Percy remembered Etienne de Saint-Cyr as a boy of nine running behind him with a pointed stick. "Turn and fight!" he had cried over and over.

"No!" Percy had said, "I'm going for my horse."

At that Etienne had stopped and cried, "Papa! Make him play right!"

The marquis had been seated on the terrace under an awning where chairs had been arranged around a table. Etienne's cry had interrupted his meeting, his conversation with his English friend, Sir Algernon Blakeney.

"Come boys, have some lemonade," he said.

When Percy reached the table, a footman was replenishing glasses. His father reached out and dropped a hand on Percy's shoulder. "Consider the marquis's son is younger than you, Percy, and let him have his way."

"No, Algernon, no," he marquis replied. "Etienne must learn to rule through character, not because others submit."

Ever since the popularity of Rousseau became absolute, men had taken to demonstrating sentimentality, but Sir Percy Blakeney's show of emotion was no sham. His tears were as real as the agony he felt.

"I saw it myself," Henshaw, his personal footman, had said. "Bit of sport, like, to go and watch. No one knew who would be guillotined. Didn't hear the names at first because the crowd made so much racket with their cheering."

"You went with a few friends to the Place Greve?" Percy asked, still shaken at Henshaw's news.

Henshaw nodded. Standing before his employer, he had removed the exquisite tricorn hat that was a part of his uniform and was passing it from hand to hand in agitation he spoke.

"Jacques Blais is undercook in the du Chaumais household. One of the serving maids told the kitchen staff at supper last night that one of the guests at table had said there would be a significant execution today and Blais asked me if I wanted to go along. Thought it would be worth a laugh. Didn't... couldn't suppose it would be people we knew."

Percy sighed heavily. He could almost hear Etienne's giggle - his childhood giggle - in his ears. Funny how he couldn't seem to recall his adult voice or his face; all the memories his brain brought forth were from the distant past.

"Monstrous," he whispered. "Leave me, Henshaw; but on your way out, ask cook for strong coffee and then send Frank to me."

His hands were shaking. All his thoughts were incomplete as if logic had been scrambled by emotion. Life was going to be very different in France from now on, he thought. Thank god he was leaving tomorrow. Taking his new wife to Blakeney manor. Wiping the dust of this accursed city off his boots. She and Armand would be happier - not to mention safer - living across the channel.

"You wished to see me, Sir Percy?" Frank asked. The man walked as silently as a ghost; Percy hadn't heard him enter the room.

"Yes, Frank. The family Saint-Cyr..." His voice broke on the name. La famille de Saint-Cyr. Cousins to the king. It was all so unbelievable! "Saint-Cyr and all his family have been - today - put to death by the revolutionaries."

Frank gasped. "Good lord! What has become of civilisation?"

"I wish I knew, Frank. Old madame de Saint-Cyr loved my grandmother like a daughter."

"Yes sir."

"I remember my father saying that every time we visited their house. He would stand me in front of that portrait of her in their great hall and say, 'We honour madame because she favoured your grandmother. Saint-Cyr has always been a friend of Blakeney. This is a friendship of generations and we honour them with our blood."

"Was that when Sir Algernon wished to see you wed to one of Saint-Cyr's daughters, Sir Percy?"

Percy nodded. Good thing that hadn't worked out, he thought, somewhat irreverently. All of Saint-Cyr's daughters were spiteful cats. Spoiled. Lively. Full of fun as youngsters, they would have been as mad for intrigue as their mother... that was no doubt part of what had brought them to this pass today. The current marquis and marquise both had intrigue in their blood.

"As a mark of respect, we must go into mourning for them."

"Yes, Sir Percy. I will advise the staff. And Lady Blakeney's maid... I doubt she's had time to complete your wife's wardrobe."

At last Percy's whirling thoughts bumped against something solid they could fix on. Mourning.

"Of course you're right. There's no help for it, we must summon a dressmaker at once."

"I'm sure that can be arranged."

"I'd best go tell her what's what," Percy said, getting to his feet.

Marguerite was barely acquainted with Saint-Cyr; telling her would be no blow to her tender heart. It would be more difficult to make her understand why his sorrow was so complete, why the house would go into mourning for a French nobleman who was not directly connected to him.

"Ties beyond friendship. Distant ties of loyalty and service," he murmured, testing the sound of the words - his father's words.

He'd followed Frank from the room, paused at the foot of the stairs, marked the bedroom door with his gaze and willed himself to march up to her door.

He was less than half-way up the stairs when he heard a door further down the hall opened followed by the sound of heavily booted feet. He knew that tread as surely as...

"Andrew," he said as his friend came into view.

"Percy? What are you doing wandering the house in your dressing gown?" Andrew's eyes cruised from Percy's undressed hair to his bare feet and shins.

"Come on down, I have something to tell you." Percy turned around and the two men headed back downstairs.

"James Henshaw has been my man for nearly seven years and he knows all my friends. He has liberty today, but he returned to the house after visiting the Place Greve with a couple of friends of his to watch the executions."

Andrew moaned. "It's unmanly to admit, I can't bear that. I can gut a stag, no hesitation there, but I just can't watch an execution. Too brutal!"

"Picture then, how young Henshaw felt seeing people he knew beheaded. People we know."

The tears began flowing once more, Percy was unable to hold them back. "He was a schemer, god knows, each of the girls were petty and extravagant, but they did not deserve death. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone - I believe that."

"Everyone believes that," Andrew added automatically.

Percy shook his head. "No, not everyone. You'd be surprised at some of the people who don't believe it. Henshaw tells me that the crowd was large and he couldn't hear the names being called out, but he recognised Etienne when he mounted the guillotine."

"Saint-Cyr? You can't mean..."

"The marquis, his wife, Etienne and all the girls. Executed."

Andrew felt suddenly ill, his stomach crowding uncomfortably beneath his ribs. Etienne de Saint-Cyr... all the girls...guillotined.

"I understand your sorrow, Percy."

"Let me tell you my gravest sorrow. Saint-Cyr, a blood relation of the king - if they are able to execute his entire family with impunity, what does that say about the revolution? It says there is no limit to what they can do. No limit, Andrew. It means anyone, even the king, is vulnerable."

The sound of the library door shutting behind Andrew jolted Percy awake. He couldn't bear to sit alone. He put down his coffee cup and got up, noticed that his knees were white from the cold. He was naked beneath his robe. Henshaw had roused him with a forceful hand on the shoulder, pulling him from the perfect sleep of the first morning of his marriage.

