest contraption. Sam will not hear of him being interrupted.

“So far he’s developed a metal light enough for an airship to move at speed without losing protection and a propulsion system that makes our airships the envy of the world - I have no idea what he’s working on now, but I want to find out, sooner rather than later. He’s saved the lives of half the sky forces one way or another.”

“You know we’re not currently at war,” Steve replies.

“Thanks to you - but after what you overheard, do you honestly believe Hydra is not still lurking?”

“Schmidt is dead,” Steve says. He witnessed that moment with his own two eyes.

“But not all his followers are,” Sam says. “Maybe we’ll be lucky, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. There are rumours of Hydra forces still at large. If Sir Anthony has something up his sleeve, I’d like to have it ready and waiting, in case we aren’t lucky.”

It’s a depressing thought. That all they had lost had only been for a temporary ceasefire. Steve might wake up tomorrow and find himself called up once more to fight the same enemy.

It may be that thought which distracts him that night, or perhaps he has just grown too comfortable with the system he has developed. He should know better. Complacence is a surefire way to die. It goes wrong from the beginning.

From a distance, he doesn’t recognise the driver or the carriage, but as it approaches, he is hit by the sudden familiarity and a cold wave of horror washes over him.

That is Tony’s groom and that is the Stark carriage.

He had known that it might happen in an abstract sort of way, though Tony had not left his house since Steve had moved in - not overnight anyway, as far as Steve knew. It wasn’t as if he was keeping a watch on Tony’s comings and goings.

But he had known that this might happen.

It throws him off his guard, though.

So much so that he has to shake himself back to his senses before he can speak.

For the purposes of subterfuge, Steve has been using his home-grown accent for his highway robbery. They had trained it out of him in the army, when they dragged him in front of dukes and fine ladies, but it rolls back over his tongue in the familiar fashion of an affectionate cat.

He cocks his pistol.

“Excuse me, sir. If you wouldn’t mind pulling up for a second,” he drawls, fumbling the first few words and having to repeat them. What if it’s Tony inside? It probably is. What if Tony recognises him? Not that Tony will be paying that much attention, probably.

“Is this… are you a highwayman?” the driver asks, sounding incredulous. “I thought you guys were extinct.”

“What’s the hold up, Barton?” A familiar voice calls and just as familiar a head sticks out of the carriage door.

“The hold up is… a hold up,” the driver replies. He raises his hands slowly, dropping the reins. “Please. Don’t shoot.” His words fall a bit flat, as though he doesn’t really mean them.

“A-” Tony catches sight of Steve and his words falter. “Oh, you must be kidding me! A highwayman? In this day and age? And what even are those pistols? Those are antiques! Do they even fire?”

“I assure you they do,” Steve says, cocking the second. “Just because something’s old, don’t make it obsolete.”

“Weapons aren’t like fashion, you know,” Tony says, stepping out of the carriage. “We don’t just change it because we feel like it. Although, they do at least look like they’re well made.”

“Quality stands the test of time, sir. Now, if you wouldn’t mind handing all your bags and valuables out of the carriage for me. I’d hate to shoot such a beautiful face.”

The words slip out of Steve’s mouth, a part of the persona he pulls on with his highwayman’s outfit. The Nomad, as he decided to style himself, is an amalgam of every adventure tale he has read. The kind of stories he and Bucky would read when they were kids - most emphatically without their parents’ permission. He is a rake, a flirt, but Steve hasn’t really fallen all that well into that aspect of the character.

With Tony in front of him, though, it appears his mouth has taken on a life of its own.

Tony, who looks both taken aback and amused at the compliment. The driver - Barton - is chuckling.

“Honestly, Tony. What’s the problem?” A woman’s voice asks, followed by a rumble of another man. Then there are three heads sticking out of the carriage. A red-headed woman, Tony, and another sturdy looking face of a man.

“Want me to get rid of him, boss?” the man asks.

“I’m not your boss anymore, Happy, I thought we’d sorted that out. And no. I’m sure your new wife would be very unhappy if you returned from your honeymoon with an extra bullethole.”

“I would indeed,” the red head says, giving the other man - her husband - a hard look before turning to Steve.

“So, this is a robbery?” she asks.

Steve hasn’t had anyone ask him that before.

“I regret to say that it is, ma’am, and congratulations on your marriage.”

“You’re not getting my wedding ring,” she says. “Or my husband’s.”

Steve considers this for a moment, then nods. It is possible, in an unlikely sort of way, that whatever is being smuggled is somehow connected to the wedding rings, but he’ll take that chance.

“I would not dream of taking an item of such sentimental value,” he says. She looks surprised, but slightly mollified. “I do have a bag here for any other valuables, however.” He tosses it to the ground in front of Tony. “And as I said, all other valises, cases and baggage would be appreciated.”

It all goes much as usual then, as they empty the coach.

“Is that everything?” he asks.

“Would you like to check our small clothes?” Tony asks. “The lady’s petticoats? Just to check if we are hiding any gold in there? Doesn’t sound very comfortable to me.”

“And there I thought all the lords and ladies wore clothes made of solid gold,” Steve replies. “That won’t be necessary.”

He turned to check the carriage, but any second where he was looking in there was a second when he didn’t have his eye on the people he was robbing.

The blow came from behind. On any other man, it probably would have knocked him into the carriage and probably unconscious, too. Steve, however, barely rocked on his feet.

He heard the movement of another fist flying through the air as he turned around and he ducked, seeing the unknown male’s fist crash into the side of the carriage with a force that must have broken bones.

“I am sorry about your knuckles,” he says, pulling away. “I really did not intend anyone to get hurt.”

“If you don’t want people to get hurt,” Tony’s voice says - and Steve looks up into the cocking of a pistol - “you really should find a different profession.” He gives a little grin. 

“Why would I change my profession when my current occupation leads me to meet such wonderful people?” Steve asks. He can hear the other man recovering, clearly preparing to rush Steve from behind. The woman is brandishing a long, thin knife. It is time for Steve to cut his losses.

He sidesteps as Tony’s friend comes at him, reaching out and grasping the pistol to push the barrel away from him, into the woods, before disarming Tony entirely and emptying the pistol of shot and powder before tossing it to the ground.

“It seems I’ve outstayed my welcome,” Steve says, stepping back. He grabs a small case with a lock on it that seems like it might contain papers - or at least something valuable - and eyes Liberty. Tony’s friends are between him and her, Time for a quick getaway.

But there is something freeing about the mask. He feels as though he could do anything.

Before he goes, he grabs Tony’s hand and bows as he raises it to his lips, keeping his eyes on Tony’s the whole time.

“It’s been a pleasure!” he says. Then, before Tony can say anything in response, he pulls back, plants his feet firmly on the step of the carriage and uses it to push himself into a spinning vault over the heads of the shocked travellers.

“Do we not at least get your name?” Tony asks and Steve turns as he mounts Liberty.

“Call me Nomad,” he calls back and reaches up to tip his hat, but as he does so, he sees a flash of metal out of the corner of his eyes.

The driver has a pistol.

Steve is faster than a normal man, but Barton is quick on the trigger - accurate, too. Steve and Liberty are already moving when he feels the lead ball tear into his back.

Getting shot always hurts. It forces the air out of your lungs. But there are always a few seconds before the pain really sets in and Steve makes the most of them, urging Liberty into a canter, then a gallop, hearing the shouting voices behind him.

“Did you get him?” Tony asks.

“Yes, sir,” Barton replies.

“Are you sure?” Steve does not get to hear Barton’s response as the thunder of Liberty’s hooves carries him out of earshot and into the woods.

The wound is serious. In an ordinary person, it would have been debilitating. Steve can only thank God for the process that led to his current condition. Without the serum, he would definitely have lost his life tonight. As it is, that is only a possibility. He can feel the warmth of blood dripping down his back, sticking fabric to him, and the searing pain of the hole. He can even, in a strange way, feel the ball inside him. He needs to get it out. If he heals with it still inside him, he doubts it will lead to anything good.

He needs a surgeon. But a wound like this will raise questions, and Tony is sure to have his people looking around for anyone with mysterious pistol wounds. He can’t go home, either, not while pursuit is still a possibility. He is only grateful that it has been a dry week so the ground is firm and will not hold hoofprints.

But he has nowhere else to turn, and he is losing blood. That, combined with the exertions he has been putting on his body - the lack of sleep - and the effort his body is already putting into trying to heal, he feels drained.

But he forges ahead, not knowing where he is going in the slightest, but Liberty seems to know something, or she at least has a firm idea of where she would like to be. She picks her way around trees and through the undergrowth, sure and quick.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks, but he does not speak horse so all he can do is wait. Her stride is smooth, but even the smoothest horse ride is still bumpy and every step jolts at his back.

She slows to a trot and Steve sees a small house emerge between the trees, barely more than a cottage. It looks well cared for, with a small garden and clean windows and Steve sees a flicker of light through the window.

He pats Liberty’s neck in thanks as he lowers himself carefully to the ground, and he walks over to knock on the door.

It creaks open a crack and he sees a dimly lit face, barely visible in the darkness. He opens his mouth to speak as a wave of dizziness comes over him and the darkness seems to expand. The world tilts and he feels himself falling forwards, then nothing.

Chapter Text

When Steve wakes up, he is warm and safe and the pain in his back is now muted and simmering, with the strong itch of healing flesh. Dappled light is spattered across him - too bright for early morning, and there is a woman’s voice singing somewhere in a language he does not recognise.

He sits up and the pain flares up again. A quick glance down reveals that he is wrapped in bandages - his torso bare otherwise, but still wearing his breeches.

A small fire hisses in the grate and the singing stops.

“There is food, I shall bring you some,” a woman’s voice calls. Steve struggles to his feet.

“No need, ma’am. I can come down.” His back aches with every movement he makes, but he finds a clean shirt - a little too small for him - and pulls it on. The movement is agony and he has to pause for breath. As he is recovering, the door is pushed open and a young woman steps in. She has long chestnut hair and a deep red dress.

“You should be in bed,” she says, looking at him with an unsettling gaze that seems decades older than her face.

“I am fine, ma’am,” Steve says, aware of his lack of dress. “I heal fast. Am I to take it that you are my rescuer?”

“I was less concerned with rescue and more with concealment,” she says, reaching out a hand towards him. “I had no desire for you to bring the militia down upon my head. You collapsed from your wounds in my garden.” She looks him up and down. “You had two bullet wounds in you, and both shots struck true. Either of them should have killed you,” she says, and Steve smiles as innocently as he can, which is quite innocently. Bucky had always said butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. The woman does not seem convinced, however, and still eyes him a little sardonically.

“Guess luck must have been on my side,” he says, shrugging, which makes him wince as it pulls at the wounds in his back.

“That’s a lot of luck, to heal you so quickly,” she says.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to tell you, Miss…?”

“Wanda. My name is Wanda,” she says. Looking at her now, Steve can see she is younger than he had assumed. Not even twenty, if he had to bet. 

“Thank you, Wanda, for giving me aid. I know you had no reason to trust me.”

“Because you are a highwayman?” she asks. When Steve starts at the term, she smiles. “If you did not want me to know, perhaps you should not have collapsed on my doorstep with your mask on.” She gestures to a small table in the corner of the room. The plain, dark blue mask sits there, staring at the ceiling.

“Ma’am, I…”

“Do not trouble yourself, Captain Rogers. I have more reason to trust the highwaymen of this world than the militia.” She raises a hand and red energy - like that which powers the sky ships - crackles between her fingers as she flexes them. “I will take my chances with you.”

“You are the witch of the woods?” Steve asks, and she smirks.

“I am a witch and I live in the woods,” she says. “Glad to hear that people are still talking about me.” Her voice has a bitter edge. “I have no intention of cursing you.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Steve replies. “I doubt you would have helped me had you wished me ill. Not a good strategy. But…” he looks over at the mask, which still stares up at the ceiling with its empty eyes. “How did you know my name?”

“I’m a witch,” she says. Steve holds her gaze and eventually her serious countenance breaks into a cheeky grin more suited to her age. “I also visit the village on occasion. People will gossip, even with a wicked witch, and two young eligible captains, fresh from winning fortune and glory in the war - people will definitely gossip about that.”

Steve’s lips tighten as he tells himself not to think of what exactly the village folk have been saying about him. And then they tighten more when he thinks of what he knows they say about Tony.

“Do you want to know what they said?” she asks, the small smile coming back.

“No, thank you,” Steve says.

“It was not glory for you, of course,” she says, her voice going a little distant, her head tilting to one side as she looks through him. “There was no glory there - at the end of the line.”

Steve almost jumps out of his skin at the words.

“Why did you say that?” he asks, and suddenly he is not so sure of her kindness. “Where did you hear those words?”

“They are written inside you,” she says. “And the ghosts you carry whisper them.”

“Ghosts?” Steve echoes. “They are not ghosts, they’re just… memories.”

“What else is a ghost?” she asks. “I could get rid of them for you. I could clear your mind.” She reaches out for his temples, her fingers flickering red, but Steve catches hold of her wrists, pushing them gently back down.

“No, thank you,” he says firmly. “They are my memories to live with, and to forget them would be an injustice to the people in them. I will not forget them.”

“If that’s what you want,” Wanda says. “Then we should eat. I’ve made a stew. I hope you are hungry.”

The stew is delicious. It has been a long time since Steve has eaten something so simple. The cook that Tony had insisted he hire seems determined that every meal must be a masterpiece.

Of course, once the meal is done, Steve is met with another dilemma - how to return to his house and his life in broad daylight without any of his own clothing to wear and without being seen.

Luckily, Wanda has an answer to that.

“I can make you invisible, if you’d like,” she says, as though this is a perfectly normal thing to mention across the kitchen table.

“Invisible?” Steve asks.

“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say unnoticeable ,” she corrects. “I can affect people’s perception of you, making it so they just don’t pay attention.”

“That would be a great help,” Steve says.

She lifts her fingers and the flickering red appears again. It leaps out towards him and Steve holds his ground. Where it touches him, it feels like bubbles, tickling under his skin, slowly spreading out and down, all across him. It is not an unpleasant feeling, but certainly disconcerting.

A quick glance down at his hand assures him that it is still there, but he finds it strangely difficult to focus on, as though he cannot concentrate. He looks up at Wanda again.

“Thank you again. This is the second time you have saved me by my count. It seems I am much in your debt.”

“You should be wary of who you promise debts to, Captain,” Wanda says, smirking a little. “They may take you up on the offer.”

“You saved my life, to ignore that would be unthinkable.”

“Have you never heard that you should not make promises to witches?” Wanda asks. “We are not known for our kindness.”

“I have no time for such prejudices. I imagine that witches and warlocks are much the same as any other people, for all they may be capable of more. There are kind ones and there are cruel ones, and most people are a mix of the two. So far you have shown me nothing but kindness and I cannot judge you by anything other than what I have seen myself.” Steve bows to her and she looks slightly bemused by him.

“You are an uncommon man, Captain Rogers. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Is that a prophecy?”

“Do you believe in predestination?”

“Not in the slightest,” Steve tells her, his voice certain. “We make our own choices and our own fates. Each man is responsible for his own destiny.”

“Then I will not disabuse you of your beliefs,” she tells him, which is not at all comforting to hear. She turns away, to a table of dried herbs. “You should leave, my powers will not last forever.”

“Many thanks,” Steve says, bowing again, before stepping out the door. Liberty is standing calmly in front of the house, chewing at a bag of oats that Wanda must have given her. He strokes her neck and she turns to nuzzle into his jaw. In the light of day, the world seems much different from the night before. It seems impossible that there should have been such drama last night. Pistol shots in the night and… And Tony. He blushes when he remembers the way he kissed his hand. Steve must have been out of his mind, the mask had made him mad.

A midnight adventure, the sort of thing that would have been a tale in the magazines when he was a child. A moonlit chase, a handsome baronet, and a dashing highwayman. What has he made of his life?

He feels easier in himself, though. It is strangely like the exhilaration of the night has carried over. The pain in his back, aching as it heals, seems more real than anything else. It cuts through the haze that always seems to gather around him these days. He mounts Liberty and urges her out of Wanda’s garden and back towards home.

Wanda’s magic is as good as her word, no one who passes him pays him any attention whatsoever, and he manages to make it into the house and back into his ordinary clothes unnoticed.

*

Now that Sir Anthony has been assailed, the village is full of stories of the highwayman. What had before been nothing but a scurrilous rumour is now a legend. Of course, the tale has grown in the telling. The news that Sir Anthony’s driver had shot the highwayman is common knowledge, but the fact that the highwayman did not fall has sparked the imagination. They say he is a ghost and the shot passed straight through him, for it is impossible to hit a spectre.

No one talks of the kiss, whether no one in Sir Anthony’s party had seen fit to share that part of the tale, or whether the villagers merely find that uninteresting (doubtful) that at least remains private. But Steve finds himself going about his day surrounded by evermore impossible stories of his own deeds.

The highwayman is seven foot tall, his face a ghostly skull. The highwayman is so handsome people swoon at his feet. He is everything anyone wants him to be, and the tales only grow with the retelling. Steve is sure he has not held up half as many coaches as people are claiming he has.

The most difficult part on Steve’s end, is returning the goods to those he took them from. He learns from the stories that the other people in the coach that night were Mr and Mrs Hogan, whom he has heard stories about. Mrs Hogan, he thinks to himself, did not act like a woman who had been jilted. Mr Hogan, he discovers, was the former driver of Sir Stark, although was elevated after the death of Sir Howard, and shortly thereafter he and Mrs Hogan, nee Potts, were wed. The gossip tree is full of tales of how Sir Anthony had them wed to cover up his own indiscretions. Steve reserves judgement.

He is out sketching, avoiding talk of his misdeeds, when he happens upon Mrs Romanoff again. Or rather, she happens upon him. It is not unheard of for a lady to go alone through the countryside, although he would have thought with banditry now confirmed in the area, most would not be so bold. Her route is strange, though. There is little up the path she is on but Stark Manor. It is possible she has been visiting the baronet or his guests, but he was not aware she and Sir Anthony had anything more than a passing acquaintance.

“Captain Rogers,” she calls out. “What a happy accident to meet you here!” He rises from where he has been sitting, brushing the grass from his breeches and bows to her. “I hope I do not interrupt your reverie.”

“I am merely sketching, Ma’am,” he says. “Nothing important.”

“You mean I may have interrupted the creation of a masterpiece,” she says, her lips curling into a smile that is a little teasing.

“I would never rate my skill so highly,” he says. “I am self taught and I’m afraid the only subjects I had to paint for a long time were… not of a kind suitable for polite company.”

“Then I’m sure I would find them fascinating,” she says. “I am also sure that there are many people here abouts who would rate your skills very highly indeed.”

“Without even having seen my sketches?” Steve asks. “Then they must be far better art critics than I.”

“They must,” she agrees. “It is pleasant out here,” she says then, switching the subject so abruptly that Steve blinks in surprise. “Quiet.”

“Yes…” Steve agrees, looking out over the valley he had been sketching. The lush green of new leaves are starting to grow in earnest, the spring finally sprung. The sun sends a golden gloss across it, and though his charcoal cannot capture the colours of it all, he hopes he has made a good showing of the light, which sends an almost mystical cast to the landscape.

“Far different from the battlefield,” Mrs Romanoff says. Her voice is a little harder than usual, a bit more brittle and Steve turns his gaze back to her. There is a moment when he sees her face, just a flash of an expression that he has seen painted across the faces of soldiers after battles across the continent. Then it is gone, replaced with her usual smile. She has seen what she is talking about, Steve thinks, and packs that thought away. Her business is her own, and he has caused enough trouble by prying into others’ affairs. “Did you hear today’s news?”

“I did,” he says with a weary sigh. “From no less than half a dozen sources.” Mrs Romanoff graces him with a quick, slightly unladylike grin.

“Yes, it has set tongues wagging. A highwayman, in this day and age.”

“It sounds like something from a gothic tale,” Steve responds. “But I suppose it is exaggerated in the telling.”

“Not half as much as you might expect, I have heard,” Mrs Romanoff says. “I have been up to the manor and heard the tale first hand.”

“So it truly was a ghost?” Steve asks, his heart rate picking up in his chest. He has to be careful not to crush his charcoal in his hand.

“Not quite. But the man somersaulted like an acrobat over a grown man’s head, took two shots to the back and rode off like they were nothing more than bee stings,” Mrs Romanoff tells him. “Not to mention that he apparently acted like some antiquated adventure hero.”

“In the dark, it seems more likely that the shots merely missed,” Steve says. “I have been in battle, and it is easy to miss with a pistol, particularly a moving target when there is little light.” His back twinges as he says it, reminding him that neither shot had missed.

“Perhaps you are right, although the man who took them swears the shots were true.”

“And I’ve met soldiers who would swear they stormed the gates of Azzano solo,” Steve tells her.

“I’m sure you have,” she agrees, an amused smile spreading across her face. “And you are right, to take two shots to the back, it would be quite a man who could continue after that… an impossible man, even.”

“As you say,” Steve agrees. “Impossible.”

“But in the current world, where ships fly through the air and magic has come out of the shadows. A world where a hero like the fabled Captain breaks Hydra’s forces. Perhaps the impossible is no longer out of reach.” She looks at him as she says it, and for a moment he worries that she knows. He holds her gaze, though.

“Perhaps for men like Sir Anthony,” Steve says. “The designs he comes up with are beyond anything I could imagine. But for a normal person…”

“Quite right,” Mrs Romanoff agrees. “I should not spread such frivolous stories. And I believe I am late for an appointment.” She smiles and offers a little bob of a curtsey. “A pleasure talking to you, as always, Captain Rogers. Good luck with your sketch.”

She walks off towards the village and Steve sighs, looking out at the valley again. It seems further away once more, and the sun has ducked behind a cloud, leaving the world ordinary once more. The moment has left him, so he packs his things and heads back to Lakefield, turning the situation over in his mind again and again as he goes.

Upon his return, Sam is waiting for him in the drawing room, standing staring out of the window, his arms crossed over his chest, every inch of him the military man.

“Sam?” Steve asks as he steps in, but his friend does not turn.

“Strange stories all over the village today,” Sam says.

“I’ve heard,” Steve says. “It shouldn’t cause us any problems, though, I don’t think. Unless you're planning to travel soon. If so, I’m sure we can-”

Sam turns.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Not while you’re off getting yourself shot at by Stark’s driver! Really? A highwayman? That’s your plan?”

Steve quickly re-evaluates his options, shutting the door behind him.

“Sam…”

“Don’t lie to me, Steve. Shot two times in the back, jumping over people’s heads. It’s not something a normal man can do, and we both know you’re not exactly an average man, Captain.”

Steve winces at the tone.

“I… I’m searching for evidence,” he says, trying to find the words to explain. It’s not a good plan, he knows, but it’s the only one he’s got. “I return everything I take, after I’ve searched it for evidence.”

“I know why you’re doing it,” Sam says. “I’m just mad you thought you had to do it alone.”

Steve blinks and stares at him, nonplussed by this sudden change in direction.

“You… want to help?” he asks slowly. Sam sighs and finally loosens his arms from across his chest.

“Of course I want to help,” he says. “You’re my friend, you’re doing something stupid, and you’re trying to save the country. I just hope you’ve got a mask in my size.”

“I can’t ask you to…”

“You’re not asking. I’m telling,” Sam says. “You need back-up. You really got shot last night?”

“Twice,” Steve admits and Sam winces.

“Like I said, you need back-up.”

“I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe,” Steve says. “If we’re caught it means disgrace and the hangman’s noose.”

“Then we’d best not get caught,” Sam tells him. “Now, are you planning to tell me how you happened upon this hare-brained scheme? Or did you just read too many romantic tales in that library of yours?”

Steve laughs. It breaks out of him like a punch, up through his lungs and throat. It feels wrong in his mouth as it comes up and it sounds ragged and jagged in the air. He’s not sure when he last laughed. Was it really that long ago?

“Something like that,” he says before settling in an armchair and relaxing into it, the twinge in his back still there, but ignorable. Sam closes the door and sits down opposite him and Steve starts to explain everything that’s happening.

*

It's too much to hope that he will not have to see Tony just yet. In his mind, Steve is still replaying that night, the look in Tony’s eyes as they had stared at each other, the weird lightness in his chest that came from being Nomad, not Steve Rogers. Nomad could dare where Steve Rogers would not. But it was still Steve who had to live with the memory of it.

The invitation comes later that very day. Sir Anthony is at home for guests this evening. He would like to introduce you to his good friends, the Hogans, are you available?

Steve is tempted to decline, pleading a prior engagement, but one look at the unimpressed expression on Sam’s face and he’s penning a polite acceptance and sending it off with Peter Parker, who seems determined to become the messenger boy for the entire county, if he can.

“You need to show them you’re not bleeding out in a ditch somewhere,” Sam says as Steve glares at the door. “You’ve got a very recognisable silhouette.”

“They didn’t recognise me,” Steve tells him.

“And if you show up, clearly unshot and completely healthy then they never will,” Sam tells him.

“Except that I am shot,” Steve points out. “I may heal more quickly, but even I can’t heal two bullet wounds in one night.”

“Pretty sure as long as you don’t bleed on anything and you can walk, no one’s going to think it was you,” Sam says. “Most people would be dead. They wouldn’t be visiting their neighbours.”

“It’s just…” Steve may have left out some salient points of the previous night’s encounter. “It’s going to be awkward.”

“Not for them,” Sam says. “Well, no more awkward than any conversation between you and Sir Anthony usually is.”

“That is comforting to hear, thank you,” Steve says, as flatly as he can, but Sam just grins at him and reaches out to smack his shoulder, causing Steve to wince as the muscles in his back react.

“Just… don’t insult him this time,” Sam suggests.

“Thanks, I never would have thought of that,” Steve replies, and they step out the door, down to where their horses are waiting.

*

If Stark Manor could ever be called homely, it would be tonight, the lighting is warm and the party intimate. Tony seems more relaxed than Steve has ever seen him, and even Obadiah does not seem so imposing as usual.

They are greeted at the door by Mr Jarvis, as usual, and escorted through to the parlour where the gathering is already enjoying itself. Steve can’t help but feel like they are imposing on a private moment, looking in at the group who all seem so settled in themselves.

“Captain Rogers and Captain Wilson, sir,” Mr Jarvis announces with a bow, and heads turn around to see them. There are some faces Steve does not recognise, but they must be good friends judging from the atmosphere.

“Captain Rogers! Captain Wilson!” Tony declares, standing from his seat to greet them. He is in good cheer, a smile broad across his cheeks, and he shakes their hands delightedly, wrapping both of his own around them, warm and soft against the chill of Steve’s skin. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

Sam says something suitably flattering, while Steve just smiles a bit helplessly, trying not to look down at the hand that he had kissed the night before. He can still remember the sensation of Tony’s skin against his lips.

“You're in good spirits,” he says finally, allowing Tony to tow him by the arm to a low seat by the window. Tony grins at him.

“Didn’t you hear? I’ve had the most excitement in years.”

“Excitement?” Steve asks, his heart sinking.

“The highwayman,” Tony replies.

“Tony,” Mrs Hogan says. “Could you at least remember to introduce us before you decide to regale the captain with your version of events?” She raises her eyebrows and Tony sighs.

“Yes, yes. Captain Rogers, may I introduce Mr Harold Hogan and his wife Virginia. They are just returned from their honeymoon and were given quite the welcome home.”

“I believe I might have heard a little of that in the village today,” Steve says with a warm smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Hogan.” He bows. “Might I introduce my friend, Captain Samuel Wilson of her majesty’s Aerial Battalion.” Sam bows and offers his congratulations on their marriage.

“And this is Colonel James Rhodes,” Tony says, “and Colonel Carol Danvers.” He waves a hand towards the final two members of the party. “Also of her majesty’s Aerial Battalion.”

“Good to meet you, Captain,” Colonel Rhodes offers as they both stand. He holds out his hand for a firm shake. “I’ve heard good things.”

“As good as you can about a mudcrawler,” Colonel Danvers adds. There’s a lift to one side of her mouth and a spark in her eye that clearly indicates she means it kindly. Steve shakes her hand, too. 

“Well, someone’s got to get their hands dirty,” he says.

Sam steps forwards to greet Rhodes, his expression a little flabbergasted. He has, apparently, heard of both colonels and once again the talk veers to lift, thrust, and cannons, as well as people whom Steve has never heard of.

“They’ll be at it for hours,” Tony says in a conspiratorial voice that sends a shiver up Steve’s spine. “If there’s one thing I know about the airforce, it’s that they like nothing better than to talk about their ships. I swear, if he could, Rhodey would marry his.”

“I have observed the same about Sam,” Steve agrees, keeping as tight a grip on himself as he can. “ The Falcon holds his heart, I am sure.”

“And where does an army man keep his?” Tony asks.

Steve’s mouth opens, but he says nothing. There is no answer he can think of to that question. Long ago, maybe, there would have been a joke or an observation, but not anymore. Instead, he stares at Tony, mouth ajar, and Tony looks back. It takes Steve far too long to pull himself together.

“My mouth has a habit of running away with me,” Tony says quickly. “I'm told by too many people that I speak faster than I think.”

“I am astonished there is any force in this world faster than your brain, Sir Anthony,” Steve says. “Though, if there is, I cannot be surprised that it is your mouth.” Tony stares at him for a second, blinking twice, and Steve feels a thrill of pleasure that he has managed to confound that incredible brain even for a moment.

“I don't know if that is a compliment or an insult, Captain Rogers,” Tony says slowly.

“Then please, take it as a compliment, for I intended no insult.” Tony’s face quirks at that, like he almost laughs.

“That seems to be becoming a running theme of our interactions,” Tony says and Steve can feel himself blush.

“Stop scandalising the good captain, Sir Anthony,” Mrs Hogan says. “Not everyone is prepared for your sense of humour.” The voice is unexpected. Steve had almost forgotten that there were other people around. He shakes himself and looks around, finding that everyone is looking in their direction. His flush deepens. Ms Van Dyne raises an eyebrow at him, clearly amused by his exxpression.

“I’ll have you know, Miss P- Mrs Hogan, that your aspersions are directed in quite the wrong direction. It is the captain you should admonish, for he was the one insulting me!” Steve opens his mouth to protest, but before he can Colonel Rhodes responds.

“Then I have no doubt you deserved it, Tony,” he says, though there is no hardness to his tone. “Let the poor man relax. This is meant to be a party of pleasure, not an interrogation chamber.”

“It seems I must apologise to Sir Anthony,” Steve says. “I meant no insult.” He looks away, his eyes finding where Mr Stane sits in the corner, sipping his brandy and watching proceedings with the air of a carrion bird surveying a dying animal.

“And I'm sure Sir Anthony takes no offence,” Mrs Hogan says, with a sharp look at Tony.

“Of course not,” Tony says, waving a hand. “But you must allow us to tell you of our encounter last night. It was the most thrilling thing that has happened to me in years.”

“Tony,” Mr Stane says from the corner. “Your fascination with this business is bordering on ghoulish. It’s hardly appropriate conversation for mixed company.” Tony looks at him, askance.

“My dear Obadiah,” he says. “Mrs Hogan was present for it all and if her delicate sensibilities held up to the event itself, I’m sure they will brace themselves to hold up to the retelling. And those of our guests who were not there are military men and women, I am sure they have seen worse than a dashing highwayman in their endeavours.”

“Except for Hank and I,” Ms Van Dyne says. “But I am too busy being jealous that it was Sir Anthony who got all the excitement, when all my journeys have been entirely uneventful. So I shall have to live vicariously!”

“Dashing?” Steve asks, the word standing out in his mind. He sees Sam narrow his eyes at him slightly, but ignores it.

“Oh, quite dashing,” Tony says with a sly grin. “I had no idea a criminal could be so polite.”

“The blackguard stole everything we had,” Mr Hogan said, harrumphing loudly.

“Which in itself is an oddity,” Tony cuts in. “He could have just gone for the jewellery, the money. I had four and twenty pounds on me, a princely sum for any highwayman, you would think, and yet he took everything.”

“Greed,” Mr Stane says. “This kind of person cannot help themselves.”

“It would certainly have been safer to take just the valuables,” Miss Potts says. “Then we would not have had time to act against him.”

“Precisely!” Tony raises a finger in triumph. “That is what I mean! I have never heard of a highwayman who ties valises to his horse. What nonsense is that? And from what I have heard today, we were not the first carriage to fall victim to him.”

Steve’s stomach flips inside him. He had known that this was the eventual effect of his efforts, of course he had, what other outcome could there be to taking up the highwayman’s mask, but watching it play out in front of him does not seem so exciting anymore.

“The man’s a menace, we must call the militia,” Colonel Rhodes says.

“This is a local matter,” Mr Stane interjects. “I hardly feel we need to mobilise the army for such matters. They have better things to do than hunt down a single man. We can solve this problem ourselves, I am sure.”

“But that is what I am talking about,” Tony says again, his voice is growing more excited by the second. “I have reason to believe that our belongings will be back with us before the week is out.”

Steve blinks.

“You… know where to find him?” Ms Van Dyne asks excitedly. Over her head, Steve looks across at Sam, who is doing remarkably well at keeping a straight face, although there is a look in his eyes that implies he and Steve will be discussing this matter at great length later.

“No, no… no idea at all,” Tony says. “More’s the pity. And I would know him if I saw him, of that I am sure. He was very distinctive. Very… distinctive,” he repeats, his eyes looking off into the distance a little. Steve finds himself torn between amusement and horror. For he is sitting right besides Tony, and yet the man does not recognise him at all. Horror, he finds, comes from the knowledge that he has made somewhat of an impression upon the young baronet, which may have been his intention in the moment, but seems like a terrible idea in the light of day.

Tony shakes himself from his reverie, and Steve risks a glance at Mr Stane to see the man’s mouth pulled into a sour line, his eyes hard as steel.

“That is not what I meant. I do not know where to find him, except maybe in his grave, after he took two shots to the back last night - lead shot is not good for anyone’s health. But those I spoke to, who had been witness to this highwayman before, found all their belongings - valuables and bags, everything, was returned to them within the week, and every one of them with a politely written note apologising for the inconvenience.”

Steve is very grateful that everyone else is looking at Tony because he knows he is blushing once again. The notes had been a silly touch, but it had felt wrong to just return the items, and he will admit a flare for the dramatic - that it seems is to his detriment.

“Why take them at all?” Mr Hogan asks. “That makes no sense.”

“On the contrary, it makes perfect sense!” Tony corrects.

“He’s looking for something,” Colonel Danvers says, and Tony lights up, beaming at her with delight.

“Exactly. Our mysterious marauder is searching for something specific. Something he knows will be carried on the Brooklyn road, but he does not know who carries it.”

“What could he possibly be looking for?”

“A stolen jewel, a book, a family heirloom stolen years before and lost to the ages,” Tony says. Steve bites at his tongue to hold back his laugh. It seems that he is not the only person in this room with a fondness for the romantic.

“Next you’ll be suggesting a lock of his true love’s hair,” Mr Stane says. “You’re getting carried away on a flight of fancy, Tony. You’re too old for this sort of foolish nonsense boy. Remember what your father always said.”

Tony’s face falls, shuttering closed, and Steve can’t restrain himself from glaring at Mr Stane, noting that he is not the only one to do so.

“The man is a criminal, not the hero of some overwrought romantic poem,” Mr Stane goes on. “And we deal with criminals as the law dictates. He will be caught, sooner or later, and he will be hanged.”

‘Don’t do it, Stevie,’ Bucky’s voice lingers in his mind. ‘Don’t you open your big mouth… you’ll go getting us into trouble again.’

“If the man took two shots to the back and still escaped last night,” he says slowly, “he hardly seems like he would be easy to catch.”

“We can only hope he’s dead already,” Mr Stane responds. “If not, the shots probably missed him. Your driver’s ideas of his own talents are greatly inflated. He has entirely too much ego for one in his position.”

Tony mutters something about Barton never missing, only loud enough for Steve to hear, although if he had the hearing of a normal human, he probably wouldn’t.

“And if he’s returning everything he stole,” Sam says, “then he is hardly a thief. At the worst it appears to be a case of aggravated borrowing.”

Rhodes chuckles at that and Tony lets out a hearty laugh.

“Laugh as you wish, but we cannot afford to let such matters pass unchallenged. The order of the world depends upon taking hard action now to prevent the breakdown of society. If he continues then other people will get ideas of the same sort, and where would that leave us?” Mr Stane asks.

“Undoubtedly somewhere terrible,” Mr Stark says with a roll of his eyes. “But as Rhodey said before, this is hardly the time for such fierce debate and politics. Let us consider lighter topics.”

The subject quickly changes. Highwaymen all but forgotten in talk of business and mutual acquaintances, most of whom Steve has no knowledge of.

He sits as politely as he can, commenting on what he knows and making the appropriate noises until Colonel Rhodes takes pity on him and manages to start a conversation about how Steve is liking the area. He has several suggestions for places Steve could walk to get good views for his sketching, but Colonel Rhodes knows little about art and Steve’s knowledge of the nearby countryside is lacking, not to mention that the pain in his back still sings in the back of his mind constantly, cutting his attention span short.

Soon enough the conversations break and reform and Mrs Hogan comes up to him.

“Captain Rogers,” she says, her smile bright but sharp, like sunlight on a knife edge. “Would you take a turn around the room with me? I feel I have been sitting for too long, and we have not yet had a chance to properly get to know one another.”

Steve straightens and gets to his feet, offering her his arm.

“Certainly, Mrs Hogan. It would be an honour.”

Tony is watching them a little suspiciously, but Steve does his level best to ignore the looks as Mrs Hogan takes his arm and they proceed to walk around the room at a stately pace.

“Captain Rogers,” she says, when they are quite out of earshot. “Sir Anthony can speak of nothing but your virtues.” Steve feels his smile pull a little unevenly. “And yet I see that makes you out of sorts. How can that be?”

“Sir Anthony has the peculiar skill to make virtues sound more like vices, Mrs Hogan,” Steve says.

“He can be contrary,” she agrees. “And I have always found him seeing all too clearly in other people that which he is blind to in himself.” She pauses, as if considering her words.

“I cannot regret my situation,” she says. “But I regret that I have not been able to be here for the last months.” She sighs. “I’ve heard that you have been there for him. You have my thanks for that.”

“I have done very little, Mrs Hogan,” Steve tells her, shifting uncomfortably. “In fact, many days, I have felt like I have upset him more than anything.”

“He could stand to be upset a little more often,” Mrs Hogan says. “No, don’t look at me like that. He is surrounded by people who fawn all over him for his fortunes and his mind. Mr Stane indulges him far too often in his wild inventing sprees and his other… excesses. It is not a healthy environment for any man, much less one who has just experienced a great loss.”

“I would have thought that the most appropriate time to be indulged,” Steve says, a little confused.

“There is a great deal of difference between the uncaring excesses of strangers and the comfort of friends,” Mrs Hogan says. Steve cannot deny that. Although he had little choice but to rely on strangers.

He remembers the Barnes family with a wince and shakes his head.

“Mr Stane is hardly a stranger,” he says and she purses her lips.

“That, I fear, is part of the problem.”

She is about to say something more when her husband calls across the room and she is pulled away and into their conversation, leaving Steve to his musing. He takes the opportunity to walk around the room.

The bookcases are filled with military accounts and dry tomes of science, often in languages Steve cannot begin to understand. Trinkets from around the world grace tables, things he knows immediately to be Howard’s choices, not Tony’s. In fact, this whole house seems imprinted with Howard’s personality. Even the grand piano in the corner is Howard’s own blend of style and statement. Steve runs a finger over the smooth polished lacquer.

“It’s not seen much use recently,” Colonel Rhodes says and Steve turns to see him standing at parade rest behind Steve’s shoulder. His eyes are looking not at Steve, though, but at the piano. “He used to play every day. But I don’t believe he’s touched it since his mother died.”

Steve looks back at the shining black of the lid covering the keys and he feels a strange kinship with the instrument.

“Lady Stark enjoyed music?” he asks. He remembers Sir Anthony mentioning it once, but the fact had not struck him as important at the time.

“She loved it. You never met her?” Rhodes looks surprised by that.

“I regret I did not have the pleasure. The war took most of my time and, by the time I had returned…” the colonel nods. “Though, from what Sir Howard told me, and having met Tony, she must have been a remarkable woman.”

Colonel Rhodes is looking at Steve with a shrewd expression. It is like he can see right through Steve’s skin and bones and down into his soul. It takes all Steve’s self-discipline to stand still.

“I am given to understand that you and Sir Anthony have grown… close,” Rhodes says. The pause before the final word has Steve’s hackles standing on end.

“We are friends, sir. I would hope that I might say good friends, if that is what you are asking.”

“Friends,” Colonel Rhodes repeats with a nod. Steve lowers his voice to a harsh whisper.

“If you are insinuating something untoward, may I assure you that there is no further connection between us. My intentions towards the baronet are only honourable and as his friend I would hope you knew better than to make comments which could be the source of malicious rumours.”

Rhodes smiles.

“So you do have intentions?” he asks and Steve flushes to the roots of his hair.

“No… yes. That is to say I intend to be his friend. I did not mean to imply… I am aware of the disparity in our situations and I would not presume-” Steve stammers, but Rhodes raises a hand to cut him off. Steve is grateful for the interruption. He had not come here tonight expecting such a conversation and he is entirely unprepared for it. His back aches in dull memory of why any thoughts along those lines are doomed for failure.

“My apologies, Captain Rogers. I intended no disrespect or insinuations against your honour. It is simply rare for Tony to become so attached so quickly, and yet he appears to value your company and your good opinion. I had been hoping to meet you during this visit, though Carol and I thought it might be too brief.”

Steve desperately wants to ask what Colonel Rhodes means by ‘attached’. He does not believe Tony holds him in any higher regard than any of his other friends in the area, he has seen no indication of partiality and even to consider it seems too great an impudence. Choosing safety over his curiosity, however, he pursues another course of conversations.

“You are not staying long, then?” he asks.

“Passing through,” Colonel Rhodes says. “Since The Captain ended the war, there isn’t much call for a ship of the line on the open air. Colonel Danvers and I have been summoned north to assist with training.”

“I’m sure the recruits will be as eager to receive your training as you are to give it,” Steve says and Colonel Rhodes laughs. It is a pleasant sound and Steve feels something ease in his chest at the thought he may not have made such a terrible impression on someone Tony holds in such high regard.

“Having fun without me?” I can’t allow it!” Tony says, appearing at Steve’s elbow as if Steve’s thoughts have summoned him forth. “I insist on being in on the joke. It is my privilege as host.”

Colonel Rhodes turns to place a hand on Tony’s shoulder.

“I see why you like him, Tony. I’m not sure whether he just insulted me, the aerial forces, or the armed forces as a whole. He’s a sly wit, your Captain Rogers.”

“Hardly my Captain,” Tony says, and Steve is mortified at the implication. “No man belongs to anyone but his own self, is that not what the infamous Captain said in one of his stirring speeches.”

Steve blinks, because he remembers that speech, remembers giving it to rally the troops after great losses, but that had been miles away, years ago. He stares at Tony in astonishment. The man could not have been there, that would be an impossibility.

“How do you…?” he starts.

“Of course, we have a fighting man among us,” Tony says with a grin. “Were you there to hear the great man speak?”

“I… was,” Steve says. “I confess I am confused as to how you could have been present.”

“Oh, I wasn’t there, I read it in the paper. They wrote it all down and printed it out.”

“The paper… they published what he said?” Steve asks, his voice hollow and far away again. He remembers that day, surrounded by men covered in dirt, who hadn’t been able to wash the blood of their comrades out of their uniforms. The officer in charge of the battalion had made a foolish, arrogant choice, sent half his men to their deaths and won his own glorious ending at the same time. The air had stunk, a pall of death and fear, and everything that came with them hanging over it all. Bucky had stood at his shoulder, face firm and broken in the way that only war could manage, and Steve had stood up. The only officer left. It had been his duty to get these men out. So he had spoken. He had spoken of duty and belonging and faith. He’d talked to them about freedom and he’d tried to make them understand, as best he could, that this fight was not about the war, it was about survival.

It had not been a glorious speech. It had not been a famous battle.

“No doubt they exaggerated somewhat,” Tony says. “And I’m not sure what the generals thought of his words, they skirted damn near to treason in some places, but it certainly made an impression back here.”

“Right…” Steve says.

“Are you going to tell us the man in question was not so imposing as they claim?” Tony asks, leaning forwards. “Did you ever chance to meet him?” Steve has never been sure whether Tony knows, if Howard had told him, but it seems not. It appears that Howard had kept that secret to his grave. Steve could wish that the man had been less circumspect.

“In passing,” Steve says weakly, wishing for someone to break the conversation.

“And what was he like?”

“Tony…” Colonel Rhodes says, his voice a warning.

“He was a man,” Steve says. “He was… just a man.”

“How disappointing,” Tony tells him. “But it is the fate of man to find our heroes have but feet of clay. I had pictured him full eight foot tall.”

“No,” Steve says, looking down at the piano. “He was just a man.”

“This is perhaps not the best topic of conversation for a pleasurable evening,” Colonel Rhodes says. “I find that talk of war has no place in such company.”

“You're right, of course,” Tony says. “The war is over, let us leave it and its luminaries in the past where they belong.”

Steve’s throat closes up and he knows that he has straightened, his fists forming unconsciously. His blood roars in his ears, drowning out the lilt of conversation around him. A relic of the past, that may be all he is. God knows he was created to fight a war that no longer exists. And is that not what he is still doing, with his midnight escapades? Fighting a war that is not real. He hides himself behind a mask and feels more alive at night merely because he is closer to what he was forged to be - a weapon.

“Captain Rogers?” Tony’s voice cuts through the roar. There comes a brush against his forearm. “Captain Rogers… Steve… take a deep breath. You need air.”

He forces himself to breathe because Tony asks him to and it settles something inside him.

“I have been inconsiderate,” Tony says. “I speak of things I do not understand and I make light of them. It is a personal failing. I must make light of everything, for I do not have the constitution to deal with such weighty subjects. But please, do not say I have caused you distress.”

“I am fine,” Steve says, it does not sound convincing. “I am well. I just… Perhaps… some music would set me right.” He gestures to the piano. “Colonel Rhodes tells me you play.”

There were no pianos on the battlefield.

“I…” Tony looks between them, his eyes wide and caught. “I fear I would not be to your liking. I tend towards the unorthodox. It is unlikely to be soothing. But Ms Van Dyne plays beautifully. I am sure she would be willing to demonstrate her skill.” He turns and calls for Ms Van Dyne. “Janet, the captain wishes to hear some music. Would you be so kind as to oblige?”

Steve almost stops to say that he would prefer Tony, but it is clear the man is uncomfortable with the suggestion, so he holds his tongue.

Ms Van Dyne is only too happy to play and she crosses over to start playing a lively song, more suited to a dance than such an intimate gathering, but the sound of it does raise the spirits.

It is a pleasant evening, and when they leave Steve is in happier spirits than he has been in a long time. Sam is too. It seems that Colonel Danvers and Colonel Rhodes are somewhat idols of his.

“I’m sure you made an excellent impression, Sam,” Steve assures him as he urges his horse to a trot.

“Of course I did,” Sam agrees, smiling broadly. “I always make an excellent impression. Although I fear I did not make as great an impression on them as our good Nomad did on the baronet.”

Steve freezes, his hand in mid air.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“You don’t play coy very well, my friend,” Sam tells him, stretching back. “He brought every conversation back to the ‘exciting encounter’.”

“It is fresh in his mind, of course he wished to talk about it. It was probably a very alarming experience for him.”

“Perhaps, yet when he spoke of the mysterious Nomad, his phrasing was more heroic than dastardly. Apparently the man flirted quite outrageously with him,” Sam says, his tone entirely conversational, but his smile sly.

“Really?” Steve says, trying to echo Sam’s tone.

“Kissed the baronet’s hand, so I heard.”

“That would be in keeping with his persona,” Steve tries, but Sam’s smile simply grows.

“Before somersaulting over their heads and dashing away into the darkness, leaving the baronet with naught but a name to go on.”

“It sounds as though you have been reading the kind of books you warned me against,” Steve tells him.

“Strangely, that was exactly what I was going to say to you,” Sam replies. “Perhaps the fair baronet has caught our highwayman’s eye.”

“Or perhaps he is a scoundrel who is too enamoured of the romance of the situation,” Steve says a little bitterly.

“Steve…” Sam’s voice lowers, the teasing lilt disappearing. “It is not a crime to like the man.”

“Sam, I would ask you not to pursue this line of conversation.”

“When we wear masks it can be easier to express our true feelings.”

