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Winston Braddock savored the rich, amber liquid in his cup, the warmth seeping through the fine bone china and into his weathered hands. The kitchen's copper pots gleamed in the afternoon light where they hung above the island, casting a honeyed glow across the sprawling space where his husband, Edgar, muttered colorful obscenities at an uncooperative lump of sourdough. Fifteen years of marriage had taught Winston when to intervene in Edgar's culinary crises and when to simply sip his tea in companionable silence. Today called for the latter approach.
"Bloody stubborn nightmare," Edgar said, almost growling as he kneaded the dough with more force than was strictly necessary. His meticulously styled salt-and-pepper hair had wilted, a sure sign of mounting frustration. "Absolutely refusing to prove properly. It's a conspiracy, Winston. The yeast is staging a rebellion."
Winston's lips twitched behind his teacup. "Perhaps it needs a gentler touch, dear."
"Perhaps it needs an exorcism," Edgar retorted, but his hands continued their rhythmic work, folding and pressing with the exactness of a surgeon despite his theatrical complaints.
Across the kitchen, Madame Claudette Dubois folded fresh linens with military precision, her steel-gray French twist immaculate as always. The crisp snap of each towel punctuated Edgar's tirade like well-timed percussion.
"The dough senses your agitation," Claudette said without looking up, her French accent thick with disapproval. "Like horses and small children."
Winston caught the quick, affectionate roll of Edgar's eyes. "Thank you, Claudette, for that insight into baking psychology."
The tranquil domesticity of the kitchen shattered as thundering paws and hurried footsteps clattered down the hallway. Winston straightened, years of SAS training still hard-wired into his muscles, before recognizing the familiar cadence. Three massive English Mastiffs, Arthur, Conan, and Doyle, burst into the kitchen in a whirlwind of fawn and brindle fur and lolling tongues, followed by a disheveled Lara Croft.
"Sorry! Sorry!" Lara called, her cheeks flushed with exertion. "Doyle, heel! Arthur, stop that!"
The youngest Mastiff, Doyle, skidded across the polished floor, nearly upending Claudette's laundry basket before Lara caught his collar.
Winston catalogued the details of Lara's appearance with practiced efficiency. Her hair, usually contained in a practical braid, hung in loose waves around her shoulders. The now customary dark circles shadowed her eyes, yet a curious energy radiated from her, a vibrating intensity he hadn't seen outside of her pre-expedition preparations.
"Lady Croft," Claudette said, clutching a pillowcase to her chest like armor. "The dogs should not be in my clean kitchen!"
"Our kitchen," Edgar corrected with no bite to it, his attention shifting from his dough to Lara. "Everything alright, dear thing? You look rather... frazzled."
Lara ran a hand through her hair, further disarranging it. "Oh? Fine! I mean. Absolutely fine. Just looking for my--has anyone seen my green jumper? The cashmere one?"
Winston raised an eyebrow. Lara asking about clothing was unusual enough to merit attention. "Top drawer of your bureau, I believe. I placed it there myself after laundering."
Months ago, as I recall. Because you hardly ever wear such 'frivolous' things.
"Right, of course!" Lara snapped her fingers, spinning on her heel. "Arthur, Conan, Doyle. Come on, boys!"
The dogs scrambled after her with boisterous barks of approval, claws clicking against the floor as they disappeared down the hallway as quickly as they'd arrived.
Silence reclaimed the kitchen for all of three heartbeats.
"Well," Edgar said, wiping flour from his hands with exaggerated care, "that was her fourth mad dash through the manor in the past hour."
Winston hummed, but his mind turned over the evidence. The cashmere jumper was reserved for special occasions—a rare concession to Lara's aristocratic upbringing in a wardrobe dominated by expedition gear.
"She's preparing for a date," Edgar said with the satisfaction of a detective solving a particularly tough case. He plucked Winston's teacup from his hands and took a triumphant sip.
"Lady Croft does not date. Not anymore." Claudette scoffed, folding a tablecloth with a decisive snap. Her brow furrowed in concentration. "She has not been on a proper outing with anyone since—Je ne me souviens pas. It has been too long to remember."
Winston permitted himself a small smile at Claudette's deliberate lapse into French, a tactic she employed when she wished to emphasize a point. "Not since Cambridge, I believe."
"Precisely!" Claudette nodded. "She has been consumed with work, artifacts, and getting herself into dangerous situations. There is no room in her world for romance. A pity."