I must tell Marguerite, he reminded himself. There was a dressmaker coming to sew a mourning gown, he had to wake her and let her know.

Percy stood at the foot of the stairs once more, thinking it looked like a very long walk to the bedroom. What would he tell her? How could he make her understand? His lovely actress wife was not one to stand on ceremony just because a man had been cousin to the King of France.

As he padded up the steps Percy tried to organise his thoughts.

Good morning, my darling. I'm afraid it's not the joyous first day of our marriage I had hoped to share with you...no, he couldn't say that.

Darling wife. His darling wife of less than twenty-four hours. Filled with joy, rapture, tenderness, magic - he should have stayed in bed with her. Should have rolled over and bade Henshaw leave him without telling him the urgent news.

Go away.

He shook his head, trying to erase the sense of helplessness he felt. He was almost at the door; what was he going to say? Even in his profound grief he felt himself stir at the thought of Marguerite - Margot - in his bed. The wild mane of hair that covered them both like a silken blanket. Her expression had been childlike as he left her asleep and tiptoed to the door, pausing at the chair to pick up his dressing gown before exiting the room.

Hell of a way to start a marriage, my darling, but there it is.

He turned the knob as quietly as possible and entered the bedroom. She was just as he'd left her, her back to the door, one white shoulder peeking out of the covers. He draped the dressing gown over the back of the chair as he passed and tiptoed back to the bed. Slipped between the sheets. Folded himself around her naked form. She felt perfect in his arms. So perfect.

With sudden clarity he remembered Etienne's wedding five years ago. Clearly he saw the face of Etienne's homely wife, her buck-toothed grin and her pock-marked skin.

'If she's fertile, I should only have to bed her once a year,' Etienne had whispered over the wedding supper. She hadn't proved particularly fertile, but she had provided a son. Percy was tremendously pleased with himself that he'd broken every rule in the book and had chosen for his bride a woman who made his heart race. Whose very presence heated his blood.

An involuntary sob broke from him as he recalled Henshaw saying "... all of them, including the little nipper."

The revolutionaries had executed the Marquis de Saint-Cyr, his son and his grandson, a baby of less than five years old. Percy couldn't help the tears dripping down his face. Etienne's son - why? Why was life so unfair?

His wife twisted round in his arms, kissed him tenderly on each cheek and brushed his hair off his forehead with a soft hand. 'It can't be as terrible as all that,' she'd murmured and he wished he might believe it.

"No, nothing so very bad, my darling, only terribly sad. Good friends. Close, personal friends have been sent to a violent death at the hands of your Republican government. I wish I could understand what it's all about."

That was all he managed to say before the sobs overwhelmed him. "If nothing else, I'll never forgive the death of the child!" he blubbed.

Percy, an only child, knew with the weight of a life-time what it meant to be the heir of a family. Etienne's marriage had been all about the creation of that young life and the continuity he provided. Despite all that, he had been a harmless baby. No matter what sort of intrigue the marquis had been involved in should not have condemned a baby to death.

Margot's velvet flesh, warm against him, provided some measure of comfort. Her keen mind would help him understand.

"We'll have to rise, my darling, and start the day at once. Unfortunately, your first day gown as Lady Blakeney will be black."

'Of course, I understand, but you have yet to tell me who it is that we are mourning...' Marguerite's soft eyes were clouded with concern.

"You've done your share of grieving in your life; what a thing to thrust upon you first thing! My family is united by honour and blood to Saint-Cyr. If you can imagine it, my aunt Hester was a waiting woman to Queen Marie Lezinska. When the dauphin - Louis XV's son, not the current king - was wed to Marie-Therese of Spain , Aunt Hester requested a position in the new Dauphine 's household for her sister Joan, who was my mother. Thanks to the old Marquise de Saint-Cyr it was granted and my mother lived with the dauphine until her death in childbed the next summer. At that time both she and Hester returned to England , but the bonds with the Saint-Cyr family have always been strong. Hester is Tony's aunt, too. She never married, you know. Lives in a little house north of London on her own, raising hunting spaniels and riding astride dressed in breeches like a man." He chuckled at the absurdity of the situation. "Were she not of so important a family, they'd lock her away, I suppose. Anyway it was when they returned to England that Lady Joan came to my father's attention and they were married. A lucky match for Papa! To wed a Dewhurst - god, you can't imagine what that meant to a minor baronet."

Telling the story, remembering how it had been told to him over and over again by Aunt Hester, Percy calmed down. He held Marguerite's hand, rubbing it absently against his stubbled chin.

"If you go back two more generations, the Exeter family were wild - wild! This would have been Tony's great grandfather, who murdered his brother, the heir, fled to Italy and wending his way through France he met Estelle de Saint-Cyr and they eloped, so you see, if you go back far enough, there are blood ties as well. But, there's no time to relate all the family history, we must have you presentable when the dressmaker arrives. I can tell you all my family tree - and Tony's - on the road tomorrow to Calais."

Percy got up, went to the wall and rang the bells, first calling Frank, then the bell that would ring in the kitchen. "Is your maid awake, d'you think? Damnation, I've forgotten the chit's name."

Quick she was to offer tenderness and solicitude and Percy's heart was buoyed by this. Oh yes, this was what he had dreamed of in a marriage - loving tenderness. Sweet concern. He dropped a kiss on the top of his pretty wife's head. "You are a comfort to me and I have the disgusting feeling that you will look so ravishingly lovely in black that I won't feel like mourning at all." He turned up her chin and kissed her pretty pouting mouth before the brush of knuckles on the door alerted him that the servants had arrived.

Frank appeared first and Percy gasped at the transformation. The servant had removed his blue coat and was dressed completely in black. The valet made a curt bow before depositing a tray on Lady Blakeney's table... a brandy decanter, a couple of glasses and a distillate that was probably laudenum. Taking a step backward, Frank eyed the couple with his head at an angle. Lady Blakeney was bearing up exceedingly well and Sir Percy appeared to be recovering his equilibrium.

"I hope you'll forgive my impertinence, Sir Percy; I've sent that Frenchie lad you took on - uh, Letendre I think his name is, with some brandy and a tincture for Lord Tony. Sir Andrew has gone to speak to him and I know he'll be monstrous upset. He was ever so fond of young Angel�...uh, if you'll, uh, forgive my saying so, sir." Frank seemed suddenly aware that he was imparting servant's gossip to his master.

