Émigrés to London

<Chauvelin>

Scarcely half an hour after his interview with Teresia Cabarrus, word came that land was land was in sight. Within a moment the document he had been perusing where neatly returned to their case and all of his personal effects, what little he had brought with him, were compiled and ready for a quick departure. These he took with him as he made his way above board. A dark land mass loomed before them, cutting into the dim sky as it swelled on the horizon. He stayed on deck as the ship made for port, determined to be off the moment it came to land. He would have to locate Beaucarnot, instructed him of the plan, and beat a hasty retreat before someone thought to connect Teresia with him.

The atmosphere seemed to thick as they approach, or at least that was always the impression Chauvelin had when it came. So much more oppressive that in France , and London was even worse that Dover . Perhaps that was why the English were so insensibly dull, nature herself rallied against them. It was a wonder that Marguerite Saint-Just hadn’t withered in these inhospitable climes. Or had she? She seemed withdrawn into herself every time he had seen her – less lively and somewhat morose. However her affect might be more the result of an unfaithful, neglectful husband than of the weather.

When the Magdamoren pulled into Admiralty Pier, Chauvelin waited only for the crew to secure the ship to dock before he bound off and down the pier in search of Beaucarnot. The latter individual was waiting beside a hired carriage, hands thrust in pocket to ward off the cold. He came to attention at the sight of Chauvelin and met him half way, “The carriage is ready for immediate departure. I’ve arranged for a change of horses on the road and instructed the driver where to make the exchanges.”

“Excellent,” Chauvelin said, not pausing or stopping to hear Beaucarnot’s report, but continuing to stride purposefully toward the waiting carriage. “Le Cabarrus is in the cargo hold dressed as a boy with orders to flee ship for Fisherman’s rest. You must watch her closely and insure that nothing interferes with her mission, she will need you to stay close to her and watch for any signal. Obey her instruct and report to me immediately. However, it seems the voyage did not agree with the lady. If she does not make an appearance then forcefully search the ship and bring her out, make it a spectacular production if that is called for. We need her presence to appear creditable. Go now and wait.” This he said as he climbed into the carriage and shut the door in Beaucarnot’s face. Beaucarnot signaled the driver to depart and hurried back to the pier to wait and watch.

<Percy>

Something happened. From one breath to the next Percy had lurched from dream-filled sleep to wakefulness. He lie still, listening. Wind rattled the leaves and a branch set up a pin-point tapping on the glass; none of these were the sounds he was listening for.

The air in the room was heavy with the smell of ashes cooling on the grate and the sweaty musk of unwashed male. Percy turned his eyes toward the centre of the bed and made out the humped figure next to him. Andrew. Not breathing. Not asleep. They were both listening to the same silence and trying to figure out what had alerted them.

Percy was taken by surprise with the tentative touch of a finger on his arm, cautious at first, then bold as it slid to his wrist. He lie still, concentrating on the touch. Andrew’s finger touched Percy’s hand, slicing from left to right across the palm then deliberately poking three times. What did it mean?

The slice (left to right); usually contact was made from right to left, so Andrew was trying to tell him something without sounds. Left to right. Three. Percy closed his eyes, visualising all the things left to right might mean.

To the left of the Fisherman’s Rest lie the drive, the road, the hill leading to the water. Horses? Boats? People?

Andrew clasped Percy’s hand, pushing it palm upward between them and forcibly sliced across the palm.

Not horses, boats or people, for no one outside could hear their speech, let alone whispers in the dark. Andrew sensed something inside the inn.

Three rooms down from theirs . . . du Tournai. The large guest room overlooking the front entrance of Fisherman’s Rest. Percy sat up. Andrew tugged on his arm and shook his head emphatically no!

And then he heard it again. A scuff. A booted foot on the wooden floor at the top of the stairs, directly outside the room where the du Tournais slept.

Percy yanked himself free of Andrew, got out of bed, tiptoed to the door. All he could think of was how Armand had disappeared without a trace. Let Hastings and Bathurst imagine the lad a spy who’d high-tailed it to London or some other spy-hole – he knew differently!

Kidnappers on the prowl and Percy’s émigré family lying vulnerable with nothing but an ancient oak door without a lock between them and the stairs.

<Teresia>

Teresia left the ship, shivering and giddy. She managed to alight into one of the boats to be rowed ashore, but she had no papers. The sea-fog was still thick upon the land, making the air humid and deadening the sounds of the quayside like cotton wool. Here and there the lamps of carriages traced patterns, whitening the mist whilst their horses shifted restlessly. Queuing up with the other passengers, Teresia was already soaked to the skin. Dew formed on her eyelashes and her fellow travellers cast funny looks in her direction... how could this boy come to England so unprepared?

A Kentish drawl asked to see her papers and she pretended not to understand. "Papers." he repeated with emphasis, "Pa-pers!" Still she shook her head and looked blank, "Devil take these bleedin' frogs!" exclaimed the official, and he asked the woman ahead (who was obviously British)to show her papers by way of demonstration. "See, papers. Are you blind, boy, as well?" Teresia stared at the papers as though she'd never seen the like before. The official scratched his head. Behind them the queue was getting restless. "You'd better wait here 'til we're done. You - wait - here - yes?" Teresia shook here head and backed away, frightened. "I ain't gonna hurt you, come here." In desparation he grasped her arm and tried to drag her to one side. It was all Teresia had needed. Wrenching free, she hurled a string of abuse at the man in French and started to run.

West, she thought, west and keep going. There was chaos on the quayside. The official was shouting instructions and several pairs of boots came thudding after her. Her legs felt like jelly and the damp air made breathing difficult. She couldn't see more than twenty yards ahead of herself... what if she missed the entrance of the Fisherman's Rest? What if she'd already passed it? On and on she ran, lungs rasping and those pursuing boots getting closer all the time. Then suddenly there it was... the tiled facade and geranium filled sills were just as Chauvelin had described. There was a groom sheltering in the coachway, smoking. She elbowed him out of the way for effect, "'Ere, what d'you do that for?" he yelled coming after her. She pointed down the road and in a mixture of hysterical French and Spanish told him she needed to hide. "What's that? Speak English, can't you!" By this time Teresia was trying to decide which door to enter. The one to the right had the sounds of breakfast issuing from it. The groom's attention was distracted for a second by the approaching boots from the quay. He turned back to find her hand on the door handle, "Oi, you can't go in there like that!" he exclaimed, but too late.

Ensuring that the door was open and her weight correctly positioned, Teresia Cabarrus fell fainting, weak, tired, soaked, cold and apparently insensible across the threshold and measured her length on the floor in full view of all its breakfasting occupants!

<Bathurst>

Bathurst was the last of his comrades to retire, if only to avoid MacKensie's incessant questions about Armand Saint-Just's disappearance. How many times could he repeat that he sent the boy ahead and found him missing when they arrived? Pity, he was just beginning to trust the boy, but then treachery did run in the family. Much of the night he's spent drinking Jellyband's home-brewed ale and listening to his host rake Pitt across the coals. As Jellyband's yawns became more numerous and Bathurst became infected by them, that he bid Jellyband good night (night? it was nearly morning) and trudged up the stairs, limbs heavily with fatigue. As he reached the top, the smells of a hardy breakfast being prepared drifted to him. Lord bless Sally for being so efficient! Even as he stood there he could hear the early guests arrive.

He paused near du Tournais door, trying to remember if passage had been booked for the family on the next coach to London. He would have to travel first thing in the morning if he wanted to meet Fanshaw that day... which meant that retiring now would be useless. He stood there tapping his foot irritably for a few moments... well unlike that lazy Hastings he could stand to stay awake a little longer. If need be he could sleep in the coach. At least he would be able to partake of the breakfast that was even now setting his stomach rumbling. Turning on his heels he marched back down the stairs, yawning but determine to stay awake.

Half-way into breakfast, and amusing himself at the expense of Tom Waite by flirting with Sally, Bathhurst attention was drawn to the front entrance where he caught the tones if not the words of a hysterical woman shouting in French and another language which might have been Spanish or Portuguese, just before a boy burst through the door and fell insensible against it. Bathurst was up in a flash and at the door as Jellyband came in roused by the ruckus. Bathurst peered outside looking for the woman, but seeing none assumed the screeching had been produced by the lad at his feet.

Without words Bathurst lifted the boy as thought he weight nothing and followed Jellyband with him to an empty parlor where he set the child down on the sofa.

<Andrew>

Damn and double damn! Andrew leapt from the bed after Percy. Lord the man was a fool, imagining he'd stride into the darkened hall and confront god-alone knew who unarmed. Andrew had been wrong to warn Percy – he should have just gone to investigate himself instead of warning his friend to alert silence.

Percy paused at the door, hand on knob and twisting slowly so that it didn't rattle. Andrew cursed under his breath. Fool! They'd made enough noise already to alert whomever was on the stairs. Andrew grabbed his scabbard and the sword clanked, then sighed as he unsheathed it. He relished the shudder that ran through Percy at the sound, making him dance. "Why not just shout out, `who's there'?" Andrew chided. "Surely everyone can hear you."

Despite his querulous tone, Andrew took up his place at Percy's back and they went out the door together into the beginning of dawn's light. No one was on the stairs – that was the first thing he noticed. The door to du Tournai's room was shut fast. Nothing looked amiss, but there was the tell-tell scuff of boots on the hardwood beneath them. "He's gone back down . . ." Andrew began, but Percy was already striding toward the stairs, silent in bare feet. Andrew hurried to keep up.

"You're a brazen fool, " Andrew said in a scolding whisper as they moved down the stairs, Percy in the lead and Andrew following, holding his sword at his side.

<Percy>

"It's later than I thought. Sally's a-stir preparing breakfast," Percy whispered. A pointless observation. At the bottom step, he paused. The sound of fractious voices in the yard . . . one male and the other distinctly female. Distinctly hysterical. Andrew's hand dropped onto Percy's shoulder, holding him back. Percy was about to shove Ffoulkes aside when the door flew open and a body fell inside.

Jellyband emerged from the rear passage at the same instant, shouting, "What's all the ruckus about! You'll wake my..." He came to rest with his boots inches from a trail of impossibly black hair. A yard of shiny black curls extending from a skull, facing mostly downward, and a hat in the pork pot style. It had seen better days. But the hair...

"A lad!" Percy muttered, coming forward to kneel over the body. What was happening in Kent? First Armand disappeared and now, a body was tossed into the Fisherman's Rest. Percy picked up a hand. Delicate. Well-shaped and he felt his pace quicken. Oh, this was wrong! This wasn't the hand of a ship's mate, or a stable lad. Not the firm-fleshed hand of a boy used to handling reins. Long fingers like those of a pianist or a painter graced this hand. "It's an aristo lad." – from France, he wanted to say, although he couldn't say why. Perhaps it was the incongruity of a hand obviously unused to manual labour attached to a lad whose skin was turning blue with cold. His clothes were damp. Perhaps he'd swum ashore.

<Andrew>

Bathurst shoved Percy aside, and picked the boy up from the floor. Everyone followed him to the parlour where he deposited the body on the sofa.

"You fool!" Andrew cried, "It's a lass. How can you not tell?" Indeed, turned over so that her chest pointed upward – how could one not? This was no child like du Tournai, but a woman with full breasts that filled a boy's shirt and strained the buttons in this position. A young woman dressed in rags, blue with cold and unconscious.

Percy said, "Her clothes are wet, she's soaked clean through."

Andrew observed, almost casually, that her skin was not the cream of an English lass, but the pale honey of... "I'll wager she's an Italian. Look at her eyebrows!" They were arches of jet black, plucked and shaped. This was no kitchen maid, but a lady – Andrew was sure of it! He'd known enough Italian girls to recognize the classic profile, the full, sensuous lips. But what was an Italian woman doing here? "Get brandy," he said.

"And blankets. And stir up this fire."

