nextgenerationmarvel | Moving Pieces Into Place

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Moving Pieces Into Place

There were a few principles Jerrard lived his life by and first among them was: Never give any anything for free. Every act of charity for a price, even if it was not readily apparent. It was all in the planning. That was the problem with the criminal element these days. No patience. It was all ostentatious displays and maniacal cackling. No respect for the long con.

Tonight's act of benevolence was an art display at the Brooklyn Museum. He'd made some... acquisitions back in 1874 when excavations were ongoing at the Abri de la Madeleine shelter and such things weren't readily missed. And if they were, a few coins cleared the problem right up.

Jerrard smoothed down the lapels of his suit as he circles the glass cased displays. They aren't even his favorite pieces in his vast and varied collection, but they make an impression and that was his goal. The museum had been overjoyed to be loaned the prehistoric carvings and weaponry. It had generated headlines and press, building up his name in precisely the way he wanted.

A waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes and he took one, sipping idly and keeping watch over his assets.

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Jerrard's research on the local social scene had led him immediately to information about the Hellfire Club and its members. He knew the families that had been involved, some for decades, and the name Wyngarde jumped out at him right away. Brooke Wyngarde had been unsurprisingly easy to find in the press. The paparazzi loved a young, attractive socialite and miss Wyngarde fit the bill. Combined with the rather unexpected way he'd heard her name the night before, he was more than a little interested in meeting her.

He was pleased to spot her face amid the other party goers. A glitzy party and art installation was catnip to the kind of people he was looking for. His gamble paid off beautifully.

When she circled nearer his display, he sidled up to her and tipped a polite not of greeting. "Ms. Wyngarde. I'm so pleased to finally meet you in person. I've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope," Brooke smiled at the gentleman. Like all socialites, different stories about Brooke circulated around society - some good, some bad, some worse. General consensus did state, however, that Brooke Wyngarde was someone who knew how to put together a soiree.

And someone who was never on the worst-dressed list.

Brooke eyed the man curiously, trying to place his face. No, he didn't seem familiar in the least. "You'll have to forgive my ignorance," she said with ease and elegance, "as I don't believe I've had the pleasure of properly making your acquaintance." She held her hand out to the man. He was charming, not unattractive, and he had heard of her. (Granted, many people had heard of her, but not everyone. Even Brooke, with her ego, was aware that there were those who had never so much as glanced at a society page.) "A little bit awkward, this, since you already know who I am."

"Nothing but the best, I assure you. Please forgive my rudeness. Jerrard Lovel Prideaux, at your service." Jerrard took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her knuckles lightly. "I make a point to know the names and faces of the most intriguing people, wherever I go. The Wyngarde name came up in most of those inquiries." True enough. Not always the Brooke Wyngarde name, but no need to make that distinction right now.

Brooke wouldn't be surprised. Between Jason Wyngarde, Regan Wyngarde, and Martinique Wyngarde, there would be much in the papers about her family.

She smiled down at him - that polite society smile that she did so well - and allowed Jerrard to kiss her hand. "Mr. Prideaux," she inclined her head. "You have an interest in ancient weaponry? Or are you just a patron of the arts?"

"A bit of both, actually." He tipped his head toward the center displays. "The Brooklyn Museum was kind enough to allow me to display a few pieces from my personal collection. I enjoy a great many of the arts, but I admit that the weaponry intrigues me the most."

"May I ask what brought you in tonight?"

"Weaponry is an art unto itself. One which I never fully appreciated, but one which friends of mine do." Brooke was more liable to enjoy a museum installation about the history of high-heeled shoes. Hell, she hadn't worn flats since high school.

"So these pieces are yours. That's intriguing," Brooke looked at Jerrard with a fresh set of eyes. She had taken him for just another person visiting the museum, not someone who collected old, beautiful things. "I've never been one to collect anything but shoes and jewels." Also enemies and furs, but she didn't want to rattle off a list.

"I heard there was a new installation, and I was curious. I like the arts. Even if I have to come down to Brooklyn to get a taste of it every once in awhile."

It was a benefit, sometimes, to be somewhat easy to dismiss, particularly where the authorities were concerned. He was pleased that she was taking notice of him, however. Tonight, he planned to make impressions.

"I'm very pleased you decided to join us tonight. It's more fun to have beautiful things when you can show them to the world. Or, at least, a select group." He'd prefer a more selective group than all who showed up, but it was alright for a start. "I have a passion for history and antiquities. Including some jewels, in fact."