Percy waved him quiet. "Don't be absurd Frank; everyone knew that, just as it's common knowledge the duke refused to allow Tony to marry the child. He has his eye on a political match for Tony." Suddenly, Percy became aware of Marguerite standing limply at his side. How unlike her to seem dazed and confused. Before he could say anything the young maid poked her head around the door Frank had left ajar.

"Come in, come in!" Percy demanded. "We must have your lady decently covered before the dressmaker arrives. See her dressed in whatever ladies wear when they're being fitted, see?" Percy scooped the brandy decanter with one hand, while leaning with the other on Frank's arm and together they left Margot in the bedchamber.

The footman who had lit the fire in Percy's bedchamber bowed and departed as the master and the valet entered. Frank closed the door behind them. "Do you want a bath, Sir Percy?"

Percy swished his hair back and forth over his shoulders and grimaced. "Definitely!"

Frank rang the kitchen (they would know at this hour that hot water was required) and he asked, "Do you know what you want to wear?"

Percy shook his head and sat down in the chair before the fire, slipped his feet out of his slippers and propped them on the fender; the gently curved soles reflected a glowing red in the brass. He downed a swig straight from the brandy decanter and blew out a fierce breath after the swallow.

Frank appeared at his side, both arms draped with coats.

"Black with wide silver bands; black with narrow white stripes. Black with green..."

"Do try to be serious, Frank!"

Frank dropped the black with green on the carpet.

"Black with navy. Or purple. Or this black with red."

Percy shook his head savagely.

The door opened abruptly and two footmen carried in the bathtub. They deposited it on the carpet before the fire between Percy's chair and the black and green coat. Frank had disappeared, to return the clothes to the closet, but momentarily he reappeared with another armload of coats.

"What about this most intriguing black and grey?"

Percy held out his hand and stroked the fabric. "I don't remember this," he said.

"There are striped breeches with..."

"Oh yes - no, not that."

"There is this very bland black with gold buttons..."

Percy stood, looking interested. "I think that might be it."

"Plain breeches," Frank added.

The footmen reappeared with kettles and partially filled the tub with hot water. Two more footmen followed with pitchers and added some cold. The last one closed the door with a loud thud.

"Yes, that could work. With a white shirt striped with grey..."

Frank's eyebrows arched at that.

"...and a very simple cravat."

"Black stockings, or white, sir?"

"Black of course. And my plain black shoes."

"There are plain black with red rosettes, or with..."

"Straight black, Frank. The plainest shoes I have."

"Uh, I think there are some with simple black bows on them."

"Fine, I'll have those."

Frank dropped all the coats onto the low stool and positioned himself behind Percy to pull off his robe. He was folding it as Percy stepped out of his nightshirt - two steps left the garment in a puddle on the floor as Blakeney stepped into the bath.

Frank cleared away all the clothes while Percy soaked, then returned with a long-handled brush to scrub his master's back.

The brutal scratch of the bristles promoted conversation and Percy explained his newest ideas to the valet.

"Now that I've had time to think on it, I can see that, while the execution was heinous, it was explainable. Saint-Cyr has long been a vocal supporter of Lafayette. Didn't we read that there has been trouble at the front?"

"Yes Sir Percy. Something about insufficient supplies, according to General Dumouriez."

"That's right. Danton screamed through the assembly that Dumouriez was a traitor to have left his command to return to Paris to demand supplies..."

"...and Dumouriez said the troops were barefoot and starving. No one could or would fight under those conditions."

"Yes! That's what I recall. I'm sure the marquis was the first to support Dumouriez's position and demand that money be forwarded at once for supplies for the troops and Danton said some poppycock about 10,000 livres having already been spent to that end."

"It was written that Monsieur Marat claimed to have helped himself to some of those supplies to arm the Parisians - the local militia - in case of an attack."

"Obviously Saint-Cyr, facing up to Marat - that guttersnipe revolutionary - signed his own death warrant. You see how it's all logical. Tragic and unfortunate, but understandable."

"Yes, Sir Percy."

Blakeney sighed contentedly, warm in the depth of his bath. "A pity we must assume official mourning. I'd so enjoy taking Marguerite walking along the Chausee d'Antin. Take tea in the English garden."

"Perhaps Lady Blakeney is not so fond of English tea as are you. Or sitting in English gardens. She gives the appearance of a woman who wishes to do things. I suspect she will want to rearrange every stick of furniture at Blakeney manor when she return home."

"She can do whatever she wishes, Frank. She's married me, hasn't she? She's my wife now."

Wife. It still felt odd to say the world in relation to himself. Marguerite Saint- Just had said yes and become his wife.

�Get your towel, Frank. I have to dress and get on with the day."

A pity Marguerite was going to be busy with the dressmaker; his most recent thought had more to do with undressing his wife.

The black suit, for all its stark plainness, suited him. He looked leaner and taller Percy decided as he inspected himself in his full-length cheval glass, but not at all as a new bridegroom should look. French daylight pierced the window gleaming in his freshly washed hair. His new wife should be cheerfully disposed towards mussing such shiny, silky locks and his saucy bride was ever playful. He grinned at the thought. He would be very glad to be back on English soil. To his mind, all things French had turned ugly.

His marriage had been celebrated as it would be lived: quietly. In society's eyes it was no coup for a baronet to marry an actress; only in his own opinion was Marguerite Saint-Just the most desirable match he could make. He hurried out the door, eager to see what the dressmaker had put together for his wife as a mourning gown. The woman had appeared, so Frank had said as he combed Percy's wet hair, trailing six seamstresses. They would have a dozen seams sewn in an hour and a gown would be constructed in less than two. It would be a simple garment, but appropriate. By dawn tomorrow Margot would travel in style with two changes of clothing. In England they would resort to a half-mourning of purple and grey. Lord, he could envision Margot's fair skin highlighted against such sober colours; she would be alabaster pale and so delicately lovely. He wanted desperately to kiss her. If only he could hold her now...

"Are you finished affixing those damned buckles, Frank? I have a mind to speak to my wife." Percy's tone was peevish. Frank wore a wounded expression as he looked up from where he crouched at Percy's feet.

"Yes, milord," he replied testily. "You're free to leave." Frank was still on the floor when Percy slammed the door behind him.

