Sir Andrew Ffoulkes knocked at the door to Lord Grenville's townhouse and demanded of the butler to see the man at once. He was shown into a parlour and bid to wait, which he did. Pacing up and down he noted that there was no fire in the grate. The footman was lighting fresh candles. The house was nearly silent. It was a little after ten PM, but it appeared that the Grenvilles had already retired for the night. Damned odd! When Grenville appeared he was wearing his robe and nightcap, his funny round face unfamiliar beneath it. "Forgive me, milord for disturbing you. I had expected to find you at the Embassy." Grenville looked perplexed. "Did you not receive my note?"

"No."

"I have pressing business, milord," Andrew said, speaking carefully. "A package from - afar."

"You mean...tonight?" Grenville's expression changed, his languor vanished. Ffoulkes nodded, a single, significant nod. "I shall come at once."

Sir Andrew circled the parlour, settling at last on a book abandoned on the table. He sat down next to the candles to read a few pages while he waited but the cursed thing was in some foreign lingo. "Anne," he muttered and tossed the book aside. Grenville's wife was a known blue-stocking. The book was probably in Portuguese or Egyptian! With nothing better to occupy his mind, Andrew was forced to wonder what had become of the courier he'd sent to Grenville from Dover that morning with his hastily scrawled letter.

He was tremendously relieved that he'd followed Percy's oft-repeated demand that nothing be committed to paper that could link him to the Pimpernel League, even though Grenville, of necessity, was aware of their work and his identity as Blakeney's first lieutenant. What had become of his courier? Who had intercepted his note?

Grenville returned, hastily garbed in clothes of grim severity. The man had no fashion sense! Plain black breeches of capacious cut when the fops wore theirs as tight as could be sewn. His coat was grim with flat reivers and simple buttons. One would think the man had to live on a salary! He wore a periwig. Recently powdered. Andrew sighed.

Grenville motioned with his eyebrows that Ffoulkes should follow him. They didn't speak until after the front door was closed behind them and they hurried to the street. Grenville's house was a block from the embassy - they walked quickly, passing all number of well dressed men and fancy women along the way. 'Twas a fine night for strolling and Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been away from London far too long!

"Now, tell me everything," Grenville demanded.

"I have left the Count du Tournai, his countess and daughter in the care of your usher."

"Good lord! Du Tournai, you say? I can't believe it!" This was strong emotion for the normally placid Grenville.

"Why can't you believe it?" Andrew asked.

"I had a dispatch from Paris only yesterday saying that they were holding the count for questioning regarding his accounts when he was their Ambassador to England."

Andrew chuckled. "No doubt we moved quicker than the mail."

"Why was I not informed," Grenville asked somewhat peevishly. "Sir Percy is slipping."

Andrew stopped walking. "He hasn't been to see you?"

"No. You mean..."

"He left ferrying the family to me. I was sure he was making his way to London."

"When?"

"Well a good deal earlier than I! I've travelled in a brougham. Three changes of horses. A sick girl..." He paused at that. "The little mademoiselle was somewhat motion-sick and no one slept well the night before. Besides which, there was some excitement in Kent. I'm sure we were followed."

As they climbed the stairs to he embassy, Andrew finished telling Grenville the story of how he and Armand had been chased through the Paris streets by a group of urchins. "Armand called them ABC students. I have no idea who they were, but he was terrified of them."

"I've no information on that phenomenon," Grenville said.

"Phenomenon? A handful of mean-spirited little braggards is all, but armed, damn it! Dangerous little buggers."

The door opened as they reached the top step - obviously the usher had been watching for them. "Lord Grenville," he bowed. "I did my best, sir."

"I'm sure you did, Tompkins. I hear you have a sick child on your hands."

"I sent for me mum, sir. She's comin' 'round with a posset for the poor thing."

"Good work, Tompkins. I hope you don't mind staying on for a bit. I'll need you to witness a few signatures."

Andrew sighed. They were all in for a long night. Most of the time Grenville had the paperwork ready when the refugees arrived. Damned odd it was that the courier had gone missing.

"I'd best see the young lady first and ascertain if we require a doctor."

Andrew watched Grenville disappear behind a door he knew belonged to the private antechamber. Now he had two dilemmas on his hands - the missing courier and missing Blakeney. The man had definitely left Fisherman's Rest, but had he got out of Dover ? More than ever Andrew wondered about the Spanish marquise and what sort of torment she might have led with her across the channel. Was there someone more than the customs inspector looking for her?