<Hastings>

Hastings's thankfully ratless dream was interrupted by a frantic woman's voice, causing him to sit bolt upright in bed. He pushed MacKensie's arm off of him as he listened intently. The door was thrown open, then slammed shut, a male voice (possibly Jellyband), a moment later the report of boots rushing towards the door. It was at this point Hastings could restraint himself no longer. He slid out of bed, pulled on his breeches, and was out the door within minutes. He was hastily tucking in his shirt as he thudded down the stairs, taking his cue from the glances of the patrons he ducked down a corridor and followed the voices therein to find Percy, Andrew, Bathurst, and Jellyband surrounding a sofa on which lay the pale woman in boy's garb. "What happened?" Though he was quite certain from their expressions that he wasn't the only one with that question in mind.

<Percy>

Jellyband asked, “Is she dead?” Percy sighed. “No, she’s breathing – faintly.” Jellyband was so old he had no sap left in him – poor fellow! Every other male eye in the house was fixed on the gentle rise and fall of the woman’s chest. Valiantly, Percy raised his eyes to the window, embarrassed at his reaction. Married he was. Too bad! He was irresistibly drawn to look again.

<Andrew>

A footman came in with a basket of wood and set about starting the fire. A maid dropped blankets into Jellyband’s arms. Before he could move, Andrew snatched them and knelt to cover the woman. “Alive,” Andrew confirmed. “Perhaps we should summon a physician.”

<Percy>

Hastings racketed into the room, elbowed his way through the standing crowd and asked “What happened?” Percy glanced at him and shrugged. “Door flew open and she just fell inside.” The story sounded unbelievable.

<Suzanne>

The sound of boots on the hardwood floor of the hallway outside Suzanne's door enticed her to wake from the light sleep she was in. Curious, Suzanne got up to dress and go find out about her families activities for the day. She glanced out the window to see the blurred grey sky staring back at her. It reminded her of London and she blushed at the memory. She began to dress, managing her stay by herself, and then she heard the soft whispering of male voices near her door. What on earth was going on?!

Within a minute, she had dressed and, grabbing a lovingly crocheted shawl of cream wool to wrap herself in as protection from the damp English morning, she headed downstairs just in time to see the group of Englishmen who had rescued her walking from the dining area into the parlor. She followed behind them, though they seemed too distracted to notice her presence at all. Hearing English this early in the morning proved to be confusing for Suzanne and she strained to translate what was being said. However, she clearly caught the phrase:

"You fool! It's a lass. How can you not tell?" Suzanne blushed crimson as, through the broad shoulders before her, she caught sight of an extremely feminine form. She looked down, glancing quickly at her own chest. Nothing there was so spectacular.

"Her clothes are wet, she's soaked clean through." A familiar voice answered. Where had she heard that voice before? It was not recently, for she would have recalled the name of the man who had spoken, but still, she knew that voice. Gently pushed her way toward the center of the commotion, she spotted Sir Percival Blakeney, husband of her dearest friend Marguerite! Suzanne opened her mouth to speak to him, but her unspoken words were cut off by the gentleman.

"I'll wager she's an Italian. Look at her eyebrows!" Suzanne wished the earth would swallow her, for lying on that couch was what must have been the finest specimen of femininity she had seen and the glance she had behind the men was not nearly as accurate a portrayal of this woman's appearance now that she was standing three feet from her. An exotically beautiful yet delicate face with distinctively Mediterranean features and an hourglass figure. How could the beauty of one member of her sex cause Suzanne to feel as though she were an unworthy member of it?

"Get brandy, and blankets. And stir up this fire."

Suzanne stepped back, watching the men go to work. She could feel the fire of her red cheeks as she tried, in vain, to cast her eyes away from the limp form in front of her. She watched the gentleman who's name she had yet to learn become a protector to this poor creature and Suzanne felt her heart ache. There was a longing there, for him to protect *her* once again.

<Hastings>

Hastings blinked in disbelief, unsure of what to make of the story and the woman. A siren descended from heaven she was indeed as every in the room was locked on her and the shape of her figures. Hastings himself felt inclined to look and admire, yet forced himself to tear his eyes away. Fortunate it was too, for in looking away his eye landed on the tiny figure of du Tournai’s daughter standing amid the crowd eyes shifting from Teresia to Percy to Andrew. What if even now she was trying to piece together the identity of her rescuer? Hastings slipped through the crowd to her side, “What say you join me, m’dear, in finding Mistress Sally, hmm? The lass will need to change out of those dripping rags and it is not a man’s place to help her do so.” Hastings took her hand and slipped it through his arm, steering her clear of the crowded. “Besides this stuffy room might be a bit overwhelming for you.” Had she seen too much already?

<Bathurst>

As Andrew pointed out the well developed breasts, Bathurst wondered he hadn't noticed her gender before. After all it was only a few minutes ago that the beauty was in his arm, why wasn't he alerted by her shapely curves? He stared at the rise and fall of her perfect chest mesmerized, until Hasting voice rang clear in the silent room,"What say you join me, m'dear." Bathurst looked up confused, surely Hastings wasn't trying to use his charm on an unconscious lady when he saw the little blighter making off with Mlle. du Tournai. The sneaky bastard! Contending with Ffoulkes was one thing... Hastings was a different matter. The boy needed to be taught a lesson. Bathurst nudged Ffoulkes and indicated with a glance the retreating Hastings and Suzanne, surely Andrew would have a say in Hastings' actions.

<Suzanne>

"What say you join me, m'dear, in finding Mistress Sally, hmm?" Suzanne looked up into the familiar face and smiled softly. "The lass will need to change out of those dripping rags and it is not a man's place to help her do so."

"Ah yes... of course. I would like to offer my help as well, if you would permit me to do so." With that, he slipped her hand through his arm before she could think of a reason to stop him and started to lead her from the room!

"Besides this stuffy room might be a bit overwhelming for you."

"I can assure you I am not overwhelmed Monsieur, merely curious and hoping to help. Please, do not mind my impertinence, but my father is present here and I need not acquire another one. Now, if you will excuse me..." She gently pulled her arm free and squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Besides, I think I know that man there... I think he is married to my best friend. Marguerite Saint-Just? Have you met her? Well, she is Lady Blakeney now..." Suzanne trailed off, thinking for a moment. "I have heard nothing from her in six months. I was not allowed to attend their wedding seeing as it was held in England and I had no chaperone to accompany me." Oh that crimson flush again! Would that damned memory of London never pass?! "He must have arrived late last night after I had gone to sleep... Oh I do hope Margot is all right." She looked into the man’s eyes, frustrated that she did not know his name so she might address them as... something other than "Sir" or "Monsieur"! Formal titles held no weight in bargaining. "I have only met Percy once... at Marguerite's salon in Paris. I do not know him well. Do you think you could... speak to him on my behalf... so that I might gain a private audience with him to ask him about Marguerite?" If ever there was a time for her innocence to play upon the weakness of a man, it was now. She stared into his eyes, the hurt and concern apparent on her face, spread across her pouting lips. "Please Monsieur... she is all I have here in England."

<Hastings>

Hastings wasn’t entirely unaffected by Suzanne’s obvious attempts to sway him, but having dealt with one too many coquettish jades he was not to be had by so rank an amateur. She was a sweet little creature, it was likely someone like Bathurst would be melting under her charms, perhaps Ffoulkes who had a soft spot for damsels in distress. “Well, m’lady does present a most passionate argument,” Hastings said with all sincerity. “But I fear I eyes are still so heavy with sleep that I did not look to see which faces of those present were ones I knew. As you can see from my ghastly state that this incident wretched from sleep.” Some truth, some lie all spoken in the same tone of voice so that one could not tell where the truth ended and the lie began. She was too close to the truth and Hastings, sworn to protect the identity of his chief, was determined to prevent her from getting any further.

“I know your good friend, for she is a friend of mine as well, and I can assure you she was quite well when last I saw her at Lady Melbourne’s letter party she was as gay as could be,” he assured her. “But since you are determined, let us strike a compromise, hmmm? I’ll take you up on your offer to assistance Miss Sally in tending to that poor soul in there, for I fear she may not speak a lick of English and Sally’s French is atrocious. In exchange, I will attempt to seek out your man.” Warn Percy is more along the lines of what he was thinking.

<Percy>

Everything around him stirred with efficiency. How like Jellyband to have all in order. So English it was to be orderly and proper; Percy felt reassuringly familiar as if he were at home. Andrew, kneeling before the unconscious woman, was all solicitous business – typically Andrew. Percy felt redundant and tried to tear himself away from the scene, but couldn’t. Somehow it felt not quite right to ogle the wench in her wet shirt and breeches, but likewise, so alluring a scene was not something one encountered every day.

<Andrew>

Before them the fire caught, drew, and flamed merrily. Behind him the woman lie like a corpse on the sofa. Beauty aside, it was her foreign-ness that compelled him to offer assistance. That she was in danger was obvious with her disguise, but that she was an aristo shook Andrew to his core. For all her Italian looks, she’d been in France without a doubt; there was no other reason for her to travel so disguised. Italian. Catholic. Probably in trouble because of her religion. Doubly damned because of her social position. His eyes caressed the mound of her breast and he wondered, was she married? Where was her husband? She was an adult – god! Venus incarnate she was! If not wed, then a runaway mistress – someone of note, surely. Andrew was certain a beauty such as this did not disappear unnoticed.

"Jellyband, have you sent a footman for the doctor?" Andrew asked. "I suspect she’ll want bleeding. Her hands are like ice and her cheeks are blue with cold. Did anyone send Sally for dry clothes?"

<Percy>

Hastings was loitering with that guilty look he seemed to acquire whenever he needed to ask a favour. What was it this time – the loan of a coat? A horse? A couple of guineas? Percy was too overwhelmed with events to give his hesitant friend the welcome he craved, rather, Percy hovered next to Andrew’s shoulder, intrigued by the mystery woman. Entranced. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he made out the sound of a feminine voice and almost thought he heard his wife’s name mentioned, but he discounted that thought. He was distraught after his abrupt awakening – and what had startled Andrew in the night? Was it the arrival of this woman?

<Hastings>

Hastings off loaded the bewildered Suzanne onto Sally’s shoulders and hurried back to the overcrowded parlour. Damn! Why did everything have to go wrong? The girl should still be in bed not poking about, women like that got into all sort of trouble. Whomever she took to husband would have his hands full.

As he entered the parlour Hastings deliberately averted his eyes from the sleeping siren, it would do him no good to be caught under her spell… yet. Instead he focused on Percy and strode purposefully to him. Percy on the other hand seemed too captivated to notice anything.

“Did anyone send Sally for dry clothes?" Andrew asked.

“I did… took Suzanne du Tournai with me since she was disposed to help after seeing this,” Hastings added, hoping that the words would penetrate through to Percy. Exhaling impatiently, Hastings hooked Percy’s arm and pulled him into a corner making sure Percy’s back was to the wench on the sofa so that she would prove no further distraction. “Mademoiselle du Tournai is seeking an audience with you. She saw you and recognized you. She wishes to speak with you about your wife.”

<Teresia>

She had hurt her arm slightly in the fall, but other than that was in no need of assistance from a physician. Listening all the time, she found the idea of being bled for no good reason unappealing, so thought it best to bring herself around. "Ohh!" she moaned, keeping everything, but her eyelashes, quite still. "donde estoy?" she asked in a calm, though somewhat groggy voice. Her eyes travelled from face to face, figure to figure as though trying to remember how she'd got to her present location. Fixing on the man nearest to her she asked her question again. Before he could answer footsteps were heard outside and Teresia let the cloud of recognition slide, horror-struck across her features. "Don't let them take me!" she cried in Spanish, French and Broken English, "Please, don't let them take me." she was grabbing hold of his lapels in panic, "Oh. for the love of God, hide me!"

<Suzanne>

She spoke to Sally for a moment before she decided that getting the woman a nightgown and dressing gown from her room was the best idea. Sally had joked that it would be a far more difficult task getting the men from the room than it would be to help change the woman. She slowly climbed down the stairs, her arms full. She could hear a commotion downstairs. The woman was speaking in three different languages and Suzanne heard her saying that she wanted to be hidden from "them"... whomever "they" were...

She entered the room with the clothes and looked around for a moment. Where was Sally to help her clear the room?! Stepped closer to the heroic gentleman who had been so nice to her. She looked at him, then the woman and said, softly, "She is not Italian, she is Spanish. Or at least, she is speaking Spanish..."

