Emma by Gaslight

(Peter Wyngarde)
Another Avengers fan fic story that I wrote a while ago. I do intend to get back to Erotica by Bravo but life is crazy right now....

This story is a crossover with the Avengers and a TV show called Jason King, which starred Jason Wyndarde.

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 1 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

The file on Jason King

Jason King was a successful writer of spy novels when he was tapped to join Department S, a secret government agency dedicated to solving "impossible" crimes. He served in Department S for two years, from 1969-1970, before growing disenchanted with government work. Although he resigned from the service, the Department was loath to let him go and frequently drew him back into the fold by means of trickery. After 1973, however, they declined to use him again.

King is distinguished by a bouffant hairstyle, Fu Manchu moustache, and utter narcissism. He is attracted to women of all ages and appearances - although he prefers those who do not evidence an interest in "women's lib," and the surest way to gain his affections is to praise his books to the skies.

...File ends

Part One:

Emma, by Jason King

Jason King stepped out onto the rooftop café and paused by the door to light a cigarette. Whilst simultaneously taking a deep drag of the cigarette and returning the lighter to his pocket, he scanned the various tables to see if there was anyone of interest about.

Couple. Young couple. Elderly couple. Group of men and women...tourists...Italian by their gestures. Two men. Elderly couple. Well, well, well...who was that?

At the far end of the rooftop - her table practically at the edge of the roof, a woman sat alone. He could see only her back, as she faced outward, looking over the scenery below, but her brunette hair fell about her shoulders in a stylish wave. By the set of her shoulders he could tell that she was young. Relatively young, at any rate. She also seemed to be resting her chin on her hands as she gazed seaward.

Gazing contemplatively seaward... (Jason had a habit of processing everything he saw as if it was taking place in one of his books.)

Jason took a couple of steps to one side to get a better view, and caught his breath. What a lovely profile. She was in her early thirties, he estimated, with flawless features. She wore a short-sleeved white linen shirt and dark blue slacks...he clicked his tongue at this...he so preferred women to wear dresses. She'd obviously just had breakfast - a tray was pushed to one side of the table.

As he watched, she picked up a pen and tablet from the table and began to write. Almost immediately she stopped. She gazed out to sea again, tapping the pen against her teeth. Finally, she made a little moue of disgust and tossed both pen and tablet back onto the table.

Aha, thought Jason. Writer's block, if he'd ever seen it. Perhaps she'd appreciate some assistance from the famous author, Jason King.

It was 1973, and Jason King was the best-selling author of spy novels featuring protagonist Mark Caine. His photo decorated the back jacket of all his books - hair in a rather bouffant style, a Fu Manchu moustache. His only regret was that the photos were in black and white - and so his brown eyes, brown hair and deep tan didn't show up to their best advantage. Still, he was recognized all the time, which was as it should be.

Jason withdrew a notebook and pen from his own pockets and paused beside the table the aspiring writer.

"All the tables seem to be full," he said cheerfully in his perfect French. (He had been born in France of English parents, and had been traveling the world ever since - not the least because tax difficulties at home made it impossible for him to return there for more than six months out of the year.)

"May I join you?"

She looked up at him, with her dark brown eyes under straight brows, and lovely lips that smiled only faintly as she gestured at the other chair.

Jason sat down and devoted his full attention to her. Her arms were tanned, with a smooth curve of bicep muscle which he found quite attractive. So many women had arms that were stick-figure thin! Her hands were well kept, with long, tapering fingers, but the nails were cut short. She wore no rings.

"My name's Jason King."

She smiled faintly, again, but it wasn't a smile of recognition, more's the pity.

"Emma... Knight."

She'd hesitated there. He wondered why. Newly married? Newly divorced? She couldn't be newly married - she wouldn't be sitting here on her own, let alone not wearing a wedding ring. So she must be newly divorced.

"You're English," he said, dropping into that language.

"Yes."

Jason took a drag on his cigarette. She was playing hard to get.

He gestured at the tablet before her.

"I see you're a writer."

"Yes."

He raised an eyebrow at her laconicalness..(is that a word, he asked himself mentally), but persevered.

"I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to be having difficulties. I saw you throw that pen down in disgust - an emotion I'm familiar with. Are you having writer's block?"