Winston considered the past several weeks since Lara had returned from her expedition in Greece. Her most recent outing had been to the British Museum. A rather straightforward authentication trip from which she returned without her usual complaints about academic bureaucracy. Instead, she'd been quiet, more so than usual, spending hours in her study with her phone. Minor details that had seemed insignificant at the time now arranged themselves into an interesting pattern.
"I'm inclined to agree with Edgar," Winston said finally. "Her behavior does suggest anticipation rather than her usual pre-expedition anxiety."
Edgar beamed at his husband, dark blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "You see? The nervous energy, the concern for appearance—classic signs."
"Indeed." Winston nodded, amused as ever by Eddie's zeal for romantic intrigue.
"She's been humming, Winston." Edgar leaned forward, his eyebrows up near his hairline. "Humming! While reading those dusty tomes in the library."
"Humming?" Claudette huffed and waved a dismissive hand. "The Lady Croft does not hum."
"Exactly my point!" Edgar jabbed a flour-dusted finger toward the ceiling. "Something has changed. Someone has caught our girl's eye."
The three of them exchanged looks, decades of shared service to the Croft family creating a shorthand of understanding. Lara's happiness mattered to all of them, perhaps more than she realized.
"She hasn't mentioned anyone," Winston said, tapping his finger against the countertop. "And there's been no visitor to the manor."
"Phone calls." Edgar returned to his dough with renewed vigor. "Late-night ones. I heard her laughing in the study two nights ago when I was locking up. Not her polite laugh either—the real one."
Claudette's expression softened. "If someone has captured her interest, they must be très spécial indeed. She does not give her heart so easily."
"Probably some rugged archaeologist type," Edgar suggested, his hands shaping the dough with artistic flourishes. "Someone who can keep up with her adventures. Gorgeous, of course."
"Or perhaps a fellow aristocrat," Claudette countered. "Someone who understands her position and responsibilities."
"Someone exotic, maybe. A Femme Fatale type," Edgar said with a wag of his eyebrows. "Sophisticated and seductive."
Winston's mind traveled back to the visit to the British Museum.
"The last person outside of our circle that Lara interacted with was the museum's Ancient Greek curator and restoration manager," he said. "A woman named Diana Prince, if I remember correctly."
Edgar waved the suggestion away with a floury hand. "A museum curator? Bound to be some dried-up academic with spectacles and sensible shoes. Not our Lara's type at all."
"Undoubtedly an older woman," Claudette said. "Lady Croft respects such scholars but is not romantically inclined toward them."
Winston kept his counsel, though something about the dismissal nagged at him. Ms. Prince's credentials were impressive, if her past was somewhat vague. Still, he had no reason to believe there was any connection beyond professional courtesy.
Edgar abandoned his dough, leaning against the counter with a dreamy expression. "No, Lara needs someone extraordinary. Someone with strength to match her own, but someone gentle, too, I think. Intelligent, of course. Good looking."
"Someone who challenges her," Winston said, thinking of how Lara thrived on overcoming obstacles.
"Someone who makes her feel safe enough to be vulnerable," Edgar continued, warming to his theme. "With a dash of mystery and perhaps a touch of danger."
Claudette nodded. "And cultured. Lady Croft may pretend otherwise, but she appreciates refinement. Depth of character."
The distinctive purr of a high-performance engine approaching the manor cut off the conversation.
Winston moved to the window overlooking the circular drive, Edgar and Claudette crowding behind him with little pretense of dignified restraint.
A sleek Audi R8 in midnight blue glided to a stop before the main entrance, sunlight dancing across its immaculate finish.
"Mon Dieu," Claudette said, pressing her fingers to her lips. "That is not an archaeologist's car."
"Indeed. Unless archaeology has become significantly more profitable," Edgar said, his earlier theory crumbling.
Winston's training kicked in as he assessed the vehicle—German engineering, superb handling, high price tag. The windows were tinted, obscuring the driver, but the choice of car spoke volumes.
"A CEO perhaps," Claudette said. "Royalty?"
"A duchess." Edgar practically vibrated with excitement. "Winston, our girl's gone and caught herself nobility!"
Winston said nothing, his attention fixed on the driver's door as it opened. Whoever emerged would reveal much about Lara's mysterious transformation over the past weeks. His protective instincts, honed through years of service, heightened as he prepared to take measure of this stranger.
Edgar clutched at Winston's arm, fingers digging into the crisp fabric of his sleeve.
"Here we go," he whispered, as if the driver might hear them through the thick manor walls. "Lara's mystery date reveals themselves at last."
