Note for DST Players
You are more than welcome to read this story, but it is out-of-character information unless one of the Storytellers tells you otherwise. And if they do, believe that I will go to them for confirmation.
John Rhinehart was a busy man, at the best of times. As a man with significant influence within Britain's Conservative Party - yet holding no elected post - most of his time was spent carefully persuading powerful-yet-vain men around to his point of view. It was Rhinehart's firm belief that he had a far better idea of what was good for the United Kingdom than any transitory politician. And it was Rhinehart's great good luck that the Prince of London - and certain key others - agreed with him, otherwise he would just be another noisy Ventrue.
As it stood, Rhinehart worked as a key assistant to the Prince - and as assistant to one of those key others - Rhinehart had a fine office within sight of the Houses of Parliament, and a nice little empire to call his own. Well, technically this empire wasn't his own, but who really runs the house - the butler or the master? Of course, the butler could easily be dismissed, and Rhinehart wasn't a fool. But, in the meantime, he lived his life to the fullest and rightly believed himself to be the envy of almost every other Ventrue in England.
But that envy had a price, not the least of which was the fact that Rhinehart had to work - and work hard - to keep his position. At the moment, he was busily trying to encourage the London media to move it's attention away from yet another case of reprehensible police brutality in Brixton, and the last thing he needed was the stupid affairs of a ghoul distracting him. "Stupid affair" being a literal description in this case.
"Drat." It was the strongest oath he was going to mutter in the presence of the one who stood before him, in his Whitehall office. On his desk were several photographs, black and white and somewhat blurry, but the subjects were recognizable enough. Rhinehart glanced at the one who had brought them, David Gray, a Nosferatu neonate of middling standard. As per the rules, David was not wearing his true expression, and for that Rhinehart was extremely grateful.
David concealed a small smile. He, knew that Rhinehart liked to play the part of the ice-cold Ventrue, but he couldn't hold it together as well as he thought he could. David recognized one of the subjects in the photos that had been provided by one of his contacts, and he knew that Rhinehart had just been handed another headache. Watching the toffs trying to maintain their standards in the face of constantly hypocritical behavior was a constant source of amusement for the Nosferatu of London, and tonight was no different.
"Well, he's one of your men, ain't he?" David commently casually. "Won't be too hard to keep him in line, will it?"
Rhinehart glanced down at his desk. The man in question was Geoffrey Herbert, a young Conservative Member of Parliament, and the photographs on Rhinehart's desk featured him with a lady in what is euphemestically referred to as a 'compromising positon'.
"It's not as bad as all that." Rhinehart admitted. "At least he's single-"
"And this proves he's straight." David chuckled, ignoring John's glare.
"Quite." John muttered. "As I was saying. Herbert's single, he's just got abominable timing. Where was this taken?"
David withdrew a small, grimy, notebook from his pocket and flipped a few pages. "At a charity fundraiser. Something for kids with leukemia, down in Eastbourne, two days ago."
Rhinehart nodded. Herbert's constituency was Eastbourne.
"Bloody fool has no sense." Rhinehart commented, dryly. David didn't reply. "Right then. Thanks for passing this on. I'll take care of things from here."
David nodded. "I'll put this on the bill, shall I?" he smiled greedily.
"Of course, of course." John gestured impatiently. "You'll be paid promptly. If you'll excuse me, I have some calls to make."
"You're welcome." David grinned, not minding the Ventrue's impatience, and sauntered out of the office.
Once John was reasonably confident that he was alone, he picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Conservative Whips' office, in the nearby House of Commons. Rhinehart recognized the reedy voice of the man who answered the phone almost immediately, and he gave quiet thanks to the early winter evenings that made business with humans much easier.
"Richard, it's John." Richard Whitefoot was one of the senior whips of his party, and a useful ally.
Rhinehart spoke quickly, not bothering to waste time. "Your young firebrand has been wandering again...Yes, Herbert." John nodded in sympathy. "I know, I know it's difficult, but I've got some photographs here that might help you keep him in line....Yes, I thought you might find that useful. Send one of your chaps my way and I'll pass them on, alright? Half an hour? Fine...Goodbye."
Rhinehart put the phone down and sighed wearily. Taking care of Herbert had been the easy part. The Ventrue had kept close contact with the Tories for centuries, and on the rare occasions when there was direct contact, it was easily handled.
"Now for the annoying part." Rhinehart muttered, pressing a button on his intercom. "Alison," She was his hard-working, but utterly unaware, assistant. "Call Mattie Storin on her mobile and get her in here, as soon as possible." Rhinehart's tone hardened. "And tell her if she's not here within two hours, she may as well leave the country…"