His bride was not in her bedchamber (sweetly vulnerable in petticoats and stays). The sempstresses were busily clearing up their threads and the dressmaker ordering everyone about; Percy glanced in, then hurried away. Demanding, controlling women were not his thing at all!

He thundered down the stairs, his long strides took him quickly down the long corridor, he paused only long enough to peek into each doorway. All around there were servants draping mirrors in black. Exchanging white tapers for black. So much work for a few hours; tomorrow after the carriages left, these busy bees would be closing the house. Vase after vase of lilies (wedding flowers) vanished to be replaced by sprays of severe branches of stark green. Finally, Percy all but ran over Henshaw as he exited the rose sitting room (so named because in the summer it looked onto the rose garden) bearing the last of the white bouquets.

"My wife, have you..." he began. Henshaw glanced back at the sitting room and without waiting for the footman to reply, Percy rushed inside. The sight of her slight figure framed in the daylight stopped him cold. Her shoulders were sharply pointed, her waist as narrow as a maypole, her flaring skirts a black fan that swept the pink and green Aubusson carpet. A stark outline of sorrow she was, with arms raised, hands gripping the window frame as if she wished to embrace the garden beyond the glass. The warm autumn sun set her silhouette aglow and flamed in her sun-kissed curls, suddenly more red than blonde. The sight of her dried his mouth, yanked at his heart and halted his breath. How could a single man own such perfection? It felt impossible, but own her he did - marriage gave him the right of life and death over her. Percy understood in this glance how a man, wed to a beauty, would fall into a jealous rage whenever another man looked on his wife's perfections. Marguerite Saint-Just was his. Oh perfection! Her pearl teeth and silken skin - she was his. He tiptoed toward her, afraid to destroy this moment in which the air was filled with tragedy. He sensed her tears - it was as if he could feel them on her cheeks. He would kiss away the salty drops.

He felt her tense; saw the stiffening of her spine and his hurrying steps slowed. "Darling?" he asked, then stopped. He'd been thinking in English. Spoken in English. She turned to face him looking so pale and stricken that he rushed toward her and pulled her to him. The vivid blue of her eyes was exaggerated by the wash of tears filling her eyes and they spilled over as he crushed her to his chest. "Makes it real, all this black. Somehow I can't picture any of their faces in my mind, but the transformation of this mourning household lends reality to the fact of their deaths. You can't have known..." Percy paused. "Do you remember meeting Angel� de Saint-Cyr at La Fayette's party? Lord, it's less than two weeks ago!"

Percy blinked in surprise. 'We can leave this ugliness behind us and start life afresh,' she said, looking hopeful. If this was her idea of how to appease his grief...

He gripped her shoulders and set her away from him so that he could look down into her face. He couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. "Their deaths must be remembered, not only for who they were, but for how they died. Guillotined like common felons, and for what cause? Some public spectacle of your damnable revolutionary government! Certain inalienable virtues of the family order must never disappear, even under this new law of universal brotherhood. Does not Christ still rule on this earth?" A shadow passed across his wife's face, the wide forehead innocent of anything save the faintest pucker of concern. Had she no thoughts at all about something so heinous as the guillotining of innocents? Innocents they were, especially the baby, but even the spiteful marquise could not be guilty of more than tactless gossip - of this Percy was certain.

"Marguerite, dear heart, you are the Catholic here, not I? Can your faith accept this - this chicanery? Whatever has been given out as the reason for Saint-Cyr's execution, it is nothing but a bloodless lie covering up wanton murder."

"Of course not," Percy said automatically, although food was the last thing on his mind. Automatically he offered his arm to his new wife, following Andrew out of the sitting room. "Do you have any plans for our last day in Paris?" Andrew asked. "I'm sure Frank wants you out of his hair so he can pack your belongings."

Percy turned to Marguerite. "Do you have any desire to visit a certain place one more time before we wipe the dust of France from our feet, my darling?"

"There is nowhere I wish to remember of Paris as it is now," Percy said. He felt an impulse to say, 'Let's wash our hands of everything French here and now,' but thought better of it. Marguerite would never see herself as English for all that she had assumed his nationality along with his name.

Marguerite said nothing. Looked distracted, and seemed distant. Percy took her hand and squeezed it, pretending to understand how wretched she must feel at leaving blood-soaked Paris, which for all that had been her home all her life. Oh she would feel homesick in England where the trees were dropping their leaves and the fallow fields looked forlorn. He wondered if she would take a strong dislike to Blakeney manor - a sprawling old house that felt the bitterness of a winter wind through thick stone walls. He couldn't help grinning at the thought of yew logs sparking in the hearth of the big front bedroom, their golden flames gilding Marguerite's velvet skin. With him in her bed she wouldn't need a warming pan no matter how chill the winter night. He envisioned a wooden trencher set with aged stilton and rosy apples to compliment the flavour of a goblet of best Bordeau - he couldn't wait for tomorrow and the pleasure of having Marguerite in his house. In his bed.

The dining room table in the rented house was set with the new Sevres Percy had purchased for Marguerite. They would pack it up and take it to England with them - well, normally he would leave it here for their next visit, but with so many riots taking place in the city it would be a shame if the new plates were smashed. There were dishes a-plenty at Blakeney manor, but they would take these along with them as a memento of their marriage.

Andrew nearly ran over Tony (who had paused in the doorway to take in the vista of sparkling green and white porcelain) on his way to the sideboard where he lifted the covers of two dishes at once and groaned over sausages and eggs. "God save us, real food! Lord, Percy, where did your butler manage to find eggs in Paris?"

Percy laughed. For all of Andrew's protests over infrequent and inadequate feeding, he didn't really look any thinner. As for Percy, he'd been living on love for nearly two weeks; so long as Margot was happy, he could survive on the scent of her perfumed skin and the taste of her cherry lips.

Two hours have passed:

Breakfast was finished; Andrew had had the good sense to drag Tony out for a walk and Percy was alone with his new bride. Five minutes after their company had left, Percy (wife in arms) dropped Margot into the centre of the mattress. Now, a persistent nudge of a firm hand on his shoulder woke him and with an incredible sense of deja vu he blinked up into the worried face of Henshaw. The only thing that proved this was a different event was that the footman had one eye purpled and swollen shut.