A woman stepped out of the Audi with a fluid grace that captured Winston's attention. Not the expensive grace of aristocracy that he'd witnessed in countless social functions through the years, but something more elemental—an economy of movement that spoke of discipline and physical mastery. Her dark hair cascaded down her back in thick, loose waves, framing sharp features that caused Edgar to make a small, appreciative sound beside him. She wore dark jeans and a simple cream blouse beneath a tailored blazer—casual attire for a night out, but selected with obvious care. Winston's eyes narrowed. Not the outfit of someone planning to be photographed at London's elite establishments, but rather someone who knew exactly what Lara Croft would appreciate.
"My goodness," Edgar said, pressing closer to the window. "She's absolutely stunning. Otherworldly!"
"Magnifique," Claudette said, abandoning all pretense of disinterest.
Winston remained silent, taking in the details with his well-trained eyes. The woman—and surely Lara's date—moved toward the front entrance with measured steps. Her posture betrayed none of the typical nervousness one might expect from someone visiting Croft Manor for the first time. Instead, she walked with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to entering unfamiliar territory.
Begrudging approval flickered through Winston's mind. They wouldn't be taking reservations at The Ritz or Claridge's, where photographers lurked for glimpses of aristocracy and the nouveau riche paraded their wealth. Lara always despised such displays, preferring the authentic warmth of secluded country pubs to the sterile opulence of London's elite dining scene. This woman understood that, which implied a deeper knowledge of Lara than a mere professional acquaintance might possess.
The closer she approached, the more Winston's eye detected discrepancies between appearance and reality. Her casual elegance couldn't quite conceal the coiled strength lurking beneath the chic wardrobe playing at being dressed down. The blazer draped perfectly over shoulders too well-defined for a sedentary career. Her stride held the measured cadence of someone who trained to control every aspect of her movement. Most telling were her hands—long-fingered and elegant, but with a subtle hardness to the knuckles that spoke of impact and use.
"Just look at those cheekbones," Edgar murmured, elbowing Winston. "And that poise. Like a ballet dancer or royalty."
"She carries herself like someone important." Claudette nodded. "Confident but not arrogant. Lady Croft needs someone with such substance."
Winston's years in the Special Air Service taught him to recognize particular types of people—those who possessed what his commanding officer once called 'the capacity for violence.' The woman, whoever she was, belonged in that category. The realization set off warning bells honed through decades.
"I'll get the door," he said, straightening his jacket as he turned from the window.
"We'll just tidy up in here, shall we?" Edgar said with a transparency that would have amused Winston under different circumstances. His husband's eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. "Take your time with the introductions."
Winston moved briskly through the manor's corridors, mind racing through possibilities. If this woman was indeed the museum curator, as he suspected, then his research was poorly executed. Her physical bearing hinted at military training, perhaps intelligence work, extensive martial arts training, at the least. The incongruity between her supposed academic position and her evident capabilities raised questions that Winston couldn't ignore, not when it came to Lara's safety.
The thundering of paws heralded the dogs' awareness of a visitor before Winston reached the foyer. All three Mastiffs charged down the grand staircase, barking their deep, booming barks that deterred many an unwelcome visitor in the past. Arthur, the eldest and most dignified of the trio, led the charge with his massive head held high. Conan followed closely behind, the burliest of the pack with a thick chest and bulging muscles. Young Doyle, the brindle, brought up the rear, his enthusiasm making up for what he lacked in experience.
"Heel," Winston commanded, his voice cutting through the barking. The dogs slowed but continued their advance, positioning themselves between the door and Winston—a protective formation they'd been trained to adopt. They were not merely pets but guardians, and they took their duties seriously where Croft Manor and its Lady were concerned.
The doorbell chimed, its elegant tone almost comically genteel compared to the canine cacophony.
"Gentlemen, behave yourselves," he said to the dogs, prepared for the usual struggle to keep them from overwhelming a visitor. No matter how well-trained they were (and Winston had spared no expense in obtaining them and their training) Lara spoiled them rotten immediately.
The door swung open to reveal the woman standing on the threshold, even more striking up close. Her eyes, a warm brown so deep they appeared almost black in the fading daylight, met Winston's with a calm assessment.
"Good evening," she said, her voice carrying a subtle accent that Winston couldn't immediately place—Mediterranean, perhaps. "I'm Diana Prince. I'm here to pick up Lara."
Winston inclined his head, already reaching to restrain Arthur, who typically insisted upon a thorough investigation of all visitors. "Miss Prince. Please come in. Lady Croft will be down shortly."
He stepped aside, braced for the customary chaos of three over-eager guard dogs attempting to assert their dominance through sheer size and noise.