<Percy>

The air in the parlour held the scent of sea-kissed fog and sexual interest. Through the soupy miasma of desire, Percy felt as if his skin had been scratched raw, then bathed in brine. He ached. The arousal was immediate, mindless. The woman, like a mermaid tossed into the sloop of a starving man, had sharpened one hunger in opposition to the other.

‘Mademoiselle du Tournai . . . wishes to speak with you about your wife.’ Percy brushed Hastings’s hand off his arm and at gazed him stupidly. He turned, slack-jawed to look at *her* again – peering over Ffoulkes’s head. “Look at us,” he murmured at Hastings without looking away from the sofa. “The lady is in distress and the lot of us are rendered flop-footed with testosterone. We’ve all been too long at sea.”

Hastings jerked his head; Percy focused on what he’d been told. “Where is she?” The little du Tournai remembered him? Absurd! It had been years ago – a lifetime ago. She’d been a slip of a girl then and wasn’t much more than that now. He hadn’t remembered her name, hadn’t recognized her until something in the light outside the Chat Gris had brought her features into prominence in the way he remembered. She had large eyes. Warm. He remembered how, long ago, he’d thought that when she grew up she’d be a sorceress. She had not quite grown into her full enchantment yet, although she was nicely rounded and delightfully winsome.

So, she remembered him; no doubt recalled him as Marguerite’s wicked beau. He’d made her blush and nearly brought her to tears just by passing the time of day with her, yet she’d started a ruckus among his men – each one fighting for the opportunity to have her slender hand rest on his arm. Perhaps she’d matured more than he realized!

“She ventured into this room?” Percy asked, embarrassingly aware of the impression these horny lads would make on a young girl, drooling lustfully over the she-cat sprawled on the sofa. “Where is she?”

Uh. . .” Hastings stammered, and Percy turned to find himself facing La Petite du Tournai. ‘She is not Italian, she is Spanish. Or at least, she is speaking Spanish.’ The girl said, colouring as she spoke. She looked like she wanted to hide her face in the mound of clothes filling her arms.

“Spanish, is it?” Percy asked, clearing his throat. “How do you know Spanish, Mademoiselle du Tournai?”

<Hastings>

Hastings all but slapped his head in frustration. He had told Sally to stick to the girl, thought that the little chit wouldn’t be popping her head back into the room so soon. Was she taught no restraint? Surely she should have realized how inappropriate it was for a girl of her stature to slip into rooms filled with strange men unescorted – just asking for trouble! What if she put the pieces together and figured out Percy’s secret life?

Hastings thrust his hands into his pockets, and stalked out to find out what was keeping Sally and her explanation for losing her charge. He was careful to keep his eyes adverted from the Spaniard, feeling that at least one of them should avoid succumbing to the siren’s charms. That was best reserved for privacy.

<Suzanne>

"I..." she hesitated, looking Percy in the eyes. "I know a little Spanish from when my mother took me to Spain once. I do not speak it. I understand it fairly well though... I meant more that she is obviously not Italian. The emphasis on Italian words is placed differently than the emphasis on Spanish..." She trailed off, quite embarrassed that anyone heard her assertion about the woman's ethnicity. She held out the clothes in her arms. "I brought her one of my dry night gowns and a dressing gown to keep her warm. Where is Sally? I thought she might be able to help her change once everyone has left the room." Suzanne was so embarrassed that Sir Percy was speaking to her... challenging her. She cleared her throat and waited for his response, trying not to look at the woman.

<Teresia & Customs Official>

The boots had stopped running. The sudden cessation of the sound brought Teresia's hysterics to a stand still. Still clutching at the lapels of the man next to her, dragging him forward so he was forced to stoop towards her, she turned in silent, wide-eyed horror to the door. "Help me!" she whispered plaintively as the door opened and a customs official entered. He glanced around the room, obviously taken aback a bit by its occupants, and snatched his hat quickly from his head. "Beggin' your pardon for the intrusion, Sirs... and Ma'am," he added, noticing Suzanne, "but I'm looking for a lad, a Frenchie, 'bout ye high, came running this way not 5 minutes since. Have any of you seen him?". Partially shielded by the high back of the couch, Teresia pretended to cower in fear, her lips moving in prayer... prayer which had been beaten into her during her Catholic upbringing and laid aside for so long, yet every syllable returning now without the slightest effort. Now was the moment of truth, would she be given up or would they hide her?

<Andrew>

Andrew pried himself out of the woman’s grasp, rose to his feet and approached the door. Then he saw Suzanne and froze. The little minx had walked in to discover Percy, who had intended to be away from the Fisherman’s Rest at first light. Not that it was much beyond dawn, but there stood Mademoiselle du Tournai, nearly completely dressed, her hair looking as if she’d tried to brush it herself...

He bowed low before her. “Mademoiselle! How surprising to see a woman awake at such an hour. It is normally believed by men that women linger in their boudoirs writing letters and sipping chocolate until nearly noon. Why, it takes my sister over two hours to have all the tats smoothed out of her long hair, for it to be coiled, twisted – all those female things. Has Miss Sally not been serving you adequately?”

As he spoke, Andrew scooped the pile of clothing out of Suzanne’s arms and tossed the heap at Percy who clutched to grab it. “I realize you have journeyed without your maid, dear lady; perhaps I might assist you to find a woman here who can help you complete your toilette to your satisfaction.” His voice was deliberately soothing as he maneuvered the girl toward the door where they came face to face with another damp stranger who blocked the exit.

“I pray you, sirrah, stand aside! It’s deuced early to be visitin’, why I’ve never seen the like!” Andrew jostled the man out of the way, forcing him to back-step into the foyer. “Jellyband!” Ffoulkes called imperiously. “I say, Jellyband! You’ve left your door ajar and some trash has blown inside your premises. Call your footman, I implore you!”

Andrew left the man dripping on the carpet as he escorted the French mademoiselle up the stairs toward her parent’s suite.

<Suzanne>

One moment she was standing in front of Percy, arms full of nightgowns and the like, the next her arms were empty and she was being led from the room, that *gentleman's* hand resting on her lower back, pushing her from the room. She tried to speak to him, but he was rambling so quickly that she could ne'er fit a word in! He had guided her all the way up the stairs to her chambers before he shut his lovely English mouth long enough for her to respond!

"I am awake, Sir," she said, emphasizing the formality of the title, "because I heard someone outside my door. As you can imagine, I find the presence of anyone near my door to be quite alarming after living in Paris during this madness and it startled me from my slumber! ...As for why I ventured downstairs, the noise of that Spaniard" she said, practically spitting the word at him, "bursting into the inn caused my curiosity to get the better of me. I apologize that I was not able to properly groom myself in my haste to see what was going on downstairs." She looked down, picking at her hands as she did so. "If my appearance has, in some way, offended you, then I am dreadfully sorry for that, however, Sally is *not* my personal maid, therefore I have been brushing my own hair. Besides, the haste of my departure from my room left no time for proper grooming." She looked up at him again and, seeing a look of surprise on his face, gained confidence to continue.

"If I was intruding on a private meeting, I did not mean to and I am very sorry, but that man... Percy Blakeney. He is married to my friend, whom I have not heard from in half a year! I simply wanted to inquire after Marguerite's condition, since I cannot get word of it directly from her." She paused, examining the gentleman's face, her own brow furrowing. "Do you know Marguerite Saint-Just? ...Pardon me... Lady Blakeney? You look as if you do..."

<Bathurst>

Bathurst relieved the stunned Percy of the bundle of clothes, whispering, "Is it really so wise for so many people to see you here?", and swept to Teresia's side. "Do not fear, Mademoiselle, you are in good hands. We have found you a change of dress, perhaps not of the latest fashion but at least dry, and Mistress Sally is drawing you a bath. Do not fear that gentleman over there," he said indicating the customs agents Andrew had run out, and who was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot out in the hall, looking less and less impressive. "I will deal with him myself shortly... but you... I take it you have just flee France?"

<Percy>

Weathering shock, Percy shook himself into action. It was *not* wise for people to remember his face in this place. “Uh, Bathurst,” Percy muttered into his friend’s ear, “perhaps she can be persuaded that she met someone who looks like Blakeney . . . or some such plausible fib.”

Percy scouted the room in search of his hat, then realized that he was hardly dressed for travel. Breeches, stockings, and a rumpled shirt half-in and half-out of his waistband. He would have to venture back upstairs, then, dressed, scurry back down. “Damn, damn!” he cursed under his breath. Would Ffoulkes hurry the du Tournai lass out of the gallery, or would Percy leave this parlour only to find Suzanne staring down at him from over the railing while Andrew hunting through all the guest rooms in search of Sally? He had no choice – he had to risk it! He came to a halt at the edge of the door, looking up, ensuring no one was peering into the lower level. Safe! Then, he came eye to eye with the soggy dock agent slouched beside the door.

“Good lord!” Percy said, clapping his palm to his chest, seeking his eyeglass. It was missing – in his room, along with his purse, watch and fob, cravat pin, snuff box . . . all the accoutrements of a fashionable gentleman. “You look as if you swam across the channel, my good man. Is it raining so heavily as all that?”

Without waiting for the man to respond, Percy flew up the stairs, checking the other half of the gallery as he ran. No figures waiting – good Ffoulkes! But there were shadows just inside the room Lord Tony should be occupying. Bad move for Ffoulkes to take Suzanne . . . oh, especially when one considered the predilection Miss Sally had for the handsome milord, and his amorous nature when it came to willing wenches. No time to worry over the French demoiselle’s education – Percy fled into the room he’d shared with Ffoulkes and slammed the door.

<Hastings>

“You should have kept an eye on the girl,” Hastings scolded as Sally followed, head bent in penance. “Too curious for her own good! And with her parent still dosing upstairs she could have been spirited away, instead I turn to find her back in the parlour I escorted her from only moments before. You can imagine my shock to find her when I told you to keep an eye on her and wait until I’d cleared the room!” As he rounded the corner he spied the dripping, deflated official standing with hat in hand. He took the man’s measure as they approached the door, then peered inside to see Bathurst beside the sofa comforting the lovely creature that lay upon it. Percy, Andrew, and Suzanne were absent from the picture. Hastings exhaled in frustration and motion Sally inside. How grateful he was that it was not everyday that he had to look after the girl’s virtue and sent a silent prayer to heaven that when he took a wife she bear him naught but sons.

He wondered wither the three had gone, perhaps Percy regained his senses and left or perhaps he was holed away with the little chit in a parlour desperately dissembling. After a moment he felt a gentle tug on his shirt sleeve and found the harassed little official pluck his sleeve to gain his attention. "Beggin' your pardon for the intrusion, milor, but I'm looking for a French lad came running this way not 10 minutes since…"

“You don’t say!” Hastings took the man by the arm and led him away from the parlour. “I fear the only excitement we’ve had this morning is a swooning lady, but pray tell of this lad you pursue. Zooks, man! Is it raining?” Hastings listening to the official’s explanation as he escorted him to the door, “Well, you best get on your way. I’ll tell Jellyband to keep an eye out meself… and you’d better scuttle off and find him. Can’t have too many of these Frenchies slippin’ it. Off to it man!” He saw the bewildered man out the door, then looked down at his own attire. Stockless, shoeless, coatless… someone had beaten the man down for him to have taken Hastings seriously. Hastings jogged up the stairs, eying the door to the du Tournais’ room and wondering if the Marquis and Marquise had the slightest concern where there daughter was.

<Teresia & Customs Official>

With so many of the guests hurrying past him, pushing him, looking down their noses at him, asking stupid questions about the weather - bloody toffs! - he could bearly see into the room. When finally he had a clear view, he saw a woman's head above the back of the couch and a man talking to her, but no sign of the boy he'd been chasing. Damn, he mustn't have stopped... could've sworn it though...must've been wrong. "Mornin'" he said, by means of farewell and left the inn to walk back towards the quay. There'd be no chance of catching the lad now.

Teresia felt, rather than saw, the official leave and breathed a huge sigh. The man was asking her if she'd just fled France. Teresia thought it best to remain in character and somewhat emotional. "Si... er, yes." she replied, nodding her head emphatically whilst large tears of relief sprang into her eyes.

<Bathurst>

“Lord John Bathurst, at service, Mademoiselle..?” Bathurst asked, felling himself lost in her large dark eyes. “Pray tell, are you alone? … or did you leave your family behind in France?”