“It is a role,” Steve says. “It is nothing but a dream.”

“It doesn’t have to be. You are a gentleman, a rich man who won accolades in the war. You have position and wealth enough to recommend you to anyone you should think of.”

“And again, I worry that you have been reading the wrong kind of novels,” Steve says, sighing wearily as Liberty picks up her hooves. “I am not The Captain here, I am merely one of any number of officers come back from the war with memories I cannot be rid of. I'm not the type of man who is able to… Addressing myself to others is not one of the skills I have, I am out of place in this society and with these people. I can barely hold a conversation without making a terrible mess of it all. I have insulted the man more often than I have pleased him and we are… his world is not my world. I would suffocate in his and he would drown in mine.”

“You are too hard on yourself,” Sam says. “And in my opinion, the baronet does not have as many reservations about the match as you do.”

“There is no match, Sam. There can be no match! He is…”

“He is only a man. A man with wealth and title, perhaps, but still a man,” Sam says gently. “I will leave the subject for now, but think on it, Steve. You deserve happiness.”

Sam leads his horse and trots ahead, letting Steve stew in his thoughts behind him. Liberty’s body is sure and steady below him, following the track home easily.

Sam has struck a nerve, because after last night Steve cannot deny it to himself anymore: he has a certain attachment to the baronet. But the path he has chosen has destroyed all possible chance of pursuing that thought. He is a criminal now, that much is certain. He cannot lead Tony to ruin, too.

But he can complete his mission, so that Tony can live without the threat of war come anew. And maybe, when it’s done, if he sees it through, he might be able to see a someday when he can bridge the gap between them.

Chapter Text

Adding Sam to his plans was, Steve could not deny, a godsend. He had not been aware of how difficult things had been until, suddenly, he had assistance. Sam has ideas about everything and it is good not to have to rely on himself. It is a relief he cannot truly express to have another pair of eyes and a second brain assessing everything.

It feels a lot like Steve has stepped into the past, and sometimes he has to stop himself from saying the wrong name.

“Looks like you landed on your feet, ” Bucky says to him as Steve sits in the library, drawing up the plans for the night. “I mean, the guy’s a fool for getting caught up in your bullshit, but I guess he’s better than nothing.”

“Not like you’re here to help,” Steve mutters to the air. There is no response.

He reminds himself that there is no ghost, it is merely memories lingering on. The Bucky he hears is just his imagination.

Nothing seems to work after that, though. His ideas are faulty, his plans too complicated. He cannot concentrate.

The sound of his butler - Steve still cannot get over the fact he has a butler - at the door comes almost as a blessing.

“Sir Anthony, Baronet Stark, to see you, sir,” the butler says and, almost before the words are out of his mouth, Tony is stepping into the room. With a bang, Steve stands, slamming a book shut over the notes he’d been writing, his knee hitting the table leg.

“Sir Anthony,” he says, the name coming out in a rush. The man looks good, but then he always looks good. “Forgive me, I was not expecting you.”

“Then finally we are on equal footing,” Tony says, grinning widely.

“I’m afraid I do not understand,” Steve says. Tony turns to survey the room and Steve takes the opportunity to check that nothing incriminating is peeking out. He quickly drops a pile of other books on top of the first. Just in time as Tony swings back around.

“I am pleased you are getting use out of this place,” he says. “I wasn’t sure of the kinds of books you enjoyed - or if you even enjoyed books.” He strides across the room to the low escritoire Steve has been working at, peering down at the title of the top book. “A treatise on the mating habits of the termite,” Tony reads. He looks up and Steve looks back, holding his face as steady as possible.

“Fascinating creatures,” Steve says. He holds the gaze of Tony’s warm brown eyes, which are squinting a bit in confusion.

“And once again, you have the advantage,” Tony mutters, clearly quietly enough that Steve is not supposed to overhear. “Captain Rogers, every time I have the measure of you, I find myself mistaken.”

Steve shifts under his gaze.

“I’m a simple man,” he says with a shrug. "There’s really not that much to know.” Tony laughs, abrupt and a little bitter, pulling his head around to look out of the window instead. The loss of the pressure of his gaze is like a physical sensation.

“I thought you were an honest man. There is nothing simple about you, Captain.” He runs a hand across the heavy leather cover of the treatise on termites and sighs. “I have met simple people; I know simple people. You are most assuredly not one of them.” He turns back to Steve, his eyes sharp and piercing once more. The clear intelligence in them very nearly takes Steve’s breath away. It does make his heart speed up in his chest, although whether that is from fear of those sharp eyes seeing through him, or merely in response to the intensity of Tony looking at him like that , Steve is unsure.

“There is something about you.” Tony lifts his hand to wag a finger. There is dirt under his nail, Steve notes, almost absently. “Something I just can’t put my finger on.”

“I am an open book,” Steve lies. “You may put your finger on any page of me.” They blink at each other and Steve’s words hang there between them. He hadn’t meant that like it sounded. 

Or maybe he had.

Tony’s finger hangs in the air alongside the words, hoving for a moment, like he’s about to take Steve up on his offer.

“Sketches,” he says instead, stepping back and clapping his hands together. “That is why I am here. Sketches. Yours. You invited me over to see them and here I am.”

“Oh, right. Yes,” Steve agrees.

“I must forewarn you that I am terrible with art. And far too blunt about these things. Miss Po - Mrs Hogan, now, I must remember that - has always said I am too blunt about these things. I will speak my mind.”

“I do not believe you could be a more severe critic of my work than I am myself,” Steve says. “My sketches are in the music room, shall we?” He gestures to the door.

“Were you not sketching when I came in? I thought for certain that must be what you hid with such haste.”

Steve’s mind runs blank.

“No… I was… uh… taking notes.”

“On the mating cycle of termites?”

“A...pparently?” Steve agrees. He would very much like to bury his head in his hands. Tony narrows his eyes and purses his lips.

“One day, Captain Rogers, I will uncover you.” The promise is firm and soft, almost a verbal caress, but at the same time it makes Steve’s blood run cold. “But for today, I shall let you have your secrets. Lead on.”

The music room is bright and airy. It is probably Steve’s favourite room in the house with its broad windows and light colour scheme. But it feels empty so much of the time. He has had the piano tuned, although there is no one to play it. Bucky’s sister Becca had sometimes played, although she played every piece with the militant air of a five day march.

Steve knows he should invite the Barnes family to visit. It is abominable manners that he has not yet done so, but he can never bring himself to finish the invitation whenever he begins it. He has wasted reams of paper in such fashion.

He crosses to where his sketches sit on the table and turns to hand them to Tony, but Tony is looking at the piano.

Steve is not sure when Howard had Stark Manor built. Had Tony grown up there, was this very house where he had spent his childhood years? What must it feel like to walk through your childhood home as a guest to a near stranger, passing through memories only you were aware of.

“If you would like the piano, Sir Anthony, I can have it sent to the manor.” Before Tony can protest, Steve quickly continues. “There is no one here to play it and so fine an instrument should be played.”

“I have…” Tony pauses. “The manor is well equipped with pianos. I have no need of it. And we cannot deprive your future spouse. I’m sure they will be a person of great accomplishments.”

“It seems a shame for it to stand silent,” Steve says, sighing. “I have no intentions of marrying in the near future.”

“Naturally,” Tony says, with a flash of a brittle grin. “I imagine it is difficult to find someone whose perfection matches your own.”

“I thought I had cured you of this delusion. We have established that I am not perfect.” Steve sighs. “You insist on teasing me with this. As for any future partner, should I have one, I would not wish to hold anyone to such impossible standards. I fear that would not be a recipe for a happy connection. I should only wish, in the event that I marry, that I find someone who challenges me and whose flaws complement my own. Someone perfect for me.” Steve flushes deeply, realising he has strayed across the line into conversational waters that may be too personal. “Though I confess I am fond of music, although I lack the skill to play myself.”

Tony is watching him carefully, not speaking. His look cuts to the bone, but it’s soft in a strange, uncanny sort of way.

“My sketches, Sir Anthony,” Steve says, extending his hand. “I hope they meet with your approval.”

Tony takes them, but his eyes do not stray from Steve.

“I doubt you have ever been in need of anyone’s approval in your life,” he says. “But I also doubt there is anyone in the county who would dare disapprove of you.”

“So you approve of me?” Steve asks, the words coming unbidden from his mouth. It’s a question he should not ask. It is too direct and far from polite.

“I find I can do little else.”

Steve feels caught, like a butterfly in a collector’s case. He is staring at Tony’s eyes and Tony is looking back. For the first time since he returned from the front, he feels seen, but he is not afraid of it. The sketches hang between them, caught, Steve holding one side, Tony the other.

The music room door opens, allowing Sam in to break up the moment. Steve feels the air rush back to him. The world opens up again. He releases the sketches, stepping back smartly as Tony pulls them towards himself.

“Sir Anthony,” Sam says. “It is good to see you.”

“You too, Captain Wilson,” Tony says, smiling pleasantly. “Sorry to impose on your solitude, but Captain Rogers invited me to view his sketches and as I found myself in the area, this seemed as good a time as any.”

“Of course,” Sam agrees, looking at Steve, who attempts to look unaffected. “And the interruption is welcome, I’m sure. I have been trying to convince my friend here to be more in society. Good company will be good for him.”

“A sentiment I agree with whole-heartedly,” Tony says. “And I'm glad that I have found such good company today.”

Steve, for lack of anything to say, crosses over to the window to look out, letting the conversation pass him by. Sam is far better at this sort of small talk than he is. It always seems to Steve that his words are either too heavy with meaning - half of which he did not intend - or lack any meaning at all. There must be some middle ground, but it seems Steve can never find it.

“You’re ignoring your guest,” Bucky’s voice says. “He came here to see you.” Steve grits his teeth in an effort not to respond. “Come on, Steve. He’s handsome, he’s rich and he’s smart. Maybe you should live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Ruin and destitution, Steve does not say, but he risks a look at where Tony is talking to Sam, his hands, still holding Steve’s sketches, moving animatedly.

Tony glances over at him and smiles and Steve feels his heart hammer against his chest.

“Captain Rogers,” Tony calls. “You’ve been too modest about your talents.” He beams as he holds up a sketch. “This study of the manor is beautifully depicted. I must have it.”

“Of… of course,” Steve says, stepping back towards the conversation.

“No need to move. I would not have you ruin the romantic image you make silhouetted in the window there. The picture of a dashing hero from a fanciful novel.” Tony’s words elicit a small laugh from Sam, which he smothers with his hand. Steve can’t control the pursing of his lips.

“You seem to delight in mocking me, Sir Anthony,” Steve says, striding quickly away from the window. Tony’s face falls.

“I meant nothing by it,” he says. “Just that the scene was very picturesque and gothic.” He shrugs. “Uh, how much for the landscape?”

“It is your house, so it is yours,” Steve says, shaking his head. He could not ask for money for so small a thing, especially not after all Tony has done for him.

“Captain, I hardly think…” Tony says, looking between them.

“You gave me a home, Sir Anthony. The least I can do is give you a picture of one. I regret I have no excess property lying about.” Tony stares at him for a long second, then bows his head in thanks.

“My thanks, Captain. You are very generous.”

“Not at all,” Steve says automatically.

“If I cannot give you anything in payment, perhaps you would allow me to offer something in gratitude?” Tony says slowly. “It would be an honour to receive the two of you at dinner this evening.”

“We’d be delighted,” Sam says before Steve can step in.

“Excellent, excellent,” Tony says. He looks down at the picture in his hands. “I should be going. I promised Colonel Rhodes I would show him my new mare.”

“Then we shall not keep you,” Steve says.

Tony gives his goodbyes and Steve watches from the window as he mounts his horse and rides off. At the gate, Tony pauses and turns in his saddle to look back, raising a hand in farewell. Though he knows the chances of Tony seeing him are slim, Steve returns the gesture.

“Are you still trying to deny that there is an attachment between you and the baronet?” Sam asks.

“There is nothing to deny,” Steve says.

“Then I fear we must have your eyesight examined, my friend,” Sam says, patting Steve’s shoulder with a good deal more gentle camaraderie than is evident in his words. “If you could not see in Sir Anthony’s eyes the high regard he has for you, then you must be blind.”

“I would ask you not to spread such scurrilous rumours,” Steve says firmly. “The baronet’s reputation-”

“Fine, I’ll stop,” Sam says. “But if you want to stop other tongues from wagging, perhaps you should prevent yourself from staring after him like a man whose lover has gone off to war.”

“I’m not-” Steve realises his eyes have not yet left that place in the trees where Tony finally disappeared from sight. He drags his eyes away. “I’m not doing that,” he says.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Stevie ,” says the voice of Bucky’s shade.

“Well, if you ever decide that you are doing that, then no one would say it was a bad match.”

“Not to me,” Steve responds.

“Because the most famous hero of the Hydra war is not good enough?”

“This conversation is pointless. We have to prepare for this evening,” says Steve, tearing himself away from the window.

“Right, but if you asked, I think he would say yes.”

Which is why I shall not ask , Steve thinks sorely.

*

Dinner that evening is a strange affair. Steve is keeping an eye on the clock, knowing that he has other appointments this evening, of a less pleasant nature.

Colonels Rhodes and Danvers are still in residence, their intention being to move on in the morning, and Tony is full of high spirits. It is a pleasant night on all accounts but one: Obadiah Stane.

Mr Stane has made it clear that - no matter what Sam may think - Steve is not a suitable connection for Sir Anthony. In fact, it seems he takes personal affront at their friendship.

He begins the evening with an observance that the late baronet, Sir Howard, had a marvellous magnetic charisma about him.

“It is to Tony’s benefit that he inherited it,” Stane continues. “Capable of making friends with anyone, no matter how lowly their beginnings.” The entire table shifts uncomfortably and Colonel Rhodes clears his throat.

“I’ve always thought that Tony inherited his amiable nature from his mother,” Colonel Rhodes says. “The Lady Maria was a most gracious woman. Always a delight to talk to.”

Next to him, Colonel Danvers has a half smile curling her lips as she stares Stane down.

“My mother was a wonderful woman,” Tony says, his voice tight, and Sam hurries to change the topic to lighter things.

If Steve had thought Tony determined to insult him before, Obadiah Stane makes an art out of it. Having failed at his earlier tactic, he chooses instead to imply Steve’s unworthiness by comparison. Tony must visit town soon, the society there is so amiable. The ladies and gentlemen so attractive, Mr Stane believes he has never seen their like, and so intelligent.

“True breeding and education shine like diamonds, don’t you agree, Tony,” Stane says, turning to Tony to hand him a glass.

“Diamonds have their place,” Tony says, “But I’ve never found as much inspiration in a diamond as I get from looking at the raw untamed majesty of a mountain, and that’s mostly granite.” He sneaks Colonel Rhodes a grin. “A good landscape is hard to beat.” His eyes slide over to Steve, then quickly away.

“Your mother’s romantic soul, no doubt,” Stane says.

“Actually, mother was very fond of diamonds,” Tony says lightly. Stane laughs heartily.

“My point, my boy, is that society will be missing you, as you are missing society.” He pats Tony on the shoulder with a good deal too much familiarity in Steve’s opinion.

“I’m sure society does not care a whit that I am gone at all,” Tony says. “In my experience, society only cares for what is right in front of it and it has a very poor memory indeed for those it has not seen recently, excepting there being some sort of scandal.”

“All the more reason why you simply must remind them of your presence. You haven’t been since you received the baronetcy. I’m sure Sir Tiberius and Lady Frost will be missing you. You turned a lot of heads, last year.”

Tony’s face goes cold and blank and Steve notes the hard look in Colonel Danvers’ eyes and the way Colonel Rhodes’ hands tighten on the silverware. He shares a look with Sam.

“Indeed, I think not,” Tony says. “Colonel Danvers, tell me more of your travels. I am sure the stories Colonel Rhodes has been telling us are nothing compared to yours.”

Colonel Danvers seizes the change in subject with enthusiasm as Colonel Rhodes protests Tony’s accusations. The cheer is a little forced, but it does the trick. The conversation becomes lively again as Colonel Danvers leaps into a tale. Steve is called upon several times to defend the army’s honour, but he is sorely outnumbered, even when Tony declares that he will take his side, to even the odds just a little.

The pleasant atmosphere continues until they leave, earlier than Steve would like, but he cannot allow his resolve to falter merely because he wants to bask in the baronet’s laughter for another hour or more.

When he comes to claim Liberty from the groom, however, he finds the man with his hands in the saddlebags.

“What exactly are you doing?” Sam asks, as Steve checks the bag to see if anything is missing. All seems to be in place.

“Looking for a treat to give the horse, sir,” the groom - Barton, Steve recalls - says. He is looking carefully down at the ground. Steve eyes him suspiciously.

“Theft is a serious crime,” Steve points out.

“Yes sir,” Barton says. “So it’s a good thing I weren’t stealing anything.”

“Everything is accounted for, Sam,” Steve says, grateful that he had the presence of mind not to keep anything incriminating in the saddlebags.

The man looks between the pair of them, his eyes quick and scared.

“You aren’t gonna tell the baronet, are you?” he asks. “I swear I wasn’t stealing. I just didn’t have an apple on me and I thought I’d give her a treat. That’s all, I swear.”

Steve should, but nothing is missing and he and Sam have somewhere they need to be.

*

The night goes smoothly, Sam meshes into his plans cleanly and with little fuss. It is as though they have been working together for years. There are no large carriages or parties that night, just a few lone travellers. Steve takes their cases and thanks them before bidding them farewell. None of their voices are recognisable to them.

He leaves Sam with their new haul and goes to return what he had stolen before. There was nothing in the baronet’s valise, or in the luggage of the Hogans that implicated them, which was as he had expected.

Returning the items he has stolen is perhaps the most difficult part of the entire endeavour. Steve has almost been caught more times when returning goods than when stealing them, and that is no different at Stark Manor.

The place is dark, everyone seeming to be asleep, as he creeps up through the gardens towards it. He is in his Nomad costume, for lack of anything better to wear, because it is better to be seen as Nomad at a distance returning such things than seen as Steve Rogers. There are already enough questions.

The approach with the most cover is round the back of the stables and he knows he is well hidden as he creeps up towards the door. There are no lights on in the house that he can see, although that doesn’t mean everyone is asleep, it makes him feel more at ease. But from the second he starts towards the house, leaving the shadow of the stable, he feels as though someone is watching him. Steve looks over his shoulder, but sees no one there. Just in case, he checks the mask on his face, patting it slightly.

After a few seconds of holding still, nothing happens, so he starts to move again, but the feeling still lingers. Someone is watching him. He looks up to the windows of the house, but there is no sign of a face looking back at him. He can’t decide if he’s being foolish, this could just be because it is the baronet’s house he is approaching and this has already gone awry for him once, or whether his instincts are correct.

He does not hesitate again, it is better to get this task over and done with and slip away. If there are eyes on him, he does not know where they are, and to pause would only make it more likely he is spotted.

“It’s that yellow lining on your cape ,” Bucky’s false shade tells him. “ Quite the fashion statement. I thought I taught you better than that.” Steve grimaces. Bucky had always been the infiltration expert on their team. He had been able to sneak past an entire camp full of soldiers if he wished, and be completely unseen. He had indeed tried to teach Steve the finer points of stealth, but they had never quite caught on. Even when he was smaller, Steve had never been able to go unnoticed, although that was more the fault of his mouth than his appearance. And sneaking had never been his style. He prefers to be upfront about these things.

Perhaps highway robbery was not the path he should have taken. It is true that it sits uneasily on his shoulders, but he returns all that he takes - which is what he is doing right now after all. There is nothing dishonest in borrowing. Steve winces. He knows the law would not see it that way. And now he has dragged Sam - a perfectly respectable gentleman - into his madness, too.

But this is no time for recriminations, his hands full of borrowed - stolen - goods, halfway up the baronet’s front path.

He does not hear a gun being cocked, but he does hear one, distinct footstep behind him. It must be meant to be heard, for it is too close to be the first such step, and too distinct to be any attempt at stealth.

“Stop where you are,” says the voice of the groom. The same one Steve had found that morning going through his saddlebags. There is a certain irony to that, he supposes.

“Why?” Steve asks. “You have no gun, I would have heard it.” He keeps his voice in that Brooklyn drawl.

“I don’t need a gun to shoot you, Mr Highwayman,” the man says. His voice sounds a little different though, a touch more refined than it had before, not very much, but as though the rough edges had been knocked off. “Turn around and hold your hands out to your sides.”

Steve had not brought his pistols. Had not considered them necessary for this task. He is regretting that now, while he wouldn’t shoot a man who is merely protecting his master’s property, he would like to at least have the subterfuge.

“You went off half-cocked again ,” Bucky says in his mind. Steve shakes his head, but raises his hands to the sides, the stolen cases still hanging from one, and turns around.

It is no wonder he hadn’t heard a gun being cocked, because Barton is not carrying a gun. Instead he carries a bow, an arrow nocked and aimed right at Steve’s heart. Bows are not unheard of, mainly for hunting and sport, but in a world where rifles and pistols exist, it seems a curious choice of weapon. He already knows Barton has access to firearms, afterall, there is evidence in two small scars on his back.

“You look very well for a man I shot,” Barton says, his voice conversational. His arms hold the bow string taut, not a quaver in them. Steve does not doubt that were he to loose the arrow it would fly true. And he is not sure how well even he could take an arrow to the heart. Wanda, alas, is too far away to help him now.

“You must have missed me,” Steve says, “I’m good at dodging.”

“I don’t miss,” Barton says. Steve’s heard that sort of certainty before - in Bucky’s voice. And when he looks at the man with that thought in mind, it’s easy to see the similarities.

“You were a rifleman,” Steve says. Barton blinks.

“You were infantry,” Barton tells him. “I thought so. What’s a soldier doing stealing bags in the middle of the night?”

“Returning bags in the middle of the night,” Steve says, shaking the hand with the bags in it. “Nothing taken, just wanted to have a look. I was going to leave them on the steps, but since you’re here… catch.”

He throws the bags. It’s a difficult throw, the bags ungainly and not built to fly through the air, but Barton’s not the only one with good aim. After ricocheting his shield off numerous walls, throwing a few bags straight ahead is child’s play.

As soon as they leave his hand, Steve dives to the side, twisting into a somersault and then a flip, to make himself more difficult to hit, though nothing seems to be aimed at him, so he runs instead, not looking back. No footsteps follow him.

“I thought you were going to shoot me,” Steve says from behind the ornamental urn.

“Maybe I thought the better of it,” Barton says. “What is it that you’re looking for?”

“Why do you want to know?” Steve replies, a question with a question. It’s about forty foot to the stable and then another forty to the treeline where Liberty is waiting. He could probably make it, but not without an arrow in him, or two, depending on how fast Barton can shoot. He remembers Bucky’s speed with the rifle, and he thinks that Barton’s probably pretty fast.

“Maybe we can help each other,” Barton says. Steve’s mind switches gears, starts to reassess what he knows. Barton had been going through his bags, Barton’s a better shot with a gun than a groom should be, Barton’s voice changes when he doesn’t think anyone important is listening.

“I’ll think about it,” Steve says. “But I should really be going now. You know how it is.”

“People to rob?”

“It keeps me busy,” Steve replies. “It was nice meeting you again. Thank you for not shooting me.”

“You’re welcome,” Barton calls back. “Next time you might not be so lucky.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Steve says, stepping out from behind the urn with his hands raised. Barton’s bow is lowered, and he’s surrounded by the luggage Steve had thrown at him. “Goodnight, Mr Barton.”

Barton nods once, his eyes narrowed, and Steve takes that as farewell, before darting off past the stable and into the woods where Liberty stands waiting for him.

He does not go directly home. He leads any pursuers - Barton or otherwise - on a merry chase all around the woods, taking the paths he has found while playing at being Nomad, until he feels satisfied that any chasers will be thoroughly confused and even more thoroughly lost, then he turns Liberty back towards Lakefield and rides home.

The close shave has his heart thudding in his chest, but he feels more exhilarated than anything. The question of Barton is a curious one. He would swear that Barton’s voice is not one of the two he heard that night at the inn, but if the man has the ability to disguise it, that means very little. If Barton is one of the two people he overheard, then that changes things. It would make sense. Top secret designs, orders and documents must come in and out of the baronet’s house on a regular basis. Tony is thoroughly entrenched in advancing military technologies, as evidenced by his conversations with Sam about airship design and the work Steve has seen with his own eyes in Tony’s workshop.

Barton would be well placed to smuggle such information out. Although a groom would not have access to the house, perhaps.

It is a lead, though. The first he has had since he started this quest. Steve sighs as he cleans off Liberty’s forehead and slips through the secret passage to change out of the Nomad costume. If it is Barton, then he has an accomplice, a female accomplice. Steve just needs to work out who it is.

And whether it is Barton at all. Although Steve can think of no good explanation for Barton’s behaviour other than that. It is all very peculiar. Why had he been going through Steve’s saddle-bags? Why had he let Nomad go? How did he think that Nomad could be of assistance to him?

Perhaps it is not an answer, but an entirely new puzzle to be untangled, Steve thinks with an aggrieved sigh as he finds his way back to his bed.

He does not like how close the man is to Tony, though. Whatever Barton’s ulterior motives, Steve is sure that the baronet is unaware of them, and that thought sets his teeth on edge.

Perhaps the answers will be more forthcoming in the morning. Tonight, Steve cannot make heads nor tails of it.

*

He discusses events with Sam over breakfast, ensuring the servants are out of earshot first. Sam has no better ideas than him.

“If he were part of this treason, don’t you think he would be more likely to kill you than to ask for an alliance?” Sam says. “He knows you're looking for something after all, and though he doesn’t know what that something is, he must know there is a chance it is related to his dealings.”

“So you do not believe he is part of this conspiracy,” Steve says, frowning. “It seems unlikely that the two are not connected.”

“It would be a great coincidence for there to be two conspiracies going on at the same time,” Sam says, his voice thoughtful. “But while his actions are suspicious, they are not those I would expect from someone trying to cover up treason.”

“Then what could his purpose be? He did go through our saddlebags.”

“Yes,” Sam agrees. “So he is looking for something as well.”

“We are all looking for something.”

“Perhaps the same thing,” Sam suggests, spreading butter liberally onto his toast. “As you said, it is unlikely that the two are unconnected, but perhaps the connection is not what you think.”

“You think that he is looking for evidence of this conspiracy as well?” Steve asks. As he finishes his question the door opens and Delilah comes in with a fresh pot of tea. Steve thanks her and waits until she is quite gone before turning back to Sam.

“Well, the person you wrote to,” Sam says.

“Fury.”

“Is it possible he has people working on this?”

“Yes,” Steve admits. “He said as much in his letter, though not in so many words.”

“Barton could be one of his.”

“Then why would he not have introduced himself to me at once?” Steve says. “Fury and I have known each other for years. He knows that I am aware of the situation. It would make sense for us to pool our resources.”

“Steve,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair, his eyebrows raised as he gives a slight smile. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I suspect your… flair for the dramatic, may not be what a spy master looks for in his spies.”

Steve glares at him.

“I do not have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Of course not, and I suppose it was some other mysterious masked man who kissed the baronet’s hand and somersaulted over his head.”

“That wasn’t drama, it was misdirection.”

“It was straight out of a romantic novel,” Sam says. “Don’t worry. Your taste in literature is nothing to be ashamed of, my friend. Nor is your taste in men. I cannot say you do not set your sights high.”

“Sam,” Steve says.

He is saved from having to defend his actions by the arrival of the post. There is an invitation from Ms Van Dyne to have tea with her, which he and Sam gladly accept.

*

It is only a small gathering, Ms Van Dyne, her husband, and Mrs Romanoff, but the small party is quite cheerful and it is relaxing to be among people who feel little need to try to impress anyone. They pass a merry afternoon before Steve bids them farewell. Sam once again has business with the local falconer, but Steve wishes to return to his sketching, so he heads straight for Lakefield

Steve hears the music before he even enters the house. The tinkling notes on the air in a haunting melody that makes his heart skip a beat and his breath catch in his throat. It seems to come from the world itself, at first, and in a strange flight of fancy, he wonders if one of the fair folk his mother warned him of has finally come to take him away. There is a strange relief in the idea.

“ The window’s open, Stevie,” Bucky’s voice tells him in exasperation. And he notices that the window to the morning room is indeed open, though he cannot see clearly into the room from this angle.

He had had the piano tuned out of obligation more than anything. Steve cannot play a note and Sam has confessed that his fingers, while more than agile enough to tie the strongest knots required on skyship, have never managed to translate that to piano playing. But the piano had been there and Steve assumes at some point he will have to invite people round and there is never any shortage of young people wanting to show off their accomplishments.

It doesn’t sound like one of their songs, though, there is no trilling or quick-fingering that Steve can tell, it is not one of the new, fashionable jigs that get played at every outing to Stark Manor. It is a melancholy aire, with weight behind it, played with more than skill; it is played with emotion.

Steve tarries on his way to the door, holding out to hear a few more bars.

“ You could try going in to listen to it properly, ” Bucky’s shade suggests. “ It is your house, after all. Got to have some perks. ”

Steve could not say why, but it feels as though entering the house would break some sort of spell, or a confidence maybe. The music feels like a secret that Steve has been fortunate enough to overhear, and he does not want to shatter the peace that seems to settle over him at the sound of it.

“ It’s a song, not a spell, ” Bucky tells him and Steve can practically picture his eye roll. “ Go see who it is. ”

He pulls himself together and opens the door, stepping in as quietly as he can and nodding to Rick, who takes his hat and coat. It is not very far to the door to the morning room and it is ajar, the music louder here, but just as… ethereal.

Steve is getting fanciful. Sam would tease him for liking the wrong kind of novels again, he’s sure.

Slowly, so as not to make the hinges creak, he pushes open the door.

It is Sir Anthony, sitting at the piano and looking more at home than Steve has ever seen him outside of his workshop. His fingers dance over the keys as he moves with the music. His back is not that poker-straight upright line that most people seem to have when playing the piano, it sways from side to side, his head moving with it, like he can’t help himself from moving with the music.

He seems half made of sound himself, and Steve considers that he might have been right when he thought that one of the fair folk had come to bewitch him.

Steve takes a step forwards and the floorboard creaks beneath him.

Everything stops. Sir Anthony’s head jerks around, his back straightening immediately, and his hands freeze on the piano keys.

“No,” Steve says. “Don’t… I mean, you play even better than I had been told. Please, I did not mean to interrupt you, Sir Anthony. Continue.”

“Captain Rogers,” Sir Anthony says, swinging round, back in motion again, his face broad and smiling, although there is an element of unease there that Steve would prefer to eliminate. “You have been out all morning. And here was I thinking that you kept to your rooms in quiet contemplation, and yet you are gadding about the countryside.”

“If I’d known you were intending to visit I would have made sure to be-”

“Ah! I should have sent word, yes,” Sir Anthony says. “My manners are appalling, my mother…” he breaks off, as though the words have come out of his mouth quite without his permission. “She would be appalled,” he says, more slowly.

“You are welcome at any time,” Steve tells him quickly. “I only meant that I am sorry I could not be here to welcome you, or to hear more of your music. It was very beautiful.”

“I’m a little out of practice,” Sir Anthony says. “More used to anvils than arpeggios these days.”

“It does not show,” Steve assures him. Sir Anthony smiles, quick and bright, enough to set Steve’s heart beating a little faster. He knows he is smiling back, a little too soft for what propriety would allow, and he tries to school his features back to what they should be, but it is a hopeless fight. “Would you continue? I would love to hear more.”

“Ah…” Sir Anthony coughs. “That was the intention. At least it was when I set out. I thought that as you had been so good as to show me your sketches, I could do this… for you. You had mentioned previously that you would like to hear me play.”

“I did,” Steve says. “And I am not disappointed at all.”

“Then I suppose I could continue,” Sir Anthony says, spinning back round to the keyboard, with little decorum. He seems to be made of movement, and his fingers reach out to touch the keys again. “I used to play this with my mother,” he says. Sir Anthony’s fingers begin to dance up and down the keys, making the instrument sing in earnest. He is not as caught up in it as he had been, his back is stiffer, clearly aware of the audience, but the music does not seem to suffer in the least.

He is halfway through when Sam walks in, taking in the scene: Steve seated on the sofa, listening, rapt, to Sir Anthony’s playing. He gives Steve a knowing look that makes Steve blush right to the roots of his hair, but he too sits down and applauds politely as Sir Anthony finishes the piece.

Sir Anthony seems startled to see two of them there, but pulls off his astonishment with as much aplomb as usual, bowing deeply and accepting the applause.

“Captain Wilson! It is good to see you. I must apologise to you as well for the invasion.”

“I have seen invasions, Sir Anthony,” Sam says, “and they have never had such enjoyable accompaniment.”

Steve frowns at the reminder and bites at his lip.

“I should imagine not,” Sir Anthony says. “My thanks for allowing me the use of the piano,” he says to Steve, inclining his head. “But I fear I have taken up too much of your day. I must take my leave.”

“So soon?” Steve asks, unable to quite keep the disappointment out of his voice. The music has been wonderful, but they have had no chance to talk, and he wishes that they could.

Sir Anthony pulls out his pocket watch and looks at it, his eyebrows rising. “Not soon at all. I have in fact taken up all of your afternoon, for it is quite certainly evening now. I have an appointment with Obie regarding some new designs.” He looks to the sky outside. 

“Then of course, you must go,” Steve agrees. “I am sorry to have kept you playing. But time seems to have flown past.”

“Good company has a tendency to do that,” Sir Anthony says, giving him a small smile.

“It does,” Steve agrees. They look at each other for a long moment before Sir Anthony seems to shake himself and bursts into movement again. He stands and reaches out a hand to shake Sam’s. Then he reaches out for Steve’s hand. The touch of skin against skin is strangely charged, warm, but sending a spike of energy through Steve’s gut. He looks into the warm brown eyes that look back at him and smiles in what must be an idiotic way. The sound of the music has settled down deep inside him, like a warm cat purring in delight.

“You are welcome back at any time should you wish to make use of the piano again,” he says, before remembering the fine instrument up at the manor. “Although of course you would prefer to use your own, I am sure. The manor has a fine instrument.”

“I may take you up on that offer,” Sir Anthony says, then finally releases Steve’s hand back to him. “Farewell Captain Rogers… Captain Wilson.”

He heads towards the door and Steve finds a question bursting from his lips.

“Sir Anthony,” he says, and Sir Anthony spins around in the doorway. “The song you played before, when I overheard you from the garden. What was that?”

A sad smile falls across Sir Anthony’s face.

“That was one my mother used to play,” he says. “It was one of her favourites. She said…” he looks at the fingers of his right hand, where they clutch his riding gloves. “That was the song she played at the cotillion when she and my father first met.” He pauses and then looks up, right into Steve’s eyes.

Steve has heard the story. Howard was always fond of talking about himself, and the story of how he’d heard his wife playing and been puzzled as to how he could ask her to dance and also listen to her play had been one of his favourites. Steve does not know how to address it now, though. At the time, he had laughed along with the others as Howard had described his dilemma, but now his throat seems a bit too dry to talk.

“Farewell, Captain,” Sir Anthony says, and then he is gone and it is too late to say anything.

“If you keep looking at the baronet like that, the whole village will be talking about it,” Sam says, heading over to the brandy decanter to pour them both a drink. “You’ll have to marry him just to stop the scandals.”

“We have talked about this, Sam,” Steve says, making his voice as stern as he can manage. “There is no question of marriage.”

“You are going to tell me that it would not be a suitable match. But that does not seem the sort of thing that would stop you,” Sam says.

“Please,” Steve says. “If any rumours are about, it will be because you have started them.”

“If you don’t want the rumours, then maybe stop looking at him like that,” Sam suggests. “Otherwise, propose and have done with it. Then no one will have anything to say. Nothing is as boring to society as a married couple.”

Steve gives him a hard look and Sam just shrugs.

“He came round to play you his mother’s favourite song,” Sam says. “You cannot think he would refuse you.”

“The piano was his mother’s,” Steve says. “It only makes sense that he would want to play her music on it. And when he played that song, he didn’t even know I was here.”

“And yet he was in your home,” Sam points out.

“It doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Steve says. “We have more important matters to discuss.”

Sam gives him a look as though to say he is not fooling anyone, but Steve ignores it and Sam allows himself to be moved back to talk of other matters. If Steve’s mind is still half on the baronet, then he tries to hide it as best he can.

Chapter Text

“We should take shifts,” Sam says, looking at Steve over his lunch plate. Steve looks up, fork halfway to his mouth, startled.

“Shifts?” he asks, his brain confused.

“At this new favourite pastime of yours,” Sam says, giving him a significant glance as another tray of sandwiches is brought in. “We could cover more ground and cover for each other. Also, you could get some sleep. You’re starting to look as though someone punched you in the nose, the rings under your eyes are getting so dark.”

Steve’s eyes automatically dart to the mirror over the fireplace, but it is at the wrong angle for him to see clearly. He does feel fatigued, certainly, but he has been coping with it. Although he has had to smother some yawns at rather inappropriate moments, or else be thought bored by his neighbours.

“I’m not that bad,” he says, trying to make himself sound more certain than he is.

“Then why are you putting sugar on your beef?” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. Steve looks down to find he is doing exactly that, and he flushes bright red. “You need more sleep or else you’re going to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, and people would talk.”

“Let people talk,” Steve says. “I have no fears about my reputation.”

“And if you fell asleep while talking to Sir Anthony?” Sam asks. “Would you care about your reputation then?”

“I… would not wish to disrespect him like that,” Steve allows carefully, feeling out his words for any hint of impropriety. He is sure there is none, but Sam’s pleased smile hints that he may have let something loose anyway. Steve glares at him, but Sam is unperturbed.

“Then you need to start getting more than two hours of sleep a night,” Sam says.

“But-”

“Which is why I say we should do shifts,” Sam says.

“I cannot allow you to do this alone,” Steve says. “It is not safe.”

“And yet you managed it for weeks,” Sam says.

“Yes, but I am-” Steve breaks off. Sam waits and then sighs as the words do not come.

“I know you appreciate the anonymity, but I fear that not being able to say the words to yourself in your own home might indicate something more sinister.”

“Sam,” Steve says, looking around, although there’s no one in the room.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Sam tells him. “You’re a hero.”

“I lost my men,” Steve says.

“Every one of them made the choice to go on that mission with you,” Sam says, his voice low.

“I ordered them on that mission.”

“Steve, I have seen bad commanding officers in my time. The aerial battalions are full of Captains and Admirals who are more than happy to send their ships to their deaths for a hint of glory. You are not one of them. I do not doubt that every man in your unit knew what he had agreed to and followed that order willingly.”

“It was a bad call.”

“It was the only call,” Sam says. “I’ve heard about that mission. You made the right decision.”

“And good men died.”

“And because you made that decision, no good men are dying anymore. The war is over, Captain. You made that happen. You sent me home, alive and well, to my family, and all my men, too.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Steve tells him. “That’s what they all say. They gave me a medal for it and they wanted to give me a promotion.”

“You didn’t take it?”

“No,” Steve tells him. “I was the smallest part of that mission, and yet I am the one who receives the accolades and the renown. That is not fair and it is not right.”

“I know,” Sam says. “I’ve felt like that before. As an officer, I receive recognition for the victories of The Falcon , but my men see little of that, though without them The Falcon wouldn’t be able to fly a single foot.”

“It’s a broken system,” Steve says.

“But not admitting who you are isn’t going to fix anything.”

“I feel like less of a fraud,” Steve tells him. “People know that I am in the army, they don’t need to know more than that.”

“Perhaps not,” Sam says. “But there’s no denying that were you to tell them all those ridiculous obstacles you claim lie between you and Sir Anthony would disappear.”

“And that’s part of the reason I will not tell him,” Steve says. “I don’t want him to look at me and see The Captain. I just want him - everyone - to see me.”

“Understood,” Sam says. He takes the last sandwich off the tray before Steve can reach for it. “But we should still take shifts.”

*

They take shifts. With an overlap at the busiest time of the evening, when there is the most danger. It’s a good plan, Steve can admit that, and it enables them both to cover for each other as well. Also, changing the appearance of the Nomad will confuse any pursuers, hopefully. As long as it does not lead them right to their door. Not that any of the tales Steve hears have given a clear description of either of them. The Nomad has become a fairy tale, it seems. He is pale and ghostly, or fades into the shadows. He is taller than a tree and rides a fiery horse, or a skeletal horse, or a horse made of shadow. Some people say he has the face of an angel others say that his face is only a deathly skull. The tellings and retellings make him taller and stronger and more terrifying in every way. There is nothing of Steve or Sam to be found in any of them.

Steve has the later shift that night, and the world is cold. An owl hoots in a nearby tree, and he occasionally hears the calls of foxes on the air. It is a still, clear, night, and what glimpses of the sky he gets between the trees are deep blue, spangled with stars.

There are few people on the road so late, and much of his night is spent in readiness and quiet contemplation, breathing in the scents of the wood and relaxing.

Until he hears hoofbeats.

There is a lone rider coming along the path, easy enough, Steve considers. There had certainly been two voices he had heard, but he does not know if there are always two of the smugglers. One person on a fast horse, would be more useful in many circumstances. He must not make assumptions.

He stays in his hiding place, concealed in the shadows of a tree, and straightens his mask on his face checking the tie at the back to make sure it is in place.

He is about to set out into the road when the oncoming horse begins to slow, going from a canter to a trot a little further down the road, and then to a walk. He leans forwards to see what is happening, and is startled to see the figure looking around into the trees, clearly searching for something - or someone. Steve’s heart thuds in his chest. But there is only one rider. It is not the militia come to drag him away. There is little threat here.

“Nomad?” a voice calls across the still night, carrying well in the cool air. Steve recognises it immediately and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “I know you’re here…”

It is Sir Anthony, riding alone at night along a road frequented by highwaymen. Steve curses him mentally for his lack of self-preservation. He does not know that the highwayman is Steve and therefore would never harm him.

The soft clop of the horse’s hooves come closer, and Steve debates what to do. There is a chance that this is a trap, of course there is. Sir Anthony is intelligent, it is precisely the sort of thing he would do. Steve should not reveal himself. That would be the most foolish course of action available to him.

“Nomad?” Sir Anthony’s voice calls again. “If you are here, could you come out. It feels strange talking to the trees as though they understand me. I’ve had people call me mad before, but I never really felt it until now. I have nobody with me, I am unarmed. I only wish to talk.”

“You shouldn’t be out wandering the woods at night alone,” Steve finds himself saying without meaning to, his old accent slipping back into place. “It’s a dangerous place.”

Sir Anthony turns towards where he is hiding, but clearly cannot see him. 

“You would not harm me,” he says with utter confidence.

“You think not?” Steve asks, stepping out from the shadows, a pistol in his hand. “We’re a long way from safety, Sir Anthony.”

“You have never harmed anyone,” Sir Anthony says calmly, swinging himself from the back of his horse.

“You know nothing about me,” Steve says, thinking of how false Sir Anthony’s statement is. The bodies that litter the continent from what he has done in the war. He will feel no regret for the part he played in bringing Hydra down, but he cannot help but feel the pangs of grief for the good men he led to their deaths.

“I know you returned everything you took,” Sir Anthony says. “Thank you for that, by the way. Our groom found it all that night. Not a thing missing.”

“You do not have to thank me for returning what is rightfully yours,” Steve says. “I was the one who took it, after all.”

“Yes,” Sir Anthony agrees. “And why did you do that?”

“I am a highwayman,” Steve says, holding his arms out to the sides. “It is what we do.”

“Most highwaymen do not return the valuables they take. It doesn’t make for a very good business model.”

“I am not a business man,” Steve says, stepping forwards, drawn to Sir Anthony where he stands, outlined in moonlight, like he has been touched by some other world.

“I can tell,” Sir Anthony says. “I know business men, and while I won’t deny that they often dress in styles just as ridiculous, they tend to be a lot less direct when they steal from you.”

“Why did you come here?” Steve asks.

“To ask you why,” Sir Anthony says. “You take, but you return. There must be something specific you are trying to steal… or recover. If you explain it to me, I could help you. There must be a better way than risking your neck to the hangman’s noose.”

“Sir Anthony,” Steve says, a little brokenly. Of course that would be what Sir Anthony offers - assistance, not aggression. “I am afraid that I cannot. Secrecy is of the utmost importance.”

“And can I not prove myself trustworthy?” Sir Anthony asks, raising his hands out to the side. “You are not an evil man, I would stake my life on it.”

“You are,” Steve points out. “I could shoot you where you stand.”

“And yet you haven’t…” Sir Anthony takes a step forwards. “I’m still breathing, still talking. The fearsome highwayman has not yet shot me dead. Tell me what it is you seek. I can help. I have resources.”

“Can you trust them?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Sir Anthony says, firm and clear.

“I can’t,” Steve tells him. He pauses. “I wish…” he starts.

“What is it that you wish?” Sir Anthony asks, stepping closer again.

“I wish I could tell you,” Steve says. “I fear what I seek puts us all in grave danger… but if anyone found out I was looking…” he pauses. “Knowing would put you at greater risk than you already are.”

“I am not so weak as you assume,” Sir Anthony says. “I am capable of protecting myself.”

“I will not make you a target, and you must not ask me to,” Steve says. “I… I do not believe I would be able to do what I am doing if you were in danger.” The truth comes out of his mouth so much more easily with the mask on. “Please… Sir Anthony, I beg you. Don’t look any further.”

“Who are you?” Sir Anthony asks, stepping closer again and Steve retreats two steps towards the shelter of the trees. “You speak as if you know me. As if you… care for me.”

“I would not have an innocent person hurt because of me,” Steve says, speaking the truth, but not the words he wishes he could. “And that is why I can tell you nothing.”

“But you do what you do because you believe it is what must be done.”

“I cannot sit by and watch things go wrong without at least trying to do something about it,” Steve confesses, the words pulling out of his throat. He has never felt so honest. Why is it he cannot hold his tongue? He has said too much. Yet, looking at Sir Anthony’s face, there is so much more he would wish to say.

“And yet you expect me to do just that?” Sir Anthony asks. “Has anyone ever told you you’re arrogant?”

“Not that I can recall,” Steve admits.

“Then I get to be the first. If there is something I can do, should I not be allowed to do it? Keeping me in the dark is hardly going to help anyone.”

“I can’t risk anyone knowing what I am doing,” Steve says. “I… please, don’t ask me to.”

“And what if I were to ask you to stop,” Sir Anthony says.

“I could not do that, either,” Steve says. “Sometimes you have to do what is right and damn the consequences.”

“You have already been shot in the pursuit of this goal. Is that not enough to give you pause?” Sir Anthony asks.

“We must all take risks to save lives,” Steve tells him.

“Then…” Sir Anthony breathes out a long sigh and reaches up to pull something from his hand, before stepping forwards and holding it out. It catches the moonlight, shining brightly - his signet ring. The ring of his status as baronet. “Take this. If you are caught, then state my name, tell them I gave this to you and they are not to harm you until you have been brought to me.”

“I cannot take that,” Steve says.

“Yet the other day you had no difficulty taking everything I had on me,” Sir Anthony says with a sly quirk of his lips. “Take it. It has little purpose for me and it could mean your life.”

“If I am discovered with it, they will either think I stole it, or that you are working with me.” Steve says.

“I can weather a storm. If what is happening is as dire as you seem to think, then I feel that you must be allowed a chance to state your case,” Sir Anthony holds the ring out still. “Please take it. You will not allow me to assist you in any other way. Allow me this.”

“I… Sir Anthony,” Steve says, and his hand reaches out slowly, The ring falls into his palm and, quicker than he can track, Sir Anthony is moving forwards, his hands pressing into Steve’s, closing his fingers around the ring, as he steps into Steve’s space. They are so close now, when did they get so close. Steve had thought he was at a safe distance, but this close he can feel the warmth of Sir Anthony’s breath on the air.

“Stay safe,” Sir Anthony says, looking right into Steve’s eyes, into his soul.

“I will try,” Steve says.

“I suppose I must be content with that,” Sir Anthony says. “Then go… mysterious Nomad. Until we meet again.”

“Do not come looking for me again,” Steve says.

“You do not give me orders,” Sir Anthony tells him, stepping back.

“It's not an order, it's a request,” Steve tells him, following him back, as if on a lead. He helps Sir Anthony up into the saddle, trying not to think about the muscles of his leg under Steve’s hands.

One of his hands finds Sir Anthony’s, unable to draw away, and he squeezes it gently.

“Ride safely,” he says.

“Of the two of us, I am in the least danger from all of this,” Sir Anthony says.

