The Hunt

He had been watching her since she arrived, noting that the lady was more heavily guarded than the Prince of Wales - had she told Blakeney after all? Not likely. She knew the risks of such a silly gesture. It was likely that the baronet was aware of their many meetings and didn't want himself to turn out the cuckold. If luck was with Chauvelin, the obnoxious prig was making Marguerite's life mightily miserable - and knowing the lady in question - her defenses would be up again him. Good for Chauvelin in the long run and in the short run.

Marguerite's guard consisted of the intrusive old woman, who doggedly trailed after her mistress � but not out onto the dance floor, he noted - and the less obvious footman who lurked in their wake. Chauvelin paid particular attention to the second, taking in his bearing, noting the bulk that ruined the line of the coat - a pistol no doubt (he wondered if the nanny was also carrying...) Marguerite would have to be especially clever to work around these two.

Some time after the Blakeneys arrived, a footman came with a note from Beaucarnot with one word "Cabbarus". Chauvelin broke away from his quarry to follow move towards the reception room, where the stunning Spaniard was painting a picture of tragedy so convincing that the hostess dabbed her eyes in sympathy. Teresia seemed to managing quite nicely on her own (still attached to her prey), so he would leave her as such, lest her name be connected with his in any way. This Bathurst fellow could lead her to Blakeney. Chauvelin moved made his way back in the direction where he last saw Marguerite, she would be harder to use at this rate. How much would she ask with an elderly nursemaid hanging over her shoulder? And where was her husband for that matter? If he was off boffing some chit in one of the rooms, it might benefit Chauvelin if Marguerite found out.

"Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Bart."

Chauvelin stopped in his tracks and turned to see the man who was most likely to be in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel, if not the Pimpernel himself. A tall, slender man, fair complexion, intense eyes (which Chauvelin wagered were blue), high cheekbones, long straight nose, firm chin... alert. He figured the man came from the north, likely Scotland from the name and appearance. And though he carried a sword at his side, Chauvelin guessed that he seemed to type to hide a weapon out of sight. The fact that he was missing from society during most of the time that Chauvelin has been in England, was the only reason Chauvelin wouldn't have suspected him from the beginning.

And he was a friend of Blakeney's which meant that Marguerite's guard wouldn't be terribly suspicious if she remained close to him.

Chauvelin headed back to Marguerite, who apparently had just finished a set when Chauvelin swooped in, cutting off another young buck rearing to have a go at the former actress. "I believe the next dance is mine," he smiled at the scowling Mrs. Davis and equally irate fop, and taking Marguerite by the arm he swept them out on to the dance floor. "It appears that an opportunity for you to help your brother has presented itself. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes has arrived and I am most certain that you wish to reacquaint yourself with the fellow." Marguerite's eyes harden, but she said nothing.

"Your escourt will not be nearly so suspicious of your consorting with their master's dear friend." She stiffen at 'their' - wasn't aware that Mrs. Davis wasn't the only one trailing after her. "Over by the door," Chauvelin gestured with his chin. "I do believe that that is one of your husband's footmen... he's been following you all evening."

In hindsight, she should not have said it. No one knew better what damage a careless word could do. Barbs. Razor-sharp retorts. It was foolish to think that anything could salvage this marriage. It was a mistake, a mistake from the very beginning. Marriage had left her miserable and heart-broken, lashing out in order to inflicted as much pain as she felt. The moment they escaped the unpleasant Lady Shipwash�s attention, Marguerite took leave of her antagonizing husband, lest he tempt her to rip him down before all presence �which meant that the only protection she had for the evening from the ogling rakes of the ton was sour faced Davis, who seemed incapable of any emotion save disapproval.

The evening had proved to be a showcase for how vapid and sorted English aristocracy was. Most of the conversations were gossip on fashion and scandals, if not discussing the horrors happening in Paris (in many a sordid detail). Men who wished to dance with her to get a better view of her breast and women who complemented her gown, then whispered behind fans about the woman in it. She wondered what rumours had spread in her month long absence. It was definitely going to be a long night.