<Andrew>

Andrew’s brow creased in concern. Yes, the intruder. Footsteps on the stairs had awakened him. "You heard it, outside your door? I heard it . . ."

He’d hardly begun to reconsider the situation when Mademoiselle du Tournai leapt ahead with, ‘, the noise of that Spaniard bursting into the inn. . . .’ Flashing eyes. Haughty disdain lacing her words together. Andrew was silenced. What had become of her demure sweetness? Sparks of fire – oh my! He’d nearly been compelled to fall in love with the child, urged to it by her vulnerability; this was an eye-opening change. Something stirred deep inside him, something new. Andrew was scarcely aware of the torrent of words flowing from Suzanne until she pointedly demanded, ‘Do you know Marguerite . . .Lady Blakeney?’

He shivered awake, finding himself caught. How could he respond to the mademoiselle’s questions? Loaded dice . . . damnation! "Uh, well . . . yes. I must say, Mademoiselle du Tournai, that *everyone* in London knows Lady Blakeney. She’s the hostess of the year for one" – Suzanne’s bright eyes shone with interest – "the Prince of Wales’s favourite for another, and the combination of her having been an actress, now wed to a title who is also the richest man in England does give her some cachet about London," Andrew was warming to his subject. "Cachet, I think that’s the right word." He dried his sweaty palms with a vertical rub straight down his thighs.

<Teresia>

In the parlour Teresia was making a huge effort to control herself. Was she alone? Yes, she nodded. Had she left her family behind? "Not exactly. My family is Spanish and they are safe in Spain," she said through her sobs, "but my friends are not. I'm the Marquise de Fontenay. My husband is working with the Emperor. Danton calls him a spy!" again she broke down then, pulling herself together, continued as before in short, husky sentences.

"Luc, my husband, thought it would be best if we separated. So many wives are suspect because of their husbands' activities. So we divorced and I used my maiden name again. For a while I was safe, but then they came looking for me. I went to live with friends just outside Paris. Their home once belonged to Huguenots and there was a priest hole. When the soldiers came, I hid there. They searched the place from top to toe, but they didn't find me." she was proud of that fact. "They came back three times and each time I heard them on the other side of the wall, looking for the hidden chamber. Then they came back a fourth time," her brow clouded, "but they didn't search at all. I waited and waited for Yvette to open the door and tell me it was safe once more, but she didn't come. Eventually I left my hiding place and found I was alone, completely alone. The soldiers had arrested my friends on suspicion of harbouring me. I borrowed some clothes," she indicated to her attire, "to disguise myself, collected my money and valuables, waited until dark and then left. I had hoped to plead with the soldiers, turn myself in for their freedom, but I over-heard people gossiping. They would all die as traitors whether I was found or not!" she cuffed her tears with her sleeve and gazed soulfully up at her audience.

"So I ran. At first I didn't know where to go, but then I heard talk of a group of Englishmen who are rescuing unfortunates like my friends. I knew it was their only hope so I have come to England to find this group and beg them to help me." Here she clutched at his forearm, "Oh senor, if you knew how much I'd sacrifice to save them! Yvette, Gregoire and their five children... the youngest not yet three! Do you know of these men? How can I find them, contact them? I must know... I must..." Teresia completed the show with another bout of crying for good measure.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst listened to the woman's narrative and his heart did go out to her, poor, sweet creature that she was. He held back his bitter disappointment when she mentioned her marriage and felt it lighten slightly when she talked about the divorce. When she mentioned the family he took to compiling the information: a house that once belonged to Huguenots outside Paris, Yvette... no one he knew personally.

"How courageous of you," he murmured as she told him her willingness to sacrifice her life for theirs. He felt his pockets for his hankerchief, feeling mightily embarrassed that she had to wipe her eyes on her sleeve before he thought to give her one. She had already recommenced her tale before he finally produced one. He want to help her, console her, tell her that Providence had delivered her to those she sought. But he restrained his impulse to blurt this fact out. He had sworn to maintain that secret, and beyond that he had had enough experience with treachery to be weary of men and women alike. "You mean that Scarlet Pimpernel chap? His name does get around," he replied as though it were a joke. "He's all the ladies of London will talk about..." He stopped abruptly as the Marquise de Fontenay gripped his arm.

"Oh senor, if you knew how much I'd sacrifice to save them! Yvette, Gregoire and their five children... the youngest not yet three! Do you know of these men? How can I find them, contact them? I must know... I must..." she sobbed, finally breaking down into tears.

"I fear that no one save his sworn followers know the identity or whereabouts of the Scarlet Pimpernel, madame," Bathurst said, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "But have no fear, it is said he has ears everywhere. If it is in his power to help you then I am sure he will seek you out." Bathurst looked up to see Sally standing over his shoulder. "This is Mistress Sally. I believe she has drawn a bath for you and prepared a good hot meal for you so that you may recover your strength."

<Hastings>

Returned to the room he shared with MacKensie and found the man still asleep. He stood over him, hands on hips and shaking his head in amazement. How could the fellow had slept through all that commotion? Perhaps MacKensie would have been the ideal bunkmate for Percy, whose penetrating snores were enough to wake the dead. Hastings heard shuffling noises through the wall of the room next door. Who was in that room? Starting from the stairs the duTournais held the suite, then next to them was the room occupied by Tony and John, then the one he shared with MacKensie, followed by... Percy and Andrew. Andrew who had disappeared with young mademoiselle duTournai... and no doubt now was indoctrinating the child into the ways of English society. Or perhaps she was showing him the art that French women had learned to excel in. Which ever was the case he hoped that Bathurst didn't find out or else the animosity amongst the league would grow... unless Lord John took a fancy to that Spanish seductress. Now she was built more to his liking, striking curves in all the right places.

<Percy>

Fully dressed, Percy stood with his ear pressed against the heavy door, cursing the permanence of English construction. He could hear the mutter of voices, but couldn’t judge if they were directly outside his door, or further along the passage. No matter; voices were voices and he was probably unwise to show himself. He tiptoed to the window and looked out, examining the sill, the roof above and the long drop into the yard. There was a woodpile directly below his window – no chance for jumping. There were trees with welcoming branches, but then he could be seen from the courtyard.

Too many people within the inn, too many obstacles and difficulties to allow him to simply fly out the window. "Sink me!" he muttered, "how is it to be managed?"

<MacKensie>

MacKensie awoke with a yawn and a stretch and continued to lay spread across the bed staring up at the ceiling. He lifted his head when movement near his feet alerted him he was not alone to see Hastings primping before the mirror. “What are you doing up so early?” he head dropping back onto the pillows. “I suppose Blakeney left already… and Bathurst… so are we to escourt the family to London or heap them into a carriage?”

<Hastings>

“They’re all here still as far as I’m aware,” Hastings replied while trying to manage his difficult cravat. “You slept through the scene down stairs. Are you going to get up?”

<MacKensie>

“Still here?” MacKensie sat up. “Aren’t the du Tournais still here? Percy should be out of here before he’s seen.” MacKensie rolled out of bed and hitched up his breeches. “I hope he’s not sleeping in.” MacKensie swept out the door, wrapping on the next door.

<Teresia>

She followed the gaze of the man beside her and saw Sally standing at the doorway with her sleeves rolled up and towels in her arms. Surprisingly (for anyone who really knew her) Teresia managed to blush and seemed to recall the state of her clothes. "Oh, what a state I must look. Forgive me, Senor, you have been most kind yet I don't even know your name?"

<Bathurst>

"John Bathurst, at your service," Bathurst repeated. Perhaps she had been too upset to have registered it the first time. Poor woman, what she needed most was comforting and Bathurst was more than willing to provide it.

<Hastings>

Hastings watched MacKensie stalk off without too much worry until he heard the other rapping about Percy and Ffoulkes’ door and remember that Andrew was in there boffing the du Tournai chit. “Wait!” Hastings blanched and dash out the door. “Perhaps we should look for him downstairs. I believe that Andrew is asleep in there.” Or still entertaining the girl.

<MacKensie>

“Still sleeping?!” MacKensie exclaimed knocking again. “Good lord! How could he still be asleep? We need to get the family to London and if we wait too long it will we’ll be traveling at night. It’s time for him to wake then.” MacKensie turned the knob and swung the door open. Looking down at the empty rumpled bed that swept a glance across the room. “Well, I supposed he’s awake now. So I’ll guess he’s either downstairs or fled out the window.”

<Hastings>

“No, don’t!” Hastings rushed forward too late, as MacKensie barged into the room. He imagined the girl screaming and throwing the bedclothes over herself in a vain attempt to conceal herself, the scream rousing her parents and every other soul within ear shot to rush to her aid.

“Well, I supposed he’s awake now. So I’ll guess he’s either downstairs or fled out the window,” MacKensie said from inside and Hastings cautious stepped in. Had they finished so quickly?

“Then let’s find him and get the family ready to leave. The further from the coast they are the safer they will be.”

<Percy>

What do people see? They look when they hear a noise. Therefore, as long as they heard nothing, they would see nothing. Percy opened the door, peeked around the edge, checked out the hallway, then tiptoed to the room next door, slid inside and closed the door. Whoever had used the room had left it for only a moment. The bed was a tumble, the basin used, the towel discarded and there were boots on the floor. Percy gazed out the window, then without another thought, climbed onto the ledge and hurled himself out – into the tree, it’s sturdy branches extending over both sides of the briar hedge that bordered the Fisherman’s Rest. He could drop to the ground on the other side, walk the ½ mile into Dover and take the mail coach into London. No one would expect such a thing – the mail coach! He was grinning as he dropped into the dusty road and humming as he strode into the center of town.

<Hastings>

Hastings watched MacKensie stalk off without too much worry until he heard the other rapping about Percy and Ffoulkes’ door and remember that Andrew was in there boffing the du Tournai chit. “Wait!” Hastings blanched and dash out the door. “Perhaps we should look for him downstairs. I believe that Andrew is asleep in there.” Or still entertaining the girl.

<Andrew>

Turning a puzzled look on Suzanne, Andrew shrugged. "I can’t imagine why there is no one about – where they’re supposed to be, I mean. Lord, it’s early for no one to be dressing or shaving or – whatever." The Fisherman’s Rest normally had chambermaids, footmen, pages and other servants so numerous a man could fall over one were he not careful, but now there was no one about and poor Andrew was in dire need of some woman to leave the little du Tournai with. He certainly couldn’t help her style her hair and refasten her hooks – every time he look at her he grinned at how she’ d got some of the hooks mismatched so that her skirts hung awkwardly. (Well, how *had* the child managed to dress herself?)

"Perhaps I should take you back to your maman?" he asked, taking her by the hand, then rethinking the action and dropping it. It was hard to remember that she was the daughter of a count. He was forgetting the deference due to ladies of rank. Spending too much time on the road and in the company of men, or women who only wanted a handful of silver and didn’t care what took place beneath their skirts.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle," he apologised. "It really wasn’t supposed to be like this. So inconvenient. Usually the staff here are extraordinarily helpful!"

<Teresia>

Teresia smiled at him... a smile calculated to ensnare her victim completely. "Gracias, Senor, encantada... I'm honoured." She rose to follow Sally out of the room. "I am most fortunate indeed to have met you so soon after my arrival here. Your words make me believe that my quest will not be in vain. Perhaps God is with me after all." So saying she made an appropriate curtsey and left the room.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst watched Teresia leave, eyes caressing the lovely curves so distinct for her gender and imagining those curves that were obscured by her masculine attire. The beauty before him banished all thoughts of sweet, little Suzanne du Tournai or the provocative Sarah Dunstable, mere girls compared to the Marquise de Fontenay, the model of perfection and womanly charm. He found himself staring at the door she left through still tracing the outline of her shape in his mind. “Now whatever happened to that stuffy official?”

<Suzanne>

She stood there before him, silent. Finding his response to show an opposite personality to the one he had two night ago as the climbed the cliffs toward the Fisherman's Rest. This certainly was not the man who had gazed at her by low firelight and bestowed a kiss on her worried lips. She stared at his face, examining his features. She was not mistaken; they were the same as they had been two nights ago.