Instead, a strange silence fell over the foyer.
All three dogs sat still, their heads tilted in unison as they regarded Diana Prince with an intensity that Winston had never witnessed before. There was no more barking, no jostling for position, none of the slobbery overexuberance that characterized their usual greetings. They simply watched, alert but calm, as if waiting for instruction.
Diana stepped across the threshold with that same controlled grace, then crouched before the dogs. She extended her hand palm-up and spoke softly in what Winston recognized with surprise as Greek.
"Hello, guardians," she murmured, her voice taking on a musical quality.
Arthur, who once growled at a visiting Duke of Edinburgh until the man retreated to his car, pushed his head against Diana's palm with a whine. Conan followed, his tail sweeping the floor in slow, dignified arcs. Most astonishing of all, young Doyle—excitable Doyle, who once ate Winston's favorite pair of shoes and loved to terrorize the gardening staff—settled onto his haunches and offered his paw like a trained show dog.
Winston couldn't conceal his astonishment. "They're not usually so... restrained with strangers."
Diana smiled as she scratched behind Arthur's ears, finding the spot that Winston knew he preferred.
"Dogs are excellent judges of character," she said, her eyes never leaving the animals. "They sense intention better than most humans. Don't you, gentlemen?"
The way she addressed them—not as pets but as equals worthy of respect—struck Winston as peculiar. More curious still was how she seemed to know precisely how to touch each dog, adapting her approach to their individual preferences without being shown. Conan, who disliked having his head touched, received gentle strokes along his shoulder. Doyle, who craved more energetic attention, got a vigorous rub that made his back leg thump against the floor.
"Extraordinary," Winston said, more to himself than Diana.
She rose to her full height, which Winston noticed was taller than average for a woman, with a presence that somehow filled the space without seeming to try. The dogs remained seated around her, looking up with adoration usually reserved for Lara alone.
"They're beautiful animals," she said, her gaze traveling over each dog. "Mastiffs have been guardians since ancient times. The Greeks and Romans valued them highly."
It was the sort of comment any educated person might make, yet something in her tone pointed to personal knowledge rather than academic learning. Winston added that to his mental dossier of observations. Either Diana Prince was what she claimed to be, but with an unusual background, or she was someone else entirely—someone who had gone to considerable trouble to create a convincing professional identity. Neither possibility alleviated Winston's concerns where Lara was involved.
"Shall I show you to the drawing room while you wait?" he offered, professional mask in place despite his internal calculations.
Diana shook her head, her attention drawn toward the back of the house.
"Something smells absolutely delicious," she said. Without waiting for a response, she moved with confident familiarity toward the kitchen, the dogs falling into step beside her like a well-trained honor guard.
Winston followed, watching as her eyes scanned each doorway and corridor they passed. Not in the casual behavior of a visitor, or with the curiosity of an academic at such a historic property. No. It was the behavior of someone trained to evaluate surroundings for threats and escape routes—someone like himself.
The question that troubled Winston as he followed Diana and her adopted canine entourage wasn't whether she was dangerous. He was quite certain she was. The real question was whether that danger posed any threat to Lara, or if, perhaps, it might be precisely what she needed.
Diana entered the kitchen as if she'd been there a dozen times before. Winston noted the way her eyes swept the room—exits, occupants, potential weapons—before her face bloomed into a warm smile. It was a familiar sequence, one he performed himself countless times. Not the habit one would expect from a museum curator, however distinguished, but of someone trained to assess and address threats within seconds of entering a space.
She behaved like a combat veteran.
Edgar and Claudette, oblivious to such subtleties, straightened up at the unexpected entrance, Edgar hastily wiping flour from his hands onto his apron.
"Oh! Hello there," he said, surprise giving way to delight as he took in their visitor. He shot Winston a quick, wide-eyed look.
"Something smells absolutely divine," Diana said, inhaling with obvious appreciation. "Sourdough, isn't it? With... is that olive and rosemary I detect?"
Edgar's face transformed with pleasure. Nothing won his heart faster than interest in his culinary efforts, and Diana had struck gold on her first attempt. "It is! Though this particular loaf has been giving me fits all afternoon. The humidity affects the proving, you see."
Diana approached the kitchen island, studying the dough with what appeared to be actual curiosity. "My sister, Chloe, always said that sourdough has a temperament all its own. It responds to the baker's mood as much as to technique."
"Exactly that!" Edgar's previous frustration with the dough vanished. "Winston thinks I'm being dramatic, you know, but baking is a relationship. I'm Edgar Braddock, by the way. The chef here at Croft Manor."