She was about to join another set with yet another titled, forgettable lord, when Chauvelin wormed his way between them. I believe the next dance is mine." Chauvelin gave Marguerite a meaningful look and she in turn gave the gentlemen an apologetic look before she was forcefully pulled away. "It appears that an opportunity for you to help your brother has presented itself�.� he whispered in her ear as they waited for the music to start. Marguerite frowned � this again! �Sir Andrew Ffoulkes has arrived ..." Sir Andrew! Chauvelin really believed that Andrew was the Scarlet Pimpernel and now wanted her to ferret him out. Could she do as much? The Scarlet Pimpernel was a good, brave honorable man� as was Sir Andrew. The possibly was there, but how could she betray either?

Suzanne sat at the mirror, placing tortoise shell combs in her hair as her maid carefully picked out loose curls to frame her face and hang down her back. The girl had left several stray tendrils to their own devices and it was those that Suzanne wished to tame with the combs. She studied her face. She had not worn much make-up in the past so the rouge on her cheeks and lips seemed very un-natural to her. The maid had also attempted to powder her hair... an idea that Suzanne was not keen on. Powder had always seemed becoming on the hair, but Suzanne always felt it landed across her forehead and bosom. Even after considerable effort to brush it away, it always caused her to have a sickly pallor that kept most of the guests, particularly men, far far away from her at parties.

"Pardon me?" She said softly. The maid stopped pinning her hair and looked to Suzanne's reflection in the mirror. "Yes Miss?" the young girl looked she'd been sleeping at her desk in class. "Could you, perhaps, bring my fischu from zee ozer room s'ils vous plait?" The maid nodded and curtseyed before exiting.

Suzanne turned to her dress that was hanging from the top of the armoire. It was lovely. She couldn't believe that her father had purchased it for her! The heavy cr�me silk was exquisite. There were four bows, decreasing in size, on the stomacher panel and two on each the side of the petticoat to conceal the gathers which were made to let the garment lie flat across the front while adding room for the panniers. The sleeves had a lovely fine silk lace that peaked out beneath the elbow and a line of delicate silk lace had been sewn around the neckline. The lace looked like faerie wings. Suzanne hadn't had a new dress in a year. Not that she did not have several dresses at home, but none of them were "up to fashion"... not that anyone in Paris knew what fashion dictated at the moment with madness ruling the streets.

The panniers were much smaller than the ones she had worn before... perhaps ladies had realized the large ones were impractical! Either way, the gown was simplistic, but it glowed in the firelight. With a swift and alarming knock, the maid returned. Within five minutes, she had re-adjusted the lacing on Suzanne's stay and had begun stitching Suzanne into her robe; the fischu having discarded on the bed. The shoes were a lovely petal pink and small bows of both the cr�me and pink were pinned into her gossamer hair. Her father and mother were waiting at the by the door when Suzanne emerged.

"I was going to send someone up to make sure you 'adn't taken eel!" Her mother said as Suzanne descended.

"I am sorry Maman." Suzanne clutched her reticule in her gloved hand before embracing her father and kissing her mother on each cheek. After the butler had hung her pink shawl around her, they walked out the door and she was helped into the carriage. It was a mild night, Suzanne noticed as she took a seat. The ride to the Shipwash manor seemed short, but, as her nerves began to play against her, Suzanne felt the climb up the steps and through the foyer must have been a day and a half! She gasped and clutched her throat as she entered the ballroom. The heat from all of the happy guests mixed with that from the candles. As she felt eyes turn to her, her face flushed to a bright pink. How she wished the wall would absorb her! As much as she enjoyed the occasionally attention of her brand of femininity, she loathed most of the attention. A look to her mother and a quick nod told her she was allowed to wander but Suzanne knew if she did not check back with her mother (at least before she had consumed a flute of champagne) her mother would find her. Her eyes darted all around the room, looking for a familiar face... the face of her best friend.

"You are a notoriously brilliant woman and accomplished actress whose dearly beloved brother is in mortal peril," Chauvelin said quietly, "I imagine that shrew brain of your can conjure up a number of possibilities. When I knew you in Paris , you were never at a loss for ideas. I can't image that has changed so drastically." As the music end, Chauvelin gave her a stiff curt bow. "Happy hunting," he said as he took leave of her. He would have to find Desgas to keep an eye on her for the evening.