When he took her hand and quickly dropped it, Suzanne stood fast in her place and grabbed his arm, determined not to be led off like some… puppy! She needed her hero's help, lest she go mad with thoughts of Marguerite being unwell and unhappy. She posed her question in the most sincere voice she could muster. "Please, Sir. Is Marguerite all right? Do you know? If you do, you must tell me! I must know, I've been worried sick!" Suzanne felt as if she could cry if he kept her in suspense any longer. Her frustration was wearing on her and Suzanne never could control herself in the face of frustration. Indeed, if he did not give her a response, she might very well have a fit of some sort! "…Please!"

<Andrew>

“Lady Blakeney?” Andrew asked, puzzled. Here he was trying to clear the way for Blakeney to disappear, to keep the French mademoiselle from any further revelations, to protect a terrorized foreigner from his a government official and all the child could harp about was Lady Blakeney. “Why, so far as I know, Lady Blakeney is quite well. Let me try to recall the last time I saw her . . .t’was a while ago. I’ve been in Paris for the last month and more.” Unconsciously he rubbed the collarbone that still ached from the sword thrust he’d taken in his shoulder. “We were at Carlton House with the Prince, as far as I remember, and Lady Blakeney was the centre of attention for she had a letter from a friend she wished to read aloud that described the vicious beheading of some . . .” Andrew ground to a halt, dawning awe strangling him.

“But, you would know,” he whispered, “because you were there. My god, mademoiselle, the horrors of Paris – we’ll never be able to move beyond them!"

Impulsively, Andrew pulled the girl into his arms. “You have been so brave. I admire your courage more than I can say, but I can’t truly imagine – no one would wish to!” The girl was staring up at him through tear-filmed eyes and Andrew felt thoroughly beyond his depth with her. “I wish I might protect you from all the rest of the world’s pain, yet, by rights, I cannot hold your hand outside of a dance.”

<Suzanne>

"But, you would know because you were there. My god, mademoiselle, the horrors of Paris – we'll never be able to move beyond them!"

She stared up into his face, her eyes wide, listening to him talk of Paris . Her throat tensed up and her voice altered with emotion as she responded. "The wounds that Paris has inflicted are still fresh Monsieur. I think it discussing it would be better suited once they have scarred." She would have taken a moment to gather herself as he continued, but instead, gasped as he pulled her into his arms. She stared up at his face as he continued, his breath brushing her face in the hurried whispers. The feeling was so intimate yet Suzanne was captivated by his words.

"You have been so brave. I admire your courage more than I can say, but I can't truly imagine – no one would wish to!" She wanted to laugh at that. The whole trip to Calais , Suzanne spent like a frightened cat, terrified that she would be ripped from her mother's arms and dragged off to the guillotine and neither God nor man could stop that blade from slicing through her neck. It was then the felt the moisture in her eyes. "I wish I might protect you from all the rest of the world's pain, yet, by rights, I cannot hold your hand outside of a dance." Suzanne leaned her head against his chest, feeling a bit weak in the knees. She turned her head and looked back up at him, her tears falling against the fabric of his shirt. She put a tentative hand on his shoulder and slowly pulled his right arm from around her and gently took his hand in hers. "You have done more than most men could to protect me from what pain you could."

<Andrew>

“Yes, you’re safe here, but coming face to face with the terrified woman downstairs underscored how narrow are the margins for safety. Even reaching England , she was still in danger. I must set to work finalising the arrangements for your passage to London where our ambassador will see your status made official. That will cut the revolution’s ties to you, rendering you and your parents wholly safe.”

<Suzanne>

Unconsciously she ran her thumb across his knuckles a few times, attempting to comfort him, nodding as he spoke. "If my family and I are to leave for London , I will see you again, won't I?" She asked softly.

<Andrew>

Sir Andrew was mesmerised by the subtle pressure of the mademoiselle’s hand inside his. He started as if surprised. ‘If my family and I are to leave for London , I will see you again, won't I?’ she asked.

"But of course!" Andrew said. "I shall seek you out and help you to discover the whereabouts of your friend, Lady Blakeney. I shall have the pleasure – if you will allow me – to return her precious friend to her side."

The pretty mademoiselle ran her thumb across his knuckles alluringly, and Andrew’s eyelids dropped heavily. More enticing than a wink across a room; but was she aware of how her gentle touch affected him?

<MacKensie>

“Then you go rouse du Tournai and I’ll go see that passage is booked on the next coach,” MacKensie ordered. “At least one of us should travel with them, the rest should go by separate coach.” MacKensie skipped downstairs and consulted with Jellyband, surprised to find that thus far no one had left the Fisherman’s Rest. Bathurst had yet to leave for London due to the arrival of some Spanish chit, Blakeney’s delayed departure may be for the same reason. Although it would seem to be an excellent reason to depart all the faster. Ffoulkes was last seen in the company of du Tournai’s daughter, which left MacKensie wondering why he had claimed that Andrew was asleep.

<Bathurst>

After Teresia left with Sally, Bathurst went to deal with the customs official only to find that Hastings had already done so. The bastard was already setting his sight on the lovely Marquise de Foutenay! As MacKensie was in conversation with Jellyband, Bathurst entered the Fisherman’s Rest, having just returned from Admiralty Pier with the details of Teresia’s arrival. Her story seemed legitimate… the official at the pier spoke of a young boy who appeared without papers and fled in terror when an official laid hands on him. “I see you’re finally awake.”

<MacKensie>

MacKensie yawned in response. “I thought you would be on your way to London by now. I’ve made arrangements for conveying the family to London on the next coach out. Hastings is rousing them now. Have you seen, Blakeney, Dewhurst, or Ffoulkes this morning? Hastings said there was a disturbance this morning, I think we should get some distance between us and the coast before we get caught up in anything.”

<Hastings>

Hastings found the Marquis and Marquise breakfasting in their room, the Marquise bore a faint look of dread when he first entered. Perhaps she wasn’t so sure that they had left the Revolution behind them. “We’ll be leaving for Londom on the next coach so that we may get you and your family settled in London by night fall.”

“Merci, messier,” du Tournai gripped Hastings’ hand. “I will find my daughter and tell her, we will be ready when you call on us.” Hastings paled slightly, hesitant to let the Marquis find his only child in a compromising position with Andrew Ffoulkes.

“Don’t worry your self, sir. I’ll send her up to you. I believe she is with Miss Sally,” Hastings excused himself, bowings to them both. Leaving he wondered if the girl had any real affection for Andrew, or was she going to make a name for herself in the coming months. Woe to her future husband if it was the latter.

<Suzanne>

She smiled softly up at him, her fingers wanting to trace their way to his pulse. She felt a strange need to feel his heart beating at that moment, to feel his life pulse under her lips... but she wouldn't dare kiss his wrist! How could she when it was highly doubtful he felt the same for her she did for him. And what did she feel for him? These were new emotions pouring from her and adjusting to their presence was proving to be a difficult task. Her knees buckled as these unheard-of thoughts raced 'round in her head and she leaned against him, squeezing his hand gently for support... or was it *only* for support?

"Forgive me Monsieur... your offer is far too kind." She said, closing her eyes to sheild herself from his gaze, her breath fast and uneven from her inappropriate thoughts. "I would be more than honored to accept such a kind offer... but something troubles me." She took a moment to breathe, calming the racing of her blood. "How can I repay you for such selflessness?"

<Andrew>

Shoulders stiff, Andrew ached from holding himself firmly in check, the litany whirring insistently in his brain: must not touch. Must not touch! His hand opened and he released the mademoiselle’s, then willed himself to open his eyes and face her. She’d been so close to tears – and that would have undone him completely.

No tears did he find on du Tournai’s wan cheeks. Eyes closed, bosom heaving, she looked close to fainting dead away. Certainly the morning had been filled with excitement.

“We are certain to meet at any number of parties in town,” Andrew said, taking a step away from the girl. A single step only, in case he had to rush forward to catch her, should she faint in truth. “As for selfless action – well, you could repay me with a dance when we meet in London.”

It took a confrontation with a full-blown Circe like the Marquise de Fontenay to remind Andrew of how variable were the contacts a man might have with the fair sex, but the truth was that a man also needed to maintain contacts with women firmly entrenched within the social barriers if he intended to marry well. Du Tournai was not the woman for a casual dalliance, she was a marriage marker and no denying. Some man would make an appointment with her father to discuss wedding and bedding the lass – and the thought sat ill with Ffoulkes. She was a pretty one. Fragile. She deserved something more than marriage to the highest bidder.

“I’m sorry, mademoiselle, that I was unable to find a maid to help comb out your hair; but in spite of that, would you consider having breakfast with me?” Andrew was already shuddering at the gauche sound of his request. He came across as a tongue-tied neophyte. And she was smiling! All but laughing at him. He bit the inside of his cheek and dared himself to focus on mademoiselle’s sweet mouth. She needn’t know he was embarrassed to the very core of his being.

<Suzanne>

Staring, eyes wide, she took a deep breath as he spoke once again of her physical appearance. She looked down at the disheveled plait hanging over her right shoulder.

"I..." she hesitated for a moment, thinking carefully about her words as he invited her to have breakfast with him. "I would like that very much, but perhaps I should take a moment to... ah... gather myself? Would you excuse me?"

She bowed her head and gave a small curtsey before returning to her room. She practically burst through the door and closed it behind her, leaning against it for a moment to catch her breath. She moved slowly toward the mirror. Did she look *that* horrid that he would mention her unsightliness twice? Suzanne pulled the ribbon from her plait and sat down. She carefully combed through her curls, coiling them around her fingers so that they might fall in loose ringlets down her back. She took two tortoise shell combs and pulled the hair from her temples to the crown of her skull. The affect drawing attention to her warm brown eyes. She coiled a few loose curls that didn't hold in the combs and looked in the mirror once more. Finding her appearance less than satisfactory, she sighed and pinched her cheeks lightly, causing a flattering pink hue to peak from her skin. She smiled at herself in a vain attempt to instill some confidence and swept her hair across her shoulders. Tugging her dress straight, she returned to her gentleman so that they could dine together. She entered the room, her head lowered, unsure if her appearance would be considered appealing.

<Andrew>

Andrew breathed a deep sigh as the French mademoiselle disappeared into her parents’ suite. He had too many things to worry about just now to contend with chaperoning an impressionable (and vulnerable) young woman.

What had become of Percy? Where would he be hiding? Had anyone taken care of the customs inspector? What had happened to the alluring marquise? Hadn’t he heard Hastings ’ voice in the hallway only moments ago?

Andrew went first to the room he’d shared with Percy, stopping at the glass to examine his lightly stubbled chin. The flop of hair that fell over his forehead added a rakish dash to his appearance; he needed to dress! He was in breeches and stockings with his shirt tucked in ¾ of the way around. No cravat. He bared his teeth and examined them. Not bad.

Ffoulkes bent over his trunk and rummaged through the hastily packed clothes, choosing gunmetal grey breeches. He unrolled them and held them up before him. They’d look good with his green coat – it had black and grey braid down the front and a double row of large horn buttons.

The lovely du Tournai hadn’t been offended by his fresh-from-bed odour or his rumpled look – promising thought. He had found her more than delightful with the mane of fine hairs pulling free of her crooked braid, but what had truly won his admiration was the way she’d bravely hooked her gown, determined to investigate the noise in the lobby. Andrew shimmied out of his grimy fawn breeches and slid into the greys, then shucked his shirt and pulled on a fresh one. He thought about washing, but changed his mind about making the effort.

Most women would have cowered under the quilts and rang the bell for a servant on hearing a racket that sounded like an invading army. At most they’d have raised a voice and shouted of help till the rafters shivered. Young du Tournai had a touch of class that only exemplary breeding produced. She had courage as well as decorum . . . where was his hair brush?

Andrew tossed half a dozen brushes – all Blakeney’s – onto the bed, then the handle of his appeared beneath his shirt tossed on the floor. He unfastened the ribbon holding his hair off his face, brushing fiercely until static made his thin hair fly, scooped all the loose ends into his two palms, twisted, and secured it all once more with a quickly tied knot. Facing his reflection in the mirror once more, he decided that all he needed was a black patch over one eye and he’d rival Captain Blood for rakish insolence; the sweet mademoiselle should tremble at the sight of him!