“And yet I will still worry,” Steve tells him. Sir Anthony’s eyebrows rise all the way up his forehead.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“A friend,” Steve says. “Who wishes you well.”

“I will try to keep the militia from you,” Sir Anthony says. “They have been called, I could do nothing to stop that. I will do what I can, but I can make no promises. You are stirring up a hornet’s nest, even if you never actually steal anything.”

“You have my thanks,” Steve says. “Though I would prefer to have you do nothing than put yourself in danger.”

“I will be fine,” Sir Anthony says. “If my title does not protect me, I believe my money and the military advancements I provide may yet prove a worthy shield.”

“Perhaps,” Steve says, although he fears that even they will be no help against Hydra, if it is indeed Hydra he is seeking. Never has he felt more powerless than now. He wants to confess to Sir Anthony that he barely knows what he is doing, but what else can he do? It is a fool’s mission, but it is all he has left before him, so he will walk this path that he has chosen, until the end of the line.

“You may have heard,” Sir Anthony says, looking down at him. “But I am planning to hold a ball at Stark Manor, less than two weeks from today. If you are, as you say, a friend. Perhaps you will be there?” Steve pauses.

“That does not sound like a wise decision, if I did,” he says.

“Some would say that stalking the forest in that cape of yours, wielding weapons that are over a hundred years out of date was not wise, but you still insist on doing that.”

“So I do,” Steve says.

“Then will you come?” Sir Anthony asks. Steve pauses. He cannot say yes, for obvious reasons, but at the same time, he knows himself too well to think he could lie convincingly.

“Good night, Sir Anthony,” he says. The baronet’s eyes narrow.

“Very well,” Sir Anthony says. “Good night. Until we meet again.” Steve does not reply, just steps back to allow Sir Anthony leave to nudge his horse into motion.

As Sir Anthony gallops off into the night, Steve watches him go and hears the hoot of an owl nearby. The woods suddenly seem far larger than before, and the shadows much darker. Night has fallen in earnest. There will be no more travellers this evening.

He makes his way back to the house as carefully as he can.

*

Three days later, they receive another invitation from Stark Manor.

“We appear to be quite popular,” Sam says, after he finishes reading the invitation aloud. “At least, I am. I don’t know why they keep inviting you.”

“Very funny,” Steve says, shaking his head.

“This is our third invitation to the house in the past few weeks, and with the ball next week, that will be four.” Sam tells him. “All jokes aside, we both know that I am not the reason for this.”

“You are a very charming man,” Steve says. He had forgotten about the ball, though he cannot imagine how with all the village in turmoil over what to wear.

“But I do not think Sir Anthony is very fond of charming men,” Sam tells him. “Something tells me he prefers people who speak their mind.”

“He likes people who can keep up with him,” Steve says. “His mind is so brilliant, and it moves so quickly. I believe he is bored by convention.”

“Lucky for you that you see no point in it.”

“That’s not true,” Steve admonishes. “I believe that convention has its place. But some conventions can cause more harm than good, and if something doesn’t work, then I don’t see the reason we should keep to it.”

“Save your railing against the unfairness of the world for the baronet, he appreciates it more than I,” Sam tells him. “A shooting party, though. That should be fun. I hear Sir Anthony’s lands have some good game on them, though it is not the time of year for deer.”

“I am sure there will be something,” Steve tells him. “I did not know the baronet was interested in such sport.”

“The man makes weapons, Steve, I’m sure he knows how to use them.”

Steve considers this. It makes sense. He just wouldn’t have thought that it was Sir Anthony’s preferred pastime.

*

If Steve is surprised by the invitation, he is more surprised when he sees who has come to join them. Although, looking at Mrs Romanoff with a gun slung over her arm, he wonders why he was surprised.

“Captain Rogers,” she calls, smiling at him. “You made it. I wasn’t sure this was what you would consider enjoyable.”

“I will confess I have rarely used a gun for sport,” Steve says. “But I remember which end to point at the game, so I think I’ll manage.”

“Well, if you want any tips,” she says. “I’m more than happy to help.”

“I’m sure the Captain is more than capable,” Sir Anthony says, stepping into the space between them and linking his arms around both of theirs. Mrs Romanoff gives him a small, amused smile. “Although I’m sure your offer of assistance, Mrs Romanoff, was welcome."

“Sir Anthony, you have no gun,” Steve says. “If you require it, you may use mine.”

“Oh, no, Barton has mine,” Sir Anthony says. Steve feels ice run down his spine at the name and he turns to see, sure enough, Barton is bringing up the rear of their party, carrying a bag and some guns. “And Obie’s.”

“Oh,” Steve says, a little embarrassed at having presumed. He opens his mouth to apologise, but Sir Anthony waves him off.

“But many thanks for the offer, and I will remember that if I am ever in need.”

“Of course,” Steve says, smiling gratefully at the words. “I was surprised to receive the invitation, honestly. I was not expecting you to enjoy shooting.”

“It was Obie’s idea,” Sir Anthony says. “He thinks I need to leave the house more often. Apparently I am quite wasting away to hear him talk. What was it you said, Obie? A ghost of my former self?”

Mr Stane shakes his head with an indulgent smile.

“You are always so dramatic about things,” he says. “All I said, Tony, was that you were looking pale.”

“I think you look the picture of health, Sir Anthony,” Mrs Romanoff says. “And I’m sure Captain Rogers agrees.”

“I’m sure he does, too,” Sam cuts in, and Steve glares at him.

“Quite,” Steve says, feeling very conspicuous under Sir Anthony’s sharp eyes - and everyone else’s come to that. He can feel Mr Stane watching him, with a shark’s smile on his face. “I can see no flaw in your appearance, Sir Anthony.”

“No flaw?” Sir Anthony says. “Why, to be called flawless by the picture of perfection himself! What honour is this?” Steve sighs. “Oh, do not be like that. I am only joking. It was a joke. We are friends now, can I not make a joke about our rocky beginnings?”

“Of course, Sir Anthony,” Steve allows.

“Now,” Sir Anthony says. “We should be far enough. Let us set up here and see who is the real champion of of us.”

Steve has never been as comfortable with a gun as one might expect from an army man. He can shoot them, certainly, and he is more accurate than not, but that is more due to his superior senses and muscle control than any affinity for the weapons. Bucky had always been the rifleman, able to coax a decent shot from any rusting gun he could find.

Steve bites down the thoughts, trying to concentrate on shooting his own targets in the present rather than those targets of the past. In truth, it is not difficult to shoot straight in the quiet countryside. There are no distractions bigger than a few alarmed animals running off and his companions. Steve doesn’t think they should be quite as distracting as they are, though. Sir Anthony’s presence seems to be a constant nudge at the edge of his awareness. Steve does not even need to think to know where the baronet is, and of course, there is Sam making amused faces at him every time Steve stumbles over his words or almost walks into Sir Anthony. Then there is Barton, who Steve keeps an eye on. He does not think Barton would try anything at a gathering like this, but he cannot stop considering him carefully when he knows so little about his motives.

On top of them, Mrs Romanoff and Mr Stane, who are perhaps less distracting overall, but still have their moments. Mrs Romanoff is a very good shot and holds a rifle with all the aplomb of someone who had been born to it. Mr Stane on the other hand, holds his rifle like a blunt instrument, but shoots it with a certain amount of finesse and he is always there to offer commentary.

Halfway through the hour, the boy, Peter Parker, comes haring through the woods behind him. Luckily making enough noise that they notice him immediately.

“Sir Anthony, Sir Anthony!” he calls, half out of breath.

“What is it, Peter?” Sir Anthony asks, handing his weapon to Barton.

“A visitor at the inn is asking for you, sir,” Peter says. “Says it’s urgent business.” He looks around at all of the others assembled, then leans in to whisper something. Steve is too far away to hear anything but the wind whistling through the leaves high above, even if his hearing is better than the average person’s.

“Ah, right,” Sir Anthony says, turning to look at them all. “I’m afraid I am being called away. The business of being in business, you know.”

“We can do this again some other time,” Sam says. Sir Anthony flashes him a smile.

“Oh no, I would not put an end to your enjoyment, simply because I must end my own. I’m sure you will entertain yourselves well enough without me,” he says. “Obie, you can take care of them, can’t you?”

“Happy to,” Mr Stane says.

“Excellent,” Sir Anthony says, looking around at them all. If Steve thinks that his eyes linger a little longer on him than on any other of their assembled party, then he is probably mistaken. But Sir Anthony hurries off, following Peter through the woods.

“Shall we?” Mr Stane says, extending an arm. Steve would rather say no, but he has no cause to be impolite. Although he and Mr Stane both know of their mutual dislike, acting on it would be the height of rudeness.

“Certainly,” he says.

“Good, good,” Mr Stane says, taking his own rifle back from Barton.

“I have not seen a gun like that before,” Steve comments. “Where did you get it?”

“Ah yes, one of a kind, I’m afraid. Tony likes to make presents for his friends. It has a slightly wider barrel than your usual rifle. I have to have my ammunition made specially. But it’s a good sight more accurate, and far less likely to jam.” Mr Stane pets it like a favourite horse.

“It’s a beautiful weapon,” Steve says.

“I am quite fond of it,” Mr Stane says.

Mrs Romanoff claims the greatest haul that day, though Steve manages to acquit himself well enough. The eye he keeps on Barton finds that the man looks like he is itching to shoot rather than to stand on the sidelines, which is no surprise, given the skill he has shown at it over the course of their brief acquaintance.

There is no outward sign of treachery in him, though Steve does not know what he would be looking for on that score. Aside from the Red Skull, whose evils had writ themselve onto his face through the corruption of his experiments with magic, there are few outward signs of true villainy, because everyone has their own little crimes and tribulations within them. It is just a question of whether they give in or not.

Steve keeps an eye to him, though, and Mr Stane, too. The man is entirely too smug for Steve’s liking, although Steve knows that all of this might simply be his own prejudice as Stane has made it clear what his position on Steve and Sir Anthony’s friendship is.

Not that it’s an incorrect view to have for someone in Mr Stane’s position. But Steve can’t help feeling offended by it.

The second half of their outing passes far less jovially than the first. Sam and Mrs Romanoff keep up the conversation, and Mr Stane seems more than happy to put his opinion forwards, so perhaps that too is Steve’s own mind making things up where there are none.

They have a brace of birds to take back for dinner, though, and Sam is in high enough spirits as they make their way back to Lakefield to hand them over to the cook.

“You have been quite a cloud of misery since the baronet left,” Sam says.

“I have been concentrating on the puzzle at hand,” Steve says.

“So, not pining at his absence, then?” Sam asks lightly.

“No… the puzzle of Mr Barton.”

“And have you come to any conclusions on that matter?”

“No,” Steve says with a frown. “There was no sign today of anything but a loyal retainer. Perhaps one who would have enjoyed shooting rather than holding other people’s guns, but that’s hardly a sign of something more nefarious.”

“He and Mrs Romanoff seemed… convivial,” Sam says after a second.

“How so?” Steve asks.

“Nothing particularly noteworthy. Just the way they spoke to each other, and how they looked at each other - well, how Barton looked at the lady.”

“You think there might be some connection there?”

“Mrs Romanoff’s a handsome woman. He wouldn’t be the first servant to have his head turned by a woman of her standing.”

“You think that’s all it is?”

“I thought you didn’t like gossip,” Sam says, giving Steve an amused glance. Steve sighs.

“I don’t, but anything that can help us unravel this web would be welcome.”

“For what it’s worth, she seemed a little irritated by his attitude,” Sam says. “If there is any connection there, I think she either regrets it, or would prefer that it stay entirely private.”

“Understandable, it would be quite the scandal,” Steve says. “And from what I know of society, even here, everyone would be talking about it.”

“Indeed,” Sam agrees.

Something sets Steve’s mind on edge as soon as he walks into the library. Something is out of place, and it takes him a long minute to realise that it is the secret door that stands just a hairsbreadth ajar.

Behind him, Sam freezes too, clearly also seeing the problem.

“Did you leave that open?” Sam asks. “Because I don’t think it was me.”

“No,” Steve says. “I didn’t.”

“Then that’s… worrying,” Sam says, sounding a lot calmer than Steve knows he must be. “Any ideas about how to handle this?”

“Not really,” Steve tells him. “It could be one of the servants.”

“Do we trust the servants?” Sam asks.

“I… don’t know,” Steve admits. Sir Anthony had handled much of the hiring, as Steve had been overwhelmed merely by the knowledge that he now owned such a house, let alone the practical matters of running such a place. He doesn’t believe that Sir Anthony would deliberately find him servants with anything less than impeccable character references, but men have been fooled before. “But if you found such a door, why would you leave it open?”

“Because you’re still inside?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. They approach cautiously, Steve focussing his hearing as best he can on any noises from inside the chamber, but he can hear nothing.

They swing the door open in one swift movement, but there is no one beyond. That does not mean that they could not have run out to the stables via the passageway, but Steve had not heard anyone moving, and his hearing is difficult to fool these days. He sighs and looks at Sam.

There are only two other reasons he can think of why someone might leave the door ajar. The first is the one he is hoping for, although he cannot believe it is true: that the person who found their secret chamber is inept and left the door open by accident. The second reason, which is more likely and far more worrying, is because whoever came into this place while they were out on the shooting trip, wanted them to know they had been in here. That leads to something more worrying again, that they are taunting him - them - by letting them know. That they want Steve to be aware that his life hangs in balance, in the hands of a stranger. Someone out there knows that he is Nomad and at any time, they could turn him in and present the evidence of this room and its contents.

It is the only secret exit from the house, without the passageway, he could not be Nomad at all. There is no way to relocate the secret passageway, but if he leaves his things here, then they are no longer safe.

He looks at the papers he had left on the desk, they are out of order. Someone has been sorting through them. They have read the frustrated notes and seen the irritated doodles he had drawn in the margins. He has written down nothing conclusive, but it is enough for them to pick up a thread of a narrative. He has notes on the voices he heard - rough locations for the accents, classes, the dialogue he overheard, scribbled all over with possible clues underlined and suggested.

There is one piece of paper that just has “What are they smuggling?” written on it in big letters.

Someone not only knows that he is Nomad, they know roughly what he is looking for and why. He can only hope that they are not working with the traitors.

“This just became a whole lot more dangerous,” Steve says as Sam looks over the desk as well. “You should return home.”

Sam gives him a look as though he is a poorly behaved child.

“Things are getting dangerous so you want to do this on your own?” Sam asks.

“I have already put you in an untenable position,” Steve says. “I cannot ask more of you than I have.”

“You don’t have to,” Sam says. “I’m not leaving you to deal with this.” He rests a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder and it is uncannily like seeing double. He feels like it is not just Sam standing in front of him, he can see Bucky there too. “You don’t have to do this alone, Steve.”

“It is too dangerous,” Steve says.

“But you’re not going to stop.”

“I can’t,” Steve tells him. “There is too much at stake here. If it is Hydra, then…”

“Then I can’t stop either,” Sam agrees.

“Sam…”

But Sam will hear no word of it, just crosses his arms over his chest and watches Steve as he splutters with a million and one reasons why this is a bad idea.

“Have you finished?” Sam asks as Steve’s words run out. “I knew what I was getting into when I asked to help you. I’m as invested in this as you are and I’m not about to back down now. We’re in this together, Steve.”

Steve feels a wave of relief wash over him and it takes effort to remain standing rather than settle back into the chair nearby. He had forgotten this part of having a team, if two people can be called a team. He nods at Sam in gratitude and receives a firm nod in response.

“So, it can’t have been Barton who got in,” Sam says. “He was with us the whole afternoon. As were Mrs Romanoff and Mr Stane.”

“But we already know that whoever it is, is not working alone,” Steve says. “It must have been someone who knew we were going to be out.”

“Or discovered that we were out and took advantage of that,” Sam says. “Or - someone who organised the whole affair… Sir Anthony was called away.” Steve shoots him a look.

“You can’t conceivably think that this is-”

“We have to examine the issue from all sides. We cannot allow our minds to be clouded by our biases.” Sam says. “The invitation came from Sir Anthony and then he was mysteriously called away by an associate halfway through the afternoon.”

“Sam, I hardly think that the man who invents weaponry and technology for our own country would be betraying it. Not to mention...” The ring Sir Anthony gave him hangs heavy round his neck, where he had stowed it on a long chain, hidden by layers of clothing. But - perhaps… The thought crosses his mind that the ring would be a neat way to ensure that the highwayman is taken to him before he could speak to the authorities. Steve swallows and banishes the idea from his mind.

“Are you sure?” Sam asks. “I know you have an affinity for the man, but if your judgement is clouded.”

“I cannot see what he would gain from it,” Steve says.

“Money,” Sam says. “Or, you’ve mentioned that his relationship with his father was not without problems. Sir Howard was greatly involved in national defence. Perhaps Sir Anthony wished to make some sort of… action against him.”

“Just because a man does not get on with his father does not make him a traitor.”

“No,” Sam says, easily. “I am merely pointing out that he might have reason. And he did hire all our servants - and Mr Barton.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Steve says. But there is a niggling fear in the back of his mind. He cannot believe it. It seems nonsensical. There is no evidence to support Sam’s idea apart from a few coincidences. 

“Then perhaps we should take a walk to the village and ask Mr Parker who it was that Sir Anthony was meeting.”

Steve pauses, looking at him. He knows that would be a simple thing to do, though it may get them little information. But it feels a lot like spying on Sir Anthony. But isn’t that what Steve did the other day by going through the bags from his carriage? This should not be any different. But at the time, that was what he did to everyone. This feels more personal in a way.

But Steve cannot allow himself to be distracted from his purpose.

“Very well,” he says. “We shall investigate - discreetly .”

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

Their investigations find little purchase. Sir Anthony did meet a man at the inn, but the meeting was brief and Sir Anthony left soon after. He would have had more than enough time to reach Lakefield and depart before Steve and Sam had returned from their outing. Delilah, the maid, did see someone from a window that afternoon, but could give no clearer description than 'a dark haired man', which could indeed, describe Sir Anthony, but could also describe any number of other men within walking distance. Steve would rather believe some enterprising person took advantage of their absence, rather than the alternative.

The talk in the village is all of the upcoming ball. Half of the county is invited, it seems, and anyone who is anyone will be there.

Summer is coming to its close, the leaves beginning to fade from fresh green to crisp brown. It is a beautiful transition, and Steve takes out his paints, and settles in the music room window to try to capture the vista.

His brain is working at things as he daubs the paint onto the paper, frowning as the brush lines do not come out quite right. He gets his brush a little too wet and watches in dismay as the brown paint spills over, rolling down across the rest of the picture, bleeding into the green of the grass.

Steve sighs, looking at it.

“I like it,” the words come from behind him and Steve stiffens at the voice.

“Sir Anthony,” he says, standing up, paintbrush still caught in his hand. “I didn’t realise - I didn’t hear-”

“No, you were quite caught up in your work,” Sir Anthony says, offering him a smile. “I can’t say I don’t understand. Poor Jarvis often has to yell at me to get my attention when I’m in my workshop, and Obie and Mrs Hogan have often told me that I am oblivious to the world when there are tools in my hand. It is good to see I’m not the only one.”

“I’m usually more aware,” Steve says. “I… I apologise, it is good to see you Sir Anthony.”

He can’t help but remember Sam’s words from their previous discussion. He searches Sir Anthony’s face for any sort of sign that he is less than genuine. He sees nothing, but there is still that shard of doubt in him now.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Steve prompts. Sir Anthony’s eyebrows furrow.

“Ah yes, we must always have reason to our actions. We can never simply do something just ‘because’. What freedom that would be, to wander in whatever direction we should choose.”

“You feel that we should be without rules?”

“No, no…” Sir Anthony says. “But I fear that sometimes the rules are less for our benefit and more a trap.”

Steve is not sure how to answer that, but it seems he does not need to, Sir Anthony continues.

“There are so many of them, little rules that govern everything, and some days I’d like to say to hell with the lot of them, why not just do what I want?”

“That seems like it might prove more dangerous than it seems,” Steve says, although he is vibrating with recognition of the feeling.

“Dangerous, perhaps. But freeing,” Sir Anthony says, whirling around on him. “Do you ever wish… wish that you could throw away all the traditions and courtesies and just… run off and become a highwayman, or… something else?”

Steve freezes, thinking of that empty door. Sir Anthony cannot know - can he? He left the shooting party early after all. He might.

“Of course you don’t,” Sir Anthony says, shaking his head. “You are the epitome of what is good and right in this world, of course you don’t.”

Steve does not bother to reply, merely raises an eyebrow.

Sir Anthony looks at him, his eyes are brown and deeper than Steve can fathom, looking at Steve like there is something he wants to say, something that Steve should be able to understand just from looking into those large dark eyes, but he cannot translate.

“You would never do something so reckless,” Sir Anthony concludes. It is not the words he wanted to say, Steve can tell. It feels like there is more meaning there, though, something that Steve cannot parse.

“You have no idea what I would do,” Steve says, his voice a little harsh. “For the right reasons.” He wants to tell Sir Anthony right now, wants to explain it all, but he knows he can’t. He cannot believe Sir Anthony capable of treason, but even so, to tell him would be to put him in an unconscionable position. He steps forwards, almost against his will, swallowing down the truth.

“You look almost dangerous, Captain Rogers,” Sir Anthony says. His voice is rough as well and Steve should step away, go back to the polite distance.

“I have always been of the opinion that the rules are there to protect and support us all,” Steve tells him. “But there is a difference between what is legal and what is right.” The words are scandalous, but they are still far away from what Steve wants to say. It is the truth, and possibly closer to the truth than he should be straying, but he cannot hold his tongue completely. He wants Sir Anthony to know he understands.

“If the rules or society, or tradition are responsible for harm to an innocent person, or for injustice in any form, then I have always thought it is our duty to do what is right.”

“And damn the consequences,” Sir Anthony says, raising his eyebrows in mild question. The words the Nomad spoke to him. Does he know? Steve cannot tell. His actions indicate one thing, his words another, and Steve cannot decide which to trust.

“To hell and back, if necessary,” Steve tells him with a nod.

“Only you could make nobility from my selfish wishes,” Sir Anthony says. “I am not struggling with what is right, but with my own wants. You would give me noble purpose.”

“There is nothing wrong with wanting,” Steve says. They still have not looked away from one another. He should look away, but he finds he cannot. Then he realises what he just said, the tone of his voice, how that could sound… wanting . There is nothing wrong with wanting . And he wonders if he was saying that to Sir Anthony or to himself. He flushes, he can feel the heat on his cheeks. “Wanting something for yourself,” he says. “Everyone wants things.”

“The human condition, one might say,” Sir Anthony says. “We are born wanting.”

“And I would not blame a baby for wanting, and I will not blame any other man. It is what you do about what you want that is the measure of us, I think.” Sir Anthony sways towards him as Steve speaks, just a fraction of an inch, but enough that Steve wishes they were closer.

“What we do about it,” Sir Anthony echoes. And he looks away. The loss of eye contact feels like a splash of ice water to the face and Steve blinks, realising how dry his eyes are, how the rest of the room had faded into darkness around Sir Anthony’s face. “Yes,” Sir Anthony agrees. He takes a deliberate step back, away from Steve. Steve wants to follow him, but he restrains himself, grabs his hands together behind his back to keep from reaching out. “To act on our desires, that is where the problems start.”

“Sometimes,” Steve says.

“You always seem to cut through to the heart of the matter, Captain Rogers,” Sir Anthony says. “How is it that you read my mind better than I do myself? Am I so much an open book to you? Have you read me from cover to cover?”

“I think it must be happy coincidence,” Steve says, pulling himself upright a little. “A shot in the dark. I do not feel I can read you well at all. You confound me at every opportunity.” Sir Anthony grins, quick and rakish.

“I am glad to know I retain at least some of my mysteries. I fear if I lost them I would lack all substance whatsoever.”

“I’m sure that is not true,” Steve says, giving Sir Anthony a tentative smile.

“And there you go again, trying to see nobility where there is none,” Sir Anthony says. Steve opens his mouth to protest. “No, no, you cannot make a good man out of me. I will not let you. I am quite content to be shallow and frivolous.”

“If you insist,” Steve says.

“Oh, I do,” Sir Anthony tells him. “And you are so polite I know you will not contradict me, because it would be terribly rude to contradict a guest.”

“And yet I just told you that when society is wrong, then I tend to ignore its concerns,” Steve comments. He’s about to protest that Sir Anthony is a good man when he is stopped by the man holding up a hand.

“Do not tell me of my virtues, Captain Rogers. Please. Not today. I cannot hear them and know I am making a liar out of you.” There is something in his expression that stays Steve’s tongue. He doesn’t know what nonsense Sir Anthony has concocted in his mind about himself, but there is something there more honest than Sir Anthony often displays.

“Perhaps I could have your honesty then, as you will not take mine,” and he turns to the picture he was painting. “I feel like the perspective is all wrong, and I have not done any justice to the gardens. What is your opinion on the matter?”

Sir Anthony seems relieved by the change of subject and steps forwards. He gives a clear critique of Steve’s painting, although his comments tend towards the more technical, which isn’t entirely unexpected from a man who spends his days drawing blueprints. The conversation continues more lightly after that, and whatever moment had been between them before, it fades. Still there, but buried deeper now, not so close to the surface.

*

Steve heads out that night on Liberty, her white blaze blackened with the soot, and takes one of his accustomed positions. 

It is not long before he hears the tell-tale sound of hoofbeats against the road, and he checks his pistols for shot. They are both primed and ready, though he has no intention to use them.

Things are far smoother now than they used to be. He has honed the process through trial and error, and he has no intention of allowing himself to be put in a position again like he had with Barton.

Something holds him for a moment, perhaps it is just the stillness of the night, or the way the moonlight shines off the buttons of one of the people approaching, but for some reason, he does not step forwards immediately. Which turns out to be the luckiest thing he could do, because the riders are talking and as they come closer, he recognises those voices. He has heard them enough times repeated in his head.

“I still say we should have found another route,” one of them says. “I’ve no interest in meeting a highwayman.”

“What other route?” the woman asks. “This is the only road and you know it. I’m not about to trek across the hills when there’s a perfectly good road here for us. It’s not like we have anything of value on us anyway. We’re not what he’s looking for.”

Steve smiles to himself. Little do they know.

He waits another moment, until they have a fair distance to run before they could reach the curve in the road, and steps out into the road.

“Greetings,” he says, the persona of The Nomad falling onto him, although his heart is beating double time at the thought that he has finally found the people he has been searching for this whole time. His mission is at its end. “Sorry to inconvenience you; this’ll take but a moment.”

The man starts turning to him with a growl.

“If you could throw those bags you are carrying to the side of the road, I would be most grateful,” Steve continues. He tries to keep his voice the light-hearted tone that Nomad always adopts, but he knows that some of the vicious glee that he feels thudding through his chest must be showing.

“And why should we?” the man asks. Steve smiles and cocks his pistol. The woman pulls out her own.

“Ah,” Steve says, before raising his second gun and pointing at her. “I warn you, my lady. I am a very good shot.”

“I knew this would happen,” she says to the man.

“If he shoots, the militia will hear it,” he tells her. He turns to Steve with a wicked grin. “They’ll be on you faster than a pack of dogs.”

“It’s been a while since my horse has had a decent run,” Steve says, though he knows they are not lying about that. He and Sam have been forced to relocate several times over recent weeks because of militia activity, and he was almost caught by a patrol three days ago. “However, it’d be better if we kept this polite. Throw your bags to the side of the road, and we can all go about our day.” The man makes a face and Steve knows he’s considering the situation.

The thing about war, Steve has always thought, was the way things went from stillness to action in a split second. One shot was fired, one guard shouted out and in the difference of a heartbeat, order turned to chaos. You never quite got used to it, but you got better at reacting to it. Steve at least has superhuman reflexes on his side. The pair of them do not.

The woman’s shot goes wild and their horses, clearly unused to the sound of gunfire, rear up and begin to run. Seeing his chance slipping through his fingers, Steve swings himself onto Liberty just as the voices start to cry out in the distance. The militia.

He will not have them slip through his fingers so easily again, but he has no time to do much, he has to focus.

His eyesight is also much improved by Erskine’s miraculous serum. His dark vision is that much sharper than the average human. He cannot truly see in the dark, but in dim light, he has a better chance than most men. As the two start to gallop by him, he can see the man clutching a bag to him, clearly more concerned with that than anything else, and Steve takes the chance.

He wheels Liberty around and urges her on. The two traitors are used to riding, but their mounts are nowhere near as well trained or as fast as Liberty, and she quickly outpaces them as Steve draws her up between the pair of them, her hooves eating up the ground. He levels his pace, so the three of them ride abreast. The woman looks at him and aims her pistol, but as she does so, Steve throws himself bodily from his saddle towards the man.

He collides with the man’s shoulder and pushes him clear out of his seat, and both of them go over.

The man provides some small cushion for Steve’s fall, but he himself is not so lucky and Steve hears the cry of pain and the crack of something breaking. Steve does not think it is a branch.

Steve lunges for the bag, and the man puts up a token effort to keep it away. Steve pulls his pistol and aims it right into the man’s face, so he has to go cross-eyed just to look at it. He watches the man’s adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows and holds out the bag with one arm.

“You’re a madman,” he says. Steve grins. His blood is thrumming through his veins and he can feel the rush of the chase inside him.

“And you are a traitor,” he says. “Who are you working for?”

The man spits at him and looks to the side. Steve doesn’t follow his gaze, doesn’t need to. He can hear the Militia well enough as they charge through the undergrowth. They are not trying to be subtle. It is clear the man will not say anything and Steve has no time to convince him further. It is possible he holds the proof of his own good intentions in his hands. It is also possible that he holds nothing more than some man’s worldly goods. Either way, he is not willing to discover which at the end of a militia rifle. He may have Sir Anthony’s ring burning a hole in his pocket, but that does not mean he wishes to use it. Nor that he would necessarily have the chance. In Steve’s experience, the militia tend to shoot first and ask questions later.

“Sorry to cut this short,” Steve says, putting his pistol away. “I wish I could say it had been a pleasure.”

Then he leaps off into the darkness of the woods, hoping the dark colours of his outfit will camouflage him well enough.

He hears the man be discovered by the militia. Hears him shouting about the highwayman, pointing them in the direction Steve went, but Steve’s not stupid enough to stay in that direction.

Liberty, he trusts, will make her way somewhere safe. He has to hope. She bears no livery that will implicate him, but she is a recognisable horse to anyone who knows him.

He loops back around, behind where the militia are searching. If they were his men, he’d have a thing or two to say about their lack of attention to detail, but from this side of the law, he can only find himself grateful for their incompetence. If any of his own men had been hunting for him, he would have long since been shot.

There is no rest from the thudding of his heartbeat until the militia are far away from him. He is grateful they did not bring any dogs, for they would surely have sniffed him out. He is not sure if he will be so lucky next time. But perhaps there will not need to be a next time. He looks at the bag clasped in his hand. It is possible that this is all at an end. He knows the faces of those two now, he knows their voices. He may not have got their names, but he may have seized what they were delivering, and that itself may be enough.

Steve hopes against hope that what he’s carrying is the proof he needs. This has perhaps become a little closer to danger than he would have preferred.

Sam is pacing the secret room as Steve limps in.

“What happened?” Sam asks, coming to help him to a seat. Steve hisses.

“I took a bit of a tumble,” Steve tells him. “Falling from a horse hurts, did you know?”

“I did it myself when I was fourteen,” Sam says as Steve places the bag down atop the desk. “I broke my arm and my knee swelled up like an overripe plum.” Steve grins. “But I can’t imagine Liberty throwing you, and you’re a better rider than most.”

“Well, I might have… jumped,” Steve allows. He can practically see Bucky’s face in his mind as he grins, this moment like so many times he had come home with scraped knees and bruises, bleeding, to find Bucky’s shoulders sagging and his face full of resignation.

“What sort of a scrape did you get yourself into this time?”

“Well, we’ll need to get a cold compress on-” Sam starts. Steve shakes his head and nods to the bag where it sits, innocent as it may please, on the desk. He hisses again as he stretches out his leg. He must have bruised it more badly than he thought when he fell to the ground.

“I got it,” Steve says. “It was them.”

“Them?” Sam stops and blinks, looking over to the bag and then back at Steve.

“Recognised their voices,” Steve says. “One of them shot at me-”

“You’ve been shot?” Sam asks.

“No, missed by a mile. They’re not trained pistoleers, that’s for certain.”

“Thank the higher powers, or you’d be lying bleeding somewhere in the woods,” Sam says. “But you’re sure it was them.”

“Perfect memory for voices,” Steve tells him. “Comes with the whole…” He waves his hand at himself vaguely.

“Right,” Sam says. “And you’re sure this is it?” He looks at the bag.

“One of them was trying to keep that safe,” Steve says. “More than anything else. They didn’t even check the rest of their bags, but that thing, they were clutching onto like it was more precious than life itself.”

Sam stands back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest, and looking down at the bag as though it is hexed.

“Got to say, I didn’t think you’d do it,” he admits.

“Neither did I…” Steve says. “We should look inside.”

“You haven’t?”

“The militia was crawling around,” Steve says. “I didn’t have the time to look in bags.”

“Where’s Liberty?” Steve shakes his head. He has no idea. If she’s been taken by the militia then it’s only a short while before they turn up on his doorstep demanding answers. If she evaded them, then she’ll turn up sooner or later. If anything else has happened… He sighs. She is a good horse. A friend, practically, albeit one who isn’t particularly talkative. But if she has been taken, then he’s going to need a nice explanation for the militia when they get here.

He reaches out to unfasten the flap of the bag and slowly lifts it, carefully splaying the bag open with a finger and thumb.

In the bag there is a book. Steve frowns and tips it out onto the desk.

“An Essay on Thaumaturgy,” Sam reads from the leather cover. “That’s… not what I expected.” They look at each other and Steve flips the cover over, but there is nothing more than the expected frontispiece with its elegant letters announcing the title and author and its publication date, several decades ago. Steve rifles through the pages, but there’s nothing to be seen there, no secret code marks on its pages, nothing more than a dull treatise on magic. He believes he has a copy within the collection in the library himself.

“Perhaps it has been edited in some way,” Sam suggests. “Hydra were quite clever in their cryptography from what I recall.”

“They were,” Steve agrees. “I have a copy, I should…”

Sam finds his copy, as Steve changes out of the Nomad outfit. At every second, Steve is expecting a knock on the door below, or shouting in the driveway as the militia come to demand an explanation, but none comes.

They pore over the two books, identical copies, but Steve cannot find a single difference to them on a cursory glance, or even under a more detailed inspection. He growls in frustration.

“I’ll have to go through page by page, and by the time I’ve done that, they could have-”

“Patience, my friend,” Sam says.

“I’ve been patient,” Steve points out, drawing a deep breath. He knows that Sam is right, and that he has waited all this time - months even - to get this far, and he should not be put off by more difficulties. But the frustration rising in him as he feels so close, and yet again has little to show for his efforts, is clawing its way through his chest. He turns to the book again and tears it open, a little too vigorously, and he hears the rip of paper.

“I don’t think damaging it is going to help,” Sam says, his voice light, but he has the kindness to not sound too amused by Steve’s display of temper.

“I wasn’t intending to,” Steve says, wincing. “Sometimes I still do not know my own strength.” He looks down and sees that he has not in fact ripped the binding, but the end paper has come away from the cover, the rich swirling patterns peeling up in the corner. He almost looks away before he sees that there is something there - sandwiched between the end paper and the cover.

Steve leans forwards and carefully tugs at the creamy corner that has been revealed with his fingernails.

“What is that?” Sam asks, leaning in as well.

“Something’s been hidden in the cover,” Steve says. He has to pull more of the end paper up to get at it properly, but it comes more easily than he would expect, as though it has not been well stuck down.

It is a piece of paper, far larger than the book it was concealed in, and folded up neatly.

As he unfolds it, Steve’s heart is in his throat, because he recognises that handwriting, and those designs.

It shows the fine and detailed diagram of an airship, unlike any airship Steve has seen before, more streamlined, and with an engine at the back that looks like something from a dream - or a nightmare. Steve stares at it. The writing, he does not need to question, it is undeniably Sir Anthony’s: tiny, precise script with measurements and explanations and equations that Steve can only half understand, covering it, describing every inch of the airship.

They sit in silence, staring at it, until Sam reaches out and plucks another, smaller sliver of paper from the book, where Steve had overlooked it. It looks more like a scrap, torn off on each edge, and folded once.

It unfolds to reveal, in a more casual hand, but still that of Sir Anthony - the same hand in which all his dinner invitations have been written.

Steve has to read it three times, to make sure he is seeing what he thinks he is seeing.

The diagrams themselves are bad enough. He knows what they are - Tony’s latest designs for aether engines for the sky ships. He and Sam have been discussing ways to mitigate kickback for weeks. But it is the note stuffed in with them that makes his heart stop in his chest.

For your edification. The Aerial Battalions intend to have these outfitted within the year.

It is not signed. There is no person in this country, he is sure, who would be foolish enough to sign their name to treason. But the handwriting is unmistakable. He has seen it dozens of times.

Sir Anthony Stark is the traitor. He is leaking his own designs to Hydra, helping them prepare for a new war.

Steve does not know what to do. He has the information he was looking for, and yet… he cannot be grateful he found it.

He had thought there would be relief at having uncovered the truth, but all there is is grief.

He has never known Sir Anthony at all. All this time, Steve has been falling in love while Sir Anthony has been betraying everything.

He stares at the words, willing the swoop of the upstrokes to change, but it remains, stubbornly, Sir Anthony’s handwriting.

“Steve,” Sam says.

“We have the proof,” Steve tells him, standing up. “We shall send it to Fury in the morning.”

“Steve,” Sam repeats, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but Steve steps away before he can make contact. He is in no mood to be soothed. His entire chest is squirming.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Stevie ,” Bucky’s voice tells him. Steve doesn’t know what stupid thing he could do right now that is any stupider than what he has already done.

“We knew it was possible,” Steve says. “You said it yourself. But I was too blinded by- I was too blind to believe it.”

“It is not a fault to see the best in people.”

“The man is a traitor, to everything he claims to-” Steve cuts himself off as his voice begins to rise. The house is full of servants that Sir Anthony had hired. He cannot be overheard. He folds up the designs again and begins to change from his Nomad clothing as Sam turns his back.

“You have done all you can,” Sam says. “We will send this to the relevant authorities and they will do what is necessary. You need have no further part in this.”

Steve lets out a broken laugh. No further part in this. How he wishes that were true.

“I cannot let this continue.”

“Well, you’ve certainly kicked up enough of a fuss already,” a voice says and Steve starts. He looks up to see Mrs Romanoff standing in the doorway, watching them coolly.

“It seems we have much to discuss,” she tells them. “We can talk in the parlour.”

“The-” Steve starts, but she’s already turning, her dress a swirl of deep red.

“Tonight is bound to give us both grey hairs, it seems,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Did you know she was there?”

“No,” Steve says. “Did you?”

“No, and I swear I was looking at the damned door all the time.”

Steve stuffs the diagrams and the note back into the book, carrying it with him.

“What do you think she wants?” Sam asks.

“I’m more concerned about who she might want it for,” Steve mutters.

They make their way to the parlour, quietly, so as not to wake the household, and as Steve pushes the door open he is surprised to see not one, but two figures there. Mrs Romanoff is no surprise, but Mr Barton, on the other hand, is very much so.

Mrs Romanoff looks entirely at home sitting on his sofa, while Mr Barton - Sir Anthony’s groom and driver - looks more out of place standing by the window. He is taller than Steve had realised, as though he has been walking with a deliberate hunch until this moment.

As Steve and Sam enter the room, they both turn to look at them, as though it is Steve and Sam who are the interlopers here.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Mrs Romanoff says. “But we thought it was time we spoke.”

“Mrs Romanoff, Mr Barton,” Steve says, inclining his head to both of them, his mind reeling as he tries to work out what they could possibly have to talk about. “I did not know you were acquainted.”

“Oh, Nat and I go way back,” Mr Barton says. Steve’s eyebrows rise at the informality, even as Mrs Romanoff gives a long-suffering sigh.

“And this is why you always get to be the servant,” she says, folding her hands on her lap prettily. “We apologise for the subterfuge, but until recently, privacy was our best defence.”

“Whatever Stark sent you here to do, it will not work,” Steve says. “I cannot in conscience allow him to continue.”

Mrs Romanoff frowns, exchanging a glance with Barton.

“What makes you believe we were sent here by Stark?” she asks.

“Who else could you be working for?” Steve asks. “And rest assured, I will not go easy on you because you are a woman.”

“Don’t look at me,” Sam says, holding up a hand. “I’m with him.” He gestures at Steve.

“We appear to be talking at cross purposes. We are not your enemies,” Mrs Romanoff says.

“Any person who engages in treason and would lead us back into war is my enemy,” Steve tells her firmly.

“I thought you were meant to be smart,” Barton says. “Nat, I told you coming here was a stupid idea.”

“I should kill you where you stand for your betrayal,” Steve says. “You’re killing good men, you and Stark both.”

The pair of them shoot each other another look.

“So you think that Stark is selling secrets to Hydra?” Barton asks.

“You deny it? I have the proof of it,” Steve says.

“The man wrote messages in his own hand,” Sam adds.

“Handwriting can be forged,” Mrs Romanoff says. “We do not work for Stark; we work for Lord Fury.”

“Lord-” Steve looks between them. “And why should I believe that? Anyone can say a name and the two of you had clearly been here long before I told him what I had overheard.”

“Lord Fury said you might prove incalcitrant. So he told me to tell you that he said the second tunnel would be better.” Steve feels his teeth grit together. Fury never will let that go. Though the first tunnel had proved sufficient in the end.

“If Fury had actually shared his reasoning behind tha-,” Steve cuts himself off. This is no time to go over old arguments. He turns to stare at the painting above the fireplace, though that hardly helps his mood. The battlefield it shows is merely another reminder of what may be on the horizon. He glares at it. He will take it down tomorrow, he does not know why he has let it stay up so long. He tears his gaze away from it and back to the conversation. “That will serve as proof enough, I suppose it must.” He sighs. “Though one day he may need to let that go.” He turns to Sam, who is looking amused with the whole situation, glancing between Mrs Romanoff and Steve with the air of an avid spectator.

“Not if he has any choice in the matter,” Mrs Romanoff says, before returning to the more pressing matter. “Your report was hardly the first inkling we had that something was not right,” Mrs Romanoff says. “It merely confirmed our suspicions. ”

“That Stark is selling secrets,” Steve says.

“Someone is, but I’m not convinced it’s Stark,” she says. 

“May we see what evidence you have procured regarding Sir Anthony’s connection to the matter?” she asks.

“Certainly,” Steve says. He cannot doubt that they know Fury, and this is just like the man. To have people already in place and not to tell Steve a word of it. He takes the book and sets it on the table and watches as Mrs Romanoff flips it open and immediately sees the end paper peeling away, pulling out the documents. Mr Barton crosses over and takes them after Mrs Romanoff has examined them.

“It’s certainly his handwriting,” she says. “And his paper. But… if someone could have gained access to his plans, they could have gained access to anything else he has written as well.” She runs her finger along the feathery edge where the paper is torn. “This may have been part of a longer message that was torn away. We have no way of knowing. Your investigations have hardly been subtle.”

“I don’t think subtlety is really Captain Rogers’ strong point,” Sam says, his eyes sparkling just a bit as he smiles at Steve’s expense.

“I liked it,” Mr Barton says, grinning broadly. “I mean, being a highwayman’s definitely got more flare than being a groom.” Steve tries not to smile, but there’s a certain energy about the man that is almost infectious, and Steve’s frown is not as hard as he would have liked.

“Who else has access to his designs?” Steve says, he feels almost too ready to jump on any possibility that Sir Anthony is not the traitor. He hopes that his regard for the baronet is not clouding his mind. He must resolve to be objective in this matter.

“Any member of the household,” Mrs Romanoff says. “He keeps the door locked, but it would be no great difficulty to pick it. And most of his trusted confidantes have access to his workshop whenever they wish. Although those people rarely change.”

“Stane,” Steve says. Mrs Romanoff’s eyes harden for a second.

“While I understand the impulse, we have no evidence to that fact,” she says. “And there are any number of people who could be in a position to take advantage of such things. Stane is a…”

“Pompous, condescending ass,” Barton supplies. There is a laden silence where no one contradicts him.

“Just so,” Mrs Romanoff says. “But those things alone do not make him a traitor and he is a man with a great deal of influence and power. To accuse him prematurely would lead to problems for all of us, and would only result in putting the traitor further away from discovery.”

“It could still be Stark,” Sam comments and Steve heaves a weary sigh. “I don’t know much about his past, but I know he got in trouble in his youth. It might be that he’s being blackmailed with evidence of an indiscretion.”

“I agree,” Mrs Romanoff says. “And in that case, we need to approach the whole thing more cautiously.”

“If it is him, then he is the foremost liar I have ever met,” Steve says. He runs his fingers over the bold lines of Stark’s writing. “He found me - as Nomad - in the woods and he claimed to have no idea what I was looking for. He was very convincing.”

“He’s a gentleman,” Barton says. “All gentlemen are accomplished liars.”

“Clint,” Mrs Romanoff says.

“He’s not wrong,” Sam offers, and Steve makes a face, but can’t refute the statement. He has certainly never seen it disproved.

“I would hope that there are some honest men out there,” Steve says. “If there are not, then…”

“Then the whole system’s rotten?” Barton suggests. Steve grimaces.

“We are talking here of men’s reputation, their honour,” he says. “We must be utterly certain of our own proof before we bring it to anyone’s attention. It would not do to ruin a good man by speaking in error.”

“No,” Mrs Romanoff says. “It would not.”

“Have you any information you wish to share with us?” Sam asks, leaning back in his chair. Mrs Romanoff looks surprised at the question. “I mean, you’ve been here longer than us, and we’ve been accommodating. But you have come into our house and so far I have seen no sign that this relationship is to work in both directions.”

“We have very little at present. The culprit is good at hiding their tracks,” she says. “But we are given to understand that there will be another delivery within the month.”

“Other than this one?” Sam asks and Barton nods.

“Then I suppose that Nomad is not yet retired,” Steve says with a weary sigh.

“Speaking of that,” Mr Barton says. “The reason we came here tonight… I found a rather specific horse wandering around, I thought perhaps you might have a home for her.” Steve starts, looking up.

“You found Liberty?” he asks.

“More like she found me,” Barton says, shrugging.

“He has a way with animals,” Mrs Romanoff says. “It’s why he makes such a good groom.”

“And nothing to do with his skill with a pistol,” Steve says.

“That’s what makes me a good spy,” Barton tells him. “But I’ve got to ask - I know I hit you that night, how on earth did you survive?”

“Because Captain Rogers is not just any captain,” Mrs Romanoff says. Barton squints at her.

“What’s that- ?” he starts, then his eyes widen and he looks at Steve, who shifts a little uncomfortably under his gaze. The salute Barton gives then is almost smart, and Steve thinks the man definitely served in the army for some time, although it's too slapdash for him to have been a dedicated soldier. Steve tries to smile at him.

“That makes me feel better,” Barton says. “I thought I was losing my touch. Usually when I shoot someone they go down. When I shoot them twice, they don’t get back up.”

“Sorry to have made you doubt yourself,” Steve says. “If it helps to assuage your ego, it did hurt a great deal.” Barton makes a face, wrinkling his nose.

“Doesn’t really help,” he says.

“Good, your ego is just fine as it is,” Mrs Romanoff says, her voice cutting off that conversation. “Now everything between us is out in the open, we might perhaps see about making your little mission slightly less…” Mrs Romanoff trails off, looking at Steve with raised eyebrows. He winces. “They know you’re onto them, that’s one reason why I am inclined to treat this evidence-” she waves towards the note “-with less credence than I otherwise would.”

“They didn’t give it up easily,” Steve says.

“But they did give it up,” Barton points out.

“You think Stane is trying to frame Sir Anthony,” Sam says.

“I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Mrs Romanoff says. “We can deliver this if you-” she reaches for the diagram.

“I’d prefer to send it on myself,” Steve says, pulling it back towards himself. He may believe that they are working for Fury, but that doesn’t mean he trusts them. Mrs Romanoff appears amused by him.

“Of course,” she says. “Come along, Clint.”

“Coming, Nat,” Barton says cheerfully, touching his forelock with a bow that seems more insolent than respectful as he follows her out. “Your horse is in the stable, by the way. Try not to let her get away again. You never know who might have found her.”

And then the pair are gone, out into the night, leaving Steve’s mind swimming with more questions than he had had before.