"I must speak wi' ye, sir. Tis most important," Henshaw whispered, waiting a moment for Percy to nod, then leaving the room. Percy freed Marguerite and slid out of bed. He slipped on his dressing gown - it had been lying on the floor long enough for the lining to grow cold - and opened the door. In the hallway both Henshaw and Frank were loitering.

"If the house isn't burning to the ground, I will be most vexed with the pair of you," Percy said curtly. Twice. Twice in one day - and this of all days - to be dragged out of his marriage bed. Frank had the good grace to look abashed - or was he merely embarrassed that while the household was in mourning the master was behaving like a randy young goat - Percy felt himself blush at his inappropriate behaviour. Well, hell, he wanted to say, could any of *you* resist her? She had been making love-eyes at him across the table all morning, glances that were alternately hot and tender until he'd been unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls. Apparently leaving Paris was not at the forefront of her mind.

"If you don't want your sausages..." Andrew had said, scooping up Percy's plate and dumping the sausages and the last of the eggs onto his own plate. Lord, you'd think young Ffoulkes hadn't eaten in a week, or that there was no more food in the house. Percy had shaken his head while Marguerite laughed aloud. Tony had been talking, talking, telling Margot every embarrassing thing he could think of to upset Ffoulkes while Andrew had continued to shovel in the food. Now Percy looked from Henshaw to Frank and realised that, appearances aside, this was not going to be a good day in any way whatsoever.

Percy led them down the stairs, back into the library where another footman was piling fresh logs onto the rising flames in the fireplace. A maid swept in, shot an admiring glance at Percy's bare shins, then deposited her tray on the table, dropped a curtsey and left. Percy's gaze fixed on the brandy decanter and he felt a tingle down his spine. "Someone else has died?" he asked.

"No, uh, not exactly, sir." Henshaw cleared his throat and Frank touched Percy's arm. "You'll want to sit down, I'm afraid. This is very grave news."

Percy dropped sullenly into the chair and watched as Frank poured a generous glass of brandy and passed it to him. He looked from Henshaw to Frank and back again. Frank pointed at the footman and said, "Come along, James; tell Sir Percy what you told me. I want to say, sir, that James came to me with tears on his cheeks and you'll see he's been defending her honour."

"Who?" Her? His stomach clenched; there was only one *her* anyone would fight over. "Well sir, it were like this," Henshaw began, standing with feet planted wide apart and beginning to sway from side to side as he spoke. "I went back to La Valliere's house where Jules works and spoke to their cook. She were in the kitchen at the time the event what I spoke of before 'appened - you know, from the night before. I h-asked her if she recalled who were a-servin', who it were what told the staff of the execution what would take place this morning. 'Ah, oui', she say; 'it were that starchy Mam'zelle Touchet what is the senior upstairs maid.' She had been serving her mistress, bringin' her a shawl - their dining room is fierce cold and the count he don't like to expend no extry on a fire late at night when the brandy should heat a body - that's what the cook said, sir, if you forgive my sayin' so."

Percy bowed his head. Frank had covered him from knees to slippers in a throw before assuming a statue-like stillness. Percy was still uncertain why he was being so coddled, save that the worst was yet to come. Impatiently he allowed Henshaw to spin the tale in his somewhat abstracted fashion.

"Mam'zelle Touchet, she were powerful pleased with herself to have been able to get herself a good look the supper guest. He war one of them big revolutionaries, she say. He war a man whose name sets everyone a-tremble. He war that monsieur de Chavel-lyne. Yep, that was it. Chavel-lyn. Well, I know that name a-rights - we all know that one fer a fac'." Henshaw nodded emphatically. Percy digested the name, blinking thoughtfully and accepting that any news tied to Chauvelin could not be good news.

"Mam'zelle Touchet, say the cook, that according to Monsieur Chavel-lyn there was to be a tremendous execution of one of the first families of France. Tis the traitor Saint-Cyr, Monsieur Chavel-lyn say and he's going to pay for selling France to the Austrians. He be a traitor, assistin' General Lafayette to lose the war, cook say. Saint-Cyr be set to die for treason."

"You be sure it was said like that, ma'am?" I asked her. Saint-Cyr and treason? Ah, oui, she say. Treason, oui. Saint-Cyr, he gave the keys to Paris to General Brunswick and all France will perish beneath his sword." Percy shivered at that. A telling point that a nincompoop like Henshaw would actually know that Brunswick was leading the Austrians in fact, that they were lining up on the border between France and Austria.

"So why am I mourning the traitor Saint-Cyr, Henshaw?" Percy asked. "Tell me what I'm missing."

Henshaw began to cough and after several minutes it became clear that he was unable to continue the story. While the footman ran out of the room, Frank sat down opposite Percy so he could look him in the eye and said, "The point young James is hedging around is that, according to la Valliere's cook, Chauvelin said he'd received information from Miss Saint-Just confirming Saint-Cyr's guilt. That it was her evidence that had made the execution possible. 'The actress, Saint-Just, is our greatest patriot,' Chauvelin announced, and this is what James is unable to report." Frank hung his head as if he were partially at fault; then shaking himself free of the spell of James Henshaw, he said, �Uh, Sir Percy? I'm most dreadfully sorry to have to tell you."

Percy shook himself like a man coming awake after an age of drugged sleep. "But why would Marguerite assist Chauvelin?" he felt certain there was an answer, something no one else had foreseen. Surely there was an answer! No; he knew the answer - knew it in his heart. Marguerite would do nothing for Chauvelin - it was Armand...

"Armand?" he asked, his voice cracking. "The beating?"

Frank nodded. "I would think so, sir. Sir Percy, I am truly sorry to have been the one..."

Frank did look hurt, Percy thought. For himself he felt nothing. It was like his heart had turned to stone. He wanted to shout and deny Frank's words, but something held his rage fully in check; his mind scrambling for some shred of evidence with which to deny the accusation kept tossing up proofs instead. Marguerite had always been staunchly republican. Marguerite had befriended Chauvelin, and certainly he recalled Marguerite looking daggers at Saint-Cyr at the party the night when he'd proposed marriage to her. She'd been evasive, saying nothing - perhaps she didn't know that Armand had told her about his altercation with Saint-Cyr's footmen later that night.

Frank got up, dropped a hand onto Percy's shoulder, then left him to his thoughts. Percy looked over his shoulder at the valet. "Frank? Do be a good fellow and tell no one about this. I don't want Lady Blakeney distressed and... it would grieve her to discover I know what's happened."