Quitting the ballroom, Chauvelin nearly trample a mouse young woman endeavoring to peek in. The woman grabbed a hold of his arm to regain her balance, "Me pardonner!" Two frightened, doe-like eye rose to meet his and the fine face they were set in paled in recognition. He knew this girl, for she was little more than a girl. "Mademoiselle Du Tournai," Chauvelin returned, cocking an eyebrow in acknowledgement. "It has been some time."

"Chauvelin!" The words escaped her mouth before her hand had time to bar their way! She took a step back and quickly released his arm. It took a moment for the situation to sink in. She wasn't in Paris and she most certainly was not the one that was "out of place" here (unlike at Marguerite's salon's where Suzanne had been fresh meat for the Revolutionaries to tear from the aristocratic carcass). Although she was able to compose herself, the color had all but left her face, effectively accomplishing what the powder did not. In that moment she cursed her fair complexion, noting that she had just given Chauvelin enough of her fear to feed off of for at least a few minutes. She curtseyed and spoke softly, attempting to conceal a tremor in her voice.

"You... took me by surprise. You were the last person I was expecting to see here... in London I mean." A weak smile tugged at her lips. "I was just looking for... for..." For whom? Marguerite, but she couldn't tell HIM that. "For a few new friends of mine." Too bad Suzanne hadn't become the quick-witted actress or this conversation would be running much more smoothly. "They are English... my father knows them from his many trips here as ambassador..." She trailed off, realizing suddenly that she was rambling like a school girl caught throwing spit balls who had to explain herself to the head mistress. Thankfully, there would be no corporal punishment, but Suzanne coiled her fingers into a fist despite that, recalling the feeling of a switch stinging her skin.

"I imagine that shrew brain of your can conjure up a number of possibilities,� said Chauvelin pointedly, as if that were the answer to everything. The point was that she had no other choice, the reason didn�t matter. The music stopped and Chauvelin quickly departed. He�d had his say and knew that she would eventually come looking for him so there was no reason for him to stay or say anymore.

Absentmindedly, Marguerite wandered away before the next dance started. She scarcely registered Mrs. Davis slicing her way through the crowd like a man o�war through the ocean, scowling more than ever. Let her scowl, let her fume at the thought that Marguerite Saint-Just was not some child or pet that she could bully around� let her curl up and die of the plague for all Marguerite cared. There were only two people she cared to see at this gathering: Suzanne, whom Marguerite was certain, was the key to her plans to get to France� and Andrew Ffoulkes. She was entirely certain why she wanted to see Andrew, but knew that she needed to see him.

Just as Davis wriggled her way to Marguerite�s side, someone to her right noisily cleared his throat. Marguerite turned, fully ready to give Henshaw some cutting remark, but saw instead the lord that Chauvelin had wrested her away from. �Lady Blakeney, seeing as I did not partner you for the Pavane, you at least owe me the Galliard.� In Paris she might have sliced him to pieces for his presumption, but instead chose a more subtle means to rebuff the arrogant fellow.

�Forgive me, milord, but I am feeling most faint,� which was not entirely untruthful. �I do believe I will sit out the next dance or two.� He wasn�t pleased, but what could he do?

�Do you require anything, my lady,� Mrs. Davis asked when the young lord left, she almost sounded concerned.

�Water and a place to sit�� There was nothing else she needed that Mrs. Davis could give her.

"It was raining. I stayed below deck with my mother and a few others. We played cards. I did not win for most of the time but my luck seemed to change shortly before we landed. I was told if I practice, I might actually be a formidable card player." She forced a larger smile but could feel her heart pumping blood at a desperate pace. What was he after? Of course information about the Pimpernel, but she could tell him nothing! She hadn't a clue who the man was, although it was very likely that she had been in the same room with him... even possible she spoke to him and yet he had not been pointed out to her and there were few names she remembered from the trip.

"The weather was rather poor and I can only imagine it will get worse Monsieur. If you plan on returning to Paris, you should consider doing it soon to avoid such awful conditions."