Sam sits next to him, stretching his legs out as he gives a weary sigh.

“Things are never simple with you, are they?” he asks. Steve sighs and shakes his head.

Chapter Text

The night of the ball, Stark Manor is lit up like a fairy paradise. Steve can see the lights from miles away, and the carriages pull in one after another. All the beautiful, good, and not so good of the county seem to have arrived. Steve feels utterly ridiculous in his most formal coat and with the tophat on his head, although Sam has assured him that he does not look as foolish as he feels. He can’t help but feel that the Howlies would have laughed at him should they have seen him like this.

He does not know how he is going to get through tonight. While it is true that he is no longer convinced of Sir Anthony’s guilt, there is still reason to doubt. Significant reason to doubt. And he cannot allow himself the luxury of clouding his vision at this time. He must remain aloof, apart. He must view the baronet with the objective eye of an investigator, without partiality of any sort.

Steve has no idea how he intends to accomplish that when whenever he starts a conversation with the baronet it seems to end with him turned around completely. He cannot keep his composure when they speak. He just hopes he will not blurt out some outrageous comment and reveal his own involvement in all of this. But if Stark knows of the secret room and he knows that Nomad has interrupted the delivery, then whoever is in charge of this entire spy ring must know that Steve is onto them.

But they will say nothing in public, and Steve must merely watch and try to discern who it is who treats him with suspicion.

It is not Barton who takes their horses, but another groom, and Steve wonders where Barton is lurking, if he’s even in the stables, or if he has found a way to enter the manor and watch proceedings in there. He would not be surprised. Or perhaps he is going through the belongings and carriages of the guests, looking for evidence.

The problem with the event being held at Stark Manor is that Steve has no way to avoid paying his respects to the host without being terribly rude and causing great offence. It is his first challenge to overcome as he enters the hall and sees Sir Anthony standing to receive his guests.

“You could still be taken ill,” Sam mutters to him as they pass through the doors.

“I’m fine,” Steve tells him, straightening his shoulders. The jacket pulls taut across them and, not for the first time, Steve thinks that his tailor may have cut the fabric a little too small. He pastes a polite smile onto his face and approaches the reception line where Sir Anthony and Mr Stane are standing, talking jovially to some men who look like they probably came to the ball more to talk business than to dance.

Steve is waiting politely for them to finish when Sir Anthony catches sight of him.

“Captain Rogers! Captain Wilson,” he cries, his face lighting up. He seems genuinely happy to see them and Steve wonders if this is an act, if it has all been an act. He goes on to introduce them to the business men, but Steve barely hears the words, he’s too busy searching Sir Anthony’s face for any sign of insincerity. He only manages to avoid offending them through automatic memory from years of dealing with such things. The army had liked to wheel him out in front of important people to try to draw more funding or support. It feels a little like he’s back there again. He says the right words and hums in the right places to seem interested in what they are saying.

Sir Anthony’s face does not seem to hold a lie in it, but then Steve doesn’t know if he would be able to see it. If the man has always been lying, since the day they met, then it would stand to reason that his face would look no different now than it ever had.

“Good to see you, Captain Rogers,” Mr Stane says, extending a hand. Steve takes it and Stane’s grip is firm, but not overly so. “We’re glad you could make it.” The way he says it, as though he’s the host, gets Steve’s shackles up, and he searches Stane’s face the same way as he had Sir Anthony’s, but similarly, he gets nothing more than he has seen before. He is certainly more willing to believe Stane guilty of treason, but that as well could be his own personal biases at work. The man dislikes him, so Steve will believe him guilty. It is as bad as refusing to see villainy in Sir Anthony because he likes him.

Stane has done nothing to incite Steve’s ire except to try to protect Sir Anthony from a possible unwanted connection, which Steve can hardly blame him for. Steve takes a deep breath.

“...and I shall expect another dance from both of you,” Sir Anthony is saying. The words are for both him and Sam, but he’s not looking away from Steve. Steve can feel a blush rising in his face.

“I am not feeling so well tonight,” Steve says. “I fear I may not be up to dancing.” The smile on Sir Anthony’s face fades a little, a furrow appearing between his brows.

“There will be a lot of disappointed ladies and gentlemen when that news gets around,” he says, and Steve’s heart almost skips a beat at the idea that Sir Anthony will be one of them, but he pulls himself together.

“Of course, if you are not feeling up to it, you must not force yourself,” Mr Stane says smoothly. “We’re honoured that you chose to come in spite of your malady, aren’t we, Tony.”

“Of course,” Sir Anthony says. “Please do not feel obliged to do anything you do not feel well enough for.”

“My thanks,” Steve says. Sir Anthony is opening his mouth to speak again, but Steve keeps talking. He knows that if he allows Sir Anthony to continue then this conversation will grow out of his control. “We should make our way, I think. The queue is building up, and you will be much in demand.” He bows carefully.

“Of course,” Sir Anthony says, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “I… Thank you for coming. Please enjoy yourselves.”

“I’m sure we will,” Sam says, and with that, they are released and Steve feels as though he can breathe again. “Well that was not awkward at all.”

“I’m trying,” Steve hisses back.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to get through this,” Sam says.

“I know,” Steve says. “Perhaps I can… just avoid him for the rest of the evening.”

“Perhaps,” Sam agrees.

*

Avoiding Sir Anthony proves to be more difficult than Steve had anticipated. He appears to pop up everywhere. Stark Manor is a large place and the entertaining rooms are more than large enough to fit all the guests, but still Steve finds among all the scores of faces that mill around, he sees Sir Anthony whenever he turns around.

“You’re going to hurt your back if you keep hunching over like that,” Mrs Romanoff says, coming up behind him, a fan in her hand as she regards him with definite amusement.

“If I stand any straighter, then I will be more easily seen,” Steve tells her.

“Yes,” she agrees. “You are rather a clear figure, I could see you from across the ballroom, even with the dancers.”

“Any suggestions?” Steve asks her, raising an eyebrow. She seems to consider it for a second, tapping her fan against her fingers and looking him up and down.

“Well, slouching like that just makes you look suspicious,” she says. “You could always try the veranda.”

Steve looks over to where the doors go out.

“I tried, he still-” he cuts himself off as a woman walks past.

“Yes, he is rather persistent when he wants to be,” Mrs Romanoff agrees. “But, if you wish, I can run interference. Or you could just talk to him.”

“I’m not sure I could,” Steve says. “You said yourself that I am not very accomplished at all of this. I fear I am more likely to say something that will put everything in jeopardy than assist us.”

“It might have been better in that case if you had just stayed at home,” she comments and Steve glares at her.

“And that wouldn’t have looked suspicious at all,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“What wouldn’t have looked suspicious?” a familiar voice asks and Steve’s heart sinks to his feet as he turns to see Sir Anthony standing behind him, a smile across his face that did not quite reach his eyes. He looks sad and Steve hates the very idea that it might be because of him, but he tries to push the thought from his head.

“Captain Rogers is trying to avoid some of his more ardent admirers,” Mrs Romanoff says. “I was just offering to play bait with them to draw them off his scent.”

“If anyone is giving you trouble, I am sure I can come up with some way to rescue you,” Sir Anthony says, although he’s looking between the pair of them with distinct suspicion. “I believe I have told you that before. Do you not trust me?”

The words stick in Steve’s mouth. He is supposed to say yes. He wants to say ‘yes’, but it would be a lie, and he knows it. The silence is only momentary, before Mrs Romanoff jumps into the gap, but it is enough to be noticeable, and he sees the momentary expression of pain on Sir Anthony’s face before al expression is shuttered off.

“Sir Anthony,” he says. “This… truly is a splendid ball. The music is-”

“You are going to talk to me about the music and the evening,” Sir Anthony says. “Of course you are. Good, polite topics of conversation. Exactly what we should be talking about.”

“I only meant to compliment you on your-”

“My thanks for your compliments,” Sir Anthony says, his voice tight. “It is of course the company that makes any event.”

“It is,” Steve agrees, keeping his response as short as possible. He feels that is the easiest way to keep himself from saying something incriminating.

“I had thought tonight would be a night to remember,” Sir Anthony says.

“I’m sure it will be,” Mrs Romanoff assures him.

“But will it be remembered for the right reasons?” Sir Anthony asks.

“Of course,” Steve says. He feels something fracturing, but he has no idea how to stop it. It is as though he is watching a vase fall to a stone floor and he is too far away to stop it.

“Ah, I see Mr Cardew,” Mrs Romanoff says. “I believe he promised me a dance.” And then she is gone in a rustle of skirts, leaving Steve staring helplessly at Sir Anthony.

“Perhaps you have reconsidered your own position on dancing this evening,” Sir Anthony says, though his face is still shut off. Steve’s mind is blank of anything he could say. “If I am not too unwelcome a partner.”

“Of course not,” Steve says, the words falling from him before he can truly consider them. “I am feeling a little better.” This is a terrible idea. But perhaps it is better in the end to get this over with, one dance and he will have fulfilled the requirement.

He offers his hand and Sir Anthony leads him onto the dancefloor.

“It appears I have once again done something to offend you,” Sir Anthony says as they bow to each other.

“No,” Steve says, but he cannot sound convincing. His brain has too many subjects churning in it. He must remember the steps and the conversation, and avoid being distracted by the light, warm touch of Sir Anthony’s hand whenever the steps draw them together.

“And I do not suppose you will tell me what it is?” Sir Anthony says as they cross arms to begin the promenade. “What crime have I committed that you are so dedicated to avoiding me, and that makes you look so uncomfortable in my very presence? I had thought we were past this.”

“I…” Steve cannot explain. They turn past each other and bow to the next couple. “You are the host, I should not monopolise your time.”

“Monopolise my- Captain Rogers, you have barely spoken two words to me all evening and you have spent the entire night looking as though you would rather be anywhere else. I told myself it was because you were feeling out of sorts, but I rather think it is because of me. Will you not, as my friend, tell me what it is I have done? How can I be expected to fix a thing when I do not know the problem?” Steve catches a glimpse of Sir Anthony’s face as they return to their positions opposite each other. He looks less composed than Steve believes he has ever seen him. He appears more agitated than he had even when Steve was robbing him at gunpoint. Steve can’t help the guilt that’s tightening his chest.

“Sir Anthony,” Steve says, reaching out to take his hand again. A step in, a step back. “There is nothing to fix.”

“And that is all the answer I am to get?” Sir Anthony asks as they release their grip on each other once more. “Yes, it is. I can see it in your eyes. You have made up your mind. You have set your will to something and you will not be moved.”

Steve winces.

“And I cannot know what it is, for you do not believe it is something that can be fixed. It is something so terrible that I can do nothing, and you will not tell me because… because you like to toy with your food - like a cat.”

“Sir Anthony,” Steve says.

“No, I understand,” Sir Anthony says. “In that case I will not burden you with my presence any further, Captain. Please do enjoy your evening. Even if you no longer enjoy my company, I still wish you to enjoy yourself somehow, but you need not fear my interference any longer. I have other guests I have invited. I shall find my own enjoyment elsewhere.” He bows his head curtly and wheels around, turning on his heel to stalk away, leaving Steve partnerless in the middle of the dancefloor.

Steve stares helplessly after him. He cannot be sure. That is the problem. The baronet had seemed sincere, certainly, but Steve cannot be sure. He does not know him well enough to be sure.

He gets himself a drink and downs it in one swallow, then heads out to the veranda, hoping the cooler air might clear his head a little better.

Not wishing to be disturbed, he takes up a position a little around the corner, not directly in front of the ballroom doors, and sits on a cold stone bench, staring up at the stars. They are the same stars as he has always seen, here, in Brooklyn, at the warfront, and there is something comforting about that. Some things are stable even while the world itself seems to be shifting like sand in an hourglass. Some things are still the same.

“You don’t really think he did it, ” Bucky says, and as long as Steve keeps staring up at the glimmering deep blue sky, he can pretend Bucky’s really there, sitting next to him, helping him work out exactly what is going on like he always used to. Steve doesn’t answer, though, can’t bring himself to say one way or the other.

“I know you, Steve. I’m inside your head, and you don’t think it was him. You think it was Stane.”

That doesn’t help at all, because Steve knows that he’s not looking at this clearly, that his head is clouded with pictures of Sir Anthony’s smile, the way he talks when he’s interested in something, the way he plays the piano. How he laughs. How he says Steve’s name with that challenge in his eyes. He cannot see this clearly at all. His judgement cannot be trusted.

“You’re the best judge of character I’ve met, ” Bucky tells him, and it’s words he had said before a dozen or more times. “ I’d trust your instincts any day of the week ,” Bucky says, still echoing past conversations back at him.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but the words are frozen in his throat as another voice, a real voice, not the ghost of a conversation long since buried, cuts through the night.

“Tony, what’s this change of heart about.” Mr Stane’s voice carries on the air, clear as a bell, and Steve almost holds his breath.

“Does it matter, Obie?” SIr Anthony replies. He sounds tired. “You were right. It’s been too long since I was in town. I should show my face.”

“I’m glad you’re seeing things clearly,” Mr Stane says. “I was worrying that you’d gone and caught up in something.”

“No,” Sir Anthony says. “I thought that maybe… but no. I’m not caught in anything. Free as a bird.”

“And a bird needs to fly,” Mr Stane says. Steve can almost picture the self-satisfied look on his face. “Very well, to town we shall go. The season has barely begun. You’ll be able to make a decent showing of yourself. And perhaps there’s a pretty girl who might catch your eye. Now you’re a baronet you’re bound to be-”

“Perhaps,” Sir Anthony says. “But that’s secondary. Business first, everything else is secondary.”

“You know what your father always said.”

“That mother was the best business decision he ever made,” Sir Anthony says. Steve can remember Howard saying exactly that. He’d always made it sound sweet, talking about how much Maria had helped him with everything. But hearing the words from Sir Anthony’s mouth makes them sound sour and hard. “I’m not… Obie, I get what you mean, I really do, but I only just inherited. My parents are barely gone. There’s no rush for these things.”

“With a highwayman roaming the woods at night, the world is a dangerous place, Tony,” Mr Stane says, and Steve feels the hackles on the back of his neck stand up. That feels like a threat. “There was another attack last night. One of the people he attacked was lucky to get away with his life. He broke several ribs.”

“What?” Sir Anthony asks. “That can’t be right. He’s never injured anyone-”

“The man is a menace, Tony. I know you have this romantic view of him, but he’s a criminal. The militia almost caught him. I’m going to ask for an escort on our way to town.”

“I… suppose, if you think that’s for the best,” Sir Anthony says. Steve winces. Sir Anthony is leaving, and with him any chance of discovering the truth, and with an armed guard on his journey, there will be no way for Steve to check whether there is anything being smuggled with him.

“I do. And town will be good for you, it always cheers you up, and you can hardly say that society around here is quite as… stimulating,” Mr Stane says, his voice honeyed acid to Steve’s ears.

“You’re right. It’ll be fun,” Sir Anthony says. Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but the words sound forced to Steve’s ears. “I had thought the company in the village much improved, but it seems I may have been mistaken on that front.”

“Not your fault, my boy.”

“You warned me against being foolish,” SIr Anthony says.

“We all have our youthful follies,” Mr Stane says. “The important thing is to remember to keep them in our youth.”

“Very well,” Sir Anthony says. “We shall leave for town next week. A change of scenery will be good for us all.”

Steve’s hands are gripping the edge of the bench so hard he feels it crack. His eyes go wide and round as he looks down at it. It has been a long time since he has misjudged his strength so poorly.

Sir Anthony and Mr Stanes voices grow quieter, moving away, and he can no longer make out their conversation.

He stares down at the ground and pulls himself together. It is not like he has any hold over Sir Anthony. Why should he not go to town? From what Steve has heard around the village, it is rare that he has stayed in residence at the manor for as long as he has in the first place. And as a businessman and a baronet, he undoubtedly has things he needs to do there.

Steve draws in a deep breath. It will make things more difficult, certainly, but also it may make things easier. Some distance is what he needs to overcome this infatuation, certainly, and with Sir Anthony in town, the next time Steve sees him, he will be able to view him quite calmly and without bias.

He stands and heads back into the ballroom, where Ms Van Dyne scoops her arm into his and insists on taking a promenade around the room with him. It is a pleasant enough diversion, although he cannot stop himself from being distracted. His eyes lock on Sir Anthony whenever he catches sight of him from the corner of his eye, although it seems that Sir Anthony is avoiding him. His eyes slide past Steve every time he looks around the ballroom, seeking out something he does not seem to find.

“Have you and Tony had a falling out?” Ms Van Dyne asks. “Is he being silly again?”

“No,” Steve says. “No falling out. But I believe we are very different people at heart. It can be difficult to find common ground.” She gives him a shrewd look, but lets the comment pass.

The rest of the evening is a blur. Steve stays long enough to be polite, then times his exit so he can say his quickest farewells and thanks to his host.

Mr Barton is waiting with his and Sam’s horses as he leaves. He gives them both a solemn nod, and then a not so solemn wink as he hands over the reins. Steve wonders about Fury’s commentary on his own lack of subtlety when Mr Barton seems determined to make a drama of everything.

He spends a restless night, tossing and turning and coming up with just as many arguments why it could not possibly be Sir Anthony who is behind the treason as for why it must be.

*

“You have been wandering around the house like a bear with an injured paw,” Sam complains two days later. “Is this because of the discovery of our antagonist’s possible identity, or because he is leaving?”

Steve levels a look at him. He knows that he has been somewhat… restless since the night of the ball. But he had hoped that he was hiding his mood more thoroughly than that. Apparently not.

“It will make it far more difficult for us to prove anything, one way or the other,” Steve says.

“And it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re going to miss him,” Sam comments, reading over the latest letter from his sister.

“Sam,” Steve says, and Sam turns to him, his face mild, but Steve can read his thoughts across it clear enough. “I am not…” He takes a deep breath. “That’s hardly the point.”

“I think it may be exactly the point,” Sam says. “Look, we need to work out one way or the other, you know that and so do I. If it turns out that he is not involved in this business, then I doubt he will be-”

“If,” Steve says. There is a lot of “if” in that statement. If Sir Anthony is not involved. If he still has any desire to speak to Steve after all of this. If he does not return from town engaged to someone…

Steve tells himself that he always knew that it would end that way, no matter whether Sir Anthony was involved or not, but he’s not sure it’s the truth. It appears that his heart had given more to hope than he had thought.

“I find thinking is always easier when you put your mind on some other task,” Sam says. “Perhaps you could go and paint something.”

“Perhaps you just want me out of the house,” Steve says.

“I will confess that the way your brain is churning is giving me a headache in sympathy,” Sam says a little flippantly, then he sighs, folding up his letter and leaning forwards in his seat. His eyes stick on Steve’s with a sudden intensity.

“This situation is unprecedented. It’s not surprising that you’re finding it difficult to deal with, but I honestly believe a change of scenery will help you. Take some air, stretch your legs, distract yourself with some art. You will find things easier to deal with if you take a break from them every now and then.”

“We are running out of time,” Steve says. “If he leaves for town we will have no hopes of proving anything one way or the other.”

“And if your mind keeps going round in circles, that won’t produce any results, either,” Sam tells him. “Take a break. You’re barely sleeping, you’re obsessing. It’s not healthy for you. You’ll work yourself to illness.”

Steve is about to protest, but the words all go out of him as he takes in Sam’s steady gaze.

“Perhaps a painting trip would help me gather my thoughts,” he says. Sam nods and settles back into his chair. 

“Enjoy,” he says, going back to his reading. And Steve has nothing to do but fetch his painting things and head out.

It is a bright day, which seems particularly contrary of it, considering the darkness of Steve’s mood, but he cannot deny that it will make a pretty picture, although he fears that in his current state he will not do it justice.

He wanders for a long while, getting himself lost in the rabbit paths that crisscross the countryside, until he finds a secluded little clearing that has a picturesque setting to it, with a cottage in the distance, and he decides he has walked far enough. While he’s sure he can follow his path back where he came from, he has little idea where he actually is in relation to the village, or any other landmarks.

Steve sets up his easel and is determined that he will paint and not think about Sir Anthony, treason or any of the ridiculous mess he has somehow found himself in. Sam is correct, in that Steve never has been able to do anything simply. 

He begins to mix his paints, and tries to force his brain to keep to colour matching, but it strays away every time, to every thing he does not want to think about. His thoughts are crowded out by the war and Sir Anthony and Hydra. He pushes them out, but they force their way back in, slipping through the cracks, until he realises he has been staring at his palette for a full ten minutes without having done a thing, and his paint is drying where it sits.

He pushes them away again and looks down towards the cottage.

He is not expecting to see a person there. There is a moment where he almost lifts his hand to wave, but then he realises exactly who it is he is seeing and he pauses. He is far enough away that he is probably unnoticed, far enough that he should not be able to tell who it is he is watching, but he is not an average person, and that figure is set into his memory in stone.

It is the woman from the road. The courier of the stolen plans. She is talking to someone who is still inside the cottage. It is difficult to make out expressions at this distance, even for Steve, but her body language seems angry, or frustrated perhaps. Her movements are jerky and abrupt, her arms cross over her chest and her head tilts at a confrontational angle. Steve leans to try to see who she is talking to, but of course, it makes no difference.

He wonders if he should duck, or hide, but he has no reason to. At this distance, they will not know him. He’s just a man painting a picture.

Or not. He looks at the half painted picture, which he doesn’t need anyone to tell him is technically terrible, and sighs, and he waits. He’s not sure if the woman is a visitor or not. She might just be talking to her partner in crime, although he doubts the man is up and walking yet, with broken ribs.

Then she steps back and another person emerges from the cottage. Steve freezes in place, his paintbrush snaps in two from where his muscles tighten all at once.

It isn’t Sir Anthony. That’s the first thought that spreads over him with relief. It isn’t Sir Anthony, the figure is too tall, the beard too grey and not so carefully groomed, the hair is… well, there isn’t much of it he can see before the man restores his hat to his head.

Mr Stane shakes the woman’s hand and bows slightly before handing her something, and Steve watches it happen.

Relief bubbles up inside him. It’s not Sir Anthony.

Of course, the only proof he has is that of his own two eyes, and perhaps there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, but he cannot think of one. Stane is meeting with the traitors. Stane is handing them parcels. Stane is the traitor.

He starts to pack up his paints, aware that he is not going to get anything done now. He feels as light as a feather. It is not Sir Anthony.

He makes it all the way back to Lakefield before his good mood evaporates as he realises that while he might have solved one mystery, there is still a tangled web to pick their way through.

Sam is in the library when he returns and Steve barely takes the time to drop off his painting equipment before he finds him.

“I take it the painting trip was a success,” Sam says, looking at Steve with a little concern. Steve knows he must look strange, practically vibrating with excitement as he is. He closes the door and lowers his voice and details what he has seen, all of it, and watches Sam’s expression change from concern to determination.

“We have to bring this to Sir Anthony,” Sam says. “If he knew what Mr Stane was doing-”

“He’s a family friend,” Steve points out. “Sir Anthony has known him for decades. We are… I do not believe he would take our word against that of a trusted friend.”

“Mine, perhaps not, but yours,” Sam says. Steve winces and shakes his head.

“I think I have burnt that bridge,” he tells him.

“I think you might be speaking too early, “Sam says. “He is upset, but if you explain-”

“Explain that I thought he was a traitor?” Steve asks. “I doubt he will take that too kindly either.”

“He’s an intelligent man. He will understand,” Sam says. “You can try.”

“But if I tip Stane’s hand to Fury’s operation, then what hope have we?” Steve shakes his head. “Mrs Romanoff was right, we need something more definite, something that Stane cannot deny. Evidence in his own hand, witnesses, something that will have him putting his own head in the noose.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Sam asks. Steve feels all the jubilation leak out of him and he collapses into a chair, head in his hands. “Look, no. We’ve got more information than we had before. That’s a good thing.”

“You’re right,” Steve says slowly, lifting his head to look across the room. “We can’t stop just because something seems impossible. We just have to keep going.”

“Right,” Sam says. “And we’ve got help now. Mrs Romanoff and Mr Barton know what’s going on. Mr Barton is perfectly placed to get proof.”

“Until Stane goes to town and then we have nothing,” Steve says.

“They will come back.”

*

Nomad isn’t really needed anymore. Steve’s flight of fancy into the world of crime is retired. Or it should be, but he finds himself unable to sleep that night, and he pulls on his outfit and slips out into the woods.

“ Right where the militia are looking for you ,” Bucky’s shade helpfully supplies as he watches Steve tie on his mask. “ I always knew you’d do something stupid if I wasn’t there to stop you. ”

“Well you’re not,” Steve tells him. Bucky’s ghost doesn’t say anything after that.

He slips out, blacks out the star on Liberty’s forehead and sets off. He feels freer as Nomad, like the worries that settle on Steve Rogers’ shoulders are gone - or at least a little lighter.

The night is cool, and he listens to the owls hooting in their trees, hears a few foxes screaming into the night, and settles against a tree just to exist.

When he hears the footsteps, he thinks that it is the militia, and jumps to his feet immediately, but it is only one person, and he can think of no reason the militia would send their men alone into the woods. They would travel in pairs or groups, he is sure. Well, they would if their commander had any common sense.

And the gait does not sound like a military man, it’s a little too gentle, it doesn’t have the same rhythm. Steve has been in the army long enough that the tromp tromp of military boots is a familiar background noise, and this is not that, not even muffled by the undergrowth of the woods.

“Hello?” a voice calls out and Steve’s heart leaps to his throat. He had not come here hoping for this, but perhaps this was what he had intended.

He steps out from behind his tree and sees Sir Anthony, lit by the moonlight, peering into the shadows.

“Sir Anthony,” Steve says, pitching his voice low into that range which Nomad speaks. Sir Anthony starts, whirling around to face him. “You are walking late. The woods are dangerous, haven’t you heard.”

“I heard you assaulted a man.”

“I had my reasons,” Steve tells him. Sir Anthony peers at him, tilting his head slightly, and nods.

“And I suppose those reasons are to remain as mysterious as you.”

“The man was a traitor,” Steve says.

“A criminal who hunts traitors.”

“Sometimes the only way to do what is right is to break the law,” Steve says. Sir Anthony frowns for a second. “If the law prevents you from doing what is right, then the law is wrong.”

“I cannot disagree with that statement,” Sir Anthony says. “Although I have heard that the law is important in preventing anarchy. And that keeping to the law is important in keeping one’s head.”

“I can’t allow something wrong to continue when it is within my power to prevent it,” Steve says.

“I am cursed to be surrounded by righteous men,” Sir Anthony says with a small laugh.

“Why are you here?” Steve asks him.

“ I did not see you at the ball...” He lets the statement linger until it becomes a question.

“I saw you,” Steve says, softly. “You seemed out of sorts.”

“You were there, then?”

“Everyone in the county was there,” Steve says.

“You were not there,” Sir Anthony says. “You could not have been there. I would have recognised you immediately.”

“And yet, you did not,” Steve says. “But you were troubled that night, perhaps I could assist you?” It feels almost unfair to lead Sir Anthony in this way, but Steve can’t help himself.

“I was troubled, but I fear there is little anyone can do. I have a habit of breaking things. I always assume that I will be able to mend them - but I cannot if I am not permitted to know what has broken.”

“I doubt that it is you who are at fault,” Steve says. “Perhaps it is only a misunderstanding.”

“Perhaps,” Sir Anthony says. “But I fear not. And the… other party, is not the sort who makes mistakes.”

“All people make mistakes,” Steve says.

“Not this man,” Sir Anthony mutters. “But I did not come here to talk of him.”

“Then why are you here? Seeking out a highwayman in the middle of the night, when you should be safe within your manor.”

“I… I suppose I came to say goodbye,” Sir Anthony says. “I am leaving for town.

“And you thought to give your farewells to a thief.”

“Yes… well,” Sir Anthony shrugs. Steve steps closer to him. Sir Anthony looks smaller than usual in the moonlight, hunched a little over, his eyes flicking around to the shadows.

“Why are you leaving?” Steve asks, unable to resist.

“I have business in town,” Sir Anthony says. “And it’s a necessity that rather comes with the title I’m afraid. One must be seen.”

“And is that the only reason?” Steve asks. Sir Anthony looks at him sharply. “It has nothing to do with that misunderstanding?”

“I had thought,” Sir Anthony pauses. “I had thought there was a reason for me to stay, but it seems there is none. I should not be surprised, there has never been a reason before. But I had thought. Sometimes we get caught up in our own imaginations.”

“Yes,” Steve agrees.

“So I thought I would come to warn you that in two days, I will not be available to save you, should you come to harm with the militia.”

“That is fine, this is my last night anyway,” Steve says. “I am hanging up my mask.”

“Of course you are,” Sir Anthony says. “I don’t suppose you could see your way to coming to town. It might be nice to see a friendly face amid the crowds.”

“You’ve never seen my face.”

“I think I would know it, anyway,” Sir Anthony says, his voice careful. Steve purses his lips at that and does not remind Sir Anthony that he clearly had not recognised him at the ball. The silence hangs between them, and Steve’s mouth is at a loss for words. He’s never been good at talking to people he finds attractive, but his Nomad persona had helped him feel less awkward. It seems as though the magic has worn off, though.

“But I should go,” Sir Anthony says. “I just wanted… well, I have done what I came here to do.” He nods and turns to walk away. Steve feels a momentary panic seize him.

“Wait,” he says, before he knows what words will follow. Sir Anthony stops and turns. Steve racks his brain to think of something he could say.

“Your ring,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “I should… return it.”

Sir Anthony looks for a second as though he has been slapped.

“Good going, Stevie ,” Bucky’s voice mutters in his head, and will the ghost never leave him alone. “Kick a man while he’s down .”

“That’s not necessary,” Sir Anthony says.

“I would feel wrong keeping it when it was given for a purpose and that purpose is no longer-”

“Keep it,” Sir Anthony says, his voice harder than before. “Call it a memento. Good night, Nomad.”

“Be safe,” Steve says. “And…” it’s a long shot, it’s a risk, but it’s the only chance he has. “Be careful who you trust, Sir Anthony.” Sir Anthony turns again, looking at him carefully, his face almost completely in darkness from the shadows of the canopy, but the moonlight just picking out the shine off his eyes.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“I… I fear there may be people close to you who mean harm to you and to us all,” Steve says. Sir Anthony blinks.

“That is… what are you talking about? Is that why you’ve been running around the woods in that ridiculous outfit? To accuse my friends of-”

“I have discovered-”

“Have you any proof of these outrageous accusations?” Sir Anthony demands.

“Not yet.”

“Then I fear you are mistaken,” Sir Anthony says. “Good night, Nomad, and farewell.” He turns again and strides through the woods. Steve watches him go, feeling hopeless. That had not gone so well as he would have liked.

He feels no peace as he returns from his walk, his mind more torn up than it had been before.

And when he wakes the next morning to hear that Sir Anthony is leaving a day earlier than planned, his heart sinks even further.

*

Sir Anthony comes to take his leave and the entire situation is awkward beyond compare. Mr Stane is with him, watching over proceedings with the smug self-satisfaction of a cat cleaning its paws after killing a mouse.

Steve has so many things that he wants to be able to say, but they are all caught up in his head, and he cannot put voice to them with Stane watching them as he is. He wants to apologise for all of it, but he cannot. He can only repeat the platitudes of gratitude and good wishes as Sir Anthony sits bolt upright on the sofa, and remember the soft way he had swayed as he had played his mother’s old piano.

They leave and Steve watches the carriage all the way out of the drive until it is hidden by a bend in the road. Sam pats his shoulder with a sigh.

“And he is gone,” Steve says. “And with him all hope of uncovering the truth.”

“He’ll come back,” Sam says.

“Perhaps, but we will not, I think, renew our acquaintance as we did before.” Steve relaxes his shoulders, breathing deeply. “You cannot undo what has been done.”

“And yet sometimes change can be a good thing,” Sam says. He doesn’t sound as though he entirely believes it, though.

Chapter Text

Life in Marvel without Sir Anthony is not as different as Steve might have thought. Though the baronet was certainly the heart of society, it still gets by without him. The parties are smaller, the gossip less salacious, but it continues on regardless. Not that Sir Anthony's absence keeps people from talking about him.

It's generally agreed that the baronet will not return from town a bachelor. Steve hears many names suggested, some of which he has heard before in whispered conversations about Sir Anthony's extravagant past, others he barely knows at all.

"It's rather strange," Ms Van Dyne says one day when she and her husband are visiting Lakefield. She sips at her tea with pursed lips. "I thought he'd given up on all that. He hates town. And I thought he'd grown quite fond of the village recently." Her eyes drift to Steve's face with a certain knowledge that makes the tips of his ears burn. "Captain, there's no need for false modesty here. We could all see it. More than one heart in the village was broken over it."

Steve takes a gulp from his own cup, just to mask the expression on his face. She sees it, though, he can tell from the look in her eye. He does not comment. He doesn’t know if his silence will be taken as guilt or sorrow, but he cannot think of any words to say that would conceal his own feelings on the matter. Ms Van Dyne has a sharp eye and a sharper mind, she may flit around and give more indication of interest in fine dresses than serious matters, but he does not doubt her mental abilities.

“He is being remarkably tardy with his correspondence, though,” she says, continuing to fill the gap that Steve has left in the conversation. He smiles gratefully. “I have sent him three letters and all but the first have gone unanswered.”

“It's possible his brain has caught on another fascinating invention,” Steve says, although his heart sinks as he says it. The idea of another of Sir Anthony’s miraculous creations ending up in Hydra’s hands is beyond the pale.

Perhaps he should make the journey to Brooklyn in order to try to-

He pushes the idea from his head. That would be beyond foolish.

“Perhaps,” Ms Van Dyne says, though she does not sound convinced. “Though when we used to both spend the season in Brooklyn, he seldom spent much time on his mental pursuits. His mind was more taken with dancing and enjoying himself, from what I recall.”

“Then maybe it is that which he is caught up in,” Steve says. He can almost picture it in his mind, Sir Anthony at a large gathering in the town, the sort of place that Steve had used to be wheeled out by the army in order to charm high society into supporting the troops. Sir Anthony would fit in perfectly there. Steve himself had always stuck out like a sore thumb. He winces at the memory.

“It is abominable behaviour on his part to choose to ignore me in favour of enjoying himself,” Ms Van Dyne says, although the twinkle in her eye clearly says she does not feel as aggrieved as her manner might suggest. “Have you heard back from him?” she asks. Steve gives her a careful look, but her face is the picture of innocence. Too much innocence, perhaps.

“I have not written to him as of yet,” Steve says, straightening in his seat. “I was not sure the correspondence would be welcome.”

“Unwelcome?” she asks, her eyes flying wide in startlement. “Of course it would be welcome. You know he… He valued your opinions, Captain Rogers.”

“We did not part on the best of terms,” Steve says.

“No… no.” She pauses and he knows from that pause that his and Sir Anthony’s interactions at the ball had not been unnoticed. “But all the more reason to write to him. I’m sure a letter gives you more scope to address such matters than a conversation. I always find that writing things down helps me enormously. You must write him a letter and then perhaps together we can convince him to give up his ridiculous foolishness in Brooklyn.”

“I would not ask him to return,” Steve says. “I was given the understanding that such matters are important to his business.”

“He can make a better airship just as well here as he can in Brooklyn,” she says, frowning. “Better even.”

“But there are also people he needs to talk to.”

“I suppose there must be,” she says, but she shakes her head. “I wish he would reply to my letters. I can’t help feeling that something has happened again.”

“Again?” Steve asks, unable to stop himself. Ms Van Dyne’s eyes widen and she looks startled at herself.

“After what happened with Lord Stone… and Miss Frost. You must have heard of it - I cannot imagine the village has kept silent on the matter. Although they know better than to spread such rumours where I can hear them.” Her lips purse and Steve has the sudden premonition that Ms Van Dyne would not be a good lady to cross.

“I have heard the names, and there have been implications of some kind of scandal, but other than that, I know little,” Steve confesses.

“There is little more I can tell you, just that last time Sir Anthony was in town, he made close acquaintance with Lord Tiberius Stone. It was very nearly a scandal, although I believe Colonel Rhodes interceded before pistols could be drawn.” She sighs. “There were some spurious investments which lost a great number of people a great deal of money, and rumours of a secret engagement. Then, when he was at his lowest point, abandoned by those he had thought friends, Miss Frost found him…” Ms Van Dyne scowls, which is the most ferocious look Steve has seen on her face. “I believe she has been throwing around the rumour that it was Tony who mistreated her, when in reality it couldn’t be further from the truth. It was not Tony who broke off their engagement, though he is willing to let himself be seen as the villain.”

“I see,” Steve says.

“So, you understand that the lack of correspondence concerns me,” Ms Van Dyne says. “I fear he has once again been surrounded by people who would prey on his better nature.”

“Sir Anthony is an intelligent man,” Steve says. “I doubt he would fall victim to the same scheme again.”

“I hope not, but I will not be easy until he has written to me himself to tell he what he is about.”

“I am sure he is merely busy with business affairs,” Steve assures her, though he cannot help but think of the presence of Mr Stane, and what mischiefs he may be enacting.

*

Ms Van Dyne’s words stick with him long after the dinner, and it is not two days later, Steve puts pen to paper and begins his attempt to write to Sir Anthony.

The words do not flow easily. He attempts an apology, but even on his third attempt it seems stilted and shallow, with little feeling behind it. He is hindered by his inability to put any of the facts down on paper.

It is on the fourth try that he has something that he deems ‘not too awful’ and signs his name to it. It is shorter than he would have liked, but he finds there is little of worth to talk about in his daily life and nothing, he is sure, that would interest Sir Anthony.

He receives no reply.

Sam has the decency to keep his mouth shut as Steve perks up like a hound every time the mail is delivered.

He receives an invitation from the Barnes family, missives from Sam’s family, some letters from people he had known in the army, but nothing from Sir Anthony. The message is clear enough - that Sir Anthony does not want to talk with him. Steve can do nothing more than acquiesce, no matter how much he may wish otherwise.

It is in the post that they receive the news.

There are no letters for Steve that day, but Sam receives a thin envelope.

“I don’t recognise the hand,” he says, examining it. “But that’s the seal of the Admiralty.” Steve looks up from his breakfast. A letter from the Admiralty could be any number of things. It is possible that Sam is being summoned back to The Falcon , or asked to go north to the training camps as Colonels Rhodes and Danvers had been.

He watches Sam as his friend tears open the envelope to read his message, and sees Sam’s face go from curious to horrified within a second.

“What is it?” Steve asks, “Sam?”

“Riley,” Sam says. “Not just him, the whole ship.”

“What about it?” Steve asks.

“They’ve been shot from the sky,” Sam says, his voice hollow and far away. Steve knows that voice, knows the emotions behind it as vividly as he knows anything these days. It’s the same cold distant place he feels in his own chest. “All hands lost.”

“All hands,” Steve echoes. He knows that is not unusual for an airship. For all they have life boats, their position in the sky is precarious and unforgiving.

“What happened?” he asks.

“This is,” Sam looks up, seems to draw himself together. “This isn’t an official report. It’s from the Captain of another ship who saw the attack.”

“An attack, not an accident?” Steve says.

“I knew those men, they flew too well for it to be anything else,” Sam says, his voice hard. “Captain Leighton says that there was a ship - flying no colours. A pirate he calls it, but we shall see what you think when I tell you the rest.” His free hand, not holding the letter, balls into a fist on the table, and his voice is ragged with anger. “It fired a shot of a weapon unlike anything the captain had seen, a weapon that cut right through the armoured plating, in a way that should not be possible.”

“Weapons advance all the time-” Steve says.

“The description of the weapon,” Sam says. “I recognise it.” He holds out the letter and Steve takes it, scanning down to the relevant passage. Steve’s heart sinks, because he recognises it as well. The exact same description as Tony had given of his new cannon design, the one that was in tests before it was to be fitted onto the admiralty’s fleet.

“This is-”

“It isn’t a coincidence,” Sam snaps. “You know it isn’t. It’s Hydra. They’re back and we had them. We could have stopped them.”

“We have done everything-”

“We didn’t do enough!” Sam spits. “One hundred and twenty-five men aboard that ship, Steve. One hundred and twenty-five!” He bursts from his chair, sending it skidding backwards across the wooden floor, and begins to pace the room. “All of them gone now. And for what? For more war? Just to test a weapon they shouldn’t have had?”

“We don’t-”

“We know enough!” Sam says, wheeling on him. “We need to speak to Mrs Romanoff. Your friend, Fury, we need to talk to him.”

“We can do that,” Steve says. Sam stares at him, his face twisting as he tries to control his emotions, his eyes filled with utter rage.

“They were good men,” he says.

“I know,” Steve says.

“I’m going to…” Sam draws in a deep breath and straightens his coat with a harsh movement. “I need to take a walk to clear my head.”

“Would you like-”

“No company,” Sam says. “I can’t… I need to be alone right now.”

Steve nods. He knows that feeling too. He stands as Sam leaves the room and watches him go, then looks down to the rapidly cooling breakfast on his plate, his appetite gone.

He feels tired, weary beyond belief. His shoulders ache with it, his head is heavy and his heart feels like lead. He had thought he was done with this. Done with Hydra and with their machinations. He had thought they were winning. He had foolishly thought that knowing about the treason would stop it. But this, this would have happened far before they had any idea of the conspiracy. The cannons involved Tony had been talking about designing long ago, before the end of the war, except they hadn’t been outfitted in time. The spies had been working since then. Nothing Steve could have done would have stopped this. 

It is easy to think those words in his head, harder to make himself believe them.

He had not known Riley well. Steve’s time aboard The Falcon is mostly a wash of empty grief, but what he does remember is a capable, cheerful man who had clearly been close to Sam.

How many more people have to die, Stevie? Bucky asks him, his voice accusing. Steve knows it can’t really be him, because Bucky would never have blamed him, not for this. But it doesn’t stop the words from cutting into him.

He was supposed to stop this. They gave him a medal for stopping this.

Steve picks up the breakfast plate from the table and hurls it across the room, where it shatters against the fireplace.

And who’s going to pick that up? Bucky asks.

Steve pushes himself back to his feet - when had he sat down again? He doesn’t remember - and staggers over to the fireplace just as a maid hurries in, looking half terrified.

“Just an accident,” he assures her, trying to smile. The muscles in his face feel rigid. They don’t stretch right. He starts to gather up the shards of the plate and the remains of the food. “I’ve got it, but if you could fetch something for me to place it in?” She bobs what he assumes is a nod and disappears out of the door again.

He cuts his finger on a shard and it barely registers as a drop of blood beads there before splashing down on the stone of the hearth.

All he can do right now is clear up the mess he has made.

*

Mrs Romanoff shows up without being invited, which does not surprise Steve in the slightest.

“You have heard, I take it,” he says. She gives him an unimpressed look.

“I hope Captain Wilson is not doing anything foolish,” she says.

“No, I’m not,” Sam says, coming through the door right behind her. “I was looking for you, but it appears you beat me to it.”

“I came as soon as I heard,” she says. 

“Out of concern for my wellbeing, I’m sure,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. Mrs Romanoff doesn’t blink.

“Were you to try to take matters into your own hands, I’m sure your wellbeing would be under great strain, so yes. If that is how you would like to see it. We should discuss this privately, though.”

“Of course,” Steve agrees, leading her through to the library, where the servants seldom venture.

“So,” Sam says, turning on her, drawn up to his full height. Steve has never before truly noticed how slight Mrs Romanoff’s stature is, but she does not seem at all overwhelmed as Sam glares at her. “I thought you and your people had this handled.”

“Once a leak occurs, it is a greater priority to stop more water from getting out than to scoop what has already escaped back in,” Mrs Romanoff says.

“To me that just sounds like you making excuses.”

“My task is to find out who is betraying these secrets and to stop them - by any means necessary,” she says, her face is flat and hard and Steve would not doubt that she can do exactly what she claims to be doing. “The cannon designs had already been sent long before any of us was involved in this.”

“She’s right,” Steve says and Sam shoots a glare his way. “Tony designed the cannon long ago, and for them to have already constructed one, fitted it onto a ship and sent that ship out to test it - we couldn’t have stopped this.”

“Even our own ships don’t have that design equipped, yet,” Mrs Romanoff says, her mouth twisting a little in distaste. “Which means they sent copies immediately. Before they had even been confirmed for use in our battalions. Our best hope is that they have a prototype version and some of the flaws that were ironed out during our own testing process have not been discovered.”

“That didn’t help Riley,” Sam says.

“No,” Mrs Romanoff says. “Nor any of his men. I am sorry for your loss, Captain.”

“Right, of course you are.”

“I am,” she repeats, more emphatically. “But we cannot allow emotions to impede our process at this point. If we do something further to reveal our hand to Stane - or whoever is behind this - then we will ruin any chance we have of stopping them. He will come up with some new scheme and system and we will be lost.”

“He already knows I know about the current system, though,” Steve says.

“No,” Mrs Romanoff says, smiling slightly. “He knows that Nomad suspects, and he has redirected Nomad towards Sir Anthony. He does not believe you a credible threat to his plans.”

“Because I’m just a dumb soldier,” Steve says. Mrs Romanoff smiles at him.

“Perhaps if he knew the truth about your military career, he would be inclined to treat you with more respect, but I doubt it. Obadiah Stane has a tendency to dismiss forms of intelligence that are not… obvious, unless he is forced to re-evaluate someone.” Steve huffs, shaking his head. “Don’t take it as an insult,” she tells him. “It’s useful to be underestimated, why do you think Barton and I play the roles we do?”

“Barton?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I see you’re still underestimating him,” she tells him with a smirk. “I know you’re angry, but we can’t afford to be angry right now.”

“Easier said than done, Mrs Romanoff,” Sam says. She sighs and looks at him curiously, tilting her head slightly, sending a few brilliant red ringlets falling over her shoulder.

“True, but you’ve seen battle before. Both of you. People die in war and we have to wait to grieve for them.”

“This isn’t a war,” Steve says, his voice nearly a growl. “The war is over.”

“The war is never over,” she says. “This is just a different type of war from the one you’re used to.”

Steve stares at her, really looking for a second. He suspects that she is allowing him to see past her mask, just for an instant. There is a tiredness around her eyes that mimics the bone-deep weariness he can feel and she looks sad, deeply and utterly sad.

“That’s a terrible way to live,” Sam says quietly. She smiles at him.

“It’s the only way I know how,” she tells him.

“So what do we do now?” Steve asks, looking at her. “Stane and Sir Anthony are in town. We are here. Any further information we could get has gone with them.”

“Not necessarily,” she says. “The tumble you took from your horse, the man gave a fake name to the militia, but it’s difficult to hide broken ribs and bruising like that.” She smiles.

“You’ve identified the couriers,” Sam says, leaning forwards. “Where? We can speak to them.”

“No,” she says, curt and final. “That is not your job, and we don’t wish to inform them that they have been discovered. I have someone watching them.”

“Is there any connection between them and Stane?”

“None that is obvious,” she says. “The name of the man is Edward Morton, but that is common enough. He doesn’t appear to have grown up in the parish. But we’re going to keep looking into the matter.”

“I should hope so,” Sam says.

“So you want us to just sit and wait?” Steve asks.

“No,” Mrs Romanoff says. “I was actually going to ask if you had heard from Sir Anthony recently.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Sam says. Steve grimaces at the tone of his voice. “He’s been waiting for a letter.”

“Hm,” Mrs Romanoff says.

“Do you think there’s a problem?” Steve asks. The expression on her face makes his instincts prickle. Mrs Romanoff shakes her head, the expression clearing completely.

“Not at all,” she says. “Just wondering if there was more information to be gathered from correspondence.”

“Ms Van Dyne said that he hadn’t replied to her, either,” Steve says, trying to draw her out, but she refuses to be baited.

“The baronet is notorious for forgetting about things he considers trivial,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll respond soon enough.”

“If you’re certain…” Steve says slowly.

“Quite,” she replies, her smile silky smooth and clear. “I should be going. I have trespassed on your time too long already and I have other engagements. My deepest sympathies to you, Captain Wilson.”

“My thanks,” Sam says, although his tone does not sound particularly grateful.

She sweeps out of the house, leaving the little library seeming half the size in her absence. The woman has a presence to her that Steve can’t quite define.

“She wants us to sit around and do nothing,” Sam says. “Is that what you’re intending to do?”

Steve looks at him, long and hard. Sam holds it well, his posture is firm and calm enough on the surface, but Steve is familiar enough with the emotions involved that he knows Sam is roiling beneath the surface. There’s that need to act that Steve understands all too well. He feels it himself.