"I should tell Grenville to expect her, too," he said aloud. " Bathurst was so taken with her appearance in that shirt, he'd never think to write a letter." And Hastings , fool, was useless at planning. Andrew couldn't fathom why Blakeney so admired the lad. At least Dewhurst was good for an idea or two and could be counted on to be where he was told to go - pouting and dragging his feet, but complying. The only one Ffoulkes had any faith in was Mackensie, who was too stupid to do anything on his own.

Listen to me, he thought. I've been so long away, I hate everyone. What I really need is some congenial company and decent English food!

Grenville had been generous with his liquor once he'd understood something of their perilous adventure. The count, who had stood largely silent, too terrified of any consequence to stand up against any threat that might riccochet from his actions to affect his family, became voluble under its influence.

"I swear to you, that war is imminent." Du Tournai was ashen with misery. "So long as Bailly continued to hold sway there was a voice of reason holding the ship, but that's all changed now. The National Asssembly is not like any rational form of government. There are not two factions opposing each other; it's a collective with a thousand voices tugging in ten different directions."

"Perhaps war will be for the best," Grenville said. "The reports suggest they'll turn on Spain next. My intuition is that such a move would only strengthen the chances of the royal family since the Spanish king is cousin King Louis."

"You continue to mistake me, sir," du Tournai protested. "I mean to say that there will be war declared on England! It's what *they* want. Danton. Petion. Vergniaud. These are the voices heard now and they make Lafayette sound like a peeved wetnurse!"

"It would be certain madness to declare war on us," Ffoulkes said, awe colouring his tone, "and for what possible reason?"

"D'you think Danton needs a reason?" du Tournai sniffed.

"Of course I don't!" Andrew shouted. Quickly regaining control he said, "I've stood toe to toe with the mob, I've seen the way the leaders sway the minds of their followers." He didn't mention how he'd worn a red bonnet himself and cheered along. Didn't mention how he'd been tailing Chauvelin and learning nothing.

"War would provide greater difficulties than I can envision if you're right, monsieur" Grenville said, "because our spies have provided nothing useful to work with. We have nothing!"

"I agree that you have nothing in the way of useful information," Ffoulkes said levelly. "All you have is the interference of my chief and our league. I say, milord," he changed the subject, "would you mind if I sent a little of this heartening spirit to the ladies? Madame is chilled and the little one could only benefit."

At the same moment that Grenville muttered, "of course," the count said, "Don't waste your time, Sir Andrew; my wife never touches spirits and she'd refuse it to Suzanne on principle."

"Even if her life were in danger?" Andrew asked. "I've been in your company for three days sir. She's truly at the end of her strength!" Had the starchy countess refused the usher's mother to give her brandy-laced posset to little Anne? "In that case, I'll take the liberty of ordering your domestics to prepare a room here, for the only way you'll move the poor child is with a stretcher."

Andrew stormed out of the conference, seething with unexplained rage. He didn't rationalise why he felt protective; he flung himself into action on her behalf as if it were the most natural thing to do.

Bellowing crossly, Andrew bullied two terrified maids into lightning speed in making up a room for Mademoiselle du Tournai. Then, well on the road to a full-fledged temper tantrum, he hurled himself toward the door where the countess was holed up with her daughter. "How dare you call yourself a mother, madam? You are a danger to life itself! That child is ill, can't you see it?"

The countess slowly rose from the low stool next to the chair where Suzanne lay. After the time it had taken her to get to her feet, Andrew was surprised at the speed with which she whirled on him. "You're impudence is unpardonable!"

Nothing wrong with her English, he thought. It bore less of the lilting accent he adored in Lady Blakeney's speech and was more fluent, as if she'd spent many years speaking the language. "I didn't risk my life for her so you can kill her with neglect, madam." He struggled to keep his tone low. The heat of his anger spiced the words.

The countess took a step backward and fear rose in her eyes. "How dare you? You have no right here."

"I have the right of compassion, as any man would to intervene at the sight of a whipped dog or a threatened child." He stepped closer to the chair, looking down at Suzanne's waxen face. "I have ordered a heartening broth for her," he told her mother, "and I will feed her myself."

"Wait a minute..." The countess's face was grey, her eyes sparking aggressively. Ffoulkes rushed toward her, sending her cowering back against the wall. "Furthermore," he said imperiously, "she is staying here with Lord Grenville. A room has been prepared for her where she will be nursed. Her ladyship has been summoned as well as a doctor." He hadn't gone that far - yet, but he would.