<Percy>

The heat of the crowded room was getting to him. He was sweating - he felt his shirt growing limp and his cravat was choking him. He was buffeted by the hems of enormous skirts as they swished by him, taunted by the shadows candlelight made along collarbones and white shoulders. Percy licked dry lips and wondered at his feeling of vulnerability. His attraction to Bathurst 's castaway was understandable - it was nothing. Wasn't his passion for temperamental Latin women well known? Wasn't Marguerite the most tempestuous woman he'd ever met? No doubt it was her latent sexuality, so similar to his wife's, that had lured him. Music and laughter and the noise of endless talk unsettled him until he felt nauseous and Percy snagged a champagne flute from a footman's tray and gulped two thirds of the contents in a single swallow in an effort to settle his stomach.

Manners. He must remember to speak to people; it did no good to brood and sulk, waiting for whatever disaster he knew was coming. At least he wasn't tailing Margot himself - two servants following her was surely enough! (Percy wasn't confessing that he had been following her until two groups of laughing women had converged directly in front of him and by the time he'd wound his way around their fluttering arms and the barrier of their flounces, Margot and entourage were out of sight.)

His eyes lighted on a petite woman standing resolutely in the corner - not a shy wallflower but a bored matron. Pretty, although no longer young. A dainty upturned nose pointing skyward with the upward tilt of her imperious chin, Percy could read boredom and sadness in her rigid frame - along with an apple roundness swelling her waistline. A stranger - one of Lady Shipwash's refugees? Not one he recognised, but her skirts were French - Percy knew French fashion from six feet away. Valenciennes lace. Lyons silk. He wanted to go to her, speak to her, find out how she'd reached England . Had she left her husband behind? Was that what cast that forlorn expression on her heart-shaped face? Percy turned away. In England where every other conversation was of the Scarlet Pimpernel, he didn't dare approach her with such questions.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked in the opposite direction, toward the sound of music. Violins. An oboe weaving a hypnotic strain through the strings followed by a saucy clarinet. Ahead of him swirls of colour bobbed in and out of view. Dancers. Percy held his quizzing glass to his eye and the scene sharpened before him. A stocky man - jowls and eyebrows - obviously rich. He was dancing with a young woman wearing estate emeralds, her eyes aglow. Out to snare herself a rich, older husband. Extremely pretty - what a waste!

As he drew closer he came up behind a dainty bit in cream silk that glowed in the light - expensive. She was laced so tight her waist was sapling narrow. Percy's eyes fastened on the flutter of lace at her elbows. Engrossed in watching the dancers, she lost hold of her lace-edged handkerchief and it floated to the floor near her feet. Percy zoomed in to catch it just as she bent forward and from behind her (as her hoops rose up from the floor) he caught sight of pink shoes trimmed with neat bows before his eyes met hers. He captured the edge of the handkerchief, swept it from the floor and bowing, presented it to the lady. "I beg you, dear lady to accept this from my hand and allow me, if you will, to ask your name."

To Citizen Paul Desgas there was absolutely nothing worse than suffering through an entire evening surrounded by stuffy British women, extraordinarily clad peacocks of English gents and listening to the thoroughly bland music the English so fancied at their so-called 'parties'. It was rather a fest for hundreds of dull, hollow-headed nitwits to stand around and do nothing whilst all the while babbling on in that sharp, hideously annoying tongue of theirs. Whyever was he here? He would have traded the perfume scented ballrooms for the blood-soaked streets of Paris any day. The cries of liberty and the grief-stricken shrieks of anguish from those who had witnessed the execution of a family member whilst waiting their turn in the tumbril -- those sounds were music to his ears. The stuffy, smothered laughs of the English girls and the cheery, inane drawl of the Englishmen -- torturesome. The sooner they learned the identity of this Pimpernel the sooner he could go home.

He continued his search for Chauvelin. There was nothing he could do until he located his superior.

The drawl of one particularly annoying British voice made him turn. It was that fool Blakeney, the husband of the former actress, Saint-Just. He almost pitied the woman -- who could tolerate such a dolt for the rest of their life? But no! pity her he would not! She was a traitor! A traitor to her country -- the worst sinner of them all!

The thoughts of treason and Marguerite Saint-Just were momentarily halted. That pompous fool had seemingly located the French Ambassador. Chauvelin's figure was