“I have an invitation from the Barnes family,” he says, managing not to stutter over the words at all. “I had been intending to send my regrets, but it seems to me that it might be nice to take a trip to town. They have said that I might bring any companions I might have, so if you would care to accompany me…” He doesn’t say that the idea of facing them alone, again, makes his body feel twice as heavy and his breath ache in his chest.

“I would be delighted,” Sam says.

“Then we shall leave at the end of the week,” Steve says. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

Chapter Text

The city looks different again, as Steve and Sam come to it. Unfamiliar and dirty, compared to the greenery that has surrounded them for the past months. Steve does not feel as out of place as he last did. Perhaps it is the time that has added this layer of distance between him and the memories that used to flood the place, perhaps it is simply that he has more distractions this time. There is little place in his head for past sins, when those of the present are so much more pressing.

His guilt regarding the Barnes’ family is compounded. First he is guilty that he has been remiss in his duties towards them, and that it has taken him so long to return, but then he feels guilty that he would not be visiting them were it not for his alternative purpose.

They arrive at the Barnes house, which seems much smaller now, in comparison with his new home in Marvel, but which is no less welcome a sight because of it. It feels warmer, somehow, than Lakefield ever has, even with the echoes of Bucky still lingering.

They are seen through to the parlour, where the women are assembled, sitting primly, though Steve does not doubt the place was quite casual only minutes before. It does not take long before Bucky’s mother rises to greet him, smiling warmly. There is no artifice to her pleasure at seeing him and Steve once again feels those stabs of guilt in his gut.

“Steven!” She says. “Or Captain Rogers, I should say. I was hoping you would come.” She holds out her hand and he takes it gently, bowing over it.

“Steven is perfectly alright,” he says. “I would never dream of standing on ceremony in this house.” He feels himself smile back at her without prompting and he is struck by how much he has missed this. The sensation of being known and surrounded by people who know you. Sam is a good friend, but there is a different quality to the atmosphere here in the Barnes’ home.

He introduces Sam to them and Winifred Barnes gives a sharp look between them, clearly wondering if there is more of a connection than friendship between them, but she seems to judge not.

Rebecca, as always, is the most talkative of the lot, bursting out into conversation about the goings on about town with the air of someone who wants people to believe they know everything first hand.

Bucky’s younger sister, Amelia, is quieter, only offering a few words of input every now and then to modify her sister’s enthusiasm.

Steve begins to breathe more easily. He had spent so much time dreading this, but in actuality it is not so bad as he had thought.

Of course, just as he is beginning to enjoy the chance at relaxation, he is jarred out of it once more.

“Of course, then the Baronet Stark arrived,” Rebecca says. Steve starts as though he has been shot. “Oh, Steve, are you alright?” she asks, looking alarmed.

“Sorry, I…” he looks around at everyone. Winifred’s gaze is shrewd, Sam seems almost amused, while Amelia’s eyes are huge and round. “I merely was not expecting to hear that name.”

“Baronet Stark?” Rebecca says. “Oh, of course. I forgot he lived in Marvel. That is where your new home is, is it not?”

“Yes,” Steve agrees.

“And it was the late baronet who bequeathed it to him,” Sam says. Rebecca looks at him.

“Fascinating,” she says, leaning in. “Then you should tell us what he is like, for I have not had the opportunity to meet him yet.”

Steve pauses, trying to come up with the words to use. He does not wish to presume a closer connection than he has, and he knows from Sam that he has a tendency to speak effusively if he gives himself leave.

“Sir Anthony has a brilliant mind and a sharp wit,” Steve says, aware that he sounds pained. “He is a gentleman.”

“Well that’s a rather insipid summary.”

“Rebecca!” Winifred says.

“I only meant to say that Captain Rogers must not be very well acquainted with the baronet, if that is all the information he can provide,” Rebecca says, not chastised in the least. Steve can’t help a grin. Sometimes she reminds him of Bucky terribly. He is startled to realise that the association is not entirely a painful one. Instead it has a bittersweet sting to it.

“Actually, we are quite well acquainted with the baronet,” Sam says, his tone helpful, but the look in his eyes less so. “We have dined with him at Stark Manor on any number of occasions. And he has also visited us. One time he came round just to play the piano.”

“Really?” Amelia asks, leaning forwards.

“Then you’ll have to come to the gathering at Lady Worthington’s on Friday,” Rebecca says. “And you can introduce us!”

“I’m not sure that-” Steve starts, but he is once again presented with a sea of faces looking at him and he catches Sam’s eye. He can see the sterner message there. They are here to do a job, and part of that job requires them to keep an eye on Sir Anthony and his companions. “Certainly.”

Rebecca smiles happily, her head tilting up to a slightly smug angle as her younger sister fidgets a little in glee. Winifred gives him a warm smile of appreciation.

*

After much back and forth about the benefits of the idea, Steve sends Sir Anthony a short missive regarding his presence in town, and that he hopes they will be able to talk while he is here. He is not expecting a reply.

Staying in the Barnes household is odd. Sam is distant, caught up in his own problems, and Steve is caught between the memories and the strangeness of the place. Every so often Bucky is mentioned, although no one calls him that, of course. And whenever someone slips and says ‘James would’ or ‘If James were here’, there is a pall of silence that passes over the proceedings until someone changes the subject.

It feels wrong to avoid the subject, but Steve is not sure how to talk about it. They are out of mourning, officially, but he doesn’t think that means much to their actual grief.

Instead, the conversation stays on social engagements, and the young man that has caught Rebecca’s eye, and Steve feels simultaneously like family and interloper, filling the role of big brother that Bucky should have had, and not fitting it very well at all.

The gathering comes faster than Steve would like. He realises that for all his planning, he has not thought of what he will actually do at this event. Mrs Romanoff and Lord Fury had been correct. He is not made for espionage. He will observe Mr Stane, he supposes, and try to work out if there is anyone whom he talks to in private. After all, it seems unlikely that he is engaging in this activity entirely of his own affair.

Sam does not ask him for the plan, which Steve tries not to see as a sign of something worrying, although it is difficult. He is withdrawn and there is a clear flash of anger in his eyes every now and then. This visit to town might not have been the best idea Steve has ever had. He has a sneaking suspicion that Bucky, wherever he is right now, will be laughing at him.

The Barnes’ have a carriage for the evening and their best new dresses. Steve is once again struck by how out of place he has always been at these functions. It has become easier in Marvel because he is becoming more used to the society and has found people  - Ms Van Dyne and Mrs Romanoff, in particular - who do not seem to care about his social failings. But Brooklyn society is another thing. As a young man, he was never invited to any of these functions, his father’s background excluding him from them. Bucky, the son of a gentleman, had been more involved, but even his family had been on the edges of society looking in.

Perhaps it is wrong to think of it as a battle, but it feels very much like preparing for one. There is even an enemy to confront - or not confront, as the case may be.

It would be more accurate to call this reconnaissance, he supposes, looking out of the carriage at the street that goes gliding past.

Lady Worthington’s estate is walled off, and the carriage rolls through the gates to a riot of green, all carefully arranged and landscaped and trimmed to within an inch of its life. Theirs is far from the only carriage arriving, and they end up in a bit of a queue, which does little to calm the pre-battle nerves that have set Steve’s leg bobbing up and down.

He catches Sam’s eye, and he knows he is not the only one with that feeling. As the carriage finally pulls up by the huge curved staircase that leads to the main house, he helps the ladies down and then catches Sam’s arm.

“No confrontations,” Steve says. Sam raises an eyebrow at him. “We’re here to get information, not to start a fight.”

“I know,” Sam says, and that’s all that Steve can do.

The sea of people barely seems to have any spaces in it as they enter the hallway. There are men and women in coats and dresses of all colours, mingling together in a rainbow that sends Steve’s mind reeling to look at. He can barely make out where people start and end, they are all moving so.

How they are supposed to find Sir Anthony and Mr Stane in this crush, he has no clue.

“Divide and conquer?” Sam asks, looking around. Steve does not wish to leave Sam alone, he does not know where his friend’s thoughts are lingering at this moment, but he knows that separating will give them a better coverage. It’s the logical thing to do, Steve is just not sure if it is the smart thing to do. But he nods anyway. He can hope that he will spot their quarry first, rather than Sam, and that the number of people will pause Sam if he thinks to do anything rash.

*

Steve does, in fact, know some of the people at the gathering. He dances with both Rebecca and Amelia and finds himself recognised by a number of high ranking members of the military and the aristocracy, who seize him and drag him into conversations that seem to flow like mud.

It takes him the better part of an hour to get his first glimpse of Sir Anthony. He’s in amongst the dancers, partnering a young woman with sleek dark hair done up in the latest style - or so Steve assumes, it matches what Amelia had been attempting to do earlier.

He feels Sir Anthony’s presence like a blow to the gut and the sentence he is speaking cuts off mid-word until he regains control of himself and attempts to cover it with a cough, excusing himself. His eyes scan the surroundings for Stane and there he is, watching the dancing with the air of a proud parent, as though Sir Anthony is taking his first steps. Steve feels the rage twist deep inside him and he has to remind himself to breathe properly.

Stane is laughing with a group of men, some of whom Steve has vague recollections of Howard introducing him to. They are the same men that he had avoided as best he could back when he had been in this society before. He has no inclination to renew their acquaintance now.

But Stane is a businessman, Steve cannot accuse every person the man talks to of treason.

“Steve!”

Rebecca’s voice startles him from his thoughts and he turns to see her coming up, looking a little too excited to be confused with the other, more serene ladies around the room.

“I mean Captain Rogers,” she says, looking around.

“Miss Barnes,” he says, inclining his head to her.

“The dance is about to end, and you did say you’d introduce me to the baronet,” she says. “James used to tell us so much about his father and his mad inventions in his letters and I’ve heard the son is just the same.”

“Not… quite,” Steve says. “Sir Anthony is his own person.”

“But you will introduce me,” Rebecca says.

“Us,” Amelia adds, stepping up to her shoulder. Steve had barely noticed her there. She had the skill that neither of her siblings had ever perfected of being able to remain unnoticed if she wished. Steve envies her it sometimes, although when he’d had that gift himself he had hardly appreciated it.

“I will introduce you,” he agrees.

The dance does come to an end, and the dancers disperse slightly. Getting Sir Anthony’s attention does prove more difficult than Steve had thought, however. His dance partner appears to have all his attention. SIr Anthony is laughing like Steve has never really heard him laugh before, bright and cheerful and free. His companion is smiling back at him, the picture of elegant amusement.

“Sir Anthony,” Steve says, trying to keep his nervousness from his voice. He could not say whether he succeeds. Sir Anthony flinches as though he has been shot and Steve feels his heart sink. He does not doubt that the baronet will be civil. He would not disgrace Steve in such a public arena, but Steve knows that his presence is not welcome.

Sir Anthony turns and Steve sees his partner frown slightly.

“S- Captain Rogers,” Sir Anthony says, blinking at Steve as though he cannot believe his eyes. “You are… You are in town. I... How long have you been in town? I had thought you meant to stay the season in Marvel.”

“I did,” Steve says. “But I was sent an invitation by my friends, The Barnes’, to visit with them, and I felt that I should like to see them. I sent word when I arrived, but my message must have gone astray.” He turns and gestures to Rebecca and Amelia. “May I introduce Miss Rebecca Barnes and Miss Amelia Barnes, Sir Anthony.”

“A pleasure to meet you, ladies,” Sir Anthony says with a slight bow. The girls - although Steve supposes he should call them women now, curtsey back. “It is always a pleasure to meet friends of Captain Rogers.”

“I was good friends with their brother, James,” Steve says, the words a little stiff. “And we served together in the war.”

Sir Anthony notes the past tense, Steve can see, his eyes softening a little.

“Well it is a pleasure to meet you,” he says, smiling charmingly. “I do hope that Captain Rogers has not spoiled your opinion of me terribly already.”

“Not at all,” Rebecca says, casting Steve a curious glance. “He had only nice things to say.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Sir Anthony says. “But then I suppose he is very polite.”

Rebecca can’t restrain a giggle at that, even as her sister surreptitiously pokes her in the side.

“It appears I have said something funny,” Sir Anthony says.

“No sir,” Rebecca says. “Just… I don’t think our cook would agree with you. She used to say she’d never seen such a pair of ne’erdowells as James and Stev- Captain Rogers.”

Sir Anthony turns to him for a moment, his face almost amused, but it is still more guarded than it has been before.

“Is that-” he begins, but before he can finish, his dancing companion steps forwards.

“Sir Anthony, perhaps you could introduce me to your friend,” she says.

Sir Anthony blinks again and his face smooths out into a look of true happiness as he turns to her. Steve swallows to see that look turned on someone else and has to grit his teeth slightly. He has no claim on Sir Anthony’s affections and has given the man no reason to believe that he should.

“Of course,” Sir Anthony says. “Captain Rogers, Miss Barnes, Miss Amelia, this is Miss Indries Moomji. I have promised her the next dance, I’m afraid, so I will have to cut our conversation short.”

“Of course,” Steve says, nodding.

Sir Anthony leads Miss Moomji away and Steve watches them go. They look well together, their outfits complementing each other as though they had coordinated for the evening.

“So it’s like that, is it?” Amelia says, sounding far too knowing. Steve turns to look at her. She smiles innocently at him, unlike her sister, who is still staring after Sir Anthony and Miss Moomji.

“Two dances in a row,” Rebecca says. “They appear to be getting along well.”

“They do,” Steve says, forcing himself to smile at the idea.

“Sorry,” Amelia says, her voice quiet. Steve turns his smile to her and shrugs a little helplessly.

“If you want, Rebecca can ask her for the next dance so that you can dance with the baronet,” Amelia says.

“What?” Rebecca says, looking at her sister in confusion. “Why would I?... Oh.” Realisation dawns across her features and she looks to Steve with wide eyes. “I can, if you’d like,” she agrees. “It’s what James would have done.”

It is exactly what Bucky would have done, and Steve can see a glimmer of Bucky’s old stubborn expression on his sisters’ faces. It’s enough to turn his smile from forced to genuine and Steve shakes his head.

“I think not,” he says. “If you are dancing with Miss Moomji, then how could you dance with Mr Proctor?” he asks, because if he is not very much mistaken, that is the identity of the young man with the nervous look who is making his way towards them. Rebecca freezes in place. “And if I were dancing with someone else, I would not be able to dance with Amelia.”

Dancing with Amelia is far more enjoyable than he would have thought. It is a bit like they are children again, trying to learn the steps and stumbling over themselves as Bucky had tried to instruct them. She is good company, though quiet, and Steve wonders whether she actually is as quiet as she seems, or whether living with Bucky and Rebecca her whole life has just meant she has been heard less.

He keeps one eye on Stane the whole time, and notes with interest when another gentleman passes him by, patting Stane’s arm once, companionably, before slipping away without even looking.

It is a few moments later that Stane excuses himself. Just long enough that the two actions might not be connected, but Steve has suspicions.

He tracks them with his eyes, leaving the ballroom, and it’s as the dance comes to an end that he sees a familiar face beginning to follow them.

“Excuse me,” Steve says, bowing to Amelia. “I see someone I need to talk to.” And he slips through the crowd to follow them.

He catches up with Sam in the corridor, eerily empty after the press of bodies in the ballroom, and catches him by the arm.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, as loudly as he dares.

“What we came here to do,” Sam hisses back. Steve cannot argue with that, though he has a feeling that Sam was holding something back.

“Which way did they go?” Steve asks, looking along the corridor. Sam nods towards a far door and they start to make their way towards it, treading lightly on the intricately patterned wood floor.

The doors are expensive, thick wood, and little sound escapes them, but it is enough. The voices are unclear, but words can be made out.

“-endeavour - too risky?” Steve hears.

“-ken care of,” comes the tail end of Stane’s response. “- no threat - under control.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at Sam. He wonders if they are talking about Nomad.

“ -test went well,” the man responds. “-are pleased with - The Condor .”

Steve sees Sam go rigid, his hand reaching for something, and Steve catches the glint of light off a pistol. His hand flashes out to grasp Sam’s wrist and he shakes his head emphatically. Sam glares back at him.

“A test,” Sam mouths, fury glowing in every inch of him. Steve shakes his head again.

“Not here. We have no proof,” he mouths back. Sam gestures emphatically towards the door.

“Not enough,” Steve says. They have heard no admissions of guilt, just disjointed words that could easily be pieced together into something harmless by Stane and his companion. It would be their word against his, and their word is based on conjecture and illegal activity. 

“-Next shipment-” Stane’s companion says.

“- believe me, it’ll be worth it,” Stane responds and he chuckles. Steve wants to let Sam go, then. Wants to let him step into the room and shoot Stane right between the eyes.

But Sam has one shot in his pistol, and in the time it takes to reload, anything could happen. And without proof, Sam would be stripped of his rank and hanged, his family left in disgrace at their association with a murderer. Steve cannot let that happen, so instead, he keeps his hand firmly around Sam’s on the pistol and raises his finger to his lips, guiding them both back towards the ballroom.

“Steve,” Sam hisses as they get far enough away to avoid being overhead.

“We need irrefutable evidence,” Steve says. “There are two of them, one pistol, and I do not doubt they have friends in higher places than we do. Remember what Mrs Romanoff says. Stane has a network of people who he can call on.”

Sam stares at him, but the look on his face fades and he secretes the pistol back wherever it came from, brushing his coat down and straightening his shoulders.

“We should return to the party before they come out,” Steve says. “We have little reason to be back here and Stane already dislikes me. He would be pleased to have a reason to discredit me.”

“We could get more information,” Sam says, looking back to the door, but Steve shakes his head.

“We have heard enough for now,” Steve says.

Emerging back into the bustle of the gathering is surreal, as though stepping into a separate world. Steve steps out of the way of an older man in a peacock blue frock coat and smiles politely.

He looks out to the dance floor and sees that Sir Anthony is in fact dancing with Amelia, and smiles more genuinely. His attention will not do her any harm in society’s eyes.

It is more difficult to get back into the flow of things after that. He keeps one eye on Sam constantly, and finds the conversations bland, though that is probably unfair, because his brain is barely paying attention.

He is once again caught up in conversation about the military might of the country when a hand lands on his shoulder and Steve stiffens. He knows before he turns who it will be.

“Mr Stane,” he says as their eyes meet. “Good evening.”

“Captain Rogers,” Mr Stane says, smiling broadly. “I hadn’t realised you were here. Come to enjoy the high life, have we? A bit more exciting than Marvel, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know about that,” Steve says. “I’ve grown quite fond of Marvel in my time there, but I confess as I spent my boyhood here in Brooklyn, I have a certain fondness for it.”

“Of course,” Stane says. “And where was it you grew up again?” he asks. “I don’t recall the name Rogers.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Steve says. “My parents were not accustomed to society. I grew up on the western side, by Fletcher Lane.” He knows that Stane’s questions are designed to lower him in people’s opinion, but he has no shame for how he grew up. Their house had been small, but his mother had made it happy and comfortable.

“A success story!” one of the other gentleman in the assembly says. “Any man may elevate himself through gaining glory in our armed forces.”

“Indeed,” Steve says. “Though I fear it is more through luck than skill. The army does like to grind its men down before it builds them up.”

“Quite, quite,” the man says, missing the acid tone in Steve’s voice. Steve doesn’t elaborate. He will hold his tongue tonight, as astonishing as that might be to anyone who knows him.

“I did send word of my arrival,” Steve says to Stane, keeping his expression polite and his tone pleasant. “But I am given to understand Sir Anthony must not have received it.”

“Must have been lost en route,” Stane says. He is an accomplished liar. Steve would lay good money on that letter having found its way to Sir Anthony’s door and Stane knowing exactly what had happened to it. The morning room fire, perhaps. “A pity.”

“It is terrible when mail is waylaid on the way to its destination,” Steve says, lightly. He is straying too close to secrets now, he knows, but he cannot resist scanning Stane’s face for a reaction, and there is one, just a hint of anger flashing in his eyes, smoothed over quickly and concealed with the art of long practice, but it is there. Steve may have revealed his own hand, though he hopes the comment is innocuous enough it will not raise Stane’s attention too greatly, but he has no doubt that Stane is their man.

A clever man, though, leaving no connection of himself for them to catch hold of. A man who is used to guiding things from the shadows. In any case, Stane’s spies have already found the secret room and laid a trap for him. He knows that Steve is Nomad. It is only whether he believes Steve has been taken in by his ruse that is in question now.

Steve excuses himself, knowing he won’t be able to stay a minute longer in Stane’s presence without giving himself away, probably by punching the man in the face. He endures the rest of the event, staying mainly to Sam’s side, but he does learn that the man Stane had his clandestine meeting with is the Honourable Alexander Pierce, who has a job in her majesty’s government, although no one can be specific about what it is.

By the time they return to their carriage, Rebecca and Amelia are overjoyed, while Steve and Sam look as though they have not slept in weeks.

“You look terribly unhappy,” Rebecca comments, tapping at his chest with her fan in a motion that is far too casual for polite company, though luckily no one is watching them.

“It has been a long evening,” he says. “And you know I’m not as fond of these events as-”

“As James was,” she says, finishing his sentence. Steve nods. They share a glance of understanding as he helps her into the carriage, and settle in for the journey back to the Barnes’ home.

With so few carriages on the streets at this time of night, it goes far more quickly, seeming over in the blink of an eye, or perhaps that is just Steve’s distraction, thinking of that flash of anger in Stane’s eyes.

They bid goodnight to the women and Steve heads for his own chambers, but before he can, Sam pulls him aside into the billiards room.

“I am too tense to sleep, right now,” Sam tells him, grabbing the cues from the wall. “I… what we heard.”

“I know,” Steve says.

“A test, Steve,” Sam says, setting up the balls. “He said it was a test .” Steve nods. “One hundred and twenty five souls, and he sits there and calls it a test .”

“We will stop him,” Steve says. “He will not be allowed to continue.”

“It is too late for them, though,” Sam says. He moves his cue with a savage stab of motion and the ball flies across the baize.

“But it will not be too late for others,” Steve says. “We can’t change what has passed. But we can make our best effort at preventing it from happening again. You can’t always push the attack, sometimes we must wait for the right moment, gather our information, position our people.”

“You hold with what Mrs Romanoff said about this being war, then?” Sam asks.

“You would not?”

“No, she’s right,” Sam says. “A ship being shot from the sky certainly sounds like war to me, but it’s not the same kind of war.”

“No,” Steve agrees. “But that means we can’t use the same tactics.” He pauses, looking down at the table, assessing his shot. “This is not my area of expertise, I will confess. But the man with Stane, we know he holds a position in the government, and the lack of information we found would indicate that he is both powerful and secretive.”

“Like your friend Fury.”

Steve nods.

“That just lends more credence to what Mrs Romanoff said. And if we do this right, we don’t just take down Stane, we dismantle this entire operation, we root out Hydra from the government, even if it means… We cannot take the risk of any member of Hydra being allowed to continue.”

Sam looks at him curiously, and must see something in Steve’s eyes to give him pause because he waits a moment before he nods.

“I’m with you,” he says.

Steve nods, and tries to ignore how those words weigh him down.

*

For the first time in weeks, Steve does not start his day hoping for correspondence from Sir Anthony. It is only fitting that Sir Anthony decides to once again confound Steve’s expectations, not merely by sending him a letter, but by turning up at the front door himself.

The house is a flurry of activity as soon as he is announced. Steve is not certain that the Barnes’ have ever been visited by a baronet before.

“He will not worry about the fireplace,” Steve tells Winifred, who is looking at the soot covering it in dismay. “His workshop is far untidier than any other place I have been.”

She gives him a decidedly sharp look, but there is no time for her to straighten the place further, so she sits on the sofa and composes herself.

Sir Anthony enters and bows. Steve returns it as the ladies rise to curtsey.

“Sir Anthony,” Steve says, stepping forwards. “This is Mrs Barnes, the lady of the house.”

“An honour,” Sir Anthony says again, smiling at her as he gives another slight bow.

“Sir Anthony, this is a pleasant surprise,” Mrs Barnes says, holding her own perfectly.

“Ah yes…” Sir Anthony winces. “I should have sent word ahead, I am sorry. I have a dreadful habit of doing this. Captain Rogers will no doubt tell you. I forget myself. I did not mean to impose on you or your household.”

“It is no imposition,” Mrs Barnes says, though she shoots a look at Steve as though he should have somehow predicted this visitation and warned her in advance. As Sir Anthony looks away from him, Steve gives a small shrug of helplessness. He has long given up trying to predict Sir Anthony Stark.

“I’m glad. I should have visited sooner. I had not realised that Captain Rogers and Captain Wilson were in town, or I should have. It is abominably rude of me to have taken so much time. The Captain says that he sent word, but alas, it never reached me. And I have been… distracted, recently, and not paying as much attention as I should to the comings and goings.”

“I know how you are when you are caught up in your work,” Steve says. Sir Anthony laughs.

“Yes, quite, but I have not… I have not worked on anything recently,” he frowns, as though trying to recall something, then shakes his head, his face clearing. “I have had my mind on other matters.”

“We were just about to walk to the assembly rooms,” Rebecca says. “Perhaps you would care to accompany us, Sir Anthony. Captain Wilson is not feeling well this morning and I’m sure Captain Rogers is growing tired of our conversation.”

Steve gives her a look. He knows what she is playing at.

“Not at all, Miss Barnes,” he says. “Your conversation is perfectly amiable.”

“But not interesting,” she says. “And he has greatly praised your wit, Sir Anthony.”

“Has he?” Sir Anthony says. “He was probably trying to be polite about all the insults I have offered him over our acquaintance.”

“I don’t believe so,” Amelia adds. Steve turns a betrayed look in her direction, but she ignores him completely. “His words were very complimentary.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea, if Sir Anthony is amenable,” Winifred says, and when Steve looks to her, she is smiling at him. He has no friends, it seems, only enemies.

“Of course I am amenable,” Sir Anthony says. “It is a beautiful day, far too lovely to spend inside if one can help it.”

So Steve has little choice but to go along with it. Sir Anthony is as he always is, gregarious and pleasant, although he lapses occasionally into silence, distracted by something or other that he does not mention, but he is good company and Amelia and Rebecca both appear delighted by him.

After a short while, though, he falls back to Steve’s side.

“I must confess, after what happened at our last meeting in Stark Manor, I did not expect you to wish to see me,” Steve says.

“I am a glutton for punishment,” Sir Anthony says. “I… no, that was unfair of me. Back then you seemed to have some reason for staying away from me, but last night it seemed as though perhaps you had forgiven me for whatever indiscretion it was.”

“There was no indiscretion on your part,” Steve says. “I was… I was given information that proved to be false.”

“And that led you to shun me,” Sir Anthony says. “I do not know whether I should be insulted that you believed it, or glad that you have since absolved me of guilt.”

“I apologise-” Steve starts, but Sir Anthony cuts him off.

“And am I to know of what great crime I was accused, or who my accuser was?”

“I…” Steve remembers his words as Nomad, warning Sir Anthony to be careful of those close to him, and remembers Sir Anthony’s response. He has no more proof now than he had then, though it is possible that he is a more reputable source in this guise. But what would he say: ‘the man you have known since you were a child is betraying you and everything you believe in, and I have no proof but my word and some vague coincidences.’ “I was wrong and I was foolish. I can only beg your forgiveness.”

“A nice way to try to sidestep the issue, but I suppose I shall forgive you. I have been led astray in my time.”

“You have?” Steve says before he can censor himself. “I mean - I did not mean to be impertinent. You are merely very shrewd.”

“I have learnt suspicion well,” Sir Anthony says, and Steve has to look away, because he knows that was perhaps not a lesson learnt well enough, and he hates the very idea as it passes through his thoughts. “You should know the sordid tale, I suppose.”

“You do not have to-”

“I am surprised you don't have it already, but perhaps I should not be, you are so forthright a man and you get such a look on your face when people dare to gossip with you. Yes!” Sir Anthony grins, pointing at Steve’s face. “That one, right there. You look as though you wish to see me flogged.”

“Never,” Steve says. “Never flogging.” Sir Anthony’s expression falters.

“Perhaps not the right turn of phrase, but… I will tell you the whole foolish tale of it, and see how you judge me afterwards, fool or rake.”

“I cannot see you as either,” Steve tells him.

“Not possible, I’m afraid, I must be one or the other,” Sir Anthony looks out across the street. “I was young and I was stubborn and I thought I was the smartest person alive.”

“I remember feeling like that,” Steve says. Sir Anthony smiles, but does not look at him, just continues with his own tale.

“Lord Tiberius Stone had been a friend of mine since university and we had begun a business venture together. My father had refused to be involved, said a lot of things about me being too young and foolish, all of which were true, looking back, but at the time they only served to make me more determined to prove him wrong.”

“I take it the venture did not-”

“Do not skip ahead in the tale,” Sir Anthony says, turning to wag a finger at Steve, “allow me to lay out my sins properly.

“At the time there was a lady, Miss Rumiko Fujikawa. I rather fancied myself in love with her. I think I probably was, in the way one loves when one is young, full of heart and no head. She was intelligent, beautiful, funny, and she liked me. Her father… did not approve. I was not of the aristocracy, you see. A baronet is all very well, but he is not an Earl.”

“Ah,” Steve says.

“Yes,” Sir Anthony agrees. “We did not care a fig for what he thought, and I convinced her to invest her money into the venture, what she had from her mother’s death.

“And then Ty’s brilliant scheme fell through. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that there was no real investment other than his own pockets. My own funds were gone, Rumiko had invested some of her father’s money as well, that was gone, too. Most people did not know the truth. Ty left me to take the fall for it with everyone and the things they said about what happened with Rumiko were - well, it must have looked very nefarious from the outside.

“Ty, of course, got off with barely a mark on his character. It was a slick little scheme. He begged for my forgiveness, told me he had panicked and had been too scared to correct people. But the next I heard, the wedding banns were called for him and Rumiko - until he jilted her for someone with more money.”

“I’m sorry…” Steve starts

“And that was not the last of it,” Sir Anthony says. “I fell out of one scheme and into another. My father was still a wealthy man, and I saw no reason to slow down my lifestyle. It’s why Obie is so stiff with y- anyone who gets near to me; he says that I attract bad influences. It was then I met Miss Frost, after all. She did like spending my father’s money.” he laughs a little bitterly. “I fell into gambling and drinking in the town, spending money I no longer had on the promise of my father’s name to try to impress her. Came dangerously close to an engagement before… well, when it became clear that my father’s generosity had reached its limit, she disappeared along with the money.

“Colonel Rhodes helped to dig me out, paid off the debts my father would not honour and dried me out. So you see I am exactly what my father always told you.”

“We all make mistakes,” Steve says. “You made some poor decisions, true, but it seems as though the problems were not caused by you. You should not be held responsible for other people’s betrayals.”

“I should not have fallen for them in the first place,” Sir Anthony says.

“These things are easier to see in hindsight.”

“You have decided upon ‘fool’ then,” Sir Anthony says, brightening with clear determination. “I suppose that is kinder than reprobate.”

“Foolish, but not a fool,” Steve says firmly. “It does not make you a fool to trust people.”

“Depends on the people,” Sir Anthony says darkly. “It’s why I only surround myself now with people I trust completely, people I have known for years.”

“And me,” Steve says, quietly.

“And you,” Sir Anthony agrees. Neither of them speaks for a minute, but their eyes meet. Steve wonders if he should say something, then. It feels like the moment is charged, some sort of energy filling the air between them.

But Rebecca’s voice cuts through, calling for them to come and give an opinion on a book she has just read, some over-the-top gothic epic.

The moment teeters back into safety as they turn and Sir Anthony begins to give his decided opinion on the text. It is not something Steve has read himself.

Conversation turns to lighter things, and Steve tests out his skill in spying.

“Sir Anthony, I was wondering if you knew of a friend of Mr Stane’s I ran into the other day,” Steve says, trying to maintain a casual tone. “A Mr Morton.”

“I can’t say I have,” Sir Anthony says, frowning. “Although, now you come to say it, the name does ring a bell. Where did you come across him?”

“Not far from Lakefield. I believe he was running an errand for Mr Stane.”

“I can ask Obie about him if you like,” Sir Anthony says.

“Oh no, that’s quite alright,” Steve says hurriedly. “I was just… wondering.” Sir Anthony raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. He picks up the women’s conversation again, about the fine weather.

“It is such a shame that Captain Wilson couldn’t join us,” Rebecca says.

“Indeed,” Sir Anthony agrees. “I do enjoy talking airships with him. I hope he is not too ill. I did notice that he seemed out of sorts last night.”

“He received some bad news just before we left Marvel,” Steve says slowly. With Sir Anthony’s contacts and his work, he would have thought him fully aware of the situation. “ The Condor ?” he prompts.

Sir Anthony looks at him in utter confusion.

“What about it?” he says.

“It was shot down,” Rebecca says softly. Sir Anthony looks between them, completely dumbfounded by the assertion and Steve is relieved that any lingering doubts about his awareness of Stane’s treachery are banished by the genuine confusion in the baronet’s face.

“Shot down?” he asks. “But… how?” He looks. “The crew, Captain Riley, they were able to-”

“All hands were lost,” Steve says.

“All hands…” Sir Anthony says. “But no, that’s quite impossible. I… I designed that armour myself. There’s not a weapon in this world that could have taken The Condor down. And even if there were, they would have been able to abandon ship. I worked on those designs myself. We had enough lifeboats for every man aboard.”

“Sam received a report from another ship in the area,” Steve says. “He says it was over in one shot. A powerful weapon, it looked like. A beam of light. Magic perhaps-”

“Or…” Sir Anthony says. His face is gaunt and pale. “When was this? You said it was before you came to town. No doubt part of your reason for doing so was to distract the man - but that would mean, the time taken for a letter to cross the ocean. The admiralty must have- How did I not know about this? Why was I not-? And that weapon…” He tears a hand through his hair, setting it into disarray. “This is- Captain Rogers, Miss Barnes, Miss Amelia, I am afraid I must take my leave. I… How did I not know about this?”

“Sir Anthony, you are agitated,” Steve says, reaching out to grasp at Sir Anthony’s shoulder, but the baronet pulls away.

“I am agitated, yes. I…” He looks at Steve a little frantically then lifts a hand to hail a cab that is passing by. “My apologies for such a hasty exit. I hope you will not judge me on this, but I really must talk to-” He nods and tips his hat to them before turning to climb into the cab.

“Will you be alright on your own?” Steve asks. Sir Anthony turns with a tight smile.

“Oh, I’ll be fine, and you cannot leave your post as chaperone. I am sure everything will be well. Enjoy your day.” Then he taps the roof of the cab and the driver urges the horse into motion.

“Well that was unexpected,” Rebecca says. “And you two seemed to be getting along so well.”

Steve sighs and takes her arm as she extends it, but his mind is still on Sir Anthony. He does not know what he is about to do, but he hopes he is not about to charge right into something more dangerous than he can handle.

Chapter Text

Three days later, an invitation arrives, extended to all of the Barnes family as well as Steve and Sam, Sir Anthony is at home and would be delighted by their presence.

Steve breathes a sigh of relief that it is a more intimate gathering, he is not sure he could handle another ball. Mrs Barnes thanks him for the invitation, insisting that he is the only reason the baronet would have extended it to the family, refusing to take his denials. He can tell that the Barnes family all think that there is something more there than there is. Steve could only wish it were so.

They arrive to find a few others present. Some of whom Steve does not recognise, others he recognises in passing. Miss Moomji is there again, at Sir Anthony’s side, her elderly aunt installed in a stately armchair on her other side. The couple seem to revolve around each other. Steve is hardly the only one to think that the pair of them appear besotted. Sir Anthony’s mood could not be more different from when he left them in the street the other day. He is all smiles and charm once more, unbothered by anything, it seems.

Steve tries to have a private word with him, but it seems that Sir Anthony is to be seen nowhere without Stane pressing a glass into his hand or Miss Moomji laughing at his jokes. Sam is equally frustrated.

“I thought you said he cared,” Sam says to Steve as they stand to one side.

“He does - he did,” Steve says. “I don’t know what can have happened. He is… This is odd.”

The evening is not as pleasant as Steve would have hoped. He engages Miss Moomji in conversations and discovers her entirely lovely as she seems. She was educated on the continent and has only recently returned. She is staying the season at her aunt’s townhouse before they will retrench to her aunt’s country seat. She seems charming and entirely taken with Sir Anthony. Steve cannot bring himself to resent her. Or he wouldn’t resent her if he were a better man. It would not be true to say he has no resentment.

He manages to snag Sir Anthony away from her and the man looks surprised that Steve is even present, as though he had only just arrived.

“Sir Anthony, after you left so abruptly the other day, I thought I should check that you were quite alright,” he says, watching Sir Anthony’s face carefully. It clouds slightly, the baronet’s eyebrows pulling together as though he has to think carefully to even remember what Steve is talking about.

“Oh, of course, The Condor ,” Sir Anthony says. “That was all a misunderstanding. A great tragedy, but an accident.”

“An accident?” Steve says slowly.

“Oh yes,” Sir Anthony says. “Flight is a risky business at the best of times, and the aetheric engines can be-”

“It wasn’t the engine,” Steve says.

“The official report is quite clear,” Sir Anthony says. “I looked at it myself.” He frowns again, his eyes flickering away. “Steve, I feel rather-”

“Sir Anthony,” Mr Stane says, stepping in. He holds out a drink towards the baronet. “You are looking a little pale. This should settle your nerves.” Sir Anthony blinks and looks at the glass.

“Steve was just asking about The Condor ,” Sir Anthony says. “I was telling him I’d seen the report. I… I did see the report.”

“Yes, you did.” Mr Stane says. “A tragedy,” he says, turning to Steve. He looks suitably sympathetic, but Steve feels bile rise in his throat at the pretence. “I understand Captain Wilson knew some of the crew.”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“Such a senseless loss, for no reason,” Mr Stane says. “Fate is cruel, is she not.”

“I don’t believe in fate, Mr Stane,” Steve says, straightening. “People use her as a crutch to absolve themselves of guilt. It is men who act, and men who must be judged based on the consequences of those actions.”

“I,” Sir Anthony shakes his head slightly, taking a sip of his brandy. “The good captain has very decided ideas on such things, Obie, you should know that by now.”

“I have learnt a great many things about Captain Rogers,” Stane says. “He is full of surprises.”

“I’m sure the feeling is mutual, Mr Stane,” Steve says. “Although I have found that you are perhaps less surprising. Everything new I learn about you only serves to enhance what I have observed before.”

“Is that so?” Stane asks.

“Obie is straightforward like that,” Sir Anthony says. “He’s a godsend, really. So many people in business tell me what I want to hear, but Obie always tells me exactly what he thinks. It’s so helpful.”

“I’m sure he makes himself invaluable,” Steve says.

“I did come over here for a reason, sadly,” Stane says. “You invited Miss Moomji and she knows hardly anyone here, you really should not abandon her for so long, Tony.”

Sir Anthony looks around and as his eyes catch sight of Miss Moomji.

“Of course, I had not thought. I was distracted by-” he glances at Steve. “I shall see to her immediately. If you will excuse me, Captain?”

“Of course,” Steve says, inclining his head. Sir Anthony hurries off. He seems stretched thin tonight, not his usual self, and Steve can’t put his finger on what it is, but something is wrong. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach. The same place that had roiled before every mission that went awry. He turns his attention to Stane, who looks, rather less pleased than Steve would have considered.

“We both know why you are really in town, Captain Rogers,” Stane says, lowering his voice. “And it is not to visit the Barnes family, charming as they might be.”

Steve raises his own glass to take a sip, trying to keep his face plain.

“The Barnes’ are old friends, and I have neglected them dreadfully,” he says. “I once promised their brother that I would support them if anything happened to him. That is all.”

“Your attentions towards Sir Anthony have hardly gone unnoticed. Throwing yourself at him like that, it’s the talk of the town.”

Steve can feel himself blush, even as he tells himself that this is the better answer that Stane could have given. This is the least dangerous.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve says.

“Coyness does not suit you Captain. He has a position to maintain, a title to think of. The Stark family has a long history to consider in these things. There is nothing for him in a connection with a common soldier. Sir Anthony is aware of this. He has his dalliances, but he knows where his duty lies.”

“I’m sure you point it out to him,” Steve says. Stane’s lips spread into a smirk.

“That is my duty, as an old friend of his father’s,” Stane says. “Miss Moomji is the daughter of a Viscountess. It is a suitable match, I’m sure you would agree.”

“I’m not sure that a person’s parents are the best indication of whether they are well matched,” Steve says. “I would think that a happy marriage is more in the temperaments and sentiments of the people involved.” Mr Stane smiles benevolently, as though Steve is a performing animal who has done something particularly amusing.

“Perhaps among those with less at stake,” he says. “I am not saying this to be cruel, you understand,” Stane says. “I’m sure you mean well. But it is better to tell you plain, than to see your false hopes dashed. There are many young people out there who would be pleased to have a handsome military hero on their arm. But your current… direction, is only a dead end.”

Steve has said as much to himself on numerous occasions, but hearing the words ooze from Stane’s mouth, couched as friendly advice, but riddled with poison, makes them bitter as wormwood and he feels his pride prick as his shoulders straighten.

“In such matters as this, I can only trust to my own conscience and it is not your opinion, nor the opinions of anyone else that should hold sway,” he says. “Were I interested in pursuing a connection with Sir Anthony, it would be only his opinion that would sway me on the matter. As close as you are to him, I do not believe you can truly know his heart or his mind, and those are the only things that would truly matter.”

Stane’s face loses its expression of careful sympathy, falling blank.

“I see you are determined to make a fool of yourself, then,” he says.

“I have been made more foolish by far less in my time,” Steve says. “I am not afraid of appearing so again.”

“I only meant to give you advice,” Stane says. “I cannot control whether you take it. Though I believe you will live to regret it if you do not.”

“I have more regrets than you can imagine. The best way to avoid more is to follow my own conscience,” Steve says. “I find I regret more bitterly the chances I did not take.”

“Then I fear I can give you no more help,” Stane says. “Good luck, my boy.” His eyes are hard and shining, although the oil lamps around the room give off a warm glow. He pats Steve on the arm once, and Steve feels the presence of his hand linger long after Stane has turned and left, as though he has marked him in some way.

*

“That looked like a pleasant conversation you had with Stane” Sam says, as they return in the evening.

“I think I informed Mr Stane that I wished to court Sir Anthony,” Steve says, anxiety flooding back into him now the immediate threat has gone and he realises just what he had said.

“That… is not what I thought you were talking about,” Sam says. “And last I heard you had declared yourself unworthy of the man.”

“Yes, but then Mr Stane said I was unworthy of him and-”

“And you had to be contrary,” Sam says.

“There is nothing to say it is a bad match,” Steve says. “While my father was in trade, my mother was a gentlewoman. I have money and I am not a terrible prospect.”

“I have been telling you this,” Sam says. “So you are now persuaded to act on your feelings and I will no longer be subjected to your lovelorn sighing?”

“I…” Steve considers it. Perhaps there is an element of spite that has sparked this reversal in his considerations, but he could do it. “Do you think Sir Anthony would-”

“Yes,” Sam says, cutting him off. “Anyone who has seen you together would know it, which is why Stane was so determined to separate you. He fears losing control of Sir Anthony, because he knows if you were to make your intentions known, he would no longer be the most trusted person in Sir Anthony’s life. A young lady like Miss Moomji, just returned from school, unknown in society, willing to go along with his plans, is far more to Stane’s liking.”

“That’s a terrible way to look at the world,” Steve says.

“Stane’s a terrible person,” Sam tells him, and Steve cannot argue with that.

*

Steve does not have a chance to put his newfound resolve into practice, however. The next morning sees a message from Mrs Romanoff arrive. The contents are cryptic, but her excellent penmanship conveys her message clearly enough. Something has occurred that has caused her great worry and she is unimpressed by their decision to take the initiative. They are required back in Marvel forthwith.

Mrs Barnes and her daughters are understanding, and Steve gives his assurances that it will not be so long before they see each other again.

He asks Sam if he would rather take the time to go and visit with his family, but Sam insists that they need only stay a night or two en route.

“I will not sit out of the fight this late in the game,” he says, when they are riding through the open countryside once more.

“I am not sure how late it truly is,” Steve says. “I fear that this may go on longer than either of us would think. It is to be a marathon, rather than a sprint. I confess that when I first began my investigations as Nomad, I rather thought it would be done before the year was over, but I am no longer sure that anything can be settled so easily.”

“However long it takes,” Sam says, and will hear no more said on the subject.

The visit with the Wilson’s is far less jovial than last time. They had all known Captain Riley, and the gloss of a war won and a brother returned is tarnished. Steve is pleased to find that Sam’s cousin is engaged to be married and so there are no longer giggles whenever Steve enters a room.

Sam seems to ease, slightly, walking the halls of his childhood home, and Steve thinks that he might re-examine his decision, but when he enquires, Sam raises his eyebrows.

“It’s easier here, yes,” he says, looking around the panelled walls of the study. “But it’s easier because I know I’m going to do something about it. It’s good to have a place to rest, but you’ve got to know when to rest and when to keep moving.”

No more is said on the subject, and they ride out as they had intended the next morning.

Mrs Romanoff calls on them within a day of their return.

“Morton is dead,” she says, after judging the room to be sufficiently secure. “In his sleep. The doctor found nothing wrong with him, but I suspect there may have been a more nefarious hand at work than nature.”

“Stane was in town the entire time, we saw him often enough,” Steve says.

“He does not do his own dirty work,” Mrs Romanoff says, shaking her head. “My best guess is it was the female partner you also met during your escapades. We weren’t able to identify her, and Morton met with several people over the last few weeks, all of whom had legitimate reasons to meet with him.”

“But I could identify her,” Steve says. “I saw her at the cottage. If you know who he met with then I could tell you which is her.”

“The cottage belonged to Mr Morton. There were no female residents,” Mrs Romanoff says. “It may not have been her at all. Perhaps it was someone completely unrelated who we know nothing about,” Mrs Romanoff says. “What did you learn on your pleasure trip to town?”

“Not a lot of pleasurable things,” Sam says. “But we did happen upon a meeting Stane had.”

“They met at a large gathering,” Steve adds. “To best avoid too close an association, I suppose.” Mrs Romanoff nods.

“Did you recognise who he met with?” she asks, looking between them.

“No,” Steve begins, and he sees her sigh. “But we did get his name from the assembled guests. The Honourable Alexander Pierce?” Mrs Romanoff’s head flies up, her eyes going wide and startled. It is the most honest expression Steve thinks he has ever seen on her face.

“You are positive of it?” she asks.

“I checked with multiple people,” Steve says. “They all gave the same name, and all of them knew he was connected with the government, though none of them could say precisely what it is he does for the government.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” she says. “Pierce. Alexander Pierce. You are absolutely certain.”

“I could draw him for you, if you wish,” Steve says, feeling a little irritated by her doubt.

“Yes, that would be for the best,” Mrs Romanoff says, seeming not to notice the irritation in Steve’s tone. “Do you have paper?”

It takes Steve a few minutes to remember where he had stowed his drawing supplies before he left, and he takes a few minutes to sketch out the lines of Pierce’s face from memory as Sam goes over what they heard through the door of Stane’s discussion with the man.

“I’m not overjoyed by the word ‘test’,” Mrs Romanoff says. “A test implies that something larger is coming. And if blasting a ship from the sky with one shot is the test, then what is it a test for?”

“They must have workshops where they are constructing these things, they must be sourcing materials. Aether is heavily monitored.”

“In this country, yes, but war left the continent in upheaval,” Mrs Romanoff said. “Smugglers are more than happy to take advantage of the fact, and people who pay under the table often pay better than official channels who must cover taxes and customs duties.”

“So you do not think there is any merit in trying to root them out from the other direction.”

“Merit, yes, and I’m sure Fury has people working on that, but-” she breaks off as Steve turns his paper around and her face turns carefully blank.

“Yes, that’s Alexander Pierce,” she says.

“Are you going to tell us who he is?” Sam says, settling back in his seat with a raised eyebrow.

“He’s the other side of Lord Fury,” she says. “Lord Fury deals with the intricacies and strategies, Pierce deals with… the politics - and the money, among other things. That’s an oversimplification, but they essentially come at the same problem from different directions.”

“And Pierce’s direction is looking decidedly Hydra-like,” Sam says.

“Unfortunately it is looking that way,” she says.

“You don’t think he could be working to try to uncover Stane’s treachery again - pretending to work with him to get to the source of the problem.”

“Perhaps,” she says, but she doesn’t look like she believes it. “I need to get this information to Lord Fury. You two… If they have killed the messenger, I think it likely that they are about to start tying up loose ends. You could both be in serious danger if Stane suspects that you know anything of his involvement.”