"Go away," the countess hissed. "While I appreciate your intervention in our fates, I am not beholden to you in any way. You will not have your way with my child in the name of gallantry - oh I know your kind! Fashionable lechers, every one of you! We will no longer be rich, but her dowry is intact and the name of du Tournai is as respected in London as it was in Paris. She will make a grand marriage. Go away."

"How can you even think that I..." Andrew began, his voice trembling with rage, then he stopped and abruptly left the room, careful not to let the door slam it for all he wished to slam it so hard the roof caved in. He would never do anything to hurt the sweet girl. He'd been about to say so, when he remembered the kiss. He had begged a kiss from her - which was an unforgivable liberty. Had she told her mother about that? He dared not say now that he would do nothing to harm Suzanne's reputation; he already had. Damn his impulsiveness!

"You haven't seen the last of me," he muttered as he flew down the hall back to where Grenville and the count were signing the official requests for asylum.

Ffoulkes barged into Grenville's office, upsetting both the count and the ambassador with his abruptness and his hostile, staring silence.

"I will take these papers to Saint James tomorrow to be filed, but by my authority, the deed is final here and now. After filing, copies will be forwarded to such that remains of your country's government." Grenville said, picking up his conversation while he watched Sir Andrew stalk the perimeter of the room.

"I need permission," Andrew said, "to contact your wife, sir. The child is dangerously ill. I'd advise we call in your lady to assist."

The count got to his feet at once, looking frightened. "Suzanne?" he whispered. Behind him the door opened quickly and his wife slid inside, then halted when she saw Ffoulkes was there with the count. Their silent exchange of searing glances spoke for them and du Tournai moved toward his wife, taking her outstretched hand. She spoke low, but in the silence everyone heard.

"She's more tired than truly ill," Her liquid French was like vinegar to Andrew and he wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"She was bonny and lively when first I saw her. Three days, madam, has wrought tremendous changes if she's merely fatigued."

"You overstep yourself, Ffoulkes," Grenville said. "I will summon Lady Grenville, of course, but you must temper your outbursts."

"Do you all wish to see her worse? How many children have you watched die, milord? I have seen several. They wilt as quickly as summer flowers. My youngest sister went in three days. On Wednesday she was climbing the hill behind our house and on Friday she was too frail to stand on her own. Saturday she returned to heaven. Three days! Mademoiselle has performed the same disastrous transformation from blooming beauty to bearing every resemblance to a waxen death mask!" The words, directed to Grenville, were spat at the countess. The ambassador felt the need to place himself between the two combatants.

"That may be true; I do recall that summer - what was it? Two years ago? Perhaps this explanation goes some distance toward showing why you're so adamant on the subject. I must protest on behalf of Milady du Tournai, however, who is the child's mother. The decision is hers; you have no interest here."

"I suspect there is some small interest," the Count du Tournai said. "I have felt a growing attachment developing between the baronet and my daughter - I saw it before we left France."

The countess gasped and nearly toppled over with shock. "You are taken with her fine appearance, yes?" du Tournai asked.

"Taken? I am far more than that, sir. She is perfection itself, but this is hardly the time to speak of my interests while your future is uncertain."

"No it is not the time," the countess hissed. "Not until you assure yourself that she has money will you speak. Once you've investigated and proved to yourself that her dowry is still worth something."

"You wrong me! I demand..."

"Demand? Demand away! My child is not for you! Suzanne's dowry is in Italy. Land. An estate. I will have a duke for her husband and with her Italian property, she will get one."

Fascinated as he was by the French mademoiselle, Andrew saw her lose the battle with consciousness and reacted before anyone else. She seemed to cry out to him - a trick of the light - as he saw her strength slip away. He was moving toward her as she teetered, and he caught her awkwardly before she hit the floor. For several moments he was all disjointed angles and too-long limbs as he secured the child in his grasp and stood upright once more. Her mother was clawing at his sleeve, yanking at Suzanne's skirts, bubbling vowels that didn't form words. Andrew wished to push her aside, to silence her. Holding the girl against his chest had set his heart to beating wildly. He looked at her with dawning surprise; he hadn't expected it to feel like this when he fell in love. No fanfare. No wild ecstasy - it felt more *right* than euphoric. This was love; *she* was the one. He turned to the count, grave and stern, who squared his shoulders and glowered at the English baronet's presumption.

Andrew sucked in his cheeks, his emotions veering between propriety and desire, then passed the bundle into her father's care. "Perhaps you understand my concern - now." It was a taunt. Provocative. Ffoulkes gave Grenville a passing glance as he left the office. Before the door swung shut behind him, everyone heard him call, �Tompkins! Where is that paper you promised me?"