He extended his hand across the flour-dusted counter.
"Diana Prince." She clasped his hand firmly. "A pleasure to meet you, chef Braddock. I can tell from just the aroma that I'm in the presence of true talent."
Winston observed the exchange with narrowed eyes. Diana's knowledge of baking seemed casual enough, but there was an accuracy to her compliments that alluded to strategy rather than coincidence. She had identified what would flatter Edgar the most—recognition of his skill rather than his position.
"Please, call me Edgar," his husband insisted, practically glowing. "Are you a baker yourself, Ms. Prince?"
"Diana, please," she said with an amiable smile. "And no, not really, though I appreciate the craft. I'm Greek—from Athens originally—so food is practically religion where I come from."
Edgar's eyes widened. "Greek! Oh, how wonderful. The foundation of Mediterranean cuisine, the olive oil, the honey, the fresh herbs—"
And he was off, hands gesturing as he launched into his appreciation of Greek culinary traditions.
Winton filed away this new information. Athens explained the accent. Though something about it seemed oddly formal. He'd met many Greeks during his military service, and Diana's speech patterns didn't quite match the Athenian cadence he recalled.
Diana kept pace with Edgar's enthusiastic culinary discourse, demonstrating a knowledge of traditional Greek cooking that went beyond tourist familiarity. She mentioned regional variations of dishes that Winston had never heard of, and spoke of preparation methods with the authority of someone who personally prepared them many times.
"Chloe's spanakopita was legendary," she told Edgar, her expression softening with what appeared to be genuine nostalgia. "She insisted on hand-rolling the phyllo dough—said you could taste the difference."
"A woman after my own heart," Edgar said. "The machines cannot replicate human touch. I've always said that."
"I have a particular weakness for loukoumades," Diana said, leaning against the counter. "The honey-soaked dough reminds me of home."
As Edgar launched into his own experiences with Greek desserts, Winston studied Diana more closely. Her hands rested on the counter, and he noticed calluses across her palms and the base of her fingers—not the soft hands of someone who spent their days in climate-controlled museum environments, but the hardened skin of someone who regularly gripped weapons or climbing ropes. A thin scar traced the edge of her right wrist, concealed by her blazer but visible when she gestured.
""Donc, c'est elle la nouvelle venue?" Claudette's voice cut through Edgar's enthusiastic description of a recent attempt at baklava. She had approached quietly, curiosity apparently overcoming her usual reserve with strangers.
Diana turned to her with a seamless shift in demeanor, her posture becoming more formal as she recognized the older woman's dignity.
"Oui, Madame. Je suis Diana Prince," she replied in flawless French, that caused Claudette's eyebrows to rise. "Et vous êtes?"
"Madame Claudette Dubois," the housekeeper said, her typical severity softening at the perfect pronunciation of her native tongue. "Je m'occupe de la maison Croft."
What followed was a rapid exchange in French that left Winston struggling to keep up despite his serviceable knowledge of the language. Diana spoke not just fluently, but with the nuanced rhythm of someone who had lived in France, adapting to Claudette's particular regional accent with ease. The housekeeper, normally so reserved with visitors, relaxed into the conversation, her rigid posture softening.
Winston caught references to various regions of France, to particular fabrics and household management techniques, and to what sounded like shared opinions on proper linen care. Diana listened attentively to Claudette's views on these matters, nodding at appropriate moments and asking questions that showed true interest rather than polite obligation.
"Votre français est impeccable," Claudette finally declared, the highest compliment she was likely to bestow at a first meeting. "Où l'avez-vous appris?"
"J'ai passé quelques années à Paris," Diana said. "À la Sorbonne."
Winston added this detail to his growing mental file. The Sorbonne was prestigious enough, but it didn't explain the physical capabilities he'd observed. Advanced degrees in art history or archaeology rarely required the kind of physical conditioning evident in Diana's bearing. Unless, of course, the academic credentials were merely a cover for something else.
As he watched Diana charm both Edgar and Claudette with effortless grace, Winston's unease deepened. She navigated the social dynamics of the kitchen with the preciseness of a tactical operation—identifying each person's interests and adapting her approach accordingly. It was well-executed enough to appear natural, but Winston recognized the technique. Intelligence operatives were trained in those methods of rapid rapport-building.
What troubled him most was not that she employed those skills, but that he couldn't discern her ultimate objective. If her interest in Lara was simply professional or even romantic, why the elaborate performance? The level of preparation suggested something more strategic.