<Teresia>

At first it had been painful having hot water poured over her. Nerve endings which had been numb for nearly half a day came flinching and complaining back to life. But after the feeling had returned to her limbs the bath became heaven. Her wet rags had been set to dry in front of the fire, whilst she dozed in the tub. Later, Sally had handed her into a fresh dressing gown and Teresia sat for a while before the blazing logs, sipping coffee which she suspected to have been liberally laced with brandy. Every so often she rubbed the water from her hair with a large towel. Sally helped her to dress, not in the clothes she'd arrived in, but in female dress acquired from somewhere - Teresia didn't ask. The landlord's daughter was quick with a needle and thread, making adjustments here and there, and though Teresia thought the outfit a little dowdy and old-fashioned for her particular tastes, she was suitably pleased with the end result. She rewarded Sally handsomely, though not too handsomely, from the pouch of money and jewels she had with her and went in search of Lord Bathurst. She wanted him to lead her to the Pimpernel and she would do whatever necessary to make him do just that. Secretly she cursed Chauvelin for giving her a double mission. He'd handicapped her by wanting her to reserve her charms for this Blakeney fellow... well, tough! The Pimpernel was by far the more important of the two, so if she had to compromise her chances with Blakeney by sleeping with Bathurst to find the Pimpernel, she would!

<Bathurst>

Bathurst paced a bit, thinking. “You or Ffoulkes should go with the du Tournais to London – not Hastings ! He’ll have sung out the chief’s identity before they’re half way there,” Bathurst whispered to MacKensie. “You or Ffoulkes or Dewhurst…” Bathurst stopped. Lord Tony was one of the handsomest bachelors of the set and a known womanizer. “No, you or Ffoulkes… Tony can keep Hastings in line. I’ll be leaving for London as soon as our Spanish émigré is ready to travel… I have reason to believe that she has information Percy will be most anxious to have.” He added quickly as Mackensie’s eyebrow rose suggestively. “It would be foolish if she met anymore of us than she has to.”

<Andrew>

"Before who meets more of us?" Andrew asked, sticking his head around the doorway. "Do either of you know what became of Percy? I’ve been all over this dive and seen no trace of him." Andrew made a circular motion that took in all the foyer, the wide, central stairway and the railinged walkway circling the second floor – which was how one accessed the guest rooms. "How could he get by all of us and leave this place?"

The main door to Fisherman’s Rest was directly behind Ffoulkes, opposite the tap room. Every other door could only be accessed through this central hall. "Sometimes I think he’s part bat," Ffoulkes muttered.

<Bathurst>

“The Spaniard from this morning,” Bathurst replied. “I was planning on escourting the lady to London , I don’t think she got much of a look at you, which may be for the best.” Behind Bathurst ’s back, MacKensie rolled his eyes expressively. “I assume Percy slipped out shortly after the Spanish chit burst in and is long gone. MacKensie made arrangements for the transportation of the du Tournais and one of us, I think you or MacKensie should go with them. I’ll take the Spaniard on the next coach.”

<MacKensie>

“I can probably find us three horses,” MacKensie offered. “I more one would prefer not to be trapped in the confines of a carriage.

<Andrew>

Andrew brightened perceptibly at the idea of joining the du Tournais in the coach. "I might presume to see to the care of the family," he said, trying to sound a little less enthusiastic.

"I don’t wonder that Bathurst would choose the Spanish sorceress over the lovely French lass; I doubt he’d know what to do unless the woman could show him how," Andrew said with a wink, ducking quickly away, certain Bathurst would be following.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst cuffed Andrew on the ear for his impertinence. “Perhaps MacKensie should go with the du Tournais before you give the pretty mademoiselle something you’ve picked up from a whore’s bed,” Bathurst returned dryly.

<Teresia>

He wasn't in any of the public rooms, so Teresia took herself upstairs to search. An infintesimally small part of her feared that Bathurst might have left the Inn, but she had asked Sally, who had assured her he was still around... somewhere. The landing wound its way along the length of the upper floor. Heavy oaken beams, which had once been ships' timbers and so were slightly curved, comprised the joists. She could hear male laughter from a room not far away. "Senor Bathurst," she called, "Is that you?"

<Andrew>

Before Andrew could retaliate, he saw the magnificent du Tournai floating down the stairs, tugging her bodice enticingly lower. He gulped, and scooted back into the tap room to alert his companions before anyone said anything in the goddess’s presence to compromise them.

Before he could open his mouth another voice floated in the doorway, ‘Senor Bathurst, is that you?’ Now everyone’s attention was centered on the doorway.

<Bathurst>

"I'll deal with Madame le Marquise," Bathurst whispered to Andrew. "Get the du Tournais out of here now. MacKensie, go prod Hastings and Dewhurst out the door. There have been too many close calls here of late, let us leave before there are too many more." Bathurst straightened his cravat and hurried to the door as Ffoulkes and MacKensie edged out of sight, least she popped her head in to take a look.

"Ah, there you, Madame de Fount..." Bathurst words died on his lips as he rounded to see the delightful Teresia. The gown she wore revealed the dangerous curves of her tiny waist, the swell of her breast, causing Bathurst 's palms to sweat. Oh she was adorable! He wiped his hands absent-mindedly with his handkerchief before taking the dainty hand she proffered him and bent low over it. "Your servant, Madame," he murmured, before straightening up.

"I have decided that it is much too dangerous for you here in Dover ," Bathurst told her as he slipped her arm through his and lead her away from the tap room. "With your permission, I would like to escourt you to London ... this afternoon."

<Hastings>

Hastings pitied the poor fool who took young Suzanne du Tournai to wife, for along with that pretty little package came the mother – critical, demanding. Let Bathurst have the little chit and the mother as well – Hastings had seen all he wished of the Marquise. On his way to the tap room he heard Bathurst ’s approach, "With your permission, I would like to escourt you to London ... this afternoon." Hastings ducked out of sight and watched as Bathurst passed with a pretty piece on his arm. Suzanne? The Spaniard? He caught a glimpse of raven black tresses and supple curves as the pair rounded a corner. The Spaniard.

No so far off, little Suzanne du Tournai was busy peeking into open doorways, trying to find trouble. Her bodice pulled seductively low, an effect that would have been all the better had she the Spaniard’s endowments. Was she in search of a lover amongst the faces at the Fisherman’s Rest, someone she could pull into an empty parlour while her parents prepared for their departure? Someone needed to put the reins on that little minx.

Hastings barged into the tap room and found Andrew and MacKensie carrying on a whispered conversation. “The du Tournais are nearly ready to go. They’re waiting for the coach and someone should see their daughter returned to them before she lands herself into a spot of trouble. She’s poking her head into every room she passes.”

<Teresia>

She looked up trustingly at Bathurst through a forest of long, thick lashes. "If you think that is the best way to help my friends, Senor, then I will go where you will." she said simply. "When do we depart?"

<Bathurst>

Bathurst looked down into those dark, sparkling eyes and found himself struck dumb. It was like looking into the night sky. He felt the irresistible urge to kiss her, found himself beginning to lean in to do so, when he stopped himself. Too soon! It would sooner earn him a slap across the face. “The next coach is booked full, but we can leave on the following, m’dear. I’ll see to the arraignments first thing. As for you, I think a quiet parlour to yourself and some of Sally’s fine cooking will put you at your ease, hmmm?”

<Teresia>

She knew the signs and could read men's body language like a book. All he needed was a little encouragement. "Sounds delicious," she found that actually she was quite hungry now that the seasickness had truly left her, "But I'd rather not be alone..." Her voice trailed off. Was it an invitation, or a plea from a lonely soul in a foreign land?

<Bathurst>

Bathurst nearly stumbled at the suggestiveness of the tone in Teresia’s voice. Was it his imagination that this stunning creature was interested in him or merely trying to impress her tender gratitude for his services to her? “As you wish, m’dear,” he tried keeping his voiced calm and controlled, a task he’d never before found so difficult. Since he’d first seen her he had had few thoughts other that holding that darling form in his arms and now… oh, he could only hope!

“Jellyband!” Bathurst called as he descended the stairs with Teresia on his arm. “Jellyband!” Jellyband appeared as they reached the foot of the stairs. “The lady needs a quiet room and food… and send that boy that works for you … what’s his name…”

“Kubert…?” Jellyband offered helpfully.

“That’s it. The next coach to London is full so send him to book two seats on the following for myself and the lady.” He’d managed to maintain enough control over himself to remember that the du Tournais would be on the next coach. Besides the extra time would give him the opportunity to have a little tête-à-tête with the Marquise de Foutney.

<Andrew>

". . .wager you six point odds that Bathurst couldn’t last the night with Angie and Sue. You win, I’ll pay the bill as well," Andrew was saying to MacKensie when the thump of heavy boots silenced him.

‘The du Tournai’s daughter is poking her head into every room she passes,’ Hastings said, nearly breathless with excitement.

"Really? Aggravation!" Without another word, Andrew flew to the door, his head filled with the vision of that innocent child walking in on the likes of Tony, who was guaranteed to bed Sally before hitting the road. Sally imagined this was the way to wed herself a duke’s son – silly chit! Andrew was moving so quickly that he reached the foot of the stairs at the same time as the girl herself. Suzanne was standing on the last step, hand resting on the rail, holding her skirts in her free hand. Dressed in soft grey shot with bright red flowers, the colour turned her skin to pearl. Her breasts mounded at the edge of bodice made him catch his breath. He hadn’t noticed those before! His pale blue eyes met her warm brown ones. Held. A feeling like wading at Brighton came over Andrew and for a moment he was unaware of where he was. One minute he was staring into brown eyes and the next he experienced the same giddiness of walking in the water where the bottom abruptly disappears and he was left floating. He blinked the sensation away, but continued to stare in mute fascination. ‘Anne?’ He wanted to say her name, but he didn’t have the strength.

<Andrew>

Andrew was rescued from having to find something to say to the sultry mademoiselle by the appearance of her father. "It’s taken you deuced long to find your way downstairs, Suzanne," he told her, holding out a hand towards her, bidding her to join him in the parlour. "Your mother asked if you had brought your red shawl." A pointless question since Suzanne was wearing it.

"I shall travel with you, Milord du Tournai, to London. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a letter ahead to Lord Grenville to expect you and your family before supper today," Andrew said when he’d collected himself. "It’s imperative your first stop be at the embassy, sir."

Du Tournai listened restively, not used to taking orders from a stripling lad; Andrew resented his look of bored acceptance. "Have you considered where you and your wife might live in London ?" Andrew asked levelly. "Perhaps last evening, now that you’re on English soil, it occurred to you that you’re homeless."

The count sucked in his cheeks and responded by clearing his throat. "Of course it’s occurred to me. I was aware I was under suspicion for a month before Chauvelin made his move. I had already sent a sum of money to Lady Portarles against our arrival in London."

"Good, good; someone had said to me that you had the time; but we never know if the émigrés will have read the opportunity or not. Do you know if Lady Portarles has purchased a house for you?"

The count shook his head. "Then, my suggestion that you remain at the Embassy is still the best alternative; you will be safe there. Of course, by now, all of Paris knows of your escape and the arrival of the Marquise de Fontenay has alerted all of Dover that there are émigrés in the area."

"Henri! Henri, the coach!" the countess called from the parlour. Andrew glanced at the door just as it was flung open and the driver entered the Fisherman’s Rest.

<Suzanne>

She opened her mouth to protest her father when the gentleman informed them that he would be traveling with their family to London. It may not be the same as a private breakfast with him, but at least they would not part company immediately.

"Have you considered where you and your wife might live in London ? Perhaps last evening, now that you're on English soil, it occurred to you that you're homeless."

Suzanne grabbed her father's arm as a wave of faintness washed over her. Thinking back on it, she had not considered their state now that they were off French soil. They were unfortunates now and would have to make due with only the charity of those more fortunate for the time being. "Papa... we have no home now." She said weakly. That thought un-nerved her far more than those of the terror in Paris . The realization that their lives were far from settled here in England hit her. Why all this horrible change? Why could they no longer live in their home free from threats and violence? Everything was turning out to be monumentally unfair for the Du Tournai family.