Grenville rolled his eyes, then sighed deeply. "Tis all the fashion around here, since the Prince of Wales fell in love with Lady Blakeney, that the young fops feel it quite acceptable to choose a lover and make her their wife. Bad enough when Hanger married a...but then Blakeney came home with a French actress. Married to her. That's upset everything. Sir Andrew is young. Impressionable. For all that, he's also..."

"I care not what he may be," the countess said harshly. "He will not have my child."

"He would need the best of references for me to even consider it," the count said - which earned him a scathing look from his wife.

"Oh, Ffoulkes has the best references," Grenville said. "The prince will speak for him - as will I. Lord Gilmour was his legal guardian; the Duke of Exeter treats him like a son. And Glynde's bank will attest to his favourable standing in the city."

The count appeared impassive; his wife's thundercloud countenance darkened.

It was a small consolation to see Lord Grenville hurry his usher into summoning the doctor. "I'll take your message to my wife, Sir Andrew," he said. "Everything else has been taken care of...oh save one grave matter."

"It feels like a Mozart symphony," Andrew said. "I hadn't anticipated it could be as simple as this." Greville looked up uneasily. "Well, whatever it is that feels so odd, I'm afraid I've given you away to the family. I called you by name. While I'm sure we can rely on the count's discretion, his wife is far from pleased with you. Let's pray she's not the vindictive type."

"Wishful thinking, milord," Andrew said, "but I shall find a way to keep her amiable. I'll have to...now that I intend to make her my mother-in-law."

Grenville's expression went from chagrin to shock to sour surprise. "I'd hoped you - a lad with some common sense - would be different." He sighed deeply. "What has happened to the order in our lives?"

"Order? I've learned from time spent in France that order is an illusion, sir."

Grenville was still shaking his head when he departed the embassy. A little over half an hour later his wife arrived. Lady Grenville was the former Anne Pitt, sister of the Prime Minister, a tall, raw-boned blonde, silent and efficient. Her father had long been ill before her marriage and she was a famous nurse. She arrived carrying a basket containing a silver urn, and other mysteries.

"Lady Grenville! Thank heaven for your swiftness," Andrew gushed, grabbing one of the woman's hands, shaking it, kissing it, then squeezing it hopefully. She stared in dumb surprise before allowing business to take over. "I'm told you've brought us a sick refugee, Sir Andrew. A little girl. Where is she?"

Andrew led her to the door as the hall clock struck midnight. "Her parents are with her - oh, her mother is Countess du Tournai. No doubt you've met her before."

"I certainly have!" Anne Grenville said. The two women met in the centre of the room, crying greetings, kissing each other's cheeks, and exclaiming at this unusual meeting. Andrew peeked into the room, finding Suzanne sitting in a chair with her father perched protectively on the armrest. Their eyes met across the room and he was warmed by the clear sweetness of her look. Direct. She was not in the habit of flirting with men; perhaps she wouldn't take it up. He sensed gratitude - and something more. But then the door was closed and he wondered if it was only his hopefulness that had added the indefinable *more*.

Fidgeting with the quill, Andrew tried to form words. Framing the message to Lady Grenville had put him into a writing frame of mind and there were other messages to be sent. If he intended to be married there were steps to be taken. A home. He lived in rooms over a shop on Bond Street - close to everything and fashionable, but far too small for a wife. Far more important than a house was his need to meet the woman of his dreams that there were strictures in place to keep them apart - unless he set to work to batter down those barriers. First, he would need to call in favours.

Similar letters followed, each quicker to pen than the previous, to the Duchess of Devonshire, Lady Jersey and other ladies of standing in the ton. He didn't stop to consider the gossip should they discover they'd each been paid to sponsor a party - it was unlikely any of them would dare mention such a fact to even their closest friend. Meanwhile, he would have two months of invitations and be certain to dance with Anne at each function. By then he should know her well enough to approach her father about the question of marriage.

It was very late when Andrew laid down the quill next to a neat pile of letters. He rummaged in his pocket for a few coins to leave on Grenville's desk to cover the cost of postage, then got up and wandered to the window. Black night. Starless. Moonless. Every lantern in the neighbourhood had burned out. An appropriate setting for new beginnings. Andrew breathed in deeply and caught the scent of carrots and onions. The soup! He'd promised the countess that her daughter would have soup from his own hand - what better time than now?