Edgar had retrieved a small plate of sesame cookies he'd baked the previous day, offering them to Diana with a flourish. "Not quite koulouria, I'm afraid, but my humble attempt."
Diana accepted one, taking a bite and closing her eyes briefly.
"Delicious," she said. "The hint of orange zest is amazing."
Edgar beamed at Winston as if to say: She's perfect!
The easy way Diana won over the Croft household staff would have been impressive if it didn't trigger every warning instinct Winston had developed through decades of service and protection. People who could charm this effectively were either naturally charismatic or professionally trained. Given the other evidence, Winston suspected the latter.
His attention caught on another detail as Diana reached for a second cookie. Her blazer shifted, revealing the lean muscle of her forearm. Most museum professionals developed specific types of strength from handling artifacts and archives—strong wrists and careful fingers. Diana's musculature inferred a different kind of training altogether: the defined sinew of combat readiness.
Winston's suspicions crystallized into certainty. Diana Prince was not simply who she claimed to be. The question remained whether her interest in Lara was authentic or part of some larger agenda. His duty to the Croft family demanded caution, yet the warm animation in Diana's expression as she discussed Greek traditions with Edgar seemed authentic enough.
"Winston," Edgar said, breaking into his thoughts, "doesn't Diana's description of Athenian street markets remind you of that little place we found in Morocco? The one with the spice merchant who tried to sell you that horrid cologne?"
Winston blinked, forcing his features into a pleasant mask.
"Indeed," he said, smoothly rejoining the conversation. "Though as I recall, you were quite taken with that cologne until you realized it contained ambergris."
Edgar shuddered. "Don't remind me. I still can't believe I almost purchased whale vomit as a souvenir."
Diana laughed, the sound warm and surprisingly unguarded. For a moment, the bearing Winston had observed seemed to fall away, revealing something more real beneath. The dogs, still arranged around her like satellites, sighed at the sound.
Before Winston could recalibrate his assessment, a fresh wave of excited whining erupted from the dogs. Their heads turned in unison toward the grand staircase beyond the kitchen, ears perked in anticipation. Even in this, Winston noted, they looked to Diana first, as if seeking permission before rushing off to greet their mistress.
"That will be Lady Croft," Winston said, studying Diana's reaction.
Her response was immediate and unguarded—a subtle intake of breath, a straightening of her posture, and most tellingly, a soft flush that spread across her cheekbones. The micro-expressions flashed across her face too quickly to be manufactured: anticipation, nervousness, and unmistakable joy.
It was this last reaction that gave Winston pause. Whatever else Diana Prince might be hiding, her eagerness to see Lara appeared genuine. That didn't necessarily make her less dangerous—in Winston's experience, honest emotion could be more unpredictable than calculated interest—but it suggested her presence here wasn't purely professional or strategic.
"Shall we?" Diana asked, her eyes meeting Winston's with a directness that acknowledged his scrutiny. There was a challenge in her gaze, not hostile but aware—one professional recognizing another.
Winston inclined his head, conceding the round, if not the match.
"After you," he said, gesturing toward the foyer.
Diana moved toward the sound with purposeful grace, the dogs trailing after her once more. Edgar and Claudette exchanged excited glances before following, their earlier suspicions forgotten in the face of Diana's charm.
Winston brought up the rear, his protective instincts still on high alert. Whoever Diana Prince truly was, she had enchanted not only the manor's human occupants but its canine guardians as well. Only Winston remained unconvinced—a solitary skeptic watching from the shadows as his household fell under her spell.
The dogs' barking took on a different cadence—not the warning calls reserved for strangers, but the jubilant greeting they saved for their mistress. Winston turned toward the grand staircase just as Lara appeared at the top, and for a moment, he barely recognized her. The transformation wasn't in her clothing—she wore dark jeans and that green cashmere jumper she'd been searching for, simple and elegant—but in her bearing. Lara Croft, who faced down armed mercenaries and ancient traps with sardonic composure, descended the stairs with the poorly contained energy of someone trying very hard to appear casual and failing. Her eyes, usually sharp with calculation or narrowed in concentration, were bright and searching until they landed on Diana. The change that came over her face in that moment told Winston more than any background check ever could.
Winston's attention shifted to Diana, cataloging her response. The subtle hitch in her breathing. The unconscious straightening of her posture. Most telling was the softening around her eyes—a brief, unguarded moment of vulnerability that contradicted everything about her controlled demeanor. Her lips parted, and Winston recognized the expression of someone seeing something precious after a separation, however brief.
Edgar pressed close to his side, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them. "This is better than the season finale of my favorite drama."
