The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time

The next morning

I piece together the puzzle: Lord Fetchitall isn’t as untouchable as he wants everyone to think. His habits—expensive, secretive, and more than a little scandalous—have the potential to blow his reputation to pieces if they ever see daylight.

My decision is simple—put Duke and Bartley on the job.

Duke, all silver tongue and sly charm, knows how to work a room, especially one frequented by the powerful and reckless. Bartley, tech wizard and ready wildcard, is wired in to every angle—if it happens in the shadows, he’ll catch it on camera, even if he has to bend a few rules the old-school boys still clutch.

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I send them to loiter around The Red Lion—a stone’s throw from Downing Street and the House of Parliament, a famed watering hole for ministers and high society since Churchill’s day. It’s the perfect spot: private deals washed down with gin, secrets whispered over half-empty glasses. If Lord Fetchitall decides to indulge his vices—cocaine, hire company—he won’t slip past Duke and Bartley.

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Their mission? Uncover proof of Fetchitall caught in the act, camera-ready, no deniable blurs or convenient shadows. I want leverage; something damning, something even Parliament can’t sweep away quietly.

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Duke flashes me a knowing smile, already running cons in his head. Bartley loads up his gear, eyes alive, grinning with anticipation. Together, they head into the thick of London’s elite, waiting for the right moment to catch a Lord at his own game.

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Duke and Bartley lounge in my kitchen, mugs of tea cooling between their palms, as I lay out the plan. London light slants across the counter, catching Bartley’s restless fingers as he scrolls through something on his phone and Duke’s half-smirk.

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I lean in, voice low but charged. “Right. Lord Fetchitall’s got a taste for powdered charm and company that charges by the minute. It’s frowned upon—even more when it hits the papers. I want him caught on camera, no blurs, no excuses.”

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Duke flashes that sly grin. “Where’s he likely to play, Elena?”

I arch an eyebrow, enjoying the drama. “The Red Lion, by Downing Street. Classic spot for the high and mighty. Every Prime Minister since Churchill’s had a pint there—Fetchitall loves brushing shoulders with history and power.”

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Bartley perks up, cracking his knuckles. “What’s the angle—hidden cam?”

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“Exactly,” I say, sliding a crumpled note across the counter with times and suspected dates. “Bartley, you cover the outside—tech, eyes, mics. Duke, you’re inside. Work the charm, chat up the regulars, get Fetchitall comfortable. If he orders anything illicit, I want a shot. If he brings company, I want faces.”

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Duke leans back, theatrical. “Silver tongue in, snake out. I can handle that. What about Harry? He’s been itching for a crack at Parliament types.”

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I shake my head. “Keep him on standby—too loud, makes waves. This needs finesse.”

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Bartley grins, already tapping notes into a secure app. “Old code, new tech—if they whisper, if they snort, if they blink, we’ll have it. You want deniable or undeniable?”

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“Undeniable,” I reply, tone iron. “If the Lord is dirty, we want Parliament shaking in their shoes.”

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Duke raises his mug. “Here’s to getting the fox hunters being hunted by foxes!”

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They rise, the plan set. I watch them go, already picturing this kitchen table as the quiet stage for the scandal of the decade—a plot brewing over tea and toast.

I lean on the kitchen counter, plotting my own part in the sting. I’ll go in as bait—heat up the Red Lion’s atmosphere a notch, put Fetchitall off his guard. A dress that’s serious on first glance but leaves little to the imagination, something that shows off my figure (and, well, my suddenly impressive new boobs).

Men do like blondes; they do like curves; no shame in weaponising what life hands you.

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But who to bring? Mrs. H is out of the question. If she ever caught wind of me using both of us as bait, she’d have my head on a silver platter before Parliament could blink.

Who else, then? I need someone with enough polish to fit in, someone sharp, who knows how to play the room but won’t get squeamish when things get dicey. Someone classy, yet who won’t hesitate to pull me out by the hair if trouble sparks.

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My mind flips through possibilities—old allies, faces from Istanbul to St. Petersburg, someone who knows the value of a good illusion and can hold their own in conversation.

Marina? She’s in Denmark, teaching.

Duke? Too obvious—he’s supposed to be in the shadows this time.

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I tap my finger against the marble, thinking. Maybe there’s an old friend from the institute—someone with cosmopolitan gloss, a little bite, and no fear of Parliament types. Or perhaps I’ll go alone and let every eye in the room settle where I want.

Who do I trust to step up beside me and play this risky game of charm? That may be the hardest move of all.

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Ah—of course. Eve. High-society-born, ex-model, never flustered and always game, and she owes me a favour I’ve been meaning to call in. Better yet, we share a friend in Lord Taren—a man with enough clout to open doors and smooth introductions, the kind you want at your side when Parliament types start peacocking.

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I grin to myself—a trio like that won’t just blend in; we’ll attract exactly the sort of attention Fetchitall thrives on. We’ll glide from the Red Lion to any smoky den he chooses, looking every bit the part: a glamorous blonde, a fashion aristocrat, and a titled escort—no one will question us. The Boswell boys will be trailing us, eyes sharp and tech ready.

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It’s a recipe for intrigue: two women and a lord, all with secrets and sharp edges, following the prey through London’s elite watering holes. We’ll have Fetchitall too busy watching us to notice the trap coming. And with Eve’s knack for conversation—and for not missing a thing—I know she’ll spot any sign before I do.

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I pick up my phone, feeling the thrill surge:

Eve first, then Taren. Tonight, London’s not going to be boring.

I reach for my phone, dialling Eve first—her number nestled among a dozen glamorous contacts from a hundred high-society nights. She picks up on the third ring, cool and effortless as ever.

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“Darling, it’s been too long,” she drawls.

“Eve, I’m calling in that favour. Fancy a little trouble? High stakes, high reward. You, me, and someone who knows how to work a room. Dress for intrigue.”

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Her laugh sparkles. “You know how to tempt a girl. When and where?”

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“Red Lion by Downing Street, tonight. I’ll have Lord Taren meet us—he’ll get us in anywhere. You game?”

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Eve doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Send me the details, I’ll be ready. Is this one of your infamous messes?”

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“One of the best and biggest, bigotry included” I say. “Expect the old London charm and a crowd worth watching.”

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We hang up, and I flick through to Lord Taren—aristocratic accent, smooth as whisky, but sharper than most suspect. He answers with the practised nonchalance that comes from years on the inside.

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“Taren, it’s Elena. I need a little society magic. The Red Lion, a walk through Parliament’s shadow—interested?”

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He laughs, low and knowing. “For you, my darling, always. Shall I wear a tie or bring a scandal?”

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“Surprise me,” I say, grinning. “Meet me at eight. Eve will join us.”

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“Splendid. Looking forward.”

I.Ph.