Frank nodded, then departed. Percy continued to stare into the flames for several minutes before he remembered the brandy. He emptied the glass in a single mouthful, swallowing fitfully. He was moderately surprised that he felt nothing. He poured another large brandy and dispatched it, but felt only bitter cold and emptiness.

The thoughts tumbled in his mind: stray memories of his father and the old marquis (long since dead) and his grandmother, crying into her handkerchief - it must have been the old marquise's wife's funeral. Percy remembered four of the sisters jogging along the trails at Blakeney Manor in a pony cart - lord, it must have been ten years ago. Saint-Cyr. How inconceivable to think of the whole family being wiped out in a single blow. How much worse to dare think that Marguerite - his Margot - may have had something to do with their execution.

No, he couldn't think of it... and yet, his mind refused to stop thinking of it. Random pictures slid into his memory and he couldn't resist looking and thinking: Grandma Blakeney speaking her liquid French to the new marquis's wife - Cecile de Saint-Cyr. 'We are a love match, madame,' Cecile had giggled. 'How could anyone resist Pierre-Jules?' Percy remembered his father laughing and drinking too much, his pain so clear in his light blue eyes, his own love-match like a smashed egg at his feet. Where was Lady Blakeney - Percy's mother? Where had she been squirreled away for that visit? Percy didn't recall the sound of her hysterical laughter floating through the hallways. Someone had hidden her away, he was certain.

A warm hand caressed his, thrown absently over the back of the chair. He circled his eyes upward and found the perfect oval of his wife's white face framed in her magnificent golden curls. Margot. Margot in black. Mourning the death of those who she had willed to the guillotine. She looked sorry as she dropped a kiss into his palm. He watched her circle the chair, shift her skirts - listened to them rustle, the sound identical to the sigh of a betrayed lover. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, a hand sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck. Playing with the ribbon, teasing the flesh at the base of his neck. Driving him mad. One part of him wanted to slap her, to hurt her the way he was hurting. But another part of him wanted to turn her around and bury his stiffness deep inside her. He was hard and aching, despite the anger (or was it because of the anger?) The look in her eyes was as much an invitation as it was a revulsion. He loved her. He hated her. He wanted to hurt her and he also wanted to bury his agony in the enveloping sweetness of her body.

He said nothing - what could he say? Every other thought brought either anger or tears. He held her close, with tears running down his cheeks, and said nothing. He bit his tongue to keep the curses in check. He said nothing. Breathed. Cried. All broken inside.

What an unbearable day! He had to keep his mind still, to govern his thoughts, or he would surely go mad. From the discovery of the execution of Saint-Cyr his emotions had see-sawed up and down indiscriminately, the euphoria of his marriage feeling like too much joy in the wake of such excruciating sorrow. All of his life nearly every trip he'd made to Paris had included spending time at the Saint-Cyr house where chaos always ruled. It had been such a counterpoint to the solid routines followed at Exeter House - Tony's family home.

Percy sighed; there would be the impossible task of explaining to his uncle, the Duke of Exeter, how he had run away to Paris and married an actress - an actress who turned out to be a Revolutionary murderess. Oh, he could pretend to disbelieve the gossip, but he knew the truth. Thing was, no one else could possibly know the facts as he did and there was the chance that he might still hold his head up and deny the rumours so vehemently any idea that Lady Blakeney could be responsible for Saint-Cyr's death might fade into nothingness. In England, he alone knew that Armand had fallen head over heels for one of Saint-Cyr's giddy daughters and thereby started the disaster.

All of Saint-Cyr's daughters were lively girls with effervescent personalities; how Armand had even come into contact with Angele was a question Percy'd never asked. How had an orphaned bourgeois ever managed to speak to the daughter of a marquis? Well, it was done - and rather more, Armand had confided as he held a hunk of raw steak over his bruised eye. "Of all the disasters, I had to fall in love with a marquis's daughter," Armand had explained.

"Which marquis?" Percy had asked.

"Saint-Cyr!" Marguerite had shouted from the doorway. "To think I know the man - know of him, I mean - he's forever hanging about the dressing rooms at the Comedie, willing to pay for a good time."

Percy recalled his shock at Armand's words. Saint-Cyr! It was entirely probable that any one of them could have slipped away from that disorganised household - and he knew them for bold and flirtatious young women. "Her father found out?"

"No," Armand said, boldly, "it wasn't a hole-in-corner affair, Percy. I sent him a note requesting an interview. All honourable and above-board. When I arrived at the door for the appointment, three footman took me into the stable and beat me up. Didn't do much of a job for three fellows... I got free. Ran away. I was nearly to the bridge when they caught up with me."

"Where I found you," Percy concluded for Armand. In the dark, Percy hadn't recognised the livery - Saint-Cyr's men would have been dressed in navy coats with red piping. He really hadn't noticed in his effort to save a well-dressed young man from a gang intent on killing him. And then, he hadn't thought any more about it - or about the flash of anger in Margot's eyes as she'd knelt before Armand with fresh towels and said, "I shall make him pay, Armand. You mark my words - he'll pay." It had been an empty threat. What could she do to a marquis?

What indeed! Percy had alternately feared and anticipated the passing of the miles throughout the journey. Now they were at the gates of London and he began to breath a little easier. His greatest fear had not materialised - that Tony would somehow hear the gossip before Percy got Margot safely to Blakeney Manor. The worst thing would be that hot-headed Tony may take it upon himself to call his cousin out. A duel of honour. Percy wouldn't - couldn't - stand up against Tony. Percy was the superior swordsman - he couldn't do it.

Andrew's voice had grated on his nerves for three solid days. Marguerite's questioning glances irritated him - as did her caresses. Whenever they were alone - even if only for a minute - she would stroke his sleeve, or touch his coat, inviting him to kiss her. Part of him wanted to, desperately, but he pulled away. He was afraid that in his rage he would hurt her.

"Percy, I think," Tony said, "a ride around Richmond would do me some good. What do you say old boy? Will you join me?"

Percy fixed on Tony who'd been so quiet during most of the journey. He looked as limp with exhaustion as Percy felt, and no doubt he was too keyed up to be able to relax in spite of it.

"Certainly. I'm aching for a breath of Richmond air after the pestilence of Paris."