Lara paused halfway down the staircase, one hand on the ornate banister.
"You're early," she called to Diana, the casual accusation belied by the smile she couldn't seem to suppress.
"Traffic was lighter than expected," Diana said, her voice carrying a warmth Winston hadn't heard in their kitchen conversation. "I can circle the block a few times if you prefer."
"Don't you dare." Lara descended the remaining stairs with quickened steps, hardly acknowledging the dogs that swarmed around her legs. Her focus remained on Diana, as if gravity itself had shifted in the room.
Winston had seen Lara return from expeditions with priceless artifacts—ancient treasures sought by museums and collectors worldwide. He'd witnessed her triumphant smile when she solved puzzles that had confounded scholars for centuries. But he had never seen her radiate joy quite like this—an incandescent quality that transformed her usual guarded expression into something open and almost startlingly young.
The dogs circled the two women, tails whipping the air in frantic arcs of approval. Arthur, ever the dignified patriarch, positioned himself beside Diana's leg as if he'd been assigned as her personal guardian. Conan divided his attention between the two women, while young Doyle bounced between them, unable to contain his excitement.
"I see you've met everyone," Lara said, glancing around at the gathered staff with a flush rising to her cheeks. The battle-hardened archaeologist who had stared down the barrels of countless guns without flinching now appeared almost shy.
"Your household has been very welcoming," Diana said, her eyes never leaving Lara's face. "Edgar has been telling me about his adventures in Greek cuisine."
"God help us all," Lara murmured with familiar affection, finally turning to acknowledge the others. "I hope he hasn't threatened to make you his test subject for experimental baklava."
"Only twice," Diana answered with a conspiratorial smile.
Winston observed the space between them—close enough to suggest intimacy but not touching, maintaining a public propriety that spoke of consideration for those watching. Yet even without physical contact, an invisible current seemed to connect them, apparent in the way they oriented toward each other like compass needles finding north.
Edgar, never one to respect invisible boundaries, stepped forward with a theatrical clearing of his throat. "So, Lady Croft, were you planning to officially introduce your mysterious guest, or shall we continue pretending we haven't been dying of curiosity for the past hour?"
Lara's blush deepened, a reaction so uncharacteristic that Winston might have found it amusing under different circumstances.
"Right. Yes. Edgar, Claudette, Winston—this is Diana Prince. She's the Ancient Greek curator at the British Museum." A pause, during which Winston detected a slight acceleration in her speech pattern. "And my... we're... dating."
The last word emerged with a hint of defiance, as if Lara expected challenge or disapproval. Instead, Edgar stepped forward to clasp Diana's hand between both of his.
"Absolutely delightful to meet you properly," he declared. "You must join us for dinner soon. I make an excellent moussaka that's only slightly inauthentic."
"I'd like that," Diana said with a warm smile.
Claudette nodded her approval, her usual severity softened by obvious satisfaction. "C'est bien."
Winston maintained his position apart from the others, watching as Lara's posture relaxed. The subtle tension that had lined her shoulders since her father's disappearance—a vigilance that never fully abated even in the supposed safety of home—eased in Diana's presence. It was this, more than anything, that gave Winston the most pause in his assessment.
"We should probably get going," Lara said, glancing at her watch. "Our reservation is for eight."
"Of course." Diana turned to Edgar and Claudette with a gracious smile. "It was lovely meeting you both."
She then met Winston's gaze, a knowing look passing between them. "And you as well, Mr. Braddock. I hope we'll have more time to talk on my next visit."
The phrasing—not 'if I visit again' but 'on my next visit'—carried a quiet confidence that Winston noted. This woman intended to remain in Lara's life, and she was aware of Winston's scrutiny.
"I look forward to it, Ms. Prince," he replied with a professional courtesy that masked his lingering reservations.
As the group moved toward the front entrance, Winston observed the subtle choreography between Lara and Diana. They moved together with an unconscious synchronicity that implied more time in each other's company than Lara's recent schedule would seem to allow. Diana's hand came to rest at the small of Lara's back as they navigated the threshold—a protective gesture so natural it appeared instinctive.
More telling still was Lara's response to the touch. She, who bristled at any hint of coddling, who had once dislocated a security guard's shoulder for grabbing her elbow without permission, leaned almost imperceptibly into Diana's palm. The trust implicit in that slight movement spoke volumes.
"Don't wait up," Lara called over her shoulder, a familiar instruction that carried a new meaning in the present company.
Edgar waggled his eyebrows, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from Claudette and a warning look from Winston.