<Teresia>

"I've never been to London. All I know is what I've read in the newspapers. Tell me about it... while we eat." The intonation of her voice rose, making the last sentence almost a question. She wanted to put Bathurst at ease, get him relaxed and talking... who knew what he might accidentally let slip.

<Bathurst>

“As you wish, m’dear,” his voice controlled and cool, betraying little of his longing for her. Lord, lord! The lady certainly knew how to set a man’s blood aboil! He was snared like a rabbit and too intoxicated by her voice, her scent, her very presence to even think to struggle. Why struggle when the trap was this enthralling?

Bathurst walked stiffly, least his body betray any of the signs of his desire for her, as he followed Jellyband into a secluded parlour, eyes fixed on the fellow’s back desperately trying to suppress the impulse to watch the hypnotic movements of the woman beside him. He could feel beads of sweat form on his brow as they entered the parlour, he cleared his throat noisily. “Lud, Jellyband! This rooms a veritable kitchen, I’m breakin’ out in a sweat already,” Bathurst wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, eyes meeting Jellyband’s. There was an understanding there. Wordlessly Jellyband ambled out to see to the lady’s meal.

Alone. Alone with the delicious Marquise de Foutney.

<MacKensie>

“Well…” MacKensie began as he watched Ffoulkes drift away at the sight of the pretty little du Tournai. “…it looks like Bathurst is going to try to bed the Spanish chit. I’ll wager you he’ll have his face slapped before the hour is out. And if there’s some time till the coach arrives, it looks like Andrew will be getting his reward for his hand in the rescue…” lucky bastard! MacKensie noted the too low neckline of Suzanne’s gown and logically reasoned that it had been forced lower than usual.

“What say we find Tony and hire some horses? Andrew will be leaving with the family in a few minutes time and Bathurst is right in that we should not all travel together. If we ride hard we can be in London by night’s fall… to late to pick up a new suit, but we can see to our other needs easily enough.”

<Hastings>

“I don’t doubt it,” Hasting replied in response to the wager that the foreign lady would redden Bathurst ’s cheek over some tactless remark and again at the suggestion that Andrew would bed the troublesome du Tournai wench, the latter was all but looking for trouble."

“What say we find Tony and hire some horses?”

“Capital idea, except I haven’t seen Tony all morning… perhaps she left before this morning’s fiasco or with Blakeney… whenever that was.”

<Andrew>

With exaggerated care, Andrew saw the countess settled into a corner of the coach (extra pillow at her back, a rug for her knees, her fan on her lap in case she needed a little air), then turned his attention on the lovely daughter. Papa du Tournai had been glaring at her as if she were a bug in his beer; Andrew could feel his anger at the child, and decided it would be best to completely ignore the sweet thing for the first few hours until her father’s temper had dissolved. Andrew backed away from the door to allow the count to assist his daughter inside, and then enter the coach himself, while Andrew watched the lackeys stowing the luggage – most of it being his. Finally, he stepped up and eased himself into the final place and the door was slammed. Andrew was facing the count across from him, seated next to the countess – and in the farthest place sulked pretty Suzanne. It was going to be a very, very long trip, Andrew decided.

"I say, milord," he began brightly as the coach lurched to a start, "we could do worse than spend the journey with you explainin’ to me exactly why you think those deuced revolutionaries want to take over your country. Who d’you foresee having the power to swat that little beetle, Chauvelin?"

<Teresia>

She watched the landlord leave and then took a seat, motioning Bathurst to join her on the bench. "It is a little warm in here." she agreed gently, "Here, allow me. " she took his handkerchief and tenderly mopped his brow.

<Bathurst>

The lady's gentle touch warmed Bathurst alarmingly, was this comment behavior for Spanairds or was she in love with him? As she lean closer he detected the scent of exotic perfumes... or was that his imagination? The basic fact that she was so close had him melting in his seat. He needed to pull her close and kiss her, yet worried she would slap his face for his presumptuousness. Perhaps this was her way of showing her graditude for the kindness he'd shown her and didn't realize the dangers of her actions. He took the handkerchief from her, "Thank you, madame, that's quite alright." If she was not careful he might not be responsible for his actions.

<Teresia>

The door opened and Jellyband appeared, followed by Sally and Jemima carrying the food. Teresia glanced their way, then with upmost decorum, folder the handkerchief and handed it back. "This looks delicious." she lied, convincingly, "Diga me, what is that called?" she pointed to a plate of kippers with curiosity.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst ’s eyebrow raised slightly as he looked to the plate that was causing such curiosity. “Kippers,” he announced authoritatively. “Y’know fish…” With one hand he made an elaborate gesture meant to imitate a fish swimming through water. “Sally’s kippers were a wonder to the senses…” Bathurst began, relieved that to be on the safe topic of food, which was a blessed distraction from the spell she was weaving on him. “Let’s see… There’s bacon and sausages… Sally cures them herself so I’m told… black pudding…” Bathurst stopped, reddening to the hairline when he saw the expression upon Teresia’s face. Shock and slight horror that he would continue his guided tour of her meal. Far from the way to impress a lady. Were Tony or MacKensie present to witness they’d be doubled up with laughter at his foolish, pathetic attempt. Andrew would remind him that only a paid whore would care for such a blessed boring topic and only because she was paid… and Hasting would likely already be making his moves on the exquisite creature. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” he concluded weakly.

<Teresia>

Carefully avoiding the kippers and black pudding, Teresia chose a selection of the safer items, then poured herself some coffee. "Coffee?" she asked, holding the pot up to Bathurst 's cup. "Will it be a long journey to London ?" She was wondering how she would be able to make contact with Chauvelin's spy and when?

<Bathurst>

Bathurst murmured his thanks as Teresia poured him out a cup. “If we make good time, we can be in London by nightfall,” Bathurst replied. “Otherwise we may have to make a stop for the night and arrive in London in the morning.” The latter idea had some merit. It would give me more time to make an impression on the lovely lady, before he disappeared amongst the throng of displaced émigré forging a life in London . “Though I fear either way we’ll have a long ride ahead of us. Do you have any friends or relations in England ? Someone we can write to put you up while you get settled?”

<Dewhurst>

Dewhurst smiled triumphantly as he stepped back, admiring his accomplishment. It had taken him forever, but every knotted rope on the Daydream's decks had been undone and wound neatly. Percy would be pleased! What need did they have for a crew when the two cousins could manage so well alone? Alone, but together. Tony heard footsteps and turned around to see Chauvelin approaching, a sinister look in those solid cold eyes of his. He didn't see the blade the noir-clad Frenchman had drawn but instead, felt it sheath itself in the flesh of his abdomen. He screamed, writhing around until finally... he woke up.

Sweaty, disheveled, and with the memory of his impending trek back to France on his mind, Tony threw his legs over the side of the bed and caught his breath, holding his head in his hands. Better to die from a fictional stab wound in his sleep than return to Le Chat Gris! He felt across the sheets, finding his tortoise-shell comb. The murder weapon! He threw it across the room and it hit the wall, breaking in two and clanging to the floor. It must have been late morning for the sky was a bright grey (or as bright as grey can get) and it flooded the room with a filtered brightness that seemed unnatural. He removed his shirt and stalked over to the modest desk that had become his makeshift vanity. Why shave? If he were to go back to that God-forsaken place, his unkempt appearance would only help disguise him! He took a few minutes to refresh himself, put on a clean shirt and breeches before heading down to catch Percy. He exited his room with his loose cravat hanging from his neck. Little would improve his state of mind at the moment save a cup of strong coffee, perhaps with a shot of brandy in it! That might perk him up!

<MacKensie>

MacKensie sat in the tap room, a beer in one hand, the other gesturing animatedly. “…so Glynde told him that could have been anyone’s arse!” He broke down in a fit of laughter, Hastings laughing good humouredly in a seat beside him. The heavy clatter of boots upon the stairs alerted them to expect company. A moment later, Dewhurst came into sight. “My Lord Tony! Join us! I was just telling Hastings about Philip Glynde’s little incident at White’s club a fortnight ago.”

<Dewhurst>

He stared, only mildly amused, at MacKensie. "I will join you. Say, is there any coffee around? I was hoping to grab a cup before seeing Percy. Perhaps some food too. Jellyband! Jellybaaaand!"

The plump man practically ran into the room, "Yes, Lord Dew'urst?"

"Would you do a chap a favour and find me something to eat old boy?"

"Of course sir! I'll 'ave Sally bring it 'ere straight away." And with that, their generous host was gone. Tony took a seat in a large chair, draping his leg over the arm and folding his arms across his chest, and examined MacKensie.

"Now back to your amusing tale? Please, do finish relating Glynde's latest social mishap! I need some laughter to lift my sunken spirits this day."

<Hastings>

Hastings cleared his throat noisily. “Percy left at least an hour ago… two at the most,” Hastings replied, taking another drink. “He left shortly after the arrival of the Spanish chit… perhaps because it place has been get less secure the longer we stay. And Ffoulkes has started out with the du Tournais… which leaves us to make our own way to civilization.”

<MacKensie>

“In other words,” Mackensie commented. “Once you’ve eaten we’ve got horses waiting so that we can be on our way.”

<Dewhurst>

"Spanish chit? What Spanish chit?" Tony asked, his confusion growing. "So, the du Tournai family is en route to London and Percy has abandoned us for... Richmond? I can only assume that is where he is headed. The man cannot stand to be so far removed from his wife! I've never seen someone so dedicated to a marriage! You'd think every suitable mistress in the county had been taken whilst we were abroad!"

<Hastings>

“It’s almost ridiculous the degree to which he adores her,” Hastings returned. “No dowry. No title. The most appropriate thing would have been to have made her his mistress… but I suppose if anyone had go reason to stick to his bed it would be Blakeney. His wife is not as hard upon the eye as many of the girls striking out for husbands…” Nor as duplicitous as some, he thought. An image of Sarah Dunstable came readily to mind – the little jade who stamped on his heart and caused the rift between him and Lord Bathurst. “… and I’ll wager she could keep him stiff and strong for many a day.” Just imagine the little French Philly linked to Dunstable’s wealth… that would be a prize many a bachelor would give his left testicle for…

Hastings came to his senses when he realized that Dewhurst and MacKensie were staring at him quizzically. “Oh, yes! You asked about the Spanish chit!” Hastings hastily cleared his throat. “You both slept through that. It seems she stowed away on a boat from Calais in an attempted to flee the revolution. She dressed as a boy, I suppose to disguise herself. Well when the boat came to port, she went through customs where they tried to hold her for lack of papers. She made a dash for and found her way here. Bathurst has been hovering over her ever since.”

<Teresia>

She shook her head sadly. "No. Luc came to England once or twice, but I never accompanied him." She paused slightly, realizing that this would be a golden opportunity to invent a cover for her communication with Chauvelin. "He had some friends here... I don't know them, but I shall write to them. They might help me for Luc's sake. I mustn't count on it though." she added in an almost martyred tone, "No, I must find other accommodation then, if they befriend me as I hope, that will be a bonus. I'm not without money. Is there anywhere you would recommend?"

<Bathurst>

That was a loaded question to say the least! There were ideas to be sure, most of which would earn him a slapped face were they to come to light. “There are a few options open to you, but it would be best to wait till we’ve arrived in London and checked in at the embassy,” Bathurst replied. “They may have their own ideas. Typically they recommend the individual to any possible family or if they’ve money to an apartment… but I don’t now. Never really asked.” Bathurst laughed awkwardly.

<Teresia>

"The embassy? I can't go to the embassy!" she exclaimed in mock fright, secretly picturing the look on Chauvelin's face if she walked bold as brass into his office. "I didn't take such precautions getting here to throw myself back onto French soil by going to the embassy." Oh, how easy it would be if she could go freely to and from the embassy, but Chauvelin wanted this done covertly. The Pimpernel mustn't suspect a thing, which meant no contact except that which had been agreed.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst scratched his head, thinking. “Would it be better if we applied to the Spanish embassy? Or would they still recognize your citizenship?” If necessary he would put her up in an apartment, but would that dash her reputation? Imply that she might be nothing more than a foreign mistress. … Either way you will not be without accommodations, I’ll swear that much to you.”