“I thought… I thought perhaps he did,” Steve says and Sam and Mrs Romanoff turn to him. “But I think he was only talking about my relationship with the baronet.”

“Are you certain?”

“No,” Steve says. “But then I am hardly certain of anything anymore.”

*

Steve feels stuck once more. He has no clear path set in front of him, and he once again has the unpleasant sensation that he is hanging over a very large drop, waiting for gravity to remember him. Their simplest potential source, Mr Morton, is gone. Stane is still in Brooklyn, and somewhere out there, Hydra have the capability to build weapons that will blow their ships out of the sky.

He had been right about this being a long term mission. Sam seems to feel it, too, the lack of direction.

Mrs Romanoff finds reasons for him to view all the women who visited Mr Morton before his apparently unsuspicious death, but none of them looks anything like the woman Steve remembers.

He asks what is happening with Pierce, but Mrs Romanoff refuses to say any more than Fury is looking into it, and Steve must be satisfied.

Steve is not satisfied with that, but knowing people close to Fury might be involved makes the idea of sending a letter concerning.

Life feels as if it stagnates. He finds himself more often than he should back in that secret room, looking down at Nomad’s mask as though the empty eyes will tell him what to do. Whoever made this mask had been the sort of person to take action, but he doesn’t know what they would have done in this situation. Would they have been as lost as he is? Steve likes to think that he understands them in a way, but he is not sure they could have seen a solution in his position, either.

He sends a letter to Sir Anthony, and receives a response, although it is terse and lacking in his usual wit. Steve thinks that he must have once again been distracted. Sir Anthony, he suspects, is not one given to letter writing. It is not immediate enough in its response. He prefers the immediacy of an in-person conversation. Truth be told, Steve is much the same. At least when he is talking to someone face-to-face he can see how his words are being taken, even if he often gets them wrong. With a letter it can be days or weeks before he becomes aware that he has offended someone.

He does not receive much response from Sir Anthony, but he does receive an unexpected letter from Colonel Rhodes.

“Perhaps it is about The Condor ,” Sam says when Steve comments on the return address.

The colonel’s hand is firm and clear, although with slight flourishes that Steve was not expecting. His letter is longer than Sir Anthony’s by a good page or so, but it becomes clear that much of his writing is out of politeness when Steve gets to the final quarter.

It seems that even Colonel Rhodes has been unable to tempt Sir Anthony into a deeper correspondence. His letters have all either been left with no reply, or responded to with few lines.

“He wishes to know how Sir Anthony seemed when we were in Brooklyn,” Steve says, looking to Sam.

“He’s concerned?” Sam asks.

“Apparently, while Sir Anthony is not the most reliable correspondent, when he does reply, his responses are usually eloquent and thorough. Colonel Rhodes has barely received ten lines from him since Sir Anthony went to town.”

“You said he was acting strangely when we visited him at home,” Sam says, drumming his fingers against his leg. “Do you think Stane could have got to him somehow?”

Steve’s blood runs cold.

“You think that Stane is holding something over his head, forcing him to cut off communication with his friends.”

“He claimed that it was an accident that brought down The Condor ,” Sam points out.

Steve pushes to his feet and begins to pace the room. Never has the house felt so much like a cage. For all he can leave, he still feels trapped. It is not the house, though. It is the whole situation.

He can do nothing. His hands are tied... until Sir Anthony returns.

*

Sir Anthony does return. The village is full of speculation of whether he will be returning with a bride, long forgotten rumours and gossip springing into new life, but when he does come back, he is accompanied only by Stane. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He had expected to see Miss Moomji and her aunt with their party and to have missed his chance once more.

But there comes no word from the manor. Steve had thought that they were once again on good terms. But if Sir Anthony is not speaking to Colonel Rhodes, who by his own admission, is his closest of friends, then Steve should not be offended by the lack of communication. But no one appears to have seen Sir Anthony.

Steve’s mind begins to dwell on less than palatable possibilities.

“There is no reason for Stane to have killed him,” Sam says, folding his newspaper with a great sigh. His temper has been short lately, but Steve can hardly fault him for that. In truth, Sam has probably indulged his obsessions far longer than any reasonable minded person could expect. “He’s the source of the plans, is he not?”

“Yes, but Mrs Romanoff said-” Steve begins.

“Without Stark, they have nothing.”

“Without Stark neither side has anything,” Steve points out. It might be worth it to Hydra, to take out Stark if only to prevent their enemies from having his weapons.

“It is more likely he is once again trapped in his workshop, trying to fix a problem that does not exist,” Sam says, his voice bitter. “If he truly believes that the fate of The Condor was down to misfortune rather than foul play, then he will wish to prevent it from happening again. The man cannot abide his own mistakes.”

“But he didn’t make a mistake,” Steve says.

“He trusted Stane,” Sam says firmly. Steve winces. Perhaps the biggest mistake Sir Anthony could make, and Steve cannot deny it. Sir Anthony still does trust Obadiah Stane and Steve sees no way to end the connection.

“He grew up with him, he has no reason to think ill of the man.”

“This cannot be the first time one of his designs has ended up in the hands of the enemy. And a man like Stane cannot hide himself entirely. There would have been signs, Steve. He missed them.” Same purses his lips. “I am not saying that the man is bad, but some blame lies at his feet.”

Steve does not argue with that - cannot.

“Still, if he is in his workshop, then he is attempting to correct the wrong mistake,” Steve says.

“Then perhaps our course of action is to direct him to the correct one,” Sam says.

“I have tried.”

“You spoke to him as Nomad,” Sam points out. “You made vague reference to something.”

“And then, when I told him of The Condor ,” Steve adds.

“You let him draw his own conclusions and it appears that he has drawn them and they are wrong,” Sam heaves a breath and stands up, coming to stand in front of Steve. “You are worried the man is dead, and you are pacing around the house rather than trying to fix your own problem,” he points out. “Your problem and ours are both best resolved by you talking to him.”

“I have not been invited.”

“I have on at least three occasions heard Sir Anthony assure you that you are always welcome at the manor,” Sam says. “Perhaps it is time to take him up on that offer.”

“Will you accompany me?” Steve asks. Sam shakes his head.

“I am not in any frame of mind to see Mr Stane,” he says. “You were right, in Brooklyn, to kill him would not have solved our problems, but I can still feel the desire.”

“Very well, I shall go alone,” Steve says. As soon as the resolve settles inside him, he feels better, lighter. He does always feel better with a purpose. He turns to stride out of the room.

“Take the painting you did of this place,” Sam says. Steve freezes, halfway to the door. “You did intend it for him, did you not?”

“Yes, but-” Steve founders. He had certainly painted the picture with Sir Anthony in mind - the baronet had always seemed so wistful when he visited, clearly caught up in memories of his mother - but he had never intended to give it to him.

“It’s a good excuse to visit,” Sam says. “And I thought you’d got over your ridiculous ideas about not being good enough for him.”

“Sam.”

“Take him the painting,” Sam says. “It will be a talking point.”

“Very well,” Steve says.

He fetches the painting from its room, feeling far more nervous than he had before any military assault. He is not made for this sort of thing.

*

It is not that Steve had forgotten how overwhelming the architecture of Stark Manor is. He thought, before he left for Brooklyn, that he had grown used to the looming facade and the grandeur that towers over anyone who dares to come within its grounds. But it seems the brief separation has removed his inoculation to it somewhat, for he feels as he trots Liberty across the well kept gardens towards it the same sense of dread that he has not felt since that first visit here, when he was determined to refuse Sir Howard’s bequest.

The picture he carries is small and… well, Steve has seen the artwork on the manor walls. Grand oil paintings and landscapes by master artists. He curses himself for having listened to Sam. Certainly, it will be an excuse for his visit, but the idea of actually presenting the picture to Sir Anthony is…

Mr Barton takes Liberty’s reins as Steve swings down from the saddle. There’s a tightness around his eyes as their gaze meets.

“Something’s wrong,” Mr Barton says, leaning in so his low voice can be heard. “It’s too quiet around here.”

Steve nods, taking the warning to heart. Quiet, when it comes to Sir Anthony, cannot be a good sign. The man is made of noise and action. He can barely sit still. Steve thinks he must toss and turn in his sleep as well, if he ever allows his brain to take such a rest. No, Stark Manor had been quiet while its owner was away, but now he is returned, it should be alive again, as it always seemed to be when Sir Anthony was present.

Quiet makes Steve’s heart heavier.

Mr Jarvis answers the door with his usual aplomb and professionalism.

“The baronet is in his study,” Mr Jarvis says. “I believe he is completing his correspondence for the day.”

“That is good to hear,” Steve says. “I believe Colonel Rhodes has been concerned.” Mr Jarvis’s expression twitches for one second, the only brief moment of unprofessionalism Steve has ever seen from him, but he does not reply.

“I shall take you to him,” Mr Jarvis says, and turns to lead Steve into the house.

He sees neither hide nor hair of Stane, wherever that monster might be hiding. Taken to his shadows, Steve presumes, but he will not feel easy. It seems as though every eye in every portrait glaring down at him belongs to Stane as the faces of Sir Anthony’s ancestors watch his every step.

The study is not what Steve would have expected. Had he thought, he might have imagined it as much of an insight into Sir Anthony’s mind as his workshop, but it is instead like the rest of the manor, decorated impeccably, but not by Sir Anthony’s hand. Nothing seems out of place, in fact. There is no element of personality there.

Sir Anthony sits behind the desk, ink upon his cuffs, writing furiously at a page with a look of utter determination on his face. He is well, Steve sees, although he has perhaps lost a little weight. He seems healthy enough. He is certainly not dead. Steve embraces the relief. He had not seriously thought that Stane would have killed him, surely it would not be possible to kill a man such as Sir Anthony without anyone noticing, but at least it seems no great catastrophe has befallen, for all Mrs Romanoff’s ominous words about Hydra tying up loose ends.

“Jarvis, what is a good word for incandescent?” Sir Anthony asks, not looking up from his writing.

“I’m sure that incandescent is a perfectly good word, sir,” Mr Jarvis says.

“Well yes, but I have already used it twice on this page, and I’ve been assured by Mrs Hogan that there is in fact such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

“An eminently sensible woman,” Mr Jarvis says, his tone dry.

“Indeed, indeed, but that hardly helps me now. I need a word that will describe-” And Sir Anthony looks up, his sentence sliced off as he catches sight of Steve in the doorway.

“Captain Rogers to see you, sir,” Mr Jarvis says, without twitching a muscle.

“Captain,” Sir Anthony says. “What brings you here? I didn’t invite you, did I? Jarvis, did I invite him?”

“Not that I am aware of, sir,” Mr Jarvis says. “I believe the Captain has come of his own accord.”

“I brought you…” Steve’s eyes catch on the portrait of Sir Howard and a woman that must be his wife, the late Lady Stark. It hangs behind the desk, clearly a statement for those visiting the office rather than an ornament for the person using it.

Steve had been correct about Sir Anthony’s features. The softer parts of his face are clearly his mother’s. She was a beautiful woman.

Sir Anthony catches the direction of his gaze.

“Ah yes, my father’s favourite commission. He loves to stare down at me with disapproval.”

Steve himself can see no disapproval in Sir Howard’s expression, though it is perhaps a little harder around the edges than he remembers. But everything had been less stiff at the edge of the war. They had had little time for formality in the camps, after all, and Sir Howard had not been one of the usual officers - he hadn’t been an officer, to begin with. Steve had met many men of wealth in the army and the majority of them had been uncomfortable hobnobbing with the men. Siir Howard had been as comfortable drinking with the foot soldiers as he had been drinking with the dukes.

He does not say any of that.

“It is your study now, if his presence upsets you, perhaps you could relocate him,” Steve says. Sir Anthony looks at him curiously.

“Were it just him, I would not have a problem relocating him to the stables, where he could pour his disdain on the manure, but my mother does not deserve to stare at a horse’s rear end for the rest of eternity.”

“Ah,” Steve says. He becomes aware that Mr Jarvis has left.

“But you did not come here to discuss art,” Sir Anthony says. “You came here to bring me something.” Steve flushes and adjusts his hands on the frame of the picture.

“Actually, it is not quite so far removed,” he says. Sir Anthony blinks.

“You brought me a picture,” he says, his mind immediately jumping to the right conclusion.

“Yes, although,” Steve looks around. Sir Howard’s portrait is not the only painting hung upon the walls, and all of the others are just as imposing. “It is not much.”

“I am sure you would never bring a gift that you did not think good enough,” Sir Anthony says. “And you have said that it is for me, therefore it is mine and I shall say how much it is.”

Steve sighs, and holds out the picture, wrapped in its brown paper.

Sir Anthony looks at Steve a little slyly as he unwinds the twine, and Steve sees dark circles under his eyes. He has not been sleeping.

Steve straightens into parade rest as Sir Anthony uncovers the painting, his face settling into that expression he had always worn when under inspection.

“Oh,” Sir Anthony says, staring at the picture. “It is… It is Lakefield.” Steve’s eyes drop down to examine Sir Anthony’s expression for some sign of feedback, good or bad, but there is just startlement on his features.

“Yes,” Steve says. “You seemed fond of the place,” he says, “and it was your mother’s.” He becomes painfully aware that the picture is now some sort of consolation prize. He wonders what Howard was thinking entailing Lakefield to Steve when it is clear that Tony loves the house so dearly. He should have painted something else. Sir Anthony himself, perhaps, Stark Manor, maybe. But he had wanted to paint something that Sir Anthony loved and… He had not considered how insulting it was to present an image of the one thing that Sir Anthony cannot have.

“I am fond of it,” Sir Anthony says, a little quietly. “I… It is beautiful, and I shall not hear you insult it. I do not take kindly to people belittling my possessions. I shall hang it… Yes… I know exactly where I shall hang it.”

“You do not need to-” Steve starts and Sir Anthony turns a sharp expression towards him. It should not look so stern, with Sir Anthony’s hair in disarray and ink still marking the cuffs of his shirt. But he looks half-wild, and beautiful in that strange way that nature something is, and Steve cannot find his thoughts.

“No, this is where I say thank you and you graciously accept my thanks,” Sir Anthony says.

“You haven’t said thank you, though,” Steve says. Sir Anthony blinks and then laughs.

“You are right,” he says. “Thank you, Captain Rogers, for your kind gift. I shall treasure it. It shall have pride of place in my collection. The house was in my mother’s family for generations, you know,” he sighs. “It was built by her ancestor.”

“And now I have taken it,” Steve says.

“Nonsense,” Sir Anthony says. “It was not taken, it was given.”

But not by you, Steve thinks. He can find no accusation in Sir Anthony’s face, however.

It is then he remembers his actual reason for coming. His conversation with Sam, Mrs Romanoff’s concerns. He had almost forgotten them, caught up in the moment.

“Sir Anthony, I would discuss a matter with you,” he says.

“You look very determined, Captain, almost as though you are afraid I will try to have you banished.”

“You may,” Steve says. “I… I do not believe you will wish to hear what I have to say, but I ask you to hear me out.”

“You have my word,” Sir Anthony says. “Your expression is so serious.”

“It concerns The Condor .”

“I thought we had had this discussion,” Sir Anthony says. “It was an accident, a tragedy. But there was no malign force involved.”

“And who told you that?” Steve asks.

“I had Ob- Mr Stane ask around, he has contacts in the admiralty and the government. He knows how to get to the truth.”

“Have you spoken to Colonel Rhodes about it, or to Colonel Danvers?” Steve asks.

“I…” Sir Anthony looks taken aback for a second. “No, but… do you know I don’t think I have written to Rhodey in… I know I meant to write to him last week, but…” Sir Anthony starts to search through the papers on his desk. “Where is that letter? I know that I began it here.”

“Perhaps it was taken,” Steve says.

“By whom?” Sir Anthony asks. “Jarvis? He would never touch my private correspondence. I will have taken it to my workshop and buried it under plans. I am always doing such things. You are right, of course, I should write to Rhodey immediately. I have been most remiss. But he can have nothing further to add about The Condor .”

“Perhaps not, but in my experience, it always helps to get your information from multiple sources,” Steve says carefully. Sir Anthony narrows his eyes.

“Fine, I shall write to both the colonels and ask them for their input on the matter,” Sir Anthony says.

“I am surprised you had not done it already, I am surprised to find you here and not in your workshop trying to improve upon your own designs,” Steve says. Sir Anthony frowns.

“I… That is to say I intended to, but we are waiting on the information from the admiralty, and it would be fruitless to look for flaws without further information.”

“We?” Steve asks.

“Obie’s in touch with the admiralty, seeing about getting the reports,” Sir Anthony says. “They are obfuscating terribly. Something about military secrets, but how they can be secret from me when I designed the damned thing, I cannot say. But I was going to examine my original designs once I had… once I had…” He shakes his head.

“You are tired,” Steve says.

“I am fine, Captain,” Sir Anthony says. “I have just- lost my train of thought. It happens when I am distracted.”

Steve does not say that he has seen Sir Anthony in many states since they have met and he has never seen him lose any train of thought. He has held four conversations at once on several occasions. The feeling of something wrong intensifies.

Sir Anthony rises from his chair and goes to the side table, pouring a brandy from the decanter with a trembling hand.

“Are you quite well?” Steve asks, stepping forwards.

“Yes,” Sir Anthony says. Steve takes another hesitant step towards him and lowers his voice, gentling it.

“You are shaking,” he points out and Sir Anthony looks at his hand as though he has hardly seen it before in his life.

Steve reaches out to grasp the hand not holding the brandy glass, and stills the shaking as gently as he dares.

“I- I have been under a lot of stress,” Sir Anthony says, although the words are more of a question than a statement.

“I am sorry if I have placed you under any more,” Steve says.

“No, no,” Sir Anthony says. “I don’t know what it is about you, but you… it’s as though the sun shines through the clouds on an overcast day. You make things clearer, somehow, like when I look at you-”

The door opening behind him sends Steve flying backwards, dropping Sir Anthony’s hand in an instant, trying to put a respectable distance between them. He had lost himself for a moment, and he turns back to the portrait of Sir Howard and Lady Stark to compose himself. Looking into Sir Howard’s face, he can see what Tony had been talking about earlier. He does look disapproving from this angle.

“Captain Rogers!” Mr Stane’s voice booms, and Steve bites his teeth together at the sound of it. “I had no idea you were joining us today.”

“Sir Anthony had expressed an interest in my artwork, I came to deliver a piece he was interested in,” Steve says, turning. Sir Anthony raises an eyebrow at him.

“Captain Rogers is concerned about The Condor , still,” Sir Anthony says. “Perhaps if you could reassure him about what your friends in the admiralty told you.”

“Nothing more than a dreadful accident, Captain,” Mr Stane says. “From what I understand it was a costly mistake on the part of the crew. They failed to uncouple something before firing the engines up fully. A tragedy, true, but nothing more.”

“A mistake,” Steve says.

“You didn’t mention that to me,” Sir Anthony says.

“I didn’t want to confirm it before I was quite certain of the details, but that is what I have been told.”

“Odd that a seasoned crew of airmen would make such a mistake,” Steve says.

“Accidents happen, people cut corners. Human error, that’s the bane of technology, isn’t it, Sir Anthony?”

“What was it that should have been uncoupled?” Sir Anthony asks.

“I’m sure we’ll see when the report comes,” Mr Stane says. “I hope you weren’t in here writing to Miss Moomji again,” he says. “I have told you before that you give the lady too much power over you by pursuing her in this way.”

Sir Anthony flushes, his eyes darting to Steve’s.

That answers the question of who he was writing to before Steve arrived, then. Steve forces himself to smile.

“She seemed like a very pleasant young lady,” he says. “I was pleased to make her acquaintance.” The shark-like smile on Stane’s face says clearly that he recognises the lie for what it is.

“Ah yes,” Sir Anthony says, looking to the desk. “That was what I was doing. I had forgotten.”

Mr Stane’s eyes narrow and he looks between Sir Anthony and Steve.

“Probably just tired,” Mr Stane says, but he looks… worried.

The look seems out of place. Why would Stane be worried about Sir Anthony forgetting something. Unless he really does care for the baronet, but Steve does not see how that could be true when he is using him so abominably.

“I’m not tired, Obie,” Sir Anthony says. “I am just…” he pushes his hand through his hair, and Steve sees those bags under his eyes again.

It goes against all his instincts to leave Sir Anthony to Mr Stane’s machinations, but Sir Anthony does look tired, and unwell. He cannot impose upon the man when he is in such a state.

“You look unwell, Sir Anthony,” he says. “Perhaps I might send for Doctor Banner?”

“No, no. The two of you are ridiculous,” Sir Anthony says. “I am quite well. I should think I know my own body, wouldn’t you?”

Steve is reminded acutely of himself. He had once walked two miles with a shard of wood as big as his wrist stuck in his side without noticing. He had been so focused on getting his men to safety.

“These things sometimes creep up on us,” Steve says.

“Well, they don’t creep up on me,” Sir Anthony says. “Stark men are made of iron and-”

“ Faber ferri non flectere ,” Steve says under his breath. The family motto.

“Precisely,” Sir Anthony says, giving him a smile. “My father told you that as well, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Steve agrees.

“Whether you are ill or not, the fact remains that you are tired,” Stane says. “I believe you should rest. I will show the Captain out.”

“I…” Sir Anthony sways slightly on his feet. “Very well, perhaps you are both right. Which is terrible of you. I dislike this new alliance you have formed against me.”

Steve has to bite his tongue not to reply to that.

“I should go,” Steve says. He bows to Sir Anthony. “Thank you for your time. I hope that you will think on what I said.”

“Of course,” Sir Anthony says. “I always think about what you say.” Steve flushes again at that, and carefully does not look at Mr Stane as he turns to leave.

“I fear the baronet’s health is unsteady,” Mr Stane says, when they are almost at the front door. “He has been given to such fits of forgetfulness recently, and it is not good for him to be upset.”

Steve looks at him.

“I did not intend to upset him.”

“No, I don’t think you ever do,” Mr Stane says. His expression is considerate, but the words are sharp as daggers. “Perhaps you should take that into account next time before you decide to visit.”

“I shall take it into account, but Sir Anthony seemed pleased by my visit, so I hope it will have proved to do him more good than harm.”

“The boy has never been very good at knowing what is good for him,” Mr Stane says, and with that, he shuts the door behind Steve with a final thud.

Steve makes his way down the severe stone steps to the driveway, where Mr Barton is already standing ready with Liberty, though how he could have known Steve would be coming out so promptly, Steve could not say.

“My thanks,” he says, inclining his head. “How was she?”

“Good as gold, as always,” Mr Barton says.

“There is something wrong with the baronet,” Steve says, his voice as loud as he can dare make it. “Mr Stane seems concerned by it.”

“You’re sure?”

“He looked startled,” Steve says. “Keep an eye on them both.”

“That’s my job,” Mr Barton says, he tugs at his forelock in a slightly overdone show of deference and backs away as Steve swings himself into the saddle.

Chapter Text

It is three days later when the news of The Condor becomes public knowledge. The official story is as Mr Stane told it. Sam greets that with a bitter laugh and a lengthy rant to Steve about the likelihood of Captain Riley having made such a mistake, and the likelihood of the other Captain having mistaken what he had seen so terribly.

“They won’t admit it,” Sam says. “The cannons are a guarded secret and the idea of someone taking something like that… they aren’t going to admit to such a catastrophic leak. And Lord Fury already knew. We know the corruption runs deep, with Pierce being involved. There’s no knowing who knows the truth of it.

Steve’s hands are balled into fists. The anger that has been simmering for weeks comes up boiling again. It was supposed to be over. He had been told it was over. They had all died so that it could be over .

He wants to break things, although he knows that his own feelings are so unimportant right now, compared to Sam’s. It wouldn’t only have been Riley he knew on The Condor . There had been an entire crew of people, and Sam had known many of them. And all those people would have had friends and families and they were shot down.

“I’m going out,” Sam says. “I feel like a ride will do me good.”

“Sam…”

“Steve,” Sam says, and when he meets Steve’s eyes again, Steve sees the dark rage still glimmering in there, and he doesn’t reply. He knows there’s nothing he can say right now that will help.

“I’ll be here,” he says instead and Sam nods, jerkily. His hands are fists at his side and his shoulders are a rigid line. He looks like someone else has control of his body. His motions have none of the easiness that has always encompassed ‘Sam’ in Steve’s mind.

Sam disappears into the grey of the day and Steve paces the room, unable to think of anything more he can do. Steve seethes in his own way. He takes his shield out to the woods and hurls it at trees, watching as it bounces. He throws it until his arm is sore, until he accidentally chops down a tree that crashes down and he realises that he is cold and wet from the light rain that is filling the air, more like a cloud than a shower.

His hands are cold and red, the metal of his shield searing into him with its icy touch when he picks it up, but he ignores the discomfort as he covers it and carries it back.

He doesn’t know what to expect when he returns. It certainly isn’t Sir Anthony pacing across his parlour.

The man is ranting to Sam, who looks almost amused, his face caught in the closest thing to a smile Sam has seen since the news of The Condor had arrived.

“It’s nonsensical!” Sir Anthony is saying. “I designed that armour myself. There is no way it should have fallen to pirates . Pirates!” he exclaims with disgust, his hands flying out to punctuate his words. He whirls around on his heel and Steve can see the exact moment when Sir Anthony catches sight of him. His mouth freezes midword, his body along with it, and he stares.

Steve becomes very aware that he is standing there, dripping wet from the rain, his shield, only covered by a thin blanket, on his arm, 

“Sir Anthony heard the official reports” Sam says.

“I-” Sir Anthony says, looking between them. He seems to realise what he has been talking about. “I was carried away. I apologise. I came to offer you aid, but-”

“It’s fine,” Sam says. “You’re not saying anything I haven’t said myself. They were good men, in a good ship. I don’t blame you.”

“No,” Steve agrees, still standing, caught in the doorway. He knows that Sir Anthony will not want him to enter, but he does not wish to leave Sam alone through this, and he cannot deny that he is overwhelmed by the idea of being able to talk to Sir Anthony again. “It was a tragedy.”

“It’s one thing to say an accident, but the way they’ve described it - it’s impossible!” Sir Anthony says. Steve shoots a look at Sam, a question, and Sam shrugs.

“I don’t know that much about the construction of airships,” Steve says, “But what I do know suggests the engines are quite complex to operate.”

“They were,” Sir Anthony says. “When the first airships were built, do you know the statistics? You were more likely to blow yourself up than the enemy. Utterly useless, the lot of them. Sir Howard made some changes, but they were still convoluted, outdated, backwards designs. I changed all that, the new engines weren’t just designed to be more powerful, but safer. The error they say occurred - it’s impossible. That valve doesn’t exist anymore. I got rid of it.”

“So-”

“So it can’t have happened like they say it did,” Sir Anthony says, throwing his hands up and beginning to pace the room again. “How could a valve that doesn’t exist cause a ship to fall from the sky? It’s nonsensical. None of them knows the first thing about what they are talking about. They call themselves airmen? PAH!”

“So what do you think?”

“I don’t know ,” Sir Anthony says. “I still haven’t been able to obtain the blasted report - the unredacted one. No wonder if they’re making things up. You!” He wheels on Sam. “You have a letter - a first hand report. I need to see it.”

Sam stares at him for a long moment, then nods. He disappears out of the door, leaving Steve and Sir Anthony alone.

“You will pace a hole in the floor,” Steve says. Sir Anthony looks up at him and Steve winces, rubbing at his ear. “I- it’s something my mother used to say to me.” Sir Anthony blinks at him, then smiles.

“She must have been a formidable woman to put up with a child like you,” he says.

“I could say the same about your own,” Steve replies. Sir Anthony gives a slightly helpless laugh and collapses into a seat.

“I am sorry that I did not listen to you about The Condor ,” he says after a long moment, dragging a hand over his face. “I… Apparently the government sees fit to keep things from me.”

“I think the government keeps things from everyone,” Steve says.

“You are right about that.”

Sam steps back in, holding out his letter and Sir Anthony seizes it, reading it quickly, his eyes darting back and forth.

“This is... “ Sir Anthony glares at the paper. “I step from one impossibility into another.”

“You do not think it could have been enemy fire?” Steve asks.

“Get through my armour?” Sir Anthony asks. “Nothing could get through that armour!”

“Nothing?” Steve asks.

“Nothing except for my own weapons,” Sir Anthony tells him, waving a hand. “I’m going to be talking to the shipwrights as soon as I can, I have already drafted a letter asking them what they think they are doing. Clearly they didn’t follow the designs properly. This is utter nonsense.” Steve wills him to put it together.

“So there are weapons who could do it?” Sam asks.

“Only the aether cannons I designed,” Sir Anthony says. “Anything else would bounce right off or cause minor damage, nothing that could take it out with one shot! And those designs have only been seen by me, you and the admiralty. So it must have been a flaw in the execution. Human error.” He sags and sits heavily into the sofa behind him. “I am sorry, Captain Wilson.” He lowers his head into his hands and if Steve had still doubted his innocence in this whole affair, he would have had no more doubts after this. He does not believe anyone could be so good at deception as to appear as Sir Anthony does. He looks haggard. “I checked the designs. I checked them. I spent all night looking at them, looking for the flaw, but there wasn’t one. I would swear it. It was supposed to protect them. I should have overseen the outfitting more thoroughly, I should have checked.”

“It’s not your fault,” Steve says. Sam keeps his mouth shut. He looks strung out, and Steve has seen that look in the mirror. He needs to break this up before things get worse. He hurries into the room, setting his shield down against the wall and crossing over to sit on the sofa.

“The fault lies somewhere, and I must claim my part in it,” Sir Anthony says. “I told them that it would be invulnerable.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Perhaps he could,” Sam says. The words are savage. Steve and Tony look over at him and Sam stares back. “Sorry… you’re right, it was not your fault, Sir Anthony, at least not in the most part.” Sir Anthony flinches. “I fear I am not in the best mood for company. You’ll both forgive me,” Sam says, before standing and striding out of the room.

“He is taking this heavily,” Steve says. “This news appears to have redoubled his pain.”

“They were his men,” Sir Anthony says. “You cannot tell me you would be any more forgiving.” Steve winces. It is true. “I may have made this worse. That seems to be all I do, these days.”

“You are blaming yourself too severely,” Steve says.

“It was my design, my responsibility,” Sir Anthony says. “This is precisely what it was supposed to prevent. Do you know how narrow the margins are in airship design? One number out by a fraction of a percent and the boat won’t fly. One number out in just the wrong way and you’ve got a floating death trap. The initial aerial battalion ships were so volatile that it was fifty fifty whether they would blow themselves up. My father made them workable, but I’ve been trying- I’ve been trying to make it safe.”

“They’re hanging in the air thousands of feet above the ground,” Steve says. “It’s never going to be without risk, Sir Anthony.”

“Which is why the attention to detail is so important,” Sir Anthony says. “You're being nice because I'm upset.”

“I'm telling the truth.”

“Yes, I take comfort in the fact that I don't believe you would sugarcoat things to appease me. You value honesty too much.” Steve feels that like a stab to the gut. He wishes that he could be wholly honest right now, but he had come close in the woods, as Nomad, and Sir Anthony had been so angered by his suggestion. Given the current state of their relationship, Steve doubts that they are in a place where Sir Anthony would ever take his word over Stane’s.

“There is a difference in blame between the person who pulls the trigger and the person who doesn’t notice the man with the pistol,” Steve says.

“But both are to blame,” Sir Anthony says. “You would never stand back and-” He pauses, his eyes fixed on something over Steve’s shoulder and his expression changes to one of shock. Steve, concerned that someone may have arrived, turns to see what it is that has caught Sir Anthony’s attention. 

The blanket has shifted and slid, revealing the familiar, and unmistakable, colours of his shield.

“Well a lot of things make more sense now,” Sir Anthony says, giving a hollow laugh. “The perfect man, of course.”

“Sir Anthony…” Steve says. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I didn't want to-”

“It’s fine, Captain Rogers… Captain . I should have known already. It's hardly a leap to go from one handsome, noble Captain to another. Of course you are… Of course…” he shakes his head. “I will not tell anyone. I assume your hesitancy is because of your modesty.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Because you are too modest.” Sir Anthony stands and Steve follows him up. He feels as though he is losing his opportunity.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly.

“You had no obligation to tell me. There is a reason your identity was kept secret, after all.”

“Not for that,” Steve says quickly. “I… You have felt, perhaps, that I have been-”

“You do not need to explain your actions.”

“I think that perhaps I do,” Steve says. “I need-”

The banging on the door is sudden and emphatic, bursting through the house with all the delicacy of a rhinoceros. They both startle at it, turning towards the door.

“I was not expecting any guests,” Steve says.

“That does not sound like someone who is expected,” Sir Anthony counters, and they are heading to the door in the next instinct. Steve’s heart is in his throat, because he knows that something has happened. The frenzied knocking can only be something terrible, and what other tragedy is to pile onto them today? He hopes that it is not some awful news from Sam’s family. He is not sure the other man could take that right now. And as he thinks of it, Steve has the unpleasant premonition that it might be the Barnes family.

Sam is already on the stairs when Steve and Sir Anthony reach the hallway. He takes the steps two at a time as Steve strides across to the door. Time at war has left a sense of urgency with little output in the peaceful countryside, but an alarm such as this has roused them to action once more.

He opens the door only to find something falling into his arms. A woman, caught in a swoon. Her clothes are filthy and torn, although they look expensive even to Steve’s unknowledgeable eye, and long dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. She weighs little as she sags against Steve’s body and he looks down at her in frozen confusion. It is Miss Moomji

“What on earth has happened?” Sir Anthony says and the woman’s eyes flicker open.”Miss Moomji! Indries! What happened to you?”

“Sir Anthony?” she says, surprise clear on her face. “My apologies,” she says, her voice breathless and shaking. “This was the nearest place and I feared for my life.”

“What scared you so badly?” Steve asks, he tries to help her stand, but it seems that her legs cannot support her weight, so he scoops her up into his arms. “Ma’am, are you alright?” The woman makes a small noise, almost a whimper, almost a moan.

“Don’t try to speak,” Sir Anthony says, leaning forwards to look at her. He turns, finally, towards Steve. “Send one of your people for a physician.” Sir Anthony says, looking up at them. “And perhaps we should move her to the morning room. I believe there is a chaise in there which we could lie her down on.”

“Of course,” Steve says. A harried looking servant is lingering in the background - Delilah, Steve remembers - and he nods to her. She bobs a curtsey before hurrying off, hopefully to send someone for the physician. Steve shakes his head. The woman is not heavy, but he feels uncomfortable just standing there, holding her shaking body in his arms.. He takes Sir Anthony’s suggestion eagerly and heads for the morning room as Sam holds open the door.

As soon as she is settled on the chaise, Sir Anthony brings over a glass of brandy.

“Can you tell us what happened?” the baronet asks, kneeling beside the chaise. Miss Moomji looks at him with a grateful smile. She is beautiful, even as clearly out of sorts as she is and her smile is just as handsome. Steve lingers a step away from them, unwilling to intrude.

“I was in the woods,” she says, her eyes not leaving Sir Anthony’s. “There was a man, in a mask. He had a pistol and he took everything from me and…” She shudders delicately. “He tried to attack me, and I ran, but I must have fallen and I was lost, until I saw the lights of this house and I knew that I had to get here.”

“Nomad,” Sir Anthony says.

“What?” Steve asks, his answer too immediate, but he cannot hold the word back. He shoots a look over to Sam, who looks as bewildered as he does himself, he is sure. He has never seen this woman before in his life. He’s fairly certain that she has not crossed paths with Sam, either. Whatever highwayman she claims attacked her, it was neither of them.

“That cannot be,” Sir Anthony says. “For all he wields his pistol like a man well used to it, there have been no injuries since he started marauding the woods, I do not believe he has fired it at all, and he was very clear…” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“No, I remember, that was what he called himself,” the lady says. “He told me that I would not outrun the Nomad. And he killed my guard.”

“That is...” Sir Anthony looks shaken, although he cannot be as shocked as Steve himself is. “He harmed the man the other month, but I thought...”

“Perhaps you were mistaken, ma’am” Steve says. “Or maybe you merely took fright at the sight of him and ran off, and did not see what happened to your guard.” He knows that neither of those things can be true. He knows that this entire story is wrong, but he cannot say out loud why he knows that.

And perhaps some other person has heard about the highwayman in the woods and wanted to give it a go. Someone who is not Steve, who has none of his compunctions or his mission. Someone who does want to steal and hurt people.

“I wish that were the case, but the bruises on her neck speak to ill treatment,” Sir Anthony says. Steve steps forwards and, sure enough, there are dark handprints around the lady’s neck - probably what is making it so difficult for her to talk. As Sir Anthony turns back to her, he gives Sam another, more frantic, look. This is not their work, that goes without saying. But someone appears to have done it in his name. He has given some other malcontent an easy scapegoat for their bad ideas and it appears he has caused at least one person injury and great distress because of it.

The lady lets out a sigh and seems to sink into a deep faint and Sir Anthony finally stands up, straightening himself off to turn around.

“This is not to be borne,” he says, more formally than Steve has ever heard him. “Obie was right, I have been blind. I thought - but no. A criminal is a criminal.”

“Sir Anthony, perhaps there is some-” Steve says. But Sir Anthony raises a hand, cutting him off.

“No, this is my land, it was my duty to see that the miscreant was stopped, but I was carried away by the… drama of it all. It seems that today all my mistakes catch up with me. I will speak with the militia at once. But I must ask that she stay with you for the time being. She is too weak to move at this point, I believe.”

“It’s no imposition,” Sam agrees. “Steve would never turn away a person in need, he’s a bit of a hero like that, the stalwart captain.” He raises an eyebrow at Steve over Stark’s shoulder and Steve can’t glare at him because Sir Anthony is looking right at him.

“I would not say that,” he demures as calmly as he can. “Any right thinking person would wish to assist in such a matter.” Sir Anthony’s mouth twists a little.

“Yes, the stalwart Captain,” he says, and Steve can hear the emphasis on his title, Sam hears it too and his eyes widen, but Steve shakes his head. This is no time or place for that discussion, although he remembers his shield, lying uncovered in the other room. He will have to clear that away before anyone sees it.

Dr Banner arrives with his massive leather bag, hurrying into the house. He brings the woman out of her fainting fit with some smelling salts and judges her not badly harmed, but suffering from a nasty case of shock and nerves, which should be treated with bed rest and some brandy.

She is settled into one of the upstairs rooms and Sir Anthony insists that he will have her transferred to the manor the next morning, as he has deemed it his duty to care for her. Steve does not try terribly hard to dissuade him, the idea of having a stranger within his house is uncomfortable at best.

He does not sleep that night again.

Another Nomad. Of course it was always possible. The fact that he and Sam had both successfully played the role made it evident enough, and after all a mask did hide your identity. Someone could well have created their own ‘Nomad’ and ridden out to attack helpless women on the road. Steve cannot stand it, the idea of someone taking the name he had given himself and turning it into a murderer and common thief.

And more than that, the person who had first worn that mask and wielded those pistols. They had been a good person, doing what needed to be done to protect the magic users at the time. It is not only Steve, but also that person who is being rewritten by this. Whoever it is using Steve’s Nomad for their own gain must be stopped.

*

Miss Moomji is well enough to take breakfast the next day, her aunt has been recovered, found in a dead faint in the woods, and fusses around her terribly. Sir Anthony calls practically first thing to check on her.

Her skin is pallid, the bruises on her neck stand out a vivid purple, the clear marks of fingers evident there, although partially covered by the fall of black hair as she eats slowly at the plate of food in front of her. She looks delicate and fragile as she sits there, looking at them.

“We did not have the pleasure of asking where you were heading last night,” Sam says and she smiles at him, although her eyes go back to Sir Anthony. Steve can hardly blame her, he has the same problem himself.

“I was travelling north with my aunt to her home when we were beset by the highwayman,” she says. “I had no idea that we were passing so close to your residence, Sir Anthony.”

Steve’s hand tightens around his fork and he can feel the metal give a little under his fingers. He forces himself to relax, even though the thought of the impersonator is making his teeth grind together.

“That must have been a dreadful experience,” Sir Anthony says.

“Can you give us any further description of the man who attacked you?” Steve asks. She looks shocked and shakes her head. Her aunt is likewise unable. Nerves, it appears, have got the better of their memories.

“No, it is understandable that you would be unwilling to relive such a horrible event,” SIr Anthony says. “Quite understandable.” She smiles at him weakly and Sir Anthony smiles back. Somewhere inside Steve, something twists uncomfortably and he finds it difficult to swallow his next mouthful of breakfast.

“It was all such a blur,” she says. “I am sorry, but I only remember him grabbing me, and knowing that I had to get away. I just ran.”

“That’s alright,” Steve says. She is still shaking and he reminds himself that she is not to blame for this. The blame for this lies at his own door. He had thought it was such a clever idea, and it had seemed so harmless, playing at being a highwayman. But he had forgotten that it was not like the books. Sam was right all along. He does have bad taste in literature.

Miss Moomji can give them few details. Her ordeal seems to have been over too fast, and the memories are muddied by adrenaline and fear. It is something Steve has seen a hundred times in soldiers. You can never pick and choose what you remember of events. Some things will stick with you vividly, while other things will blend together in a chaos of broken pieces and fog.

When she is steady enough, Sir Anthony helps her and her aunt into the carriage so they can go to Stark Manor. Steve helps her up and she smiles at him gratefully and he feels… uneasy. He reminds himself that jealousy is a terrible emotion to indulge.

They watch the carriage disappear and he turns to Sam, whose face is drawn in the same concern that Steve feels.

“Things have just become more complicated yet again,” he says and Sam nods. “You don’t need to worry about this, you have enough on your mind, Sam.”

“No,” Sam says. “This is better for me to fret about than things I cannot change. The men are dead. I cannot change that. We are at an impasse on the other thing, and this is something I can work on.” He turns to Steve and gives him a slightly ragged grin. “And let’s face it, I’m not letting you go into this alone, again. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“In that case, I suppose we are in this together.”

*

Miss Moomji is not the last they hear of their replacement. Whoever he is, he certainly seems dedicated to making a name for himself.

Jewellery and valuables are stolen, people are left wounded or dead in the road, and he disappears into the night. The militia, even with Sir Anthony’s aid, seem no closer to finding him.

Sam throws himself into the hunt with a ferocity that Steve finds concerning. He knows about grief, and he can see the reflection of himself in Sam’s actions, but he has no idea how to stop it. Sam has been a steadying point for him since he returned, but Steve does not know if he can be that in return, not when he feels as though the ground underneath him is constantly shifting.

They spend their evenings once again within the shadows of the woods, hunting for the new highwayman, but they come up empty.

Miss Moomji and her aunt remain at the Manor.

Steve goes to call a few days after her harrowing arrival and is allowed in by Jarvis, who does not seem as frosty to him as he had been.

“You are looking far better,” Steve says to Miss Moomji as he walks into the drawing room. He bows to her aunt, whose face seems fixed in a drooping expression of disapproval.

“You are too kind,” Miss Moomji says. “I am feeling far better. I was in such a state when we met, but Sir Anthony has been so good to me.”

“Yes, he’s a good man,” Steve says.

“Talking about me again?” Sir Anthony says. “No, please, keep going, I love to hear nice things about myself.”

“You are a dear,” Miss Moomji tells him, passing him a glass of brandy from the table next to her. Sir Anthony sips at it, giving Steve a broad smile.

“I suppose I should return the favour,” Sir Anthony says. “Miss Moomji and her aunt are excellent house guests. She is excellent company and I believe we may soon be able to hear her sing, once her throat is entirely recovered, I am sure she will sing like a nightingale.”

“You cannot possibly make such a claim before you have heard me,” she says. Sir Anthony smiles.

“Ask the good captain,” Sir Anthony says. “He will tell you that I am an expert at talking about things I know nothing about.”

“I would not say that,” Steve says. “It is only that you have such a sharp wit that you have something to say about any topic that should arise, even those you have had little experience of.”

“Which is a nice way of saying that I talk nonsense,” Sir Anthony says, smiling again. It feels almost like it used to be. The conversation feels comfortable, not forced, like it has for so long.

“Never nonsense,” Steve says. “You are far too intelligent to speak nonsense.”

“Far too rich, too,” Sir Anthony interrupts. “When someone is as rich as I am, they cannot speak nonsense, because all their ideas are clearly too important.”

“I have known rich fools,” Steve says.

“Have you indeed,” Sir Anthony says. “So have I, although no one would ever say that to their face.”

“I have,” Steve mutters and Sir Anthony bursts out laughing.

“Of course you have. And you got away with it, no doubt, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”

“I wouldn’t say I got away with it,” Steve says. “Not every time.” Sir Anthony grins again and opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Miss Moomji begins to cough, her hand going to her throat. Sir Anthony turns to her, crouching down to look at her.

“Should I get the doctor?” he asks.

“Are you well, Miss Moomji?” Steve asks. She gives a weak smile.

“I am… I just… perhaps I was not as well as I thought I was,” she tells him. “Sir Anthony, I do not mean to be a bother, but could I impose on you for assistance in returning to my room? Captain, I am sorry I could not…” She coughs again.

“Save your breath,” Steve says. “You are still recovering. I merely came to see about your health, Miss Moomji, I cannot fault you for being injured. And now I have seen that you are recovering, I should take my leave.”

Sir Anthony turns to him.

“So soon, but…” he starts. Miss Moomji’s rasping voice joins him.

“No, you should not-” She is cut off by another coughing fit and Steve shakes his head.

“You are clearly not yet ready for visitors. I will call back another day to see how you are improved.”

“You are very considerate, Captain,” she says.

Steve sees himself out as Sir Anthony sees to the lady and finds Mr Barton readying Liberty.

“Heard about the new guy in the woods,” Barton says, feeding Liberty an apple.

“Yes,” Steve agrees.

“Seems a bit of a coincidence,” Barton goes on. Steve looks at him, raising an eyebrow. Steve frowns at him. “That Miss Moomji should find her way here the same night our friend starts up his business.”

“I don’t see how,” Steve says. “She was travelling north to-”

“Her aunt’s house,” Barton says. “Yeah, I’ve heard the story.”

“You don’t believe her?” Steve asks.

“I think there’s something that doesn’t add up,” Barton says. “But I’m just a groom. It doesn’t matter what I think. She is settling in very nicely here, though.”

Steve nods and takes Liberty’s reins. She nuzzles at his shoulder as he pats her nose, his brow drawn together in thought.

“I might be wrong,” Barton says. “Maybe I’m just paranoid. But I’m planning to keep an eye on her.”

“Any further news about our other interests?” Steve asks and Barton shakes his head.

“Some people know how to keep their hands clean,” he says with a scowl. “But everyone screws up sometime. They’ll get complacent, or greedy. Or both.”

“And until then?”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Barton says. He tips his cap to Steve and heads back to the stable, leaving Steve with even more to think about.

*

Two days later and the news is all around the village that Ms Van Dyne’s carriage has been attacked by the highwayman. Steve calls on her immediately, to find her utterly livid.

“Next time I travel through that wood I will be carrying a pistol, you can count on it,” she says, waving her finger about wildly. “I shall not be caught. Honestly, the man was a brute. Nothing like the man Sir Anthony told us about.” She is practically shaking with rage, although she seems unharmed, other than her pride. She had been stripped of her jewellery and forced out of the carriage and menaced, while her husband, Hank, had taken the butt of a pistol to the side of his head. Hank was resting in bed on Doctor Banner’s orders, but seemed less than thrilled about the entire affair, although more because he was not allowed to continue with his experiments than because he was angry at the theft.

“We’re going out tonight,” Sam says as soon as they are riding back. Steve nods. He knows it is luck more than anything that had kept Ms Van Dyne alive the night before. “We can’t let him continue like this.”

“I know,” Steve agrees.

It feels almost familiar, setting out that night, although neither of them is masked, and Steve carries his shield rather than his pistols.

Their experience of being on the other side of the law has left them with a thorough understanding of the lay of the land, and, unlike the militia, they know where the best areas are for a hold up. They make their way through them, routinely, checking one after another with single minded determination.

It is in the third spot that they see him, lurking in the shadows.

Sam spots him first, and they silently agree to flank him to make it harder for him to run from them. Sam taking the higher ground.

The man’s face is concealed, but other than that, his outfit is a good match for Steve’s nomad costume. Even the man himself is a fair match for Steve, tall, blond, although he is heavier set than Steve, his muscles bulkier rather than defined, and he is definitely broader across the waist.

