Characters: Lord Falsworth & Lady Jac Location: Falsworth's Office, Starks. Timeline: Feb 14 (Backdated) Description: How Monty and Lady Jac spend their Valentines Day. Rating: F for Family Reunion.
Monty had received exactly one candy gram thus far, from a student who he assumed had sent the same vague and cheery note to all the faculty and student body. Naturally the first thing he did was drop the candy-gram in the trash on his way into his office.
The limping Englishman slipped inside his office, closing the door behind him and locking it. Monty hobbled his way across his office to his small bar, pouring himself a glass of 66 year old MacCutcheon's Whiskey. That glass alone held about $1,200 worth of whiskey; And Monty finished it in about a gulp and a half. He poured himself a second $1,200.
Resting his umbrella beside his desk, Monty used one hand for balance as he circled the large expensive oak structure to sit in the tall, leather high-backed chair behind it. After a second of adjusting until he was comfortable, Monty sat. Alone. He wasn't quite sure for how long. It could have been hours for all he knew, or cared. After an extensive period of time, Monty turned, slipping a small chain of keys from his jacket pocket. Three large skeleton keys hung from the ring. One to Falsworth Manor back in England. The second opened the chamber to his arsenal. The third, his desks bottom left drawer. With a click the drawer slid open. Only few things rested inside. His unloaded and fully disarmed Walther P99. His first weapon issued from MI6 when he first started. A folded Union Jack flag framed along with a newspaper article about the wonderful and world famous hero to the United Kingdom, the Union Jack. A pocket watch. A beautiful aging photo of Jacqueline Falsworth. And lastly, a framed photo of three happy faces.
Monty drew out the frame and set it down on his desk, peering into the eyes of the three persons in that photo. The eyes that stared back at him were of himself, his adolescent son, Brian Falsworth...and a women. Her face perfectly sculpted, smooth and pale, with long, thick raven hair tied into a tight bun, and lips that were naturally so red, no lipstick could compare. Monty tilted his head slightly, inspecting the happy faces in the photo.
Monty cleared his throat, leaned over to take up his whiskey glass and held it up to the photo, toasting the unnamed woman he'd once was able to call his wife. He lowered the glass and took a drink.