<Teresia>

"The Spanish embassy," she mused, thinking it over, "yes, that might be alright." Yes indeed, she thought, that would do very nicely indeed. Chauvelin could visit the Spanish embassy at any time on official business... perfect. "How long do we have before the coach leaves?" she asked. She would have to pen her letter either before they left the Fisherman's Rest, or after they arrived in London.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst extracted his pocket watch, and glanced at it briefly before returning it. "An hour and a quarter." That would be plenty of time of Dewhurst, MacKensie and that bastard Hastings to have made a clean getaway. "Is there anything you require in the interim?"

<Teresia>

"Perhaps we could take a turn along the cliffs." she suggested. "I feel in need of some air. Miss Jellyband has provided me with a coat. Would you be good enough to fetch it please?" Teresia hoped that Chauvelin's man would be watching the inn and would take his queue from her.

<Bathurst>

Obedient as an old hound, Bathurst rose and bowed to Teresia. “Milady,” he murmured, before marching to and through the door. Racketing through the narrow corridor, in search of Jellyband or Sally or one in their in employ, until he nearly ran down a little slip of a maid in the corridor. “Where is Sally?” Bathurst asked curtly.

“In the kitchen, milord,” the little one replied meekly. “Should I fetch her?"

“I need the coat she provided for the Marquise de Foutney,” he muttered, then added. “My traveling companions… are any of them still here?”

“No, milord. They left a short time ago.”

“The coat then,” he shooed her away. At least they had the sense to finally leave.

<Teresia>

As his tailcoat disappeared from the room, Teresia took out a scrap of paper and a pencil. She wrote a hurried note for Chauvelin. It read,

Am headed for Spanish Embassy, London, in company of Lord Bathurst.
She prayed Chauvelin would read between the lines and meet her there. Then she folded the paper, stowed it safely about her person and waited for Lord Bathurst to return. Would Chauvelin's spy follow them on their walk? If he was worth his salt he would.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst paced the hall irritably waiting for the maid to return with the coat. He had sent Jellyband’s groom to procure seats on the next coach out, actually to buy out any vacant seats as well – he wanted the lady as much to himself as possible. And yet despite all his precaution things weren’t going well. They were going miserably. Pathetically. He wanted to shine in her eyes and instead floundered. How was Hastings able to do it? Womanizer that he was. How was Ffoulkes? Who had but to look at a wench and she was melting into his arms. Never had he wanted a woman more and looked more the fool. The little Marquise was from a one of those hot-blooded races known to be passionate lovers and married a Frenchman, those little blighters were known to be overly promiscuous. How could he hope to compare with that?

The maid returned a moment later, looking flushed and harassed, but bearing the coat in her tiny red hands. Bathurst nodded in acknowledgement to her and took the coat, folding it over one arm and marching triumphantly back. “Your pardon for the endless delays, milady,” Bathurst announced as he entered. “But I’ve managed to procure your coat.” Was it his imagination that she looked impatient as he entered the room? The next moment she was smiling at him causing him to forget all else.

<Teresia>

She permitted him to help her into her coat and gave him a beaming smile which said - keep this up and you'll be helping me out of it soon enough! Then she offered him her arm. "Lead on, senor." she said with a merry laugh.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst was warned by the lady’s glances – snared like a rabbit with no thought to escape. As he helped her into her coat, he had time to admire the exquisite creature. In that brief moment, he committed to memory every detail of her profile. The small oval face, the fine pointed chin and the full, sensuous lips, the straight, almost aristocratic nose set between two dark, velvety eyes hovering over by the most expressive of brows. He eyes took in the outline of a perfectly molded breast, the tiny waist and rounded thighs. This was not a woman – this was a goddess!

He offered her his arm and was almost giddy when she accepted it. Wordlessly, for he was incapable of words at that moment, he lead her out of the small parlour, through the Fisherman’s Rest and out the door – quite certain he was the envy of every man who saw them.

The pale rays of the sun shone upon the beautiful white coast of Kent through the swiftly passing clouds, illuminating the quaint, irregular houses that clustered round the Admiralty Pier. With Teresia at his side Lord Bathurst stepped on to the porch through the impressed Georgian door and paused to look out to sea, noting that Daydream’s sails were absent from the sails that towered against the horizon. Percy must have given the crew orders to sail up the coast, no doubt to prevent Hastings from acting on a silly whim, or Dewhurst from plunging forward.

“You must see the view from the cliffs, Madame. It is enough to take your breath away.” He guided her to the cliffs by sheer instinct for all his attention was set upon the gentle pressure of her hand rest upon his arm, on the heat of her beside him, on imagining he could hear the soft breath that issued from her lips. Had he but looked behind they a ways, he might has turned his suspicions on a solitary figure that followed at length, keeping a respectful distance, not to avoid disturbing the couple, but to avoid notice.

<Teresia>

There was a stiff breeze blowing and the smell of salt spray was wonderful on the senses. "The boats look so tiny from up here!" she exclaimed as they stood arm in arm on the cliff edge. She had caught the sound of footsteps behind them. Not because they were particularly loud, but because she was expecting them. "Let's sit here for a while. We have time, do we not?" Secretly she feared she was making things too easy for this English Lord. She resolved to watch the boats and see if he had the balls to make the next move without her encouragement. As she took a seat on the chalky grass, her eye flicked to their pursuer. She wanted him to come nearer... she had a plan. A split second later she was gazing out across the harbour. "Tell me, which ship is that?" she asked pointing at a Navy three-decker obviously heading passed Dover to London.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst dropped onto the grass beside Teresia, perhaps with slightly less grace than he might hope, but it was a calculated move to place himself as close to her as possible. Whether they had time or not he would make time - he had certainly paid enough for the coach for it to wait a few minutes. "That, I believe, is the Daedalus..." Bathurst said, trying to think of an excellent move the conversation into talk of a more intimate nature. He watched the Daedalus's progress while trying to compose his thoughts into words. How could he say how in so short a time the lady had captured his heart in a strangle hold and he was tortured by the thought that once they reached London he might never see her again.

As he turned back to Teresia, he detected that the perfect little Marquise was distracted. Likely still filled with the fear of persecution she had experienced in France - curse all of those murderous cowards! "I know that your experiences in France have rightfully filled you with a degree of apprehension and mistrust, m'dear, but I assure you that you are entirely safe here, I'd stake my life on it," Bathurst said, running his hand along the grass to where Teresia's hand was anxiously breaking the thin green blades, taking the tiny thing in his own and marvelling at how it fit into his own big hands. "I know that being a foreigner in a strange land, especially after the horrors you have witness can be terrifying. I can see that yours is a character not easily daunted , yet I fear that even here there are those who might take advantage of you - an idea which sickens me." As he spoke he lightly caressed the back of her hand with his thumb, marvelling at the feel of the velvety skin. "I ask that you allow to take the part of your guardian, while you are establishing a place for yourself here, so that you may have someone to turn to when in need." He looked into her eyes - it was like looking into the night sky on a warm summer evening. If she were to disappear from his life, he felt certain he would die.

<Teresia>

She could feel his uncertainty as he stroked her hand. "You have been so kind to me. I don't know how I shall ever repay you." The thumb paused. "No, don't stop." she added softly. In her eyes smoldered the embers of passion, but in her heart... in her heart she felt a gentle pity for this naive young man. He was hers to play with, hers to command; yet he meant nothing to her save a means to an end.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst felt his heart miss a beat as he looked into Teresia's welcoming eyes, perceiving there an invitation. He swallowed despite the fact that his throat had gone dry with the words, 'I don't know how I shall ever repay you.' Had he been right in reading all the signals she had sent him? The fluttering eyelashing, the subtle tones - flirtation? Still holding her hand with one of his, as though if he were to let her go she would be blown away by the wind that even now unsettling her hair, he raised the other hand to cup her chin - her eyes brightening with the contact. "Your happiness is repayment enough," he murmured.

Her eyelids fluttered expectantly, enticing Bathurst to give in to his impulses. Slowly he brought his lips down to meet hers, feeling her head tilt back ever so slightly to receive his kiss. Her lips were soft, pliant - but lord, the heat of them! He had intended a brief kiss and yet he could not pull himself away from her honeyed lips. He had visions of laying her out here on the grass and having her despite who might see, but forced himself to pull away before he pressed too far. He had warned her that there would be those who would attempt to take advantage and did not want her to have the impression that she was one of them.

<Teresia>

She replied as only she knew how. Her body was his, but her mind was ever free. It seized temporary control of her left hand and, behind Bathurst's back, beckoned to the man who was taking a deuced long time approaching. The timing had to be exactly right for what La Cabarrus had in mind. When he pulled away she sensed his dilemma. He had to have his mind elsewhere for her plan to work, so she played the final card. He wanted to make her happy? "Bueno," she said pulling him back towards her, "if my happiness is payment, let me make you a very rich man!"

<Bathurst>

Lord, oh lord! She took him by surprise, the little vixen, pulling him closer, her lips mere inches away, begging to be kisses. Lord Bathurst, being no fool, intended to do just that. He leaned into her embrace, mouth descending to meet her slightly parted lips. The contact was electrifying. He recalled hearing that lightening never strike the same place twice, and yet she was the electrifying Marquise de Foutney defying the rules of nature. He took the opportunity to slip one arm around her waist the other cradling the nape of her neck. She gasped in surprise as Bathurst abruptly pulled her into his laps, where the weight and warmth of her body stirred him considerably. Her arms twined around his neck, pulling him closer, her perfect breast crushed against his chest, against his heart. She parted her lips that he might snake his tongue against hers. God, he must had done something right in life to come to this perfect moment. He hand trailed down of its own accord, cupping soft flesh, the only barrier the thin cloth of her dress barring his hand from the silken flesh beneath.

<Teresia>

The man was nearly up to them now. He would have to walk around them. Using the excuse of loosening her bodice she shifted position slightly. The timing had to be perfect. One... two... three... she shifted back and one seemingly innocent leg shot out across the path, tripping the man up. Teresia gave a scream of surprise. " Madre de Dios!", she exclaimed as though noticing the man for the first time. Quickly she rolled off of Bathurst, her hand clutching at a loosened bodice and palming the note she'd hidden within at the Fisherman's Rest. "I'm so sorry senor, are you alright?" The man looked dazed and angry, which was just what she had hoped for. "Here let me help you..." She tried to give him her hand, but he pushed it roughly away, glowering at her the whole time. She looked to Bathurst for support and once more her hand went to her fluttering bosom. This time however, that hand was empty... the switch had been made.

<Bathurst>

Despite the chill of the seaside winds, Bathurst felt himself melt with the heat of his desire fueled by the Lady's proximity and passionate kisses. He own kisses explored her mouth and throat and face, he himself rising to the occasion, no longer satisfied merely by her lips. he wanted her here. Now. For all the world to see for all he cared. The Marquise felt it too, for in a moment she was fumbling with her bodice, loosening stays, trying to release those supple breasts from their confinement. Joy, oh joy! He felt as giddy as he had the first time he made love to a woman.

His bliss was shattered by the cry, "Madre de Dios!" He watched, dumbstruck, as the lady pulled away, hovering over an unsavory looking chap, sprawled on the ground beside him. He blinked a few times, trying to comprehend the situation, the only part of which he understood was that the Marquise de Foutney was in his arms and now she was not. The lady was all apologies trying, clutching at her bodice, graciously offering her hand to the invading little slug, who pushed in roughly aside. This gesture had Bathurst on his feet, the hurt look she gave him had him situated between her and the interloper, seething with anger.

"Now see here!" Bathurst jabbed the man roughly in the chest with a forefinger, the other hand on the hilt of the sword hanging from his loosened belt. "What do you think you're doing slinkin' about?" The stranger's eyes narrowed in hatred, his muscled stiffened as though preparing to act, then without a word he shrugged and amiable away. He had half a mind to chase after the little creep, but remembered the lady at his side. The stranger might not have been alone, another might be loitering about with the intention of doing the lady some harm. She wouldn't be truly safe until she was in London.

"Are you alright, dearest?" Bathurst asked as he turned to her, somewhat deflated, observing that she was already readjusting her bodice. He sighed inwardly - so close.

This thread is continued from And So the Truth Comes Out

This thread continues in Homecoming and The Long Road

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