"I wouldn't call it writer's block," she said calmly. "I'm just...not in the mood to do any writing yet. It will come. I'll just sit here and enjoy the view."

"It is lovely, isn't it?" said Jason, running her eyes over her. But she wasn't paying attention to him and didn't notice this implied compliment. Instead, she was looking out over the scenery. He turned his own attention to it.

Below them stretched the Port of Monte Carlo. Dozens of piers stretched out into the azure water, and moored to each of these piers were dozens of luxury yachts. Across the harbor, hotels lined the beach. People dotted the white sand, stretched out in the typical pose of sun-worshipers every where.

"Have you been in Monte Carlo long?"

"No, not long."

This was turning out to be a real battle, but Jason was intrigued. He wasn't used to women ignoring him in this way, and the harder the chase, the more he liked it.

Suddenly, she leant forward, as her eye caught something on the quay below. Her eyebrows raised in what seemed to be astonishment.

"I don't believe it," he heard her murmur.

"Something the matter?"

She didn't take her eyes off whatever she was watching below. Jason turned to try to see what she was looking at. People - tourists - were walking to and fro. There was a man, getting into a taxi...could that be it?

She darted a quick look at him...an expression on her face that he couldn't quite fathom. Was she going to ask him for help? But then, she made a grimace, as if she had mentally dismissed his ability to help her. "I just saw someone I have to talk to," she said with a bright smile. "Do excuse me."

She stood up, and slung the strap of a small purse over her shoulder. And then, to his complete surprise, Emma Knight stepped over the short fence dividing the rooftop from the empty space beyond it, and then, jumped.

Jason blinked for a few seconds, then stood up and peered downward. Twenty feet below, the intriguing woman was just regaining her feet. She must have dropped and rolled in the soft grass. She must be a splendid athlete.

He watched her trot across the sward of grass in front of the café, and out into the street. She hailed a taxi - they were plentiful here - get into it, and it drove off.

Jason sat back in his chair, smoothing his moustache meditatively. A waiter appeared, and he ordered a large brandy. He felt the need of it.

Then his eyes fell upon the paper on the table. In her haste she had left her tablet behind.

Jason drew it towards him. He couldn't help but smile a little at the evidence of a writer without a clue. There were doodles of boats, of men in bowler hats, various geometric shapes, all surrounding a few words of text at the top of the page.

Obviously a title: Politics and Women in 20th Century Europe.

Jason was vaguely disappointed. Not another feminist! They were all the rage these days. It was so unnecessary. Perhaps he wouldn't bother with her after all.

A shadow fell over the table, and he looked up to see the maitre-d.

"The bill, messieur."

"I beg your pardon? I've only just started."

"Your companion at this table. The young woman. She did not pay for her petit dejeuner. You will remedy this oversight, non?"

Jason plucked the bill out of his hand. "Oui."

The maitre-d bowed and walked away.

Jason ran his eye over the bill casually. She'd had only a cup of coffee and a brioche. Not the type of order from someone intent on defrauding café owners out of the price of a full meal. But had that been the meaning behind it all? Had she deliberately been waiting for someone to sit next to her, so that she could stick them with the bill?

Hardly. A 20-foot drop was not something to be undertaken likely - certainly not for the cost of a coffee and a brioche!

No...something was going on.

Idly, Jason flicked over another page of the tablet. And his cigarette froze on the way to his lips. Quietly, he completed its journey and took another long drag.

On this page, it seemed she'd had no problem writing text. But it was funny. A couple of sentences, with words formed out of letters that didn't spell English words. Below them, letters in blocks of five, stretching across the page.

It was as if she was trying to figure out some kind of cipher.

He turned more pages. Each page was full of such jumbles of letters. And apparently ineffective attempts to solve them.

Why would an English woman summering in Monte Carlo be trying to figure out page after page of codes?

Jason felt a thrill run through him. More than his interest in a beautiful woman was his interest in a beautiful woman with a secret. And if he was not mistaken - Emma Knight had plenty of secrets. He'd have to find out what they were.

Jason picked up his pen and pulled his own notebook towards him. He wrote down the title for his next novel.

Emma.