Andrew walked toward the alcove, pausing at the stairs when he saw a footman coming up bearing a tray covered with a cloth.

"Mademoiselle's soup?" he asked, nodding toward the tray. The footman pursed his lips, looking as if he intended to do battle over the tray, then rethought and held it out to Sir Andrew. "You may accompany me to her door if you're afraid I'm planning to poison the broth. I assure you, I've risked my life for her twice in the last thirty-six hours; she won't meet death by my hand."

The footman looked unconvinced, but then, as a servant of the ambassador, he'd probably heard and seen more oddities than would fill a good romance. The two of them walked together to the door at the end of the hall. The footman knocked at the door (because Andrew's hands were full), then turned the knob and left Andrew to enter alone.

The room was close and hot! Andrew nearly spilled the soup as he absorbed the heat that poured out the door. God, why was it people always shut a sickroom up as securely as a tomb? He stepped inside and as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he caught sight of something white against an object of impenetrable black. The white seemed to shiver slightly, then a movement - lord, he was looking at Suzanne! Her hair was loose around her shoulders, a thick mass of wild curls cascading over her shoulders and framing her face like a corolla outlined in a tracery of silver from the flicker at the hearth.

"I've brought you some soup, milady - uh, mademoiselle," he said and cleared his throat. Why had his voice suddenly changed? It was as if a cold had compacted his lungs. He kept walking until he stood next to the chair where she sat, the cooling draught giving life to her nightgown. Her shoulders were round and luminous as marble, her neck long and slender. Her eyes were blacker than the sky. Large, black, and inscrutable. Andrew deposited the tray on a small stand - a plant stand, minus its aspidistra - and fell to his knees at Suzanne's feet.

"I have brought you a nourishing broth. It is my honour to feed you with my own hand, mam'zelle. I fought your mother for this signal honour and won!" It felt good to say it. It felt even better to be near her, aware that she was all but undressed, and he was bent on nothing more sinister than offering her a spoon of soup. God, he must be seriously in love! If the moon had crashed through the roof he couldn't be more amazed. He didn't recognise himself - and was happy for the transformation.

A whispered conversation in the dark, with only the light of the fire and a couple of candles on the mantel for company; the countess would have him hanged for this breach of decency in being alone with her daughter in her bedroom. Well, it was imperative that she not wake up and discover! Andrew rocked back on his heels, gazing up into Anne's eyes, admiring their brightness. She would have him - he knew it. She hadn't turned him away; she'd welcomed him. She'd said, 'It would not suit me well if I were not allowed to see you again Monsieur Ffoulkes,' which could only mean that she did not find him disagreeable. She would not stick her nose in the air and pretend not to know him when he asked for a dance at Lady Portarles's ball.

There was a low stool in the corner by the window. Andrew kicked it into position next to Suzanne's chair. "I have soup for you," he said, "and you have to eat it. Lady Grenville would insist."

He grinned as he said it. Lady Grenville *would* insist. Further, Andrew suspected, once it became known that he and Anne had fallen in love, that Lady Grenville would tell everyone that she had brought them together. She would take full responsibility for everything, which would make Suzanne du Tournai the most respectable emigree in all of London.

Andrew had more experience than he liked to remember in feeding the sick; one after the other of his siblings had died as wave after wave of smallpox ravaged Scotland . Andrew, ward of the forward-thinking Lord Gilmour, had been vaccinated against the disease. As he held the spoon level, careful not to spill a drop on Suzanne's shawl, he thought briefly of his family, inhabitants of the churchyard at Christ the King. He had one sister left, a spinster at the age of twenty-five. What would she think of her only brother taking a French, Catholic wife? The last spoon of soup went down as easily as the first, and no doubt it was in Andrew's imagination that Suzanne looked healthier for it, the light was too insignificant for him to know for certain. He settled the bowl on the floor at his feet.

Suzanne's hair was unbraided, falling loose over her shoulders to her hips. Andrew twined a long strand around his fingers, around and around until it filled his hand. Her eyes were very bright. "Your hair smells like lemon," he said. He was sitting too close. If he leaned toward her he could kiss her and she would let him. It would be a far different kind of kiss from the one she'd given him on the ship, far different. He shut his eyes and willed himself to his feet, unravelling her hair as he stood. Separating himself from her.

"Goodnight, my lady," he said, bowing. He departed quickly, tiptoeing through the silent hall to the front sitting room where his letters still sat on Grenville's desk. He curled up on the sofa and fell into a dreamless sleep.