Beside him Marguerite flinched and Percy sensed her misery. The last thing she would want would be to be left alone in a strange house full of strange servants. He should stay with her and be supportive. He sighed. He could have been supportive if only she'd confided in him. Trusted him. She hadn't thought of him at all.

"There's tea a-plenty and bread at home, Andrew. I'm far too keen to see my land to consider stopping for anything. Tony's right - a heartening ride would do us all an immeasurable good."

Percy blasted from the coach as had Tony, his thoughts aswarm like bees. The familiar sight of the elm-lined driveway had revitalised him as had the looming silhouette of Blakeney Manor, black against the fiery sun. He breathed in the scent of cold, fresh air tinged with the sharp pungency of sewage in the Thames underscored by the cloyingly sweet smell of dying roses. He felt embraced by this house and the tranquility of a country evening - home.

Suddenly, he paused on the steps, alerted by something: a sound perhaps, or a feeling. He was uncertain what exactly had caught him up short. Bewildered, he glanced up at the manor-house door (which stood ajar, Tony having already entered) then over his shoulder to the coach and four pulled up in the drive.

Marguerite. So hard had he tried to block her out of his thoughts during the day's endless drive that he'd forgotten his manners. Quickly Percy returned to the open carriage door and looked up at Marguerite huddled on the seat. Sir Andrew, positioned across from her, was passing her his handkerchief - she was in tears. Ffoulkes gave him a quizzical look, then exited the carriage, leaving Percy in charge of his wife. A vague grief rose from his belly like a sigh.

How he had longed to possess Marguerite Saint-Just! Not merely to know her body as a lover, but to discover the secrets of her heart. He had yearned to know what she looked like in her nightgown with her hair loose and free, of course, but he'd also spent sleepless nights wondering whether she liked clotted cream on strawberries or slices of ripe peach. What did she think of the way sunlight shone through the fringes of velvet curtains, striping the backs of chairs? Did she read improving books? What did she think of admitting the works of female painters into the Louvre? In a lightning strike none of these things mattered. Ideas that had plagued him for the weeks he'd spent trying to win her heart had been smashed like glass � all his foolish dreams.

"You'll find everything in order, my dear," he said as he helped Marguerite from the coach. "The staff will be waiting to meet you."

And they were; the butler standing with his back to the open door hustling a contingent of footmen into a line that straggled down the steps. One, two, four, seven maids huddled on the top step, shooting glances at the couple and whispering behind their hands. Marguerite hung back with head bowed, shaking out the creases in her skirts. Percy admired the look of his staff as they formed regimental lines, the girls settling with hands clasped in front of their aprons and the housekeeper stepping forward, her ring of house keys tingling as she walked.

"Mrs. Wynne..."

"Welcome back, sir," she said to Percy, but her eyes were all over Marguerite, widening as she took in the tall feathers in Marguerite's bonnet, then narrowing as she skimmed down to the teeny-tiny waistline.

"Mrs. Wynne, I'd like to introduce Lady Blakeney to the staff. She was forced to leave her personal maid behind in France so I'm putting you in charge of hiring a decent woman for the position."

"If you'll forgive my impertinence, Sir Percy; we have Ann Davis on staff what was personal maid to Lady Beckwith until she died."

"Excellent suggestion, Mrs. Wynne. Davis will be perfect in the position. Please introduce her to my wife."

Abruptly Percy turned away, but he heard Marguerite gasp as she begins to understand that he intends to leave her right there, standing on the gravel drive. He turned back to her, scooped up her gloved hand, dropped a kiss on the back and muttered, "Mrs. Davies will show you everything you need, my dear," and this time Percy ran - actually ran - away. Flew up the stairs between the assembled staff, stopping for no one, storming inside the house and running up the long flight of stairs. Percy heard Tony's boots on the marble floor in his usual room as he raced past, tearing at the buttons of his coat as he ran. He shed the coat in the corridor just outside the door to his bedroom.

Leave the breeches, he thought, they're already beyond repair. The room was immaculate, the brass firedogs gleamed like fire in the setting sun. There was just enough light to make out the colours of the coats in his wardrobe; he pulled out the first deep red he saw, but it was a dancing coat. He tossed it in the direction of a chair. The next red was a light-weight, embroidered silk coat and it went sailing after the previous one. Finally he had the blood-red riding coat in hand. He stabbed his arms into it as he turned automatically toward the full-length mirror. His boots and breeches were unrecognisable in the reflection, the coat glowed a dull red. The blazing sunlight caught his blonde hair, haloing his face where his eyes glittered like those of a madman... or a murderer.

Percy scooped his gloves out of the drawer and his heart soared with the idea of an exhilarating ride along the downs. They couldn't go far � the lengthening shadows would play tricks with the look of the road and be a danger to their horses - but at least he would feel free for an hour or so. Eventually he would have to face Marguerite. By rights, he should visit her bedchamber once the candles were extinguished... no, he didn't have the heart for that.

He walked past the guest room where he'd heard Tony, then turned back and looked inside. A fire had been lit in the grate, the curtains were still open and the dying rays of the sun slashed across the striped counterpane. A maid was bundling Tony's discarded clothes into a basket, and as Percy turned to leave he all but ran into a footman carrying an armload of logs. He stepped around the man, and made his way downstairs. Lord Tony demanded applewood fires - and got them. Percy denied his cousin nothing, accepting that he may be younger, but he was the Duke of Exeter's son and rank counted in their world. Lord Tony - indeed!

At the foot of the stairs it was Tony's booming laugh that led Percy to the small parlour where the west windows framed the last of the day's light. "Tea?" Percy asked, taking in the preparations. Two maids with trays were setting out the best china cups, the pot, a box of China black, and a few cakes hastily set on a gold-rimmed plate.

"I�d forgotten about tea. Yes, we'd best have a bite before we head out," Percy said, dropping into a comfortable chair. "Mrs. Wynne, you're a marvel to have created this feast in less than half an hour."

Percy was moody and silent, Andrew cheerily talkative under the influence of a couple of shots of cognac.

"I'm for joining that lively party," Ffoulkes said, motioning with his eyes to the doorway. Dewhurst hovered at the entrance, glanced over his shoulder at Percy, then went to join the discussion in the main room.

Andrew got to his feet and stared down at Percy. "If I leave you to your own devices, you'll be asleep within ten minutes. What happened to your plan to drink Lord Tony under the table?"