But he is a fair copy, which makes Steve feel that something is less spontaneous about this than he had thought. Someone must have taken the time to study his outfit to get so close to it, and what would be the point in being so dedicated to the mimicry if they are just interested in indulging in a bit of petty highway robbery? This feels more targeted now.

He draws a breath and waits until they are close enough to the man before he speaks.

“I’d put that pistol down if I were you,” Steve says, letting his voice carry on the still night air. The man starts, turning to look at him. He does not drop the pistol.

“And who are you?” he asks.

“A concerned local. You need to stop,” Steve tells him. Behind the man he can see Sam creeping up and that was not part of the plan.

“How quaint,” the man says. “But I’m the one with the pistol. And what is it that you have?”

“Two things,” Steve says. Lifting his still covered shield. “I have this.” Then he smiles. “Also - I have friends.”

And that’s when Sam swings down on a tree branch to kick the man in the face with both of his feet.

The new Nomad fires off a shot, almost by accident, and it ricochets off Steve's shield with the ring of metal against metal.

“I did try asking nicely,” Steve says.

Sam reaches down to grab the man, but as he reaches, his hand touches nothing but smoke.

Steve starts to run as he sees the smoke start to gather behind Sam, calling out a warning, but before he can, the smoke has already coalesced and he watches as the masked man aims his pistol at Sam’s head.

Time seems to slow. The air thickens, and Steve cannot run faster, he tries, but it’s as if there is something holding him back. He knows he could run faster, but his legs don’t cooperate, moving too slowly. It feels as though he is crawling along as he watches the gun as it is cocked, and Sam begins to turn.

Steve bellows as he throws his shield, hurling it ahead of him. It rebounds off one tree and then another and the man turns to see it coming towards him and dissipates into smoke again before it connects - luckily also before he could fire his shot. He reappears several feet away, clutching at something around his neck. He looks across at Steve and raises his pistol towards him. Steve doesn’t pause, charging straight at him, leaping high to catch his shield as it ricochets back into his hand. He is just in time to block the shot, which bounces off harmlessly, hitting the trunk of a nearby tree.

Bringing down the shield, he sees the look of consternation on the man’s face and sees him grasp at whatever it is around his neck again, before fading back into that black smoke.

Steve pauses, turning to look in every direction, trying to see where he could have gone, but there is no sign of the man, all there is nearby is Sam, looking around into the shadows, just as Steve is.

“Magic user,” Sam says, spitting the words.

“Perhaps,” Steve agrees. He has seen magic users before in battle and there was something strange about this one. “But he attacked with a pistol, not with magic, and he was holding something around his neck.”

“You think it was an enchanted item rather than his own magic?” Sam asks. “It still means he has a magic user helping him. Magical items like that are not easy to come by.”

“True,” Steve agrees. “Have you heard of any in the area?”

“No,” Sam tells him, shaking his head. “From what I’ve heard the purges hit this place hard. Any mages nearby are still keeping their heads down.”

“I know someone we could ask,” Steve tells him, then whistles for Liberty, who trots over quite calmly.

The sounds of the militia, still unbearably slow in responding, come to his ears.

“I don’t feel like spending the night answering questions,” Steve says, looking to Sam, who shakes his head. So they take the longer route, and slip away unnoticed.

*

Steve remembers the way to Wanda’s home, but even if he didn’t, Liberty realises where they are going and after a short while, he hardly needs to guide her at all.

It is well hidden, between the trees, but as they approach it looks just as Steve left it. Wanda is already waiting at the door, looking towards them with a raised eyebrow.

“I suppose I should be glad you’re not bleeding this time,” she says, looking between them. Her gaze takes in their appearance and she opens her mouth as though to say something before shaking her head. “I suppose you had better come in,” she tells them. “Although, I might suggest you call at a more convenient time in future.”

Steve looks to the sky, still darkened by night, the clouds leaving only a few bare strips that glitter with stars.

“My apologies,” he says.

“Our apologies,” Sam corrects, bowing slightly. “Please forgive us, my friend has a habit of doing things first and then considering the consequences afterwards.”

“I have noticed that,” Wanda says, but she steps back, gesturing them to enter. Steve really had not thought this through. It is abominably rude to turn up at her house in the middle of the night. It had seemed like such a logical course of action when he had thought of it, to get this done as quickly as possible.

“We should come back on the morrow,” he says. “We should not have disturbed your rest.”

“My rest was already disturbed,” she says. “The militia have been around here twice already tonight. They knocked on my door and demanded I hand over the bandit to them.” Steve winces again.

“I-” She cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

“It is nothing I have not come to expect. For all the purge is over, we are still not entirely welcome, unless we have something to offer,” she says, her voice bitter. Steve and Sam share a look, but they step into the small cottage. “So what is it I can offer you, gentlemen? Potions? Cures?”

“Information,” Steve says. “That is, I do not mean to imply that-”

“Neither of you has pointed a rifle at me,” Wanda says. “So you’re already the best behaved guests I have had all evening.”

Steve’s jaw tightens.

“The militia have threatened you?” he asks. “They have no right to-”

“Captain,” she says. “I can handle threats.” There is a flicker of red in her eyes and Steve frowns.

“I believe Captain Rogers is trying to convey that you shouldn’t have to,” Sam says gently. She looks at him for a second, then smiles a little sadly. 

“We all do things we shouldn’t have to,” she says. “But what information is it you want?”

Steve describes the man from the forest, the way he had vanished and reappeared and she considers this.

“I would not say that he has magic of his own,” she tells them. “It sounds as though it is the pendant that holds the power, take that from him and he should be no more magical than either of you… well-” she raises an eyebrow at Steve. “Captain Wilson, at least.”

“But where would he get something like that?” Sam asks. “Can you just buy them?”

“They would be very expensive if you did,” Wanda tells them. “Magic like that - continuous, rather than a single use - it would take a spellcaster of great power a good deal of time to enchant. I believe it was looked into for the army, but they found it too complicated to use in the end.”

“So he would have to have a spellcaster as a patron?” Steve asks. Wanda nods.

“That would be the most likely scenario. Or a benefactor with a great deal of funds at hand. But why would a thief have access to money?”

“Because the purpose is not thievery,” Steve says.

“He means to discredit Nomad,” Sam agrees. “But what good would that do? You hardly had a sterling reputation before. Nomad is a highwayman, already disreputable.”

“But Sir Anthony believed me,” Steve says. “He had some trust in Nomad at least.”

“He was blinded by you batting your eyelashes at him,” Sam says with a snort. Wanda hides a laugh behind her hand and Steve waits for the pair of them to get past it.

“I told him that people near to him could not be trusted - as Nomad,” Steve says. “Setting this new bandit upon the populace serves to undermine those words. In light of this new information, Nomad was merely trying to save his own skin, saying anything he could think of to make himself sound like the hero of this sordid little tale.”

“I am a little concerned by how you appear to be referring to him as a separate person,” Sam comments.

“It is not traditionally a good sign,” Wanda agrees. “Perhaps you hit your head, Captain.” Steve glares at the pair of them again. “But I would not put my faith in Sir Anthony Stark.” Her face turns bleak. “The family are not given to mercy.”

Steve turns to her with a questioning glance and she pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“The Stark family were prominent figures in the purges,” she says. “They were not pleased to see the laws changed and magic legalised.”

“Sir Anthony is not like that,” Steve says. “He uses magic in-”

“Uses it, yes,” she says. “And those magic users who work on his precious weapons, who refine the aether to use in them, do you think their working conditions are good? Do you think they are all there willingly?” She shakes her head. “Do as you wish, but do not trust in a Stark,” she tells him. “Their hearts are made of iron, and are just as cold and unyielding.” 

Before he can reply, she turns away, her head raised in defiance, heading over to the fireplace where a teapot hangs over the flames. She wraps a cloth around her hand and lifts it from its hook, pouring out the steaming liquid into cups, before passing them out.

“This should warm you up,” she says, and as Steve sips at it, he feels warmth trickle through him, but more than simply temperature. It feels almost like happiness. He looks to Sam, whose shoulders are losing their tension as he drinks his own cup.

“Is this magic?” Steve asks, looking at the translucent green of the liquid curiously. “A potion?”

“A very simple one,” Wanda replies. “I am well versed in herbalism and the associated magics. It is just a drop of magic, to warm the soul as well as the body. It helps to banish despair - a little.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, his voice a little ragged. Wanda shrugs.

“Minor magic,” she says. “There are much more powerful potions than this in the world.Potions that can control the mind - and the heart. I have some knowledge, but I am not so practised in the larger magics.”

“It is more than we deserve,” Steve says. “We have disturbed your rest and brought the militia to your door.”

“You told me last time you were here that you did not believe in fate,” Wanda says. “I suppose that has not changed.”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

“In which case, I will accept your apology, as it will make you feel better to feel that you have some control.” Steve holds her gaze for a second, and the amusement is clear on her face. He shakes his head and looks instead around at the cosy surroundings, so different from the darkness of the woods outside. Had he not known, he would not have considered this a witch’s cottage. The images that phrase conjures up are of ill-kept places, creaking doors and howling winds, spiders scuttling along the walls. Instead, the light of the hearth fire glowing a merry orange, it feels more like a balmy oasis from the harsh reality of the outside world. He wonders if that feeling is because of the tea he has just drunk, or because of some other magic of Wanda’s, which keeps the outside at bay.

“Our thanks for your kindness,” Sam says. “We should take our leave.”

“You are welcome, Captain Wilson,” she says. “You are welcome any time.”

Steve rises and nods as well.

Even in the chill autumnal air, the tea seems to keep him warm, his fingers not chilling even as he clutches Liberty’s reins and guides her through the forest. Even as a miserable, pervasive rain begins to fall.

“So that is the witch of the woods,” Sam says.

“I believe so,” Steve agrees. Sam makes no further response than a thoughtful noise, barely audible over the wind and the rain.

Chapter Text

The next time Steve sees Sir Anthony, he is once again painting the landscape. The curve of the river that joins the Manor lands to those of Lakefield. He takes a seat and sets up his easel just on the edge of the woods, overlooking the dip of the valley, trying to take advantage of the clear skies and bright daylight while they last, the chill dark of winter comes more quickly these days. He is just finishing when he hears the sound of voices coming towards him, one male, one female, obviously engaged in a pleasant conversation.

He recognises Sir Anthony’s voice at once and endeavours not to notice the way his spine straightens at the sound of it, his hand automatically moving to check his attire, almost forgetting the paintbrush still clutched between his fingers. He luckily does not paint himself, but comes far closer than he would have liked.

The other voice is less familiar,  but as they draw nearer, he recognises Miss Moomji and draws in a deep breath to smother the shock of irritation that thrums through him at that. It is a beautiful walk, and Miss Moomji has committed no crimes against him, he should not feel his ire rising just at the sound of her voice. He waited too long, that is his curse, it seems. Everything had become tangled up and he had taken too long to get his head on right, and by the time it was - well, he cannot blame Miss Moomji for his own failings.

He cannot help but overhear. The serum makes sure of it, but as their words become clearer, Steve realises that this is not a conversation he wishes to overhear. Sir Anthony’s words are clear enough.

“It is strange,” he is saying. “I look at you and it is as if the entire world fades away except for you. I am too bold, I know, but… your bravery, with the highwayman, your quick mind, and the consideration you have shown towards-”

“Sir Anthony, you cannot talk like this,” Miss Moomji says. “Mrs Romanoff and Mrs Hogan will overhear us.” And now Steve can hear their voices too, clearly a little way behind Sir Anthony and his companion.

Sir Anthony’s voice drops, so Steve cannot hear the words, but the slightly scandalised laugh that Miss Moomji gives is enough to give him the sentiment.

He begins to pack away his painting gear as noisily as possible, announcing his presence as best he can, and by the time he turns to see them emerge from the treeline, they have moved on to more respectable topics of conversation.

Steve waves and Sir Anthony waves back, striding across the field towards him with a smile. It seems no less bright than it ever has, although Steve supposes that part of Sir Anthony’s happiness must be because of Miss Moomji’s company.

“Captain Rogers,” Sir Anthony says, shaking his head once and beaming at Steve. “You are painting again. What idyllic scene is it this time?” he asks, and looks out over the valley. “A very pretty picture it will make, I am sure. The river is very well situated. May I see your progress?”

“Certainly,” Steve says, holding out the painting. He looks up to where Mrs Hogan and Mrs Romanoff are stepping out of the trees and nods to them. “It was such a lovely day I could not think of it going unrecorded.”

“And we could not think of letting it go without taking a turn around the grounds,” Sir Anthony says. Steve blinks.

“I had not realised I was on the grounds,” he says. He had thought himself still on the Lakefield side of the line between their properties. “I apologise for the intrusion.”

“No, no, it’s never an intrusion,” Sir Anthony says. “You are always welcome to draw wherever you may please, I assure you. As long as you allow me to view the outcome.”

“May I see?” Miss Moomji asks, holding out her hand. Steve would like to say no, but there is no call to be rude and that would be the height of insolence after he has already allowed Sir Anthony to view it.

“Of course,” he says instead and watches as she passes a critical eye over it.

“It is a fair likeness,” she says. “I believe my art mistress would have been quite pleased with it,” she says, smiling up at him. “The woman was a demon for detail. It took me years to impress her, but by the end of my time, she said my brushwork was excellent. I am not so good at landscapes, though.” There is a pause and she looks to Sir Anthony, but his attention is on the painting. A slight furrow appears between her exquisitely shaped eyebrows as she turns back to Steve. “You appear much practised at them.”

“I find there are many landscapes in this part of the world that are worth capturing,” Steve says. “The grounds of Stark Manor are very beautiful.”

“They are indeed,” Miss Moomji agrees. “In fact your entire home is quite beautiful, Sir Anthony.”

“Through no fault of its own, I assure you,” Sir Anthony says. “Sir Howard did not have beauty in mind when it was built.”

“It is a rather imposing structure,” Steve agrees.

“Fashioned in his own image,” Sir Anthony says.

“Then you must be responsible for the beauty,” Miss Moomji says. Sir Anthony turns to her and smiles a little before turning back to Steve.

“Captain Rogers,” Mrs Romanoff says as she and Ms Van Dyne catch up. “Another artistic endeavour?”

“I was just packing up for the day, actually.”

“Then you should join us,” Mrs Hogan says. “We were thinking of heading down to the lake by Lakefield, and perhaps calling on you. But now it seems that part of that, at least, will not be necessary.”

“If I would not be imposing,” Steve says, looking around.

“Not at all,” Sir Anthony insists. “Come along. Miss Moomji has barely seen you and I think the two of you would be excellent friends.”

“Of course,” Miss Moomji says. “Please join us, Captain. You can tell me how you met the baronet. He refuses to tell me, says that it will poison my impressions of him. I can’t imagine that could ever be true.”

“It was not so bad as all of that,” Steve agrees, and proceeds to explain their first meeting. Miss Moomji is kind enough to laugh in the appropriate places, but Steve knows he has not the skill at spinning a tale that other people have, and he can tell she is not terribly interested. It is kind of her to make the effort, though. Steve knows she must have heard the rumours by now of his own connection to Sir Anthony, and there is no doubt that she and the baronet are forming an attachment.

Sir Anthony seems attentive to her needs, true, but he does not spend any less time with Steve than he always has. It is almost the same as it has always been.

As they reach the lake, Mrs Romanoff links her arm in Steve’s and declares that they will walk along the shore a little way.

“It is strange,” she says, looking out across the lake. “Sir Anthony seems much changed.”

“I see no difference in him today,” Steve says.

“No, and that is the part that is strangest,” she looks at him sharply. “When we came across you, it was as though he were himself again, and that is very… puzzling.”

“I am not sure I understand what you are trying to say, Mrs Romanoff,” Steve says uneasily.

“Nor am I,” she says. “I feel like I am looking at a puzzle but half the pieces are upside down and I can’t tell which ones.”

“That sounds frustrating,” Steve offers, for lack of anything better to say.

“It is.”

“And what of our other friends?” Steve says, unable to keep his voice entirely without bite as he talks of Hydra.

“We intercepted a message that indicated they are securing something,” she says. “An object of power. They have sent Stane an operative.”

“The new Nomad,” Steve says, and she nods.

“I believe so,” she agrees. “But we were unable to determine what it is they are seeking. There are items of power, but none we are aware of in this area. Sir Howard’s collections were immense, but he was more concerned with curiosities than anything with any true power.”

“And that would be a change in their operations,” Steve says. “Going from taking plans to taking an object.”

“Hydra will use anything they can get their hands on. It is possible that they are only moving on this object now because they are worried we are closing in and they will not be able to get their hands on it in future.”

“Cutting their losses,” Steve says, and she nods. “Do you think they will harm Sir Anthony if they move on?”

“Quite probably,” she says. “But Clint - Mr Barton, is in position to keep that from happening, and with Miss Moomji here as well, it will be difficult to get the baronet alone.”

“I hope you are right.”

“Colonel Rhodes is on his way,” she says, looking out over the lake with every appearance of enjoying the view.

“You wrote to him?” Steve asks, noting the way her lip curls into a smile.

“No. But he has been given some leave,” Mrs Romanoff says.

“Which you had nothing to do with,” Steve comments.

“I hold no position within the Aerial Battalions, Captain Rogers. How could I possibly have effected such a thing?” She looks more amused when she turns to him than confused, though, and Steve laughs.

“Mrs Romanoff, I have known you for less than a year and I already know that it would be foolish to believe you incapable of anything,” he tells her. Her smile grows a little wider.

“On that, I could not possibly comment.”

*

Steve greets the arrival of Colonel Rhodes with great relief. If there is anyone who can help Sir Anthony and sway him away from Mr Stane, it is the Colonel. Their meeting may have been brief, but it was clear that Sir Anthony put great weight on the Colonel’s good opinion and the Colonel himself had seemed forthright and honest, with a strong moral character.

He is not, however, anticipating the Colonel to call upon him, but that is what he does.

As the Colonel is announced, he and Sam rise from their seats, exchanging a look.

Rhodes walks in briskly, pulling his hat from his head and handing it to Delilah with barely a glance. He is clearly agitated and Steve glances at Sam again.

“Colonel Rhodes, good day. I would ask how you do, but I fear that would be pointless,” Steve says. “You are-”

“Concerned,” the Colonel says, casting a dim look at Steve. “I am concerned.” Steve feels his eyebrows raise, unable to control them. Concerned would appear to be the least of what Colonel Rhodes is.

“What concerns you, Colonel?” Sam asks.

“I need to ask your opinions,” Colonel Rhodes declares. Steve gestures for him to sit, and he does for but half a second, barely making contact with the upholstery before he is pacing towards the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece as he stares into the flames.

“Upon what matter?” Steve asks. “I can speak only for myself, but if it is on a matter that I can speak freely, on, I shall.” Sam voices his agreement.

“What is your opinion of Tony,” Colonel Rhodes asks, turning to fix his eyes upon Steve’s. Steve feels his mind go blank. The colonel must see something. “Not in that way, I would not hear those opinions for all the riches in the world. On his recent behaviour.”

Steve does not know whether to be relieved or not that his initial thoughts had been so evident to one of Sir Anthony’s closest friends, but he pushes that aside.

“He has seemed tired, recently,” he says. “And forgetful.”

“Distracted, almost,” Sam adds.

“But overall I have seen little true difference in him,” Steve finishes, considering their conversations carefully. It is those moments of blank confusion that worry him the most, closely followed by the heavy bags under Sir Anthony’s eyes. But in his demeanour and his personality he has seemed the same.

“Tired is nothing new,” Colonel Rhodes says. “And he forgets to eat when he is caught up in something, but… he has not seemed unreasonable to you?” He pauses and considers his words. “That is more unreasonable than he usually does.”

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. Then his brain catches on a memory. “That is… He was initially rather quick to dismiss some discrepancies with the fate of The Condor .”

“ The Condor ?” Colonel Rhodes asks, looking between them, clearly perplexed.

“We have reason to believe it was not an accident,” Sam says.

“At first, when I recounted this to Sir Anthony, he reacted with agitation,” Steve says, “but only days later, he was utterly sure it had been an accident and that no one could have done anything to stop it. Then, when presented with new evidence, he became agitated again, and… since then I have heard nothing more about it.” Steve frowns. Sir Anthony had been distracted by Miss Moomji’s arrival, certainly, but it seems strange that he has said not another word on the subject since. Mr Stane is perhaps making use of the situation with Nomad and Miss Moomji to keep the baronet’s formidable brain otherwise occupied.

Colonel Rhodes narrows his eyes, and Steve feels that old need to salute, trained into him for years. He clasps his hands behind his back to prevent it.

“He was less upset when he thought it was an accident?” Rhodes asks.

“Yes,” Steve says.

“I have known that man for years,” Colonel Rhodes says. “He designed every inch of my ship, piece by piece, from the bow to the stern, and every time we come into berth, he finds new ways to improve it. Every time we speak he asks about how well she handles, the performance of the engines, how simple it is to use. Even the slightest pull to the left and he pulls out the designs again to pore over them.” He twists away from the fire, turning fully towards Steve. 

“I know he had no less involvement in The Condor , and you’re saying that he… did not care?”

“He said that ‘these things happen,’” Sam says, his voice hard.

“He has since come to our way of thinking, that the official report is not… entirely true,” Steve says, attempting to be diplomatic.

“It’s a pack of lies,” Sam inserts. Steve winces for a second.

“Oh, it’s definitely a load of horseshit,” Colonel Rhodes says. “Sorry, that is… uh.”

“I was in the army, Colonel,” Steve says. “I’ve said worse." Colonel Rhodes looks him up and down and then nods.

“I believe that it was Mr Stane who persuaded him that The Condor was nothing to worry about,” Steve says. The Colonel’s face twists angrily.

“Of course it was,” Colonel Rhodes says. “That man, I swear it. He is- But no. While this is concerning, this is not what I wanted to discuss.”

“No?” Steve asks. Colonel Rhodes sighs, the agitation leaving his face and his shoulders relaxing as he crosses back to sit in one of the arm chairs.

“No, I wanted to ask what you knew about this Miss Moomji,” the Colonel says.

“Miss Moomji?” Steve echoes. “I… Not much. We met briefly in town and have resumed our acquaintance since she arrived here in Marvel. She seems an amiable young lady.”

“With designs upon becoming the wife of a baronet,” Colonel Rhodes says. He stretches his legs out, frowning down at his toes.

“I do not have her confidence, so I could not say, but she and Sir Anthony do appear to have formed an attachment,” Steve says.

“I’ll say,” Sam adds. Steve and Colonel Rhodes both turn to look at him. “I was walking to the village the other day and I happened across them in the road. They were walking with her aunt, though I am quite convinced the woman is as blind as a bat, for they were speaking as if they were quite alone in the world.” Steve winces at the lack of propriety in that alone. “Though I greeted them, neither of them even acknowledged my presence. I thought I might have been conjured invisible for a brief moment, so little heed did they pay me.”

“That’s what I mean,” Colonel Rhodes says, pointing at Sam. “I’ve seen him wrapt up like this before. It’s not a good sign. I do not know her motivations. It might be that she has true feelings for him, but I would not see my friend imprisoned by someone who merely wishes to have his fortune and his title and could not give a fig about him.”

“On that we are agreed,” Steve says. “But I have noticed nothing untoward in their relationship. Sir Anthony is not as caught up in it as you fear. I met them myself the other day and we had a perfectly pleasant conversation.”

“Well, that’s you,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and sharing a look with the Colonel.

“Sam,” Steve says. It is time his friend gave up this insistence in Sir Anthony’s feelings towards Steve. The presence of Miss Moomji has put a clear end to any contemplation Steve might have had about his future with Sir Anthony.

“The rest of us he barely even acknowledges,” Sam says. “When Miss Moomji is around it’s as though the world disappears to him.”

“It’s not healthy,” Colonel Rhodes says. “I have only a few days here again, but could I impose upon the two of you to keep an eye on things while I am gone. Tony has a habit of… he falls in love too quickly and he is easily taken advantage of. It is possible that Miss Moomji is exactly what she appears, but I have seen him take this path before.”

“We shall do what we can,” Steve says. It is no less than they were already doing, after all, although Steve still feels that Mr Stane is the greater threat. “And perhaps you could… Sir Anthony is unwilling to think that Mr Stane might not have his best interests at heart.”

Colonel Rhodes nods.

“Oh, I am well aware of that,” he says. “But as long as Tony is useful to him, he won’t overstep the line.”

Steve is not convinced that that is true.

*

Colonel Rhodes visit lasts only a week, and over that time, Sir Anthony does seem to improve. He no longer looks so tired, and his mind is as sharp as it ever was. Colonel Rhodes certainly seems happier by the time he leaves than he was when he arrived. Steve wonders if his agitation at Sir Anthony’s state had caused Mr Stane his own concerns.

It is not three days after Colonel Rhodes has left that Steve’s uneasiness grows once more. Sir Anthony is determined to make the most of the last fine weekends of the year by having a picnic. Steve is not sure that it will not be too cold, but he accepts the invitation anyway.

They take their food and head out to one of the secluded spots of the nearby countryside, settling in to admire the view. It seems like everyone in the village is present. Ms Van Dyne is sitting beside her husband, watching her young daughter toddle around on unsteady legs. Mrs and Mr Hogan are there, Mrs Romanoff, too. Mr Barton appears to have been commandeered from the stables to assist in carrying the food - or perhaps it was his idea. Any number of eligible young men and women bustle about, although far fewer than there were at the beginning of the season. The matchmakers may not have succeeded with Steve himself, but they made a few matches in the past months. Steve is most grateful to see that Miss Highcombe and Mr Moore appear to have discovered a connection and are happily engaged.

And of course, in the centre of it all, reigning supreme over society in this small corner of the world, sits Sir Anthony, and at his side, as lovely as ever, Miss Moomji. They seem oblivious to the rest of the world, lost in themselves. 

On Sir Anthony’s other side, hovering like a dark cloud - although the sky above them is a brilliant, crisp, blue - Mr Stane.

He passes Sir Anthony food, pats him on the shoulder, tops up his drink and prods Sir Anthony away from Miss Moomji gently to greet the rest of the guests. His eyes meet Steve’s for a second and he smiles, inclining his head slightly. It is not the smile of a benevolent man. It is the smile of a spider in his web, waiting for the fly to come to him.

It would have been a pleasant excursion, but for that. Every time Steve heard Stane’s loud, booming laugh, he flinched internally.

“If looks could kill, he would be smeared an inch thick on the grass,” Mrs Romanoff says from Steve’s shoulder. “The pair of you need to relax.”

Steve turns to look at her and sees that she must have been talking to Sam as well.

“How can you sit there and smile when-” Steve starts.

“Because that is what I need to do,” she says. “And because I know eventually we will stop him, and when that happens, none of his friends in high places will be able to protect him.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sam says. “Men like him… they tend to make deals.”

“I meant from me,” she says, reaching out to grasp a piece of fruit from one of the plates spread out in front of them. She smiles as she brings it to her lips and Steve feels a slight chill down his spine. She smiles brightly at them both, as though they have just had a wonderful conversation, then rises with a graceful ruffle of skirts to speak to another of the guests.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Sam says.

Steve manages to shake off his anger enough to take part in the conversations going around. Ms Van Dyne loops an arm in his and insists that they walk together.

“I have barely seen you in the last month,” she says. “It’s terribly rude of you.”

“We saw each other five days ago,” Steve points out.

“Entirely by accident,” she says. “And everyone knows that doesn’t count.”

“Then I must apologise for being remiss,” Steve tells her. She purses her lips, making a show of considering his apology, but before she can speak, they overhear voices speaking in harsh whispers.

“Tony, you must be able to see what is going on!” Steve frowns, looking off to where Sir Anthony, Mrs Hogan and Mr Hogan are standing. It is Mrs Hogan who is speaking, her body language clearly angry.

“Nothing is going on, Pepper,” Sir Anthony says. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“You were supposed to visit us three days ago, and you forgot. And two days before that you said you would come to our card party, but you never arrived, which meant we had an odd number of people. You barely replied to my letters while you were in town and when Happy and I came to see you yesterday you had us sent away without even seeing us!”

“I hardly need to spend all my time with you,” Sir Anthony protests.

“We should…” Steve says, looking down into Ms Van Dyne’s wide eyes. He nods back to where the rest of the party is still passing an enjoyable afternoon. It would not do to overhear this discussion. It is clearly a private affair and Steve has no intention nor desire to invade their privacy. Ms Van Dyne nods. But he casts an uneasy eye back to where the Hogans are arguing with Sir Anthony.

Sir Anthony returns, not much later, clearly agitated, although Steve is glad to see that Miss Moomji manages to soothe some of his upset. It is good that she is helping Sir Anthony so clearly.

Mr Stane looks almost pleased, on the other hand, at Sir Anthony’s state, and Steve wishes he had the reason right then and there to call out the man on his treachery.

The picnic loses some of its shine after that, the mood switching to one of discomfort as it becomes clear that, even if the argument had not been witnessed by many, the repercussions are echoing throughout their party. By the time they pack up to leave, Steve is glad to leave the place behind and spend some time away from the oppressive gloom that had been hanging over them.

*

Whatever the outcome of the picnic Steve had been expecting, it certainly isn’t what happens. He had thought perhaps Mr Stane would use the argument to widen the gap between Sir Anthony and his friends, but it is not Mr Stane who Steve hears about.

Ms Van Dyne appears at Lakefield the next morning, practically buzzing.

“Have you heard?” she asks, as she enters, slipping her bonnet from her head. She looks at Steve and Sam expectantly.

“I don’t believe we have,” Steve says slowly. She looks between them, clearly bursting with something, her hands flitting around, clearly unsure of what to do. Her face is a strange mixture of excitement and apprehension, and her eyes linger on Steve’s face.

“Oh, well…” She looks towards the door, as though suddenly uncertain about her self-given mission. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be the one to tell you?”

“If you’re this excited about the matter, I doubt it will be long before we find out about it from someone else,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. “News tends to fly around this place faster than a frigate with its engines at full throttle.” Ms Van Dyne blinks and then nods.

“Well, I heard it from my groom, who heard it from her brother, who works up at the manor,” Ms Van Dyne says.

“Has something happened to Sir Anthony?” Steve asks, alarmed. His mind flies to Stane’s supercilious face at the picnic.

“No, well, yes-” Ms Van Dyne takes a deep breath, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “He proposed. Last night. To Miss Moomji.”

Steve stares at her, unseeing.

“She said yes,” Ms Van Dyne finishes, a little more quietly. “I thought that you would like to know.”

“They are engaged,” Steve says, blinking to snap his vision back to the present. “They are well matched.”

Sam coughs and Ms Van Dyne narrows her eyes at him.

“You think so?” she asks.

“Miss Moomji seems to make Sir Anthony happy, at least,” Steve says. His voice sounds very far away to his own ears. “He should be happy with her.” He looks to Sam.

“They certainly appear to be infatuated with one another,” Sam says. “I’m not sure that’s the same thing as happiness, though.”

“Sir Anthony is nothing if not a man who knows his own mind,” Steve says, a bit more harshly than he had intended. His determination to believe his own words leaks into his voice. “If he believes that Miss Moomji is his best path to happiness, then I cannot doubt his judgement, and neither should either of you.”

“Oh I doubt Tony all the time,” Ms Van Dyne says. “You’ve only seen him being all sensible and stern as Baronet Stark. I saw him fall over in the manure pit when he was a boy…” she pauses. “Although he claims I pushed him into it, but I would never have done such a thing.”

“Of course not,” Sam says, although he sends a look to Steve that says he entirely believes that Ms Van Dyne did, in fact, push Sir Anthony into the manure pit. Steve cannot return the gaze, though, his mind is lost again, spiralling away from him like an airship cut free of its moorings.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I believe I may need some air.”

“Of course,” Ms Van Dyne says, rising as he stands and reaching out to rest a dainty hand on his arm. “I have known Sir Anthony almost his whole life and I have never known him to act quite like this. I am sure that he meant no-”

“As I have said before,” Steve says, the words almost hurting his throat as they are forced out of it. “Sir Anthony and I had no understanding or attachment. Much of the time we have known each other, we have spent in argument or disagreement. I have no claim on his time or affections, although I know the local rumour mill has had other opinions. I can claim no injury from this news. He- The baronet is free to propose to whomever he sees fit, and all I can say to the matter-” Steve pauses and takes a deep breath, turning to look Ms Van Dyne in the eye. He will not shy away from this. “All I can say to the matter is this: I wish him every happiness, for he deserves no less, and I hope that he and Miss Moomji can find that happiness together.”

Ms Van Dyne nods, slowly withdrawing her hand, and Steve walks from the room, his back straight and rigid, his shoulders fixed in place only by his force of will.

He does not allow himself to relax until he is back in the music room, staring at the piano that had once belonged to Lady Maria Stark. He had not intended to come to this room, but now he is here, he cannot imagine having gone anywhere else. There is more of Sir Anthony in this room than anywhere else Steve can think of going, aside from the workshop up at the manor.

He sits down at the piano and runs his fingers lightly over the keys, but does not sound them. He has no skill with music.

The room is silent, the piano still, and even Steve’s ghosts have abandoned him.

What he wouldn’t give to hear Bucky’s voice in his head right now, cajoling or teasing, rebuking or cheering. He would take anything but this silence that seems to crush in on him second by second, even words that only exist in his own mind. But there is nothing.

The room is full of holes where people should be.

And Steve is alone.

It is unfair of him. He could be in company. Sam and Ms Van Dyne are only a short walk away, but that gap may as well be an ocean. He cannot cross it, not right now. He wants to be alone, but he hates the feeling of it.

Sir Anthony is engaged. It is nothing he has not expected, since seeing the baronet and Miss Moomji together. Infatuated was Sam’s word for it, and he was not incorrect. Though Steve has not seen the drastic changes that others seem to have done so, he is not blind. He has seen where Sir Anthony’s affections lie. But his own feelings were not so resigned to the matter as he had convinced himself. Lies, it has all been lies. Every word that has come out of his mouth regarding the pair of them, he has been lying to himself and everyone else. He had thought this would happen, and had thought himself immune to it. But he was wrong.

Steve had known this would happen, but he hadn’t thought it would be so soon. He has barely had time to prepare for it, and the words coming from Ms Van Dyne’s mouth have stabbed like a bayonet into his gut.

And he will have to see the pair of them, and he will have to be happy for them. Steve’s throat is painful with tightness as it crushes the words he wants to say. His eyes burn with tears he does not cry.

There are more important things in this world than his happiness. More important things than his heart.

But he will take a moment to let it break in private, before he has to face the world and pretend disinterest once more.

Chapter Text

Of course, Steve does not get long to gather his thoughts together, or to shore up his defences against the onslaught he knows is coming. Invitations are delivered not two days later to a ball at Stark Manor and Steve can come up with no reasonable excuse to refuse, although Sam insists he will present his regrets should Steve not wish to come.

“I am fine, Sam,” Steve says. Sam watches him with a distinct lack of belief. “I am. I have never held much illusion on the subject and I knew that this day was more than likely to occur. It will be simply a matter of enduring that first initial pain, and then it will dull as all things do. Time will wear it down.”

“You don’t need to make any pretence with me, you know that, don’t you?” Sam asks and Steve wills himself to smile as he nods and clasps Sam’s arm gratefully.

“I know,” he says. “But I must do this sooner or later. Or else I must quit Lakefield and depart Marvel entirely,” Steve says. “I cannot do that while Stane is still at large. So it is better to handle this sooner rather than later. I will get the first shock over with and I can get on with the rest of my life.”

Sam nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. He does not protest further, though, and refrains from bringing up the matter again until the evening of the ball when he simply raises a question as they grasp their hats and step towards the front door.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and Steve nods, his jaw too tightly clamped shut for him to say the words.

His discomfort grows as they head towards the manor, every next step seeming more difficult than the one before. He considers turning back three times, but each time reminds himself that there is nothing to be won by putting off the inevitable. He has never run away from anything, and he will not run away from this, as painful as it may be.

Nor will he allow himself to miss an opportunity to catch Stane in some sort of treacherous game. Both Sir Anthony and Miss Moomji are in grave difficulties if he understands the situation correctly. Stane will not be pleased to be losing his tight grip on Sir Anthony, and he has shown through his interactions with Steve that he has no love for others who would try to take that role.

So Steve will go to the ball, and he will play the role of congratulatory friend as well as he may.

He tugs at the sleeves of his coat, which seem to rub too harshly against his skin, although he has worn this coat many times without it bothering him before.

The road to the manor has never seemed so long, nor the trees that line it so dark and looming. It feels as though the world is cut off from them entirely by the barrier of the thick twisted trunks. A shiver runs down Steve’s spine and it is not until they turn the bend and see the warm light of the lanterns of Stark Manor that he feels near to himself again.

The crowd at the ball is bigger than ever. It seems like people have come from all around to take a look at the newly betrothed couple, and there are whispering groups dotted here and everywhere, watching everything with bright eyes. They mill around Steve and seem to miss him entirely, like a stream washing past a rock.

He spies SIr Anthony and Miss Moomji, dancing with each other and seemingly lost to the rest of the world, and he tells himself that he will be happy that Sir Anthony has found someone that he cares about so deeply.

Mrs Romanoff is dancing, too, looking to all the world as though she has not a care in the world, when Steve knows that she must be more alert than he is.

Stane steps up to the happy couple as the dance ends, handing Sir Anthony a new drink to help him recover from his exertions, and Steve sees that even Stane cannot hold Sir Anthony’s attention long, his eyes still straying back to his betrothed.

“They are so sweet together, aren’t they?” he hears a young man saying from nearby. “I heard it was love at first sight!”

“I would not have thought the baronet was the type of man for such things,” a second voice responds, and the first voice laughs.

“We’re all slaves to love in the end,” he says. Steve grimaces and walks away. But it seems that the baronet’s engagement is the topic on everyone’s minds and he cannot walk anywhere in the manor without finding that someone within earshot is talking about it.

In desperation, he finds the doors out onto the veranda and ducks through the curtains into the chill air, taking a deep breath of it to cool himself.

The cold fills his lungs, shocking him away from the edge he had been lingering on, and he closes his eyes to concentrate on it. The music from within is dulled out here, and mixed with the murmur of voices, none of them distinct. It is the hoot of an owl that is clearer and Steve listens to that instead, and to the rustle of wind through the browning leaves, tugging them from their branches.

It is easier to be apart from everyone. His mind is less cluttered and the sudden space around him helps to prevent that restrictive compression around his chest. He pulls in another long stream of cold air that rushes down into his lungs and then back out in a cloud of mist.

“Ste- Captain Rogers.”

Steve spins at the sound of his name. Of all the voices he might have expected to hear, Sir Anthony’s was not one he would have believed. But there he stands, the man of the hour, outlined in the warm light that tumbles through the window next to him. He looks like he’s waking from a dream.

“Sir Anthony,” Steve says, bowing slightly. “Your hospitality is excellent as always. I trust you will forgive me for stepping out for a moment, it was nothing to do with your arrangements, they are perfect, as always, I was only a little warm and thought a breath of the autumn air would cool my head.”

“I took no insult,” Sir Anthony says, smiling a little. “I know how much you enjoy these affairs. But any praise should not be given to me, I confess it was Indries - Miss Moomji - who arranged this event. She has an eye for such things.”

“Then you have chosen well,” Steve says, stepping back slightly and blinking as another ray of light from the ballroom falls right into his eyes. “She will be well suited to the role of Lady Stark, I think.”

“She will, won’t she,” Sir Anthony says, but he sounds more confused and distant than proud. He frowns at Steve and shakes his head. “I confess I… I feel like I have wandered into some dream. I think of what has happened and I can see it all, but it feels almost unreal. I… I cannot follow the thread of it and when I try to grasp it, it slips away.”

“You are tired,” Steve says, reaching out a hand, but pulling it back again before it can go too far.

“I am not tired,” Sir Anthony says. “I saw you and I was less tired than I have been in weeks. I… Captain Rogers. We have barely spoken recently, and with Mrs Hogan-” He cuts himself off, turning away with a bitter laugh. “I fear that I have burnt some bridges, but I don’t know how.” One of Sir Anthony’s hands rises to rub at his forehead. “I know that I love Indries. I know that. I know that.” He repeats it, sounding lost, before turning to Steve. “But I can’t say why. This whole affair has a touch of the miraculous about it. I am engaged... How did that happen?”

“I don’t think any of us know why love happens,” Steve says, and Sir Anthony laughs again, just as bitter as before.

“No, that’s not true. I have known… before I have known.” He looks directly at Steve, right into his eyes and Steve cannot bring himself to look away, although the moment feels more vulnerable than he has ever felt before. Sir Anthony continues. “I have looked at a person and I have felt for them and I have known why, for every little piece of them I have known why… why I held them so dear to me.” He pauses and Steve swallows. He wants to ask who Sir Anthony is talking about, but he holds his tongue. The man is engaged. But he cannot leave that hanging, not when Sir Anthony’s eyes are begging him to understand.

“I have also known that,” he says, straightening his back. He feels so bare without his shield in his hands.

“You have?” Sir Anthony asks.

“I have,” Steve confirms.

“And did you tell the person?” Sir Anthony asks. “You cannot have told them, for you are still a bachelor and I cannot imagine that anyone who heard you confess your affection for them would turn you down.”

“I had nothing to offer them,” Steve says, and Sir Anthony stares at him, clearly taken aback by the words.

“Nothing to- You are the single most well-known hero of this nation, and you have nothing to offer them. Even without that, you are a good man, not exactly poorly favoured in your looks and with a fair fortune to offer. You could have had your pick of people.”

“It is not so easy as you seem to think,” Steve says. “My mother was a gentlewoman, my father was not, she was disowned when she married him, you know. I have no family, with them both dead. There are not many alive who could be pleased by such a connection.”

“Yes there are,” Sir Anthony says. “I wish… I wish I knew how I had ended up here. It has all happened so fast. And it is wonderful, it has all been wonderful… and yet it is not at all how I would have planned it. There are things I wish I had said, and things I wish I could say now.”

“But you cannot,” Steve says, the words barely louder than a breath, but Sir Anthony still hears them.

“But I cannot,” he agrees. “I at one time had hoped that this would turn out quite another way, but this is how things have happened. I am happy, but sometimes I am scared that it feels like… the happiness you get from eating something that tastes nice. Indulgent and fleeting.”

“Sir Anthony, you should not-”

“I should not say such things,” Sir Anthony agrees. “If only you knew what I wanted to say.”

“I hazard to say I may guess,” Steve says slowly, and Sir Anthony nods. “If this person you say you held in such esteem…”

“Yes?” Sir Anthony says.

“If they had spoken to you,” Steve says. He should not ask the question. It is salt rubbed into a fresh wound. “Would things have been different?”

“I believe that they would have been,” Sir Anthony says. Steve swallows. The tightness in his chest has grown so great that he thinks he will explode of it. He can barely breathe around the awareness that he had been so close to happiness and yet shut himself off from it.

“But you are happy,” Steve says.

“I… am,” Sir Anthony says, sounding confused. His hand goes up to rub at his chest, right over his heart. “I cannot follow the thread to where it comes from, but I am happy.”

“Then I am happy for you,” Steve says.

“Were our positions reversed, I’m not sure I could be so noble,” Sir Anthony says. “But what else can one expect from you?”

“Please don’t tease me,” Steve says, finally pulling his eyes away and out to the dark shadows of the grounds. “Not tonight.”

“No, not tonight,” Sir Anthony agrees. “The tragedy of life is in the timing, I suppose.”

“And comedy in the point of view,” Steve responds. Sir Anthony laughs again.

“Indeed.”

“You should go back inside,” Steve says. “Your guests will be missing you.”

“My guests can go-” Sir Anthony begins, but their conversation is cut short as the door to the ballroom pushes open and the sound of the music and voices swells. They both turn to see Miss Moomji standing there.

“There you are, Tony,” she says. “Captain Rogers.” She bobs a curtsey towards him and Steve inclines his head in return. “Tony, people are wondering where you have got to. The two of you must be freezing out here. It’s so cold. Come back inside, where it’s warm.”

“I will be in presently,” Sir Anthony says, turning back to Steve.

“You’ll catch your death out here,” Miss Moomji says. “And I would rather have you alive.”

“Yes, one moment,” Sir Anthony repeats. Steve sees Miss Moomji’s forehead wrinkle in a frown for a second. 

“Very well,” she says, sounding a little hurt by Sir Anthony’s response. Steve feels a stab of guilt for causing her problems. It is not her fault that he has been so terribly bad at all of this.

As she disappears back into the ballroom, he forces himself to look as calm as possible.

“You should not abandon your fiancée,” Steve says.

“I can hardly leave you out here alone,” Sir Anthony says.

“I am well enough,” Steve responds. “I will be fine. It is your party, and Miss Moomji is waiting. You should go back to her.”

“I should,” Sir Anthony agrees. “But I am afraid that if I leave you here, then you will disappear and I will never see you again.”

“I give you my word that that will not happen,” Steve says. “If you have need of me, I shall be there for you.”

“It may be selfish of me, but I have never claimed to be a selfless man,” Sir Anthony says, stepping forwards. Steve stands stock still, refusing the urge to step closer himself. “I will hold you to that promise, Captain Rogers.” He nods to himself, holding that two feet of space between them, an insurmountable distance that must not be breached. Sir Anthony pauses for one last second, then adjusts his coat before heading back to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle to look back at Steve with a rakish grin.

“How do I look?”

Any number of responses cross over Steve’s mind as he searches for one that will not incriminate himself any further than he already has.

“I am sure Miss Moomji will find no fault in your appearance,” he says. “No one could.”

“If I have your good opinion, that is all that matters,” Sir Anthony says. “For you are the perfect man, after all.”

He hurries back into the ballroom before Steve can even summon the words to respond to the old mockery, although it had not sounded mocking.

Steve steels himself and waits a good few moments before returning to the room himself, so as not to cause undue gossip. Sam catches his shoulder as he once more braves the throng.

“Steve, I have a concern about Stane,” he says.

“Just the one?” Steve asks, unable to keep the harsh note from his voice. Sam gives him a sharp look, but otherwise ignores it.

“Have you noticed that he always seems to be handing Sir Anthony a drink?” he asks. Steve frowns and looks over to where Sir Anthony is indeed standing with Stane, a drink in his hand. He thinks back as Sam continues. “I was considering the matter, and I don’t think I remember ever having seen Sir Anthony pour his own drink.”

“That can’t be true,” Steve says, but as he thinks back he can’t remember that happening either. Stane has always been present at Sir Anthony’s elbow, drink in hand. “What are you suggesting, Sam?”

“You know what I’m suggesting,” Sam says. “Sir Anthony’s fatigue, his loss of memory, his changing moods, all of those could be explained.”

“You think Stane is drugging him,” Steve says. As he says the words, they solidify in his mind. It is possible, entirely possible. Stane has the access, the knowledge, no doubt, the motive. Not enough to kill Sir Anthony, not out right, but enough to make him dependent and easily led, and if the need ever arose, a slightly higher dose and he could easily claim, with evidence, that Sir Anthony has been sick for a long time. People would back him up, remembering the signs that Steve himself has seen.

“We have no proof,” Steve says, because once more they come up against the same issue. “And we can hardly be with Sir Anthony at all times, to stop him from drinking whatever Stane gives him. He won’t hear a word against the man, so we can’t warn him.”

“If I’m right, then we have to do something,” Sam says.

“We can’t,” Steve says, grinding his teeth in frustration, casting his eyes around the bustling ball room in hopes of some inspiration. His eyes alight on Miss Moomji. At the end of the evening, he and Sam will be forced to leave and return to Lakefield, but the same is not true for everyone.

Across the room, the woman in question is smiling adoringly at Sir Anthony’s face as he speaks to someone. Steve’s pride is not more important than other people’s lives, Steve reminds himself, and while telling her might put her in danger, if he were in her position, he would want to know if the person he loved were in danger, especially if he could help stop it. He will have to speak with her, but not where Sir Anthony can hear. He knows that pushing the idea of Stane’s true intentions on him today would be - it would be painful for both of them, and Steve is not certain whether he is thinking more about his own pain or Sir Anthony’s, but he will spare them both that.

“You have an idea,” Sam says, sounding wary.

“I do,” Steve agrees.

“Please tell me you’re not planning to disguise yourself as a servant, get yourself hired to work in Stark Manor and-”

“No,” Steve says, although as ideas go, it sounds less painful than what has actually occurred to him. He allows himself to consider it for a short while. He could wear a fake moustache, like the actors do on the stage. Mr Barton could vouch for him.. “No,” Steve repeats. “I think we should talk to Miss Moomji.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise and he turns to look over towards her.