"Have a wonderful evening, dear thing!" he called, undeterred. "Do remember you're having breakfast with the Japanese ambassador tomorrow."
Lara waved acknowledgment without turning, already focused on Diana and whatever conversation had begun between them as they crossed the gravel drive. Winston stepped onto the front portico, watching as Diana opened the passenger door of the Audi for Lara—another small courtesy that Lara accepted without her usual insistence on independence.
The evening air carried fragments of their conversation back to Winston: Lara's low laugh, Diana's murmured response, the comfortable cadence of people who had developed their own shorthand. As Diana moved around to the driver's side, her hand trailed across Lara's shoulders—a casual touch that carried a weight of affection.
The Audi's engine purred to life, headlights sweeping across the manicured grounds as it turned toward the long driveway. Winston remained on the portico until the taillights disappeared around the bend, his thoughts churning beneath his impassive exterior.
"Well!" Edgar said, as Winston returned to the kitchen. "That was absolutely not what I expected from a museum curator."
"Elle est magnifique," Claudette agreed, returning to her abandoned laundry basket with renewed vigor. "And did you see how she looks at Lady Croft? Like she is the only treasure worth finding."
Edgar clapped his hands together in delight. "Exactly! And Lara—our Lara—blushing like a schoolgirl. I never thought I'd see the day."
Winston settled back onto his stool, retrieving his now-cold tea as Edgar launched into an enthusiastic analysis of Diana's many virtues. The dogs had arranged themselves near Winston's feet, still unusually calm in the wake of Diana's departure.
"She's perfect for Lara," Edgar concluded, returning to his sourdough with fresh inspiration. "Strong enough to match her, but gentle too. Did you see the way she handled Arthur? As if he were a gentleman at court rather than a slobbery beast."
"And she speaks proper French," Claudette added, clearly won over by this particular attribute. "Not the tourist French or the textbook French. She has lived among French people."
Winston sipped his tea, letting their enthusiasm wash over him while his mind worked through the evidence. Diana Prince presented as many questions as answers. Her physical capabilities, her knowledge of languages, the way she moved through the manor's layout—all insinuated a background far more complex than 'museum curator.' Yet her affection for Lara appeared undeniably real.
"Winston?" Edgar prompted, breaking into his thoughts. "You've been awfully quiet. What did you think of her?"
Winston chose his words carefully. "She's certainly impressive."
"But?" Edgar prodded, knowing his husband too well to miss the reservation in his tone.
"But nothing," Winston replied, offering a small smile. "I simply believe in being cautious where Lady Croft's happiness is concerned."
Edgar's expression softened. He abandoned his dough long enough to rest a flour-dusted hand on Winston's shoulder. "You've been protecting her since she was a child. It's hard to stop, I know."
Winston covered Edgar's hand with his own, appreciating the understanding behind the gentle reproof. "Some habits are difficult to break."
"Lady Croft has chosen well," Claudette said with the authority of one delivering a final verdict. "This Diana, she has substance. And she makes Lady Croft smile—truly smile. When was the last time we saw that?"
Winston couldn't argue with this assessment. The luminous quality that had suffused Lara's features when she looked at Diana was something he hadn't witnessed since before Richard Croft's disappearance. For years, Lara's smiles had been brief and sardonic, weapons deployed strategically rather than expressions of actual pleasure.
"Perhaps you're right," he conceded. "Still, it doesn't hurt to be vigilant."
Edgar squeezed his shoulder before returning to his baking.
"Of course you'll investigate her thoroughly. More thoroughly," he said with fond exasperation. "I wouldn't expect anything less. But do try to be happy for Lara in the meantime, won't you?"
Winston's lips curved into a small smile.
"I am happy for her," he said. "I want to ensure it lasts."
As Edgar and Claudette continued their animated discussion of Diana's merits, Winston's thoughts turned to the background check he would inevitably run. His contacts in military intelligence and security services could provide information beyond what was publicly available on the British Museum's curator of Ancient Greek artifacts.
Yet even as he planned his discreet inquiries, Winston found himself hoping the investigation would reveal nothing concerning. The joy in Lara's eyes when she saw Diana had been real—a rare and precious thing for someone who had lost so much. If Diana Prince could restore that light to Lara Croft's life, then perhaps she was exactly what Lara needed, regardless of whatever secrets she might harbor.
Winston sipped the last of his cold tea, his protective instincts balanced against the undeniable evidence of Lara's happiness. He would watch and wait, as he had always done—a silent guardian in the shadows of Croft Manor, ready to intervene if necessary, but hoping with all his heart that it would never be required.