"Good thing I didn't bet real money on the outcome. I've had nothing to eat all day and my blood has turned to wine."

"Come sing for us then." Sir Andrew extended a hand directly into Blakeney's face.

"I don't need your assistance to get up," Percy muttered, dragging himself out of the chair. "I'm not that much older than you."

Percy glanced around at the sheltering room he'd instinctively headed for on crossing the threshold of White's Club. Large windows looked out onto the street, where the dance of torchlight had amused him as he drank himself towards unconsciousness. A large coal-stove warmed the place - somehow his hands were still cold despite its efforts. He abandoned this sanctuary reluctantly, coming up behind Lord Tony, who was talking to... Bathurst. Hastings. Kulmstead. Glynde. A glimmer of happiness warmed Percy's voice as he cried,

"Hastings, good friend! Damn your eyes for being absent from my sight this long. And you, Bathurst - where have you been hidin' out?"

He circulated around the room shaking hands, slapping shoulders and patting backs, stopping for a moment before Hastings, who was looking somewhat drawn for a man so young, then he fastened his gaze on Glynde, slumped in a chair - a part of the group, yet oddly separated from it. Percy noted that Glynde's red eyes were unable to focus, and grinned. Glynde had always been a good man for a drinking party - a good man.

Kulmstead was saying, "War would cost good English lives... send an assassin to take out their figureheads and watch the institution crumble."

Bathurst snorted, "Assassins! That's a cowardly, dishonorable tactic. It's something the French would do."

"Too true. An assassin would only add to the chaos and result in further retributions levied on all sides," Percy said. "What is needed is a good fairy to blind them all with stardust."

Ffoulkes began to giggle, a little drunkenly. "What a ludicrous statement! I hadn't noticed you drinking that much, Percy."

"Think on who is in charge at the Committee. Robespierre. Chauvelin. Both hard-line, pedantic, resolute figures. Both possessing cudgel-like intelligence, they see strength as the only answer. What is needed now is someone able to work outside the committee, someone immune to their threats and persecutions."

"An angel without the need to stand in food lines. A fellow without an address so no thugs can harass him at home," Ffoulkes said. He raised his glass and swallowed another mouthful, then noticed that everyone else was paying attention as if what Percy said had some merit.

Sir Percy's weariness had abated, he felt suddenly alive and he wasn't sure why. A thought - nothing more than the germ of an idea - shivered through his brain along with a memory: 'Saint-Cyr has always been a friend of Blakeney. This is a friendship of generations and we honour them with our blood.'

"A foreigner perhaps?" Blakeney said. There was no lift to his voice with the question - it was a simple statement. "Someone who could do some good? The French aristocracy is comprised of all sorts: some noble, some brave, but foremost they are fathers and mothers who have done nothing more than raise their children to the best of their ability. There are a few who have trod on the hands of others to get ahead, but not so many as to allow the revolutionaries to turn the country upside down." He spoke with quiet forcefulness. Bitterness deepened his voice, and Andrew realised with shock how deeply Percy had been hurt by Saint-Cyr's death.

"Try assassinating Robespierre," Andrew snarled, "that would solve all France's problems."

"No, no, that's precisely the thing they're guarding against. Don't aim for the head, but for the feet, instead. Aim for the victim."

"What?" someone said, but Percy didn't wait to hear him out; he continued trying to explain. "I can't bear the idea of innocent victims feeding that... that machine. Why stand about waiting for the next victim to die? Why not scour the prisons and steal them away. Right out of Chauvelin's back pocket?"

"Because it's not up to us to interfere in France's government." Andrew was forceful, slamming his glass down onto the table. This was a ludicrous conversation - Percy was drunk. Only he didn't appear drunk. Or sound like it. A shiver of dread ran up Ffoulkes's back.

"But it's not a government," Percy argued, turning to face his friend. "It's anarchy, and it's hurting innocent people. I'd love to spoil their soup with some very hot pepper. Burn their tongues."

"What?"

"No one in France can move effectively against the committee, they are too vulnerable and the price of retribution is far too steep. It needs someone from outside who can strike with impunity."

"Strike with impunity?" Sir Andrew's voice cracked with tension. "Are you talking about striking back at Chauvelin?"

"Why not?"

Andrew stared at him, his head throbbing as he tried to absorb the idea, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Never had more nonsense been born in a bottle of cognac! He drew in breath to speak, then let it out again silently.

It was a touching moment as one after another, each of Percy's friends signed on for the ride. Thing was, Blakeney hadn't imagined anything so grand as a team game. He'd pictured himself skulking into the Conciergerie alone, finding an isolated cell he could let himself into via a nailfile or screwdriver and letting whomever was within, out. Entering at will, leaving some random door unlocked, and letting the condemned walk free into the night. Where they went, how they coped - he hadn't thought of that.

Suddenly, he was looking at his friends afresh from beneath drooping eyelids. Andrew, emphatic; Tony, bold; Hastings, never willing to be left behind whether it be racing their phaetons or practising fisticuffs with the incredible Red Sam.

"I'm touched all of you wish to hold my hand as it were, but ..." And then the larger picture flashed before his eyes. Someone to drive the coach. Someone else to bribe the guard at the city gate. Not a single lucky soul set free by chance, but a planned attack. Selective rescues could be organised and whole families might be spared. If he'd had this dream a week ago, perhaps he could have saved Saint-Cyr and his brood.

"Glynde, old man, you're too drunk to know what you're signing on for, but I trust you sober as one of the best blades I've ever seen. I shall put the question to you later, when you've dried out," Percy said. "As for the rest of you - I believe we could do some good with a sufficient number of hands, and not only that, but I'd been willin' - more than willing, actually - to return to France as soon as we can organise a workable plan."

"You're right, of course - if we were to be observed. Thing is, we can't be observed doing what we're going to do. It has to be very quietly done. No rescued aristocrat sitting on the box holding his own forged passport." Percy was growing talkative, warming up to the idea of heading a whole league of Englishmen bent on upsetting the Revolution. By God! There was more than something in this idea of his!

"The answer is that, of course, the French patrols are already used to certain frequent travellers. I'm one of them. Think of the farmers who travel into town daily with their fresh produce, or the cattlemen herding their steers through the street on Wednesday market. Wagons coming and going through the Paris gates without anyone taking any notice on an almost daily basis. A familiar face is less likely to gain notice than the new one, I say. So long as you sound French, they won't notice a thing."