“Are you-” he begins, when the current dance ends and he frowns. “I am promised for the next dance,” he says, as one of the eligible young ladies starts heading towards them. “This can wait until after I-”

“I can talk to her, Sam,” Steve says. “She has never been anything but polite to me, and I promise to be on my best behaviour.”

“You promised that before we arrived in this manor the first time,” Sam reminds him, tilting his head to emphasise how well that had ended. Steve grimaces and shakes his head just as Sam’s dance partner reaches them.

“I am capable of holding a conversation without insulting someone,” he says. Sam looks unconvinced. “I am.”

“I’m sure you have many skills I have yet to see,” Sam says. “Just don’t start any fights until I get back.” He bows to his partner and offers his arm and the pair of them walk out onto the floor, leaving Steve to strategise how he will get Miss Moomji alone.

“You are staring at Miss Moomji like you are planning her murder,” Mrs Romanoff says, sliding up next to him with her usual silent skill.

“No,” Steve says. “Nothing of the sort. But I would like to speak to her privately.”

“A private assignation with the baronet’s betrothed,” Mrs Romanoff says, her voice turning salacious. “What will people say?”

“Nothing, if they don’t realise it has happened.”

“I have been a terrible influence on you, Captain,” Mrs Romanoff says, shaking her head, but her smile looks pleased. “I can get you a private audience with her if you wish, although I am interested to know what this is all about. If I do so, you have to tell me.”

“You wish to inquire about my private conversations?” Steve asks, eyeing her sternly.

“Information is power,” Mrs Romanoff says with a careless shrug. “There is often no time to be precious about invading another’s confidence. A little indiscretion here and there can save lives.” Steve wants to correct her, but considering what he’s done in the name of protecting the country, he can hardly quibble the details. He has eavesdropped, which is hardly better than what she is suggesting.

“Very well, I will tell you what occurs in our conversation should you manage to make it happen,” he says. She smiles brightly.

“Of course,” she says. “If you’ll excuse me…” She sets down her glass and proceeds to make her way across the room.

She does not charge straight across, weaving here and there to speak to people, a few short words. In fact, her path seems to have no intent at all. If Steve were watching her without knowing what they had agreed, he would think she were simply moving with the flow of the gathering around her. She allows herself to be guided right to where she wants to be.

Over the music and the hubbub of voices, he cannot possibly make out what it is she says or does to Miss Moomji, but Mrs Romanoff has barely moved on to the next group before Miss Moomji is pulling away from Sir Anthony’s side and stepping out of the room.

Steve starts to move a second later, but as he makes his way towards the door, Mrs Romanoff pulls him into a conversation, her hand on his arm - just resting there, but it has the effect of being caught in a vise. She releases him a few seconds later, letting him return to his pursuit of Miss Moomji. As he goes she leans in to whisper one word to him: library.

He steps out into the hallway and almost immediately steps back inside again as he catches sight of not Miss Moomji, but Mr Stane walking briskly towards the stairs. Steve considers his options, then resigns himself to following the man. The library is upstairs as well, and if he can catch Stane in the act of doing something, then they will at least have more to go on than hearsay.

Luckily, the stairs are heavily carpeted, so as he takes them two at a time, his footfalls are virtually silent. Stane disappears around a corner and he moves as quickly after him as he can, staying as close to the shadows of the wall as he can.

He sticks his head around the corner and immediately pulls it back. Stane has stopped. Steve waits a second, then slowly peers around the wall and freezes at what he sees. Mr Stane and Miss Moomji are both in the corridor. Stane looms over her, so her smaller frame is almost concealed in his shadow. It seems Steve is too late, Stane is already threatening her. Steve is about to step out to demand Stane explain what he is doing, when Miss Moomji’s eyes narrow and she steps forwards, forcing Stane to take a step back. Steve stares. He would not have thought that she would take such an aggressive action. She has always struck him as a likeable, but rather passive young woman.

But the scene at the other end of the hallway has flipped around, Miss Moomji has stepped into the light and it is Stane who is pressing backwards towards the wall, though he doesn’t seem happy about the matter. That is also strange, Steve would not have thought him so easily intimidated. He had never given an inch to Steve, who is more than twice Miss Moomji’s size, and yet here he is, forced backwards by her when she has barely raised a finger to him.

Steve cannot hear what they are saying, and there is no way to get closer without giving himself away, Mr Stane is angled away from him, but Miss Moomji is looking at least partially towards him.

He could reveal himself only to her, but something tells him to stay back and wait. Against his better judgement, he listens to it.

Stane appears agitated, Miss Moomji looks… bored? Exasperated? The shadows across her face make it more difficult to read her, and her body language is firm, but Steve cannot tell.

After a few seconds of a whispered argument that comes only as hisses to Steve’s hearing, no matter how he strains it, Miss Moomji seems to give in, her shoulders falling slightly and her face losing some of the edge to her frown. She reaches for something… around her neck? And he sees her pull out a small vial of liquid attached to a chain there. She gestures to Stane, who presents… a decanter? Steve sees the light glint off the glass of it, though mostly it is obscured by Stane’s arm.

Miss Moomji unstoppers the vial and lets one drop fall from it into the decanter, then reseals it and hides it away again.

Steve pulls his head back and starts to move. The stairs below are open. He won’t have time to get all the way down and out of sight before Stane returns, instead he heads in the opposite direction, and down the darkened corridor on the other side of the house, ducking into a doorway and flattening himself against it, hoping that neither of them has business nearby.

He listens, straining his hearing to hear the muffled footsteps on the carpeting. He can just about make out Stane, whose strides are long and heavy, as always, but there is no sound of Miss Moomji.

Steve counts to ten, then again, holding his breath as he does so, straining his hearing as hard as he can to catch any indication that the way is clear.

There is the noise of the party below, greatly muffled by the walls and floors between him and it, and there is nothing else, unless he counts the frantic thud of his own heart in his chest.

How foolish he would have looked if he had spoken to Miss Moomji, and what greater danger could he have put their whole operation in. He can think of no innocent explanation for what he just saw. It all but confirms Sam’s theory about Stane’s poisoning of Sir Anthony, but neither of them had thought that Miss Moomji might be behind it.

Steve can barely fathom it. She has seemed so genuine in all her actions and expressions. Her attitude to Sir Anthony has been nothing but the infatuated young woman, and yet…

He wishes he could get his hands on that vial, to find out what is in it. Poison, of that he has no doubt, but what sort of poison? Will Sir Anthony die of it? Is she intending to kill him to get his fortune without the inconvenience of a husband, or is she part of Stane’s larger conspiracy? The fact that they are working together would indicate that, but perhaps they are only allies out of convenience rather than purpose.

Stane would not want Sir Anthony dead while he could still contribute something, though, out of the way, yes, under his control, yes, but dead? Has Sir Anthony become so much of a liability? Is that because Steve has been pushing him to investigate the demise of The Condor ?

He feels guilt, thick and sickening, in his stomach and closes his eyes against it.

There has still been not a sound from the landing. He will have to take his chances, unless he wants to find an alternative way down. He has no doubt there are servants' stairs around here somewhere, but he would not know where to find them. He considers jumping out of a window, before deciding that he’d be better not to engage in any acrobatics where there are people about.

He waits another few seconds, just to be sure, then strides out from the corridor as though he is perfectly within his rights to be there.

The landing is empty, the hallway below as well, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief, quickly descending the stairs and heading back towards the ballroom. He needs to speak to Sir Anthony, and Mrs Romanoff, immediately.

The light and bustle of the ballroom hits him like a wall and there is a second of disorientation as he readjusts to the colours and the lights and the seemingly hundreds of people moving everywhere in a riot of confusion. He searches through their faces for Sir Anthony, and sees Mr Stane pouring him out another drink.

Steve doesn’t think, just walks up, right as Sir Anthony is about to take the offered glass, and bows.

“Excuse me, Sir Anthony,” he says. “I was wondering if I might have this dance.” He has no time to feel self conscious, or to worry about rejection. He holds out his hand.

“It is halfway through already,” Sir Anthony says, looking utterly bemused.

“Timing has never been my best skill,” Steve says, still holding out his hand. He tries to convey with his eyes that this is important, and he studiously does not look at Stane, although what he can see of the man’s expression out of the corner of his eye is not pretty.

“Well then, I can hardly refuse you,” SIr Anthony says, and his hand reaches out.

“Anthony-” Miss Moomji says.

“My apologies, Miss Moomji,” Steve forces himself to say. “I shall have your fiancé back with you shortly. But he does owe me a dance.”

As he turns back, he allows his hand to nudge the decanter that sits innocently on the table beside him, it teeters for a moment, then tumbles to the floor, smashing into pieces. The whole room freezes at the sound.

“My apologies!” he says, affecting a look of horror. “Sir Anthony - I am so sorry. I hope… I did not see it there. I cannot say how sorry I am.”

“No harm done,” Sir Anthony says as he beckons a servant to come clear up the glass. Stane is staring at the liquid, spilled out on the ground, dotted with sparkling shards of glass, while Miss Moomji is looking right at Steve. He puts on his most innocent expression. It is one he had reason to perfect over the years.

“I'm terribly sorry,” Steve repeats, looking helplessly at Sir Anthony, who just smiles.

“Oh, you should have seen how many things around here I’ve broken, and not all of them by accident. Destruction can be very therapeutic, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “I suppose it can.”

“Good, you don’t look like you’re afraid I will shoot you anymore,” Sir Anthony says. “So how about that dance?”

Steve nods and offers his hand once more. Sir Anthony takes it easily, allowing Steve to lead him into the dancers, where they cause the patterns to go completely out of sync. But he does leave the drink behind in Stane’s hand. And as Steve watches, he can see Stane empty it into one of the potted plants around the room.

“You didn’t ask me to dance just so we could dance,” Sir Anthony says.

“No,” Steve tells him. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“That’s funny, because there was something I needed to tell you,” Sir Anthony responds. “After our conversation earlier, I couldn’t stop-”

“No,” Steve interrupts. “Please. We don’t have much time and I need to speak.”

“Very well,” Sir Anthony says.

“You are in grave danger,” Steve says and Sir Anthony stumbles over the next step, turning right instead of left, correcting quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

“What?”

“I know you have no reason to believe me, but please understand that I cannot hold my tongue when I believe you are in danger.”

“From what? From whom?”

“I believe you are being poisoned,” Steve says. Sir Anthony blinks.

“That’s absurd-”

“You have not been yourself recently. Everyone says so,” Steve says. Sir Anthony opens his mouth, but Steve presses his advantage as they start the steps forwards, hands raised and joined. “You have been tired, forgetful. What happened with The Condor , you would never have let that go usually. You said it yourself that your mind feels clouded.”

“Yes, but…”

“And, I have noticed, that you always seem to get your drinks from the same place - or should I say, the same person.”

“What?” Sir Anthony looks at him. “Obie - you can’t mean.”

“He always gives you drinks,” Steve says. “I’ve noticed it, Sam notices it. Whenever you seem to be going to get your own, he intercepts you, and I just saw… the decanter I just smashed. I confess it was not an accident. I just saw him upstairs with - with Miss Moomji.”

“Indries? What does she have to do with this?” Sir Anthony hisses, his brows furrowing. “Steve-”

“She has a vial around her neck, I do not know what is in it, but she put some of it into that decanter. Believe me or not, but it is a simple thing not to drink anything more that Stane or she gives you.”

Sir Anthony is staring at him and Steve looks back, trying desperately to convey how serious he is.

“Please, I know you don’t want to believe it, but all I am asking is that you pour your own drinks. If you start to feel better, then you will know I am right. If you do not, then… I must have been mistaken.”

“If you were anyone else I’d say you were lying to further your advantage,” Sir Anthony says. “But I cannot believe you to be that petty, or to lie about something so serious. But at the same time I cannot believe that Indries and Obie would be trying to hurt me. I don’t deny that you saw something, but it cannot be what you think it was. There are other reasons for that-”

“Name one,” Steve says sharply. Sir Anthony draws in a breath and frowns.

“It could be that they are - trying to help,” he says softly, but his expression does not look convinced.

“I should not be telling you this,” Steve says. “But I have reason to believe that Mr Stane is also involved in a conspiracy that may have had something to do with The Condor ’s end. He has been selling your designs.”

“Selling my-” Sir Anthony’s face turns black. “Do you have any evidence to back this up?”

“Nothing concrete,” Steve says. “He’s good at covering his tracks. But you said it yourself that few people have access to your designs, he had the opportunity. There was another lead - Edward Morton, but he ended up dead.”

“Morton,” Sir Anthony says. “You mentioned him before.”

“Yes. He was the man-”

“That Nomad apprehended,” Sir Anthony says. “Or rather, the first man, before he went on his current killing spree.”

“The thing about identifying a man by the mask that he wears,” Steve says carefully. “Is that anyone can wear a mask.”

Sir Anthony looks at him, just as the final phrases of the song come to an end and they step apart to bow to one another.

“Be careful,” Steve says. He wishes he could reach out and grasp Sir Anthony’s hand again, but Sir Anthony is engaged. The dance is all Steve can have.

“I always am,” Sir Anthony says, with a distracted attempt at a smile.

“Captain Rogers,” Miss Moomji says, stepping up to them, her voice and smile as light-hearted as ever, the look as she gazes at Sir Anthony adoring. Steve’s teeth grind together. “Might I reclaim my betrothed?”

“Certainly,” Steve says, forcing himself to smile back. He bows to her and steps back. “Thank you for the dance, Sir Anthony.”

He turns away before he can say anything more that he will regret and Mrs Romanoff finds him with her usual unerring ability to know when she is needed.

“I take it the decanter’s demise was not so accidental as it seemed,” she says.

“I still have difficulty remembering how big I am sometimes,” Steve says, offering her a slightly bashful grin.

“You are better at this than I thought,” she says. “But you telegraphed your intentions slightly - not much, but enough that I noticed.”

“Then I suppose I must hope that not everyone is as eagle eyed as you,” Steve says.

“Mr Stane and Miss Moomji seemed quite upset with you,” Mrs Romanoff tells him.

“Well, they would,” Steve says. “That was the brandy they had set aside specifically for Sir Anthony.”

“Indeed, well in that case, it must have been very special.”

“Must have been,” Steve agrees.

“Laugh,” Mrs Romanoff says.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Miss Moomji is looking right at us,” Mrs Romanoff tells him, her lips hardly moving. “Laugh now .”

Steve laughs, hoping it doesn’t sound as forced out loud as it does in his head. Mrs Romanoff joins him a second later, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

“I hope you have not made another enemy tonight,” she says.

“I hope so, too. I explained to Sir Anthony about what happened with the decanter, but I’m not sure he believed me,” Steve says. Mrs Romanoff nods.

“I’m sure he will realise that it wasn’t your fault soon, the baronet is an intelligent man.”

“It’s not his brain that I am concerned about,” Steve says. He glances across to where Sir Anthony is rubbing at his head, his face pained. Miss Moomji is the picture of concern and adoration as she leans in towards him.

Steve stays until the bitter end, unwilling, or perhaps unable to leave Sir Anthony alone, but with little else to do other than start hitting things. He isn’t sure he would not have done just that, had Mrs Romanoff and Sam not kept him contained.

It does not help that Sir Anthony, who had seemed almost the life of the party once more at the beginning of the party, now seems to be suffering from a headache, if the way he keeps pinching at his nose is anything to go by. Steve cannot get him alone again to check on him, with Mr Stane and Miss Moomji seeing him off whenever he tries, but Sir Anthony sits in a corner, scowling at the floor, his face pale and ill.

When they leave, he knows he is making a mistake, but he has no reason to stay and every reason to go.

He holds Sir Anthony’s gaze for a second too long as he takes his leave, hoping against hope that Sir Anthony will come to him immediately should anything go wrong. But he knows it is a fruitless hope. Sir Anthony would never go to someone else to solve his problems if he thought he could find a solution on his own. And he will always believe he can find a solution on his own. Steve is unsure whether that is because of Sir Howard’s insistence on the strength of Stark men, or because of some foible peculiar to Anthony himself, but he knows it is true.

As he turns to the door, he sees Mr Jarvis looking towards Sir Anthony, his face etched with concern and Steve breathes a little easier to see it. There will be one more person in this place who has Sir Anthony’s best interests at heart. He should have thought to seek out the elderly butler before, but it hadn’t crossed his mind. He hopes that Mr Jarvis can put enough together in his own mind to keep things from progressing even more terribly.

Mr Barton nods to him as he hands over Liberty’s reins, and Steve reminds himself that in spite of his general demeanour, the man is a professional and that he knows exactly what to look for. He was the first person to be suspicious of Miss Moomji, indeed.

Steve nods back to him.

“The conversation we had before,” he says, aware of several other people milling around as the final partygoers sway out of the doors and make their unsteady way down the steps of Stark Manor.

“I remember, sir,” Mr Barton says.

“You may have been right about the lady,” Steve says. “You have a good eye.”

“Thank you,” Mr Barton says, and Steve resists the urge to say something more obvious. He is not good at this game of subterfuge, watching every word he says. Mrs Romanoff must have already spoken to the man, but Steve cannot help but want to be doubly sure that everyone is on their guard.

He huffs in frustration and swings himself onto Liberty’s back glaring into the dark. He glances one more up to the bright light spilling out from the door, and the silhouetted figures standing there. As he watches, the dark shape of Mr Stane rests a hand on Sir Anthony’s shoulder and Miss Moomji links her arm into his. He cannot help feeling that he is making a mistake. He wants to dismount, run up the steps and drag Sir Anthony away from them.

He could.

For a second he entertains the thought, but then Sir Anthony’s head turns towards him and in spite of the shadow, Steve is almost positive that the baronet is looking right at him. A thrill sparks through him and he straightens. Almost imperceptibly, Sir Anthony nods, just the smallest inclination of his head.

Steve must trust him. He can do nothing else at this time. Sir Anthony is hardly helpless. He has designed some of the greatest weapons the nation has ever seen and his mind is first rate, quicker, by far, than even his father’s had been. He has been warned and he will act accordingly. Steve must trust him.

It doesn’t make the feeling in the pit of his stomach less nauseous, though.

Chapter Text

Steve pays a call on Mrs Romanoff the next day, and people will talk, but they may talk as they will.

“Nothing has happened since we left last night,” she says as soon as he walks into her parlour. Steve immediately begins to pace the room. “Sit down before you carve holes into my carpets. These were expensive you know.” Steve blinks at her, then down at his feet and the thick, rich carpet under his boots, and blushes.

“My apologies,” he says, sitting down opposite her.

“For interrupting the pleasant morning I had planned with the latest novel, or for abusing my carpets?” Mrs Romanoff asks lightly, sipping tea from a delicate china cup.

“Both, I suspect,” Steve says, dropping his head into his hands. “I find I am ill-suited to waiting.”

“If you only just discovered that about yourself, then I daresay you are less intelligent than I had thought,” Mrs Romanoff tells him, and Steve has to laugh.

“You are right, this is no surprise to anyone,” he admits. “But it has never felt like this.”

“The stakes have never been so high before.”

“That’s clearly not true,” Steve says, remembering missions on the front lines, waiting for orders when hundreds, or thousands, of lives hung in the balance.”

“Personally,” she adds. “The stakes before were always for the world or the nation. Big heroic things are sometimes easier to fight for than those things we hold close personally.” She shrugs with one arm. “And they are far easier to wait for.

“You are more invested in the outcome this time. Also, your own virtue is against you. While you believed Miss Moomji only a love rival, you could hold out that at least the object of your affections would be happy. Now you know he lives in a nest of vipers and that his heart is also in danger of being broken. It is a great crime to your sense of justice and honour.”

“You make me sound like some ridiculous hero of myth or legend,” Steve says, rubbing at his hair and sending it all into disarray in a way that would have people talking even more. Mrs Romanoff merely smiles behind her teacup, one eyebrow tilting upwards for a second in silent question. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. Her second eyebrow joins the first and she looks the picture of shocked innocence.

“No one ever knows what I’m thinking,” she tells him. “But right now I am thinking that you should go home, because you are not the only one who has trouble with waiting.”

“You are throwing me out,” Steve says.

“I am,” she agrees amiably. “I am a very busy woman after all. Should I hear anything that concerns you, I will let you know.”

Steve notes the wording: ‘that concerns you’, a very pretty phrase that can cover a multitude of omissions and delays.

“At once,” he adds. 

“Of course,” she agrees lightly, as though the alternative had never occurred to her.

“And that includes any news you have concerning Sir Anthony, Mr Stane or Miss Moomji,” he tells her sternly.

“You are not my commanding officer,” Mrs Romanoff points out.

“Even if I were, I doubt you would hesitate in ignoring an order if you felt it would serve the mission better to do so.”

“And in that way, I think we are quite alike,” she comments. Steve feels his mouth twist at that, he can hardly deny it. It had been the bane of his commanding officer’s lives as well as his own men on a few occasions, although they had only usually offered token argument.

“Then I shall take my leave,” Steve says, bowing slightly to her. “My thanks for your hospitality.”

“Don’t mention it,” she tells him, and she watches him leave. He can feel her gaze like a solid presence, and her amusement, too.

*

The next day, Sam is in the gardens when Steve wakes up. He has his own pistol and is shooting at pots he has set up on the low wall that runs around the rose garden. His aim is mostly true, but he seems displeased.

“We should go for a ride,” Steve says.

“I am well, thank you,” Sam says, not even looking at him. He continues to line up his next shot.

“We should go for a ride before you shoot the heads off all my roses,” Steve says.

“I haven’t hit your roses once,” Sam says, turning right as he pulls the trigger. The pot he is aiming at explodes, decapitating a white rose nearby.

“We should go for a ride,” Steve repeats and Sam sighs, putting his pistol down.

“And if news should come?”

“We can hardly stay in the house at all times,” Steve says, although he can feel the same worry clawing at his insides. “And I cannot stay here just… waiting.”

“No,” Sam agrees.

“Then we should go for a ride,” Steve says. “I’m already having our horses saddled, so-”

“So, I suppose we are going riding,” Sam says. His smile is tired but genuine.

*

The fresh air is a good way to clear their heads, and Steve feels less like the world is closing in on him as he puts Liberty through her paces, jumping a fence or two just to see if he can.

For a few blissful hours, the troubles seem a little further away from them. The autumn leaves are dazzling, the breeze chilled, but not harsh, and the skies clear and blue. Things seem as though they might almost turn out okay. He and Sam talk as they had used to, before everything had grown out of control, and Steve cannot deny that he needed this time away from the intrigues.

Of course, his newfound freedom is not long lasting. When they return to Lakefield, the housekeeper greets them at the door.

“The baronet paid a call while you were out, sir,” Mrs Templeton says as they step across the threshold, and like that it is as though the world has fallen in on him again. Steve starts and sends Sam an alarmed look, which is returned with one of concern.

“Is he still here?” Steve asks, heading at once for the parlour where guests would be received.

“No, sir.” The words pull him up short. “He said he couldn’t stay. I wished him well in his engagement, sir, and he said that he would return later this evening.”

“Did he give an idea as to when?” Sam asks, as Steve’s mind turns, trying to workout what this could be. It is possible that Sir Anthony only wishes to demand an explanation for Steve’s behaviour at the ball, but it is possible that it is something else. That Sir Anthony has uncovered something.

“Sorry, Sir,” Mrs Templeton says, shaking her head. “Just that it would be today. And that he needed to speak to you.”

“How did he seem?” Steve asks.

“Well, I…” She looks around, clearly perturbed and shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him that agitated in a long time, Sir. I used to work up at the big house and I’ve only seen him like that a few times before. He’s usually so charming.”

“Yes,” Steve agrees, his heart sinking. The agitation means nothing, really. Either he is agitated because Steve dared to accuse his fiancee in such a manner, or he is agitated because he believes Steve to be right. Both situations would prove upsetting. “Did he say anything at all?” he asks, hoping for some sign that it is normal agitation and not something more nefarious.

“No sir,” she says, then pauses, looking thoughtful. “That is, he said something about uh… a Mr Morton?”

Steve blinks and turns to Sam.

“You’re sure of the name?” Sam asks. “Morton?”

“Yes sir,” Mrs Templeton says.

“Thank you, Mrs Templeton,” Steve says after a moment, and she curtsies quickly before half running from the room. Steve wonders what the expression on his face must be like to make her run off like that. Terrible, probably.

He turns and heads for the door, jamming his hat back onto his head, but before he can reach the threshold, Sam grasps his arm. Steve almost pulls out of his grasp, but restrains himself.

“Morton, you know what that means.”

“It means he may know a person called Morton,” Sam says, sounding far too reasonable.

“I should go and ask him about it, immediately,” Steve says.

“You should calm down,” Sam tells him. “If you turn up on his doorstep like that you’ll do no one any good, and probably yourself some harm.”

“Not before I harm Stane,” Steve spits out. Sam’s grip tightens.

“I know you want to,” he hisses. “You think I don’t know you want to. I wish I could take my pistol to that man, but I know that he’s smart and Mrs Romanoff is right that we have to take this carefully.”

“Sir Anthony could know something,” Steve says.

“And he will be back to tell us this evening.”

“Unless they drug him into a stupor before then,” Steve says. “I cannot imagine that they will let him wander unsupervised.”

“They have been fine with it up until now,” Sam says. “He is not a prisoner.”

“Isn’t he?”

“You warned him about the drugs,” Sam reminds him, his voice still as steady as ever. “He’s smart, he will make sure that he does not drink them.”

“If he has a choice,” Steve says.

“Sir Anthony will be fine,” Sam says. “He will return this evening and we will find out the truth of Mr Morton, perhaps.”

“I still think that I should go to check on him,” Steve insists. “I will just say that I am returning his call.”

“You think either Stane or Miss Moomji will leave you alone with him?” Sam asks. Steve considers it.

“I could get him alone…”

“She is his fiancée,” Sam says. “They have every right to not want you left alone with him at the moment, and you know it. You were lucky you managed to part him from them last night. Without the excuse of a ball, you have no chance of it.”

“Sam, I need-”

“I know,” Sam says. “But our best chance of getting the information is to let him come to us.”

*

Sir Anthony does not show up. Steve watches the clock on the mantle with the single minded focus of a sniper. The second hand ticks round, and the minute hand follows it dutifully, dragging the hour hand behind it. They have their lunch, Sam reads, Steve stares at a page. Or rather, he has a page open on his lap before him and he pays it no mind, his eyes still glued to the clock, which refuses to speed up its steady pace through the hours.

When supper time comes and goes and there has still been no sign of Sir Anthony, Steve can stand it no longer.

“He may have been detained,” Sam points out.

“Something is wrong,” Steve says.

“We said it ourselves, he would have difficulty slipping away from his watchers.” But Sam sounds concerned.

“We’re going to the Manor,” Steve says.

“At this time of night, it’s hardly appropriate,” Sam points out.

“You don’t have to come,” Steve tells him, seizing his great coat and swinging it around himself, letting it settle heavy on his shoulders.

“You’re an idiot if you think that,” Sam says, grabbing his own coat and hat.

They saddle their horses in candlelight and Steve’s hands are firm with renewed purpose. He feels strangely calm now that he has chosen a course of action. It has always been, to him, that the anxiety and the irritation is in the uncertainty. Once he has a firm target in mind, everything clears away.

His target tonight is Sir Anthony, and he will not be pulled astray. He remembers the look of confusion on the baronet’s face as they had stood on the veranda together, separated by more than just the few feet of air between them. They had never been able to speak plainly to one another. First he, and then Sir Anthony had been misunderstood, and they had finally been able to understand each other fully and neither of them had been able to say what they wanted to.

Liberty must feel his urgency, for she moves beneath him like a charger from the old tales, her hooves eating up the ground beneath her eagerly, her stride smooth as a cat. They thunder across the hard ground, taking the shortest route to the manor, across the fields.

The moon above is full, which Steve gives thanks for, as it means they at least have some light to see by. The sky is clear, which helps, but which also sets a chill in the air that cuts into Steve’s cheeks as he rides into it.

They arrive at the manor from behind the house, curving past the large ornamental pond that Sir Howard had built, and towards the stables. Steve doesn’t wait for Liberty to pull up before he’s sliding from her back to run towards the door. Mr Barton is their best bet for getting information and entrance at this time of night.

The stable is… not as Steve had expected it. Four stalls stand empty where Steve would have sworn there were horses before, and the doors swing wide open. A candle is burnt down almost to its wick and… Steve thinks one of the carriages might be missing.

“Steve,” Sam says from behind him and he turns to see Sam nodding into one of the empty stalls. 

Steve walks back quickly and looks inside, only to see Mr Barton lying there, ramrod straight, his eyes staring upwards to the ceiling. Steve stares for a horrified second before rushing to his side, cupping a hand above his mouth.

Weak breath hits it and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. The man is not dead. He is not dead.

“Either the place was attacked by horse thieves, or someone cleared out of here in a hurry,” Sam says.

“Mr Barton?” Steve says. “Clint? Can you hear me?” Mr Barton’s face twitches slightly, it looks strained and painful.

“Was he struck?” Sam asks. Coming in to crouch down beside them. Steve gives a quick examination, but finds no obvious reason. As he’s rolling Mr Barton onto his side, the man makes a noise.

“What was that?” Steve asks, rolling him back.

The word is slurred, clearly pushed out of a mouth that can hardly move.

“Magic,” Mr Barton says. His face moves a little with the word, more than it had before. Whatever spell seems to be wearing off if slowly.

“Who?” Steve asks.

“Mmmmdeee,” Mr Barton forces through his stiff lips. Steve frowns. “MMMJEE,” Mr Barton says more forcefully.

“Miss Moomji,” Sam translates. “She’s a magic user.”

“Perhaps the magic user who helped our copycat in the woods,” Steve says. “Did she leave alone?”

“No,” Mr Barton manages. The look in his eyes is getting more and more aggravated as he lies there, unable to do more than make a few noises. Steve can’t imagine what that must be like. “Tneee,” he says.

“Tony,” Steve repeats and Barton makes an agreeing hum.

“NnStnn,” he says then. They stare at him for another long second before his eyes roll deliberately. “Nnd. Stnnn.” he says.

“And Stane,” Steve says. “Did they have anyone else with them?”

“Two mnn,” 

“How long ago?” Sam asks, as Steve is already standing to head back to Liberty. The sooner they leave, the sooner they will catch up with them.

“Harfn Urrr,” Mr Barton says, His words are getting clearer now.

“They’ll be using the Brooklyn road,” Steve says. “We know the woods there better than anyone in this area, I dare say. We can catch them.”

“I may be able to help with that,” another ragged voice says from behind them.

Steve turns to see Mr Jarvis, the old butler leaning heavily against the stable door, looking as though his legs will barely support him.

“Mr Jarvis, are you..” he rushes to him to help him up, but his hands are batted away.

“Captain, I am fine. I believe Miss Moomji bespelled me before the rest of the staff, so it has worn off me before any of them. I had just recovered my legs when I heard your horses arrive.” Mr Jarvis sags a little, taking a deep breath. “And they saw no reason to keep their conversations quiet once I was under the effects of their spell.”

“What happened?” Steve demands.

“Sir Anthony was in Mr Stane’s rooms,” Mr Jarvis said. “I had seen him going in, but I was unable to head off Mr Stane before he found them. And they had an argument.”

“What about?” Steve asks.

“A distant cousin of Mr Stane's, on his mother’s side, I believe. A Mr Morton.”

Steve shares a look with Sam.

“And then Mr Stane told Sir Anthony that…” Mr Jarvis takes another deep breath. “That he was more trouble than he was worth. I was going to step in but… alas, my hearing is not what it once was. Miss Moomji took me quite by surprise. The next thing I know I was like Mr Barton over there, quite unable to move. She stepped right over me and then she hit Sir Anthony with the same spell. She and Mr Stane proceeded to have an argument. I had thought that Mr Stane was in charge, but it seemed not. He accused Miss Moomji of her charms not working as Sir Anthony was clearly not under her control as she had claimed, she accused him of not telling her things, and then Stane said that he could have handled Sir Anthony, and if she hadn’t used her magic, things would have been fine.

“In the end, they decided that they could wait no longer,” Mr Jarvis continues. “They would have to cut their losses and leave tonight, taking Sir Anthony with them. They would either have him continue to work for them, or they would kill him.”

“Did you hear where they were going?” Steve asks.

“Stane said something about an airship. The nearest Airship dock is just north of here, though it does not do passenger flights.”

“But if you were looking to smuggle someone out of the country,” Sam says, helping Mr Barton to sit up.

“You will bring him back, Captain,” Mr Jarvis says, his voice as hard as steel.

“Yes sir,” Steve responds immediately.

“Good man. I will see to Mr Barton. I am sure he will want to follow you when he is fully recovered. Or at least, visit Mrs Romanoff to let her know of what is going on?”

“You know about Nat?” Mr Barton asks, incredulous.

“I wasn’t just Sir Howard’s butler, you know,” Mr Jarvis says, smiling slightly. “Now you had best be going, Captain Rogers. Although if I might suggest that you stop by your house to pick up some things you seem to have left behind on the way. I doubt this is the type of situation you would wish to enter unarmed.”

Steve has the distinct impression that Mr Jarvis knows more about him than he would like, but there is no time to ask.

“Indeed, if she can knock out the entire household with magic like that, you’re going to want something that can stop her,” Sam says. “Something like a shield, perhaps.” Steve nods.

Mr Jarvis begins to hobble over to where Mr Barton is struggling to get to his feet and Steve looks between them once more before nodding for Sam to follow him.

“Miss Moomji’s a magic user,” Sam says. Steve doesn’t let his face show the concern that gives him, just nods.

“We knew they had one,” he says.

“Are we prepared for it?” Sam asks.

“I don’t think we have time for that anymore,” Steve says. “We’ve both fought magic users before. Although never alone.”

“We’re not alone now,” Sam says, looking across at him. Steve breathes a little easier.

“If we let them get to the airship then we lose all chance of finding them again,” Steve says.

“They’re not getting to the airship,” Sam says with confidence.

Liberty does not fail Steve as he nudges her into action once more. She moves almost without being instructed and he wonders if it is possible for animals to have a touch of magic in themselves. It is more likely that she has merely grown used to him over the months, but with her beneath him and Sam at his side, it feels more familiar to him than it ever has before. It is not quite the same sense of camaraderie he had used to have on the battlefield, but it is a different shade of the same colour.

He wishes Bucky were here, he will always wish for that, but he cannot allow himself to need that, not right now.

They cannot lose any time searching for things, and Steve rushes in to take up his shield, tearing it from where it rests and hurling himself back out of the house. Sam takes a second or two longer to find his pistols and Steve finds that even so small a time stretches into a cavernous eternity as he waits.

He does not wait for Sam to finish mounting his horse before he and Liberty take off again.

C

Chapter Text

Steve feels the clock ticking as they race across the fields towards the looming darkness of the woods. Every moment is another chance for Stane and Miss Moomji to escape them. Every second is another opportunity for Sir Anthony to be lost. He urges Liberty faster and faster, hurtling over streams and hedges without even breaking her stride.

It feels strange to be so close to the end of all of this. Stane has made his move and, one way or another, their intrigue is over. It will end with Stane in chains, Steve tells himself, refusing to let the idea of failure enter in. He will not allow the pair to slip through his fingers now.

Too soon, and not soon enough, they reach the edge of the woods, where the trees grow too dense for their horses to continue at pace. Steve grimaces at the delay. Though they have shaved time off their pursuit by taking the more direct route, as the party from Stark Manor would have been forced to take the winding road, the trees will make the difference less effective.

The carriage will be steady on the road while Sam and Steve pick their way through the-

Steve notices the flicker of darkness and dives sideways instinctually, throwing himself from the saddle and down to the ground below. He manages to roll, absorbing the impact, just as the sound of a rifle splits the still of the night. A nearby tree trunk explodes as the bullet hits it, sending little pieces of bark raining down.

Sam slides from his own saddle, looking around and they bring both horses to their knees.

Steve peers through the woods. The full moon is not so useful this far into the woods, the dense canopy shutting it out almost completely.

“Nomad,” Sam says, grimacing. Steve glares at him. “Well, I hardly have anything else to call him.”

“Just ‘the highwayman’ would do,” Steve says. He can just make out Sam rolling his eyes. “It makes sense that they would use him to guard their escape.”

“Although surely the shot would have summoned the militia.”

“I can’t imagine they didn’t already think of that,” Steve says. “I would not be at all surprised if Miss Moomji has already taken care of them much like she took care of the Manor household.”

It certainly sounds like it. There is not a sound from the woods and Steve’s experience has told him exactly how good the local militia is at being quiet.

“We need to part him from his toy,” Steve says, lowering his voice. He nods to their right. “You head that way, I’ll go the other. There is only one of him. We need to split his focus. But don’t go too far.”

Sam nods and begins moving away, keeping close to the ground, almost fading into the darkness. Steve turns to move as well, sweeping his eyes around, searching for any place the shadow seems a little wrong. The darkness swallows up most of the woods, but his eyes are well adjusted to the dim light and he can see enough to find his way. He cannot see the highwayman, though, try as he might. Steve hefts his shield onto his arm, slipping into that old mindset that he had used to wear like a second skin.

It still fits, although not as perfectly as it once had. There is that splinter of worry for Sir Anthony that refuses to leave his mind no matter how he forces it out. It sticks there stubbornly, reminding him what the stakes are here tonight.

Something moves. 

He twists, looking upwards. His shield arm pulls back, ready to release.

The soft hoot of an owl reaches his ears and he relaxes, letting his shield drop slightly. An owl, of course. He doesn’t spare it a second glance, moving on into the night, his knees absorbing the sound of his footsteps.

The flash of a muzzle blast gives him a millisecond of time to bring his shield up. Steve hears the shot ricochet off the smooth metal, flying out into the woods. He looks at where it had come from, but sees nothing there.

Slowly, he turns in a circle. His gaze finds every shadow and nook. They are all empty.

It takes time to reload a pistol, his best bet is to try to hit while his opponent is distracted by that. But it seems that the man has thought of that. He will use the magic to move immediately after he fires, so that he can reload in peace. If it were Steve then he would have found a place that was out of sight of the people he was fighting in order to reload. Somewhere with clear defences on multiple sides, with lines of sight blocked from- His eyes catch on a small cluster of trees a bit further into the darkness. They huddle around each other like soldiers supporting each other on the way back from battle.

Steve starts to move, not towards it, but around, keeping an eye out for an opening in the trees. He does not look directly at it, he does not know whether his pursuer is watching and he does not want to give up his chance of.

Another shot echoes through the night and Steve ducks, bringing his shield up. The reverberations of metal striking metal follow and Steve starts to move more quickly.

There is indeed a break in the circle of trees, and Steve smiles as he sees the movements beyond it, differing shades of grey resolving into the figure of a man.

Steve arranges himself in the best position he can and crouches down, peering around him, trying to discern what the best position would be for his opponent to attack him from.

But it seems the highwayman has decided to switch targets. Steve sees him disappear from the safety of the huddled trees, but the gunshot is further off, and followed by another.

And another.

The flash of movement from within the circle of trees is enough for Steve to move, and he swings his arm, sending his shield slicing through the air. He sees the man look up, eyes widen, the whites just visible, lit by pale moonlight, and then-

He disappears. Steve curses as his shield thuds right into the trunks of the trees, making contact with nothing else but air. It cuts in and sticks.

His advantage is gone. He runs to retrieve it, his ears listening carefully for any other sound, though the crush of the undergrowth beneath his feet seems deafening.

He reaches into the trees, grabbing the edge of his shield and braces himself on the nearest trunk to pull it free, when cold metal presses against the base of his skull.

“Nice toy,” a man’s voice growls at him. “Let go.”

Steve lets go. He is not sure whether the highwayman has had time to reload again, but he could probably move fast enough to survive. Maybe.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says, putting on the same voice he had used to calmly talk new soldiers down from their panic.

“Yes, I do.”

The sound of the shot makes Steve’s blood freeze in his veins. He ducks, waiting for the pain, but knowing he was too slow, and it takes a second for him to realise that no pain is coming.

The soft sound of a body falling into the undergrowth comes from behind him and Steve turns, looking out into the shadows, to see Mr Barton leaning against a tree, his bow and arrow hanging from his hands.

“Should you be standing?” Steve asks him. 

“You’re welcome, Captain,” Mr Barton reponds. “No problem. Any time. More than happy to save your life.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, straightening up and turning to pull his shield from the tree with a grunt of force. “You don’t look like you should be standing.”

“I’ve had worse than this,” Mr Barton says, though he does not let go of the tree he appears to have befriended. “You’re going after the carriage?” Steve nods.

“The witch has put some sort of spell on it,” he says. “A shield, you won’t be able to get near it like that.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned that before?” Sam’s voice calls out. He steps out from behind another tree.

“I tried, you were already charging off to the rescue like the foolish heroes you are,” Mr Barton says.

“Taking out a shielding spell requires a lot of fire power,” Steve says. He’s come across them before and the best bet had always been to ask Dernier for one of his special creations to bombard it with explosions. Luckily the logistics of it had meant that Hydra rarely employed them. They preferred to put their magic users on attack than defence. But Miss Moomji has no reason to want to attack and every reason to want to protect herself and the rest of the carriage.

“We don’t have anything like enough,” Sam agrees.

“But if she takes it down herself…” Steve says, looking down at the corpse of the highwayman.

The other two follow his gaze.

“You really like dressing up, huh?” Mr Barton comments. “I guess if that’s your thing…”

*

Steve does not redress completely. There is no time, but he takes the coat, the mask, and the hat.

“You should be passable enough at a distance,” Sam tells him. “We are lucky you were already wearing dark clothes this evening. But what are you going to say to convince her to let you in?”

“I’m sure I’ll come up with something,” Steve says.

“We’re doomed,” Mr Barton comments helpfully. “We’ll…” He pushes himself off the tree and promptly stumbles to his knees.

“You’ll stay here. Sam you should-”

“You need backup,” Sam says. The look in his eyes is hard as steel and Steve does not argue.

Steve loops the pendant around his neck, carefully only touching the string it is on and not the thing itself. He can feel it vibrating slightly where it rests against his chest, probably not strong enough for an average person to feel it, but evident to him. It is probably his imagination, but it feels malevolent in a way. It is cold, even though it should still hold the warmth of its former owner’s skin.

He suppresses a shiver and looks around to orient himself in the woods. He finds the direction that should lead him to the road and sets off. Sam is not far behind him, though he cannot quite keep up.

The mask is not his own, it does not fit the same, and the cloak is heavy and unwieldy, but it does serve to cover the shield on his back well enough. He is not himself, nor is he Nomad, neither does he feel as though he is The Captain, either, although he is, he supposes, on a mission for the crown.

He doesn’t even know how far the carriage has gone. It can’t have cleared the woods, not yet. But on foot, even with his increased speed, he might not catch it. He looks down at the pendant hanging from his neck, then up at Sam.

“Let’s see how this-” he touches the pendant and the world disappears into black. He is weightless. There is no cold, no light, no heat. Endless nothing. He can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed. He can’t tell which way is up . He panics as he realises he does not know where he is going. He had forgotten to aim . He lets go of the pendant immediately.

Then he staggers as his legs once more have pressure to them. The world resolves around him like smoke is solidifying into place. The woods. He is still in the woods. He curses himself. He could have ended up anywhere. He hadn’t thought.

He hears the sound of horses’ hooves and twists to see the road not very far away from him.

He had been thinking of catching up with them. He stares down at the pendant where it lies, and jerks his hand away from it in horror. That place between places. The endless black and nothing of it all lingers in his thoughts, like awaking from a nightmare.

Steve has no time to contemplate it, though. No time to do more than run. The carriage is ahead of him, moving away. The rattle of it is fading. The pendant must have transported him to where it was when he had touched it.

The borrowed cape flies out behind him, flapping over his shield as he runs. He forces himself faster and faster, though it feels like he can never quite get fast enough. He keeps running, pushing himself so that it feels as though he might almost fall with every step, his legs only just moving fast enough to catch him. Roots and tree branches snag at him, trying to hold him back, but he dodges around them, leaps over them, and ignores the way the smaller ones scratch at him. There is only one thought in his mind - reaching Tony and ending this. All of this.

The carriage is visible up ahead at last, he can see the faint blue shimmer around it that is the magical shield. Invisible to most people, unless you have training - or Steve’s advantages. He puts on another burst of speed, coming out onto the road, and wishes that this did not rely on his ability to pretend to be another person pretending to be him pretending to be Nomad. He is not good at subterfuge.

“Hold!” he shouts and a face peers out of the carriage. As it turns towards him and he sees the pale skin and delicate features, he recognises Miss Moomji. She calls for the driver to stop, but she does not look pleased.

“What are you doing?” she asks. “You’re meant to be stopping those idiots from following us,” she calls out. Her voice is still her voice, but there’s a softness that used to be there that has vanished.

“I did,” he says, his mind searching for some reason she would allow him to approach. He needs to get into that carriage. “They’re dead.”

There is a muffled sound from inside the carriage and Steve takes a step forwards involuntarily. Miss Moomji stares at him.

“They said that others were coming, to block the way ahead - I wanted to warn you…” he tries.

Miss Moomji’s eyes have narrowed.

“No, you didn’t,” she says. The creak of the carriage door cuts through the night, sending a shiver down Steve’s spine. He is very aware of the shield on his back, but he does not want to give himself away just yet. Not even with Miss Moomji descending slowly from the carriage. He peers past her, trying to get any glimpse of Tony.

“Watch the baronet,” she says to someone inside the carriage. Steve doesn’t hear a reply. Then she turns back to Steve and the look on her face is pure malice.

“You didn’t come to warn us because you’re not Hughes, are you?” she asks. “No… you’re too tall, and you just don’t have the gift to sound as very obsequious as he always did. His voice sets my teeth on edge. Not that it was his fault. Most people have that reaction to me.”

“Sorry to be a disappointment, ma’am,” Steve says, straightening up.

“You’re the real thing, aren’t you?” she asks slowly, looking him up and down. She still stands just on the inside of her magical shield. “The actual Nomad who was trying so very hard to sniff out Obadiah’s little plan. You’ll make a useful little addition to my team.” It seems that no matter their connection, Stane has not seen fit to share Nomad’s true identity with her. While they have an alliance, there is clearly no trust lost between the pair of them. It is difficult to trust a confirmed traitor, Steve supposes.

“I’m not looking for employment at the moment, ma’am,” Steve says. “It seems yet again, I have to disappoint you.”

“Once I’m done with you, mysterious Nomad, you’ll be begging to work for me - to do anything for me…” She smiles and the moonlight makes it steel. Steve swallows. He has faced magic users before. He faced Schmidt, but it was never something he wanted to do again. Backing down is not an option, though.

She raises a hand and Steve reaches for his shield, but he’s a millisecond too slow, flying backwards to hit the ground. He is pinned down and finally, Indries steps out from behind her protection, passing through the shield as though it is nothing more than mist.

Steve becomes aware of how precarious his position is. She is holding him to the ground with nothing more than the force of her own will. It feels like iron shackles around his entire body, and she is walking towards him with a slow, deliberate pace, like a tiger stalking its prey. His hand is on his shield, but he cannot move it. His other hand, if he could just grasp it, could reach the pendant around his neck and move him clear of it. But she does not seem to want him dead. He can take that as his advantage, and she is out of the magical shield. What he needs to do is distract her.

She has covered almost half the distance now, and she is reaching for the vial at her neck.

“It must be very tiresome,” she says, surveying him with an amused pull of her lips. “All that self-righteousness bottled up inside of you. I can help you with that.”

“I must confess, that is not the first time I’ve heard someone say that,” Steve tells her. “And I’ll tell you what I told them: you’re welcome to try.” His muscles are straining against her force and he thinks that he feels a little give. She tilts her head.

“Oh, you are very strong,” she says, “And one drop of this and you’ll be all mine. Dedicated to me, heart and mind…” she smiles slow and beautiful like the depths of the ocean.

“Is that what you did to Sir Anthony?” Steve asks. He already knows the answer. That’s the same vial he saw at the ball and it makes sense. It all clicks together in his head. But her smile does not grow, instead it shutters down, her lips pressing together. “But it isn’t working properly, is it?” he asks, sensing a shard of weakness there. He just needs her to be distracted for a second. The kind of sustained magic she’s working, with two spells at once, must be tiring. The best magic users can only manage three, and even then only for a short time. The shield on the carriage has been going for a while, the spell holding Steve is fighting against him. And before that, the spells on the household, and possibly the militia. She is worn out, stretched thin. He looks deep into her face, searching for signs of fatigue. There’s a tightness around the eyes, perhaps. He hopes.

“The foolish baronet is a special case,” she says, her voice as sour as acid.