"Jewels are one of the great loves of my life," Brooke laughed. "As they are for most women, I would imagine." She'd never understood the rare woman who didn't want to deck herself out in silks, furs, and jewels. It was absolutely a foreign concept to the brunette.

"I've always loved history where it concerned queens of power," she added. "I don't just mean Cleopatra, of course. There were so many more." Each whom she felt was a kindred spirit towards one facet of her soul or another. "Especially since history tends to speak so ill of so many women who wielded power. Dig a little deeper, you'll find that sometimes history really is written by the victor."

"I've met very few women who wouldn't say the same." He figured the ones who did were lying. No same woman would turn down a beautiful diamond or ruby. That he had seen proven true for two hundred years.

He smiled and nodded, saluting her with his champagne glass. "A very astute observation. History is rife with, shall we say, inaccuracies? About the women of history. So many of mankind's great men had strong women beside them."

And what a shame they didn't appreciate it. Jerrard had always found the dangerous women to be the most fascinating.

"You grow up in the world I grew up in, and you learn to appreciate the value of Tiffany or Harry Winston," Brooke replied. She sipped her own champagne thoughtfully and then said, "I've never seen you around here before. Certainly not at any of the events, galas, or fundraisers that I've attended or been a committee member on. We would have crossed paths earlier." She raised an eyebrow. "Either you're new, or you're just crawling out of the woodwork," she said. "Which is it?"

No beating around the bush with this one. He likes that. "I suppose I'll have to claim crawling. I've lived here for some time, but only recently made my debut in the social realm."

Of course, he'd also had that batty 'hero' running around, making trouble. Difficult to be in the spotlight when there were rats with wings lurking about. And speaking of rats, now to the real reason he wanted to speak to Brooke.

"I very nearly wasn't able to attend this event, sadly. There was an attack on my club last night. A strange woman maimed a couple of my bouncers and some police officers without any provocation at all. It was quite an experience." He sipped his champagne and frowned thoughtfully. "I can't be certain, but I believe she said your name when she was screeching. Something about having heard 'better insults from Brooke Wyngarde'. You wouldn't have made the unpleasant acquaintance of a unbalanced redhead recently, have you?"

"Have you looked around the city?" Brooke asked. "New York is filled with more unbalanced redheads than the rest of the world combined." She sipped her champagne. "There's only one I insult on a regular basis, though, and only one who's obsessive enough to namedrop me to a total stranger." Was she going to need to take out a restraining order? "Let me guess. Tacky heels. Acted tougher than she was. May or may not have had an accent that marked her as Cajun trash. Pretentious in a way to show that she was tough and strong and witty, but in truth is kind of lame, pathetic, and trying too hard?" It's not that she enjoyed insulting Alisa, it's just that it was so damn easy to.

"I'm sure I've had the displeasure of her acquaintance many times in the past, Mr. Prideaux. I'm only sorry that you were affronted with her presence last night. It's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy." She paused. "We are talking about Alisa le Beau, aren't we?"

"Oh yes, New York has more than its fair share of crazy. Still, this one was... special." In the less flattering sense of the word. Not that he'd seen much flattering about her. "And yes, you're quite correct. She barged into my club, complaining about its lack of illegal fights and moonshine, threatened the life of my bartender, maimed my bouncers, and attacked a group of police officers. It was quite the display."

Pathetic display. He'd seen more class in a whore house.

"I was surprised to hear a name like yours from someone like her. Although, I wasn't terribly surprised to hear she'd been insulted by you. I'd have been more shocked to discover she ever heard anything else."

"Goodness, but she has come undone," Brooke said. "Either that, or she's finally realized the error of her ways and is embracing her swampy, trailer trash roots." She smiled thinly.

"We're not friends, she and I, as you may have surmised." They weren't enemies either. "We merely attended the same institute for a short amount of time." Though Alisa had barely lasted a week, and Brooke was still there. "She didn't have what it took to make things work." She didn't even need to explain further. Jerrard would have seen for himself how unhinged of a person Alisa was. "I'd say she has issues, but really, she puts the New Hampshire Gazette to shame." Considering it was the oldest newspaper still in print. Lots of issues there, too.

"I did guess that, yes." She did seem to have more than the expected amount of pity for the girl, though. That was interesting. He'd expected more of a self-centered nature from a young woman with her family background.

"A library's worth?" He smiled. She was taking it a lot better than he expected, too.

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Moving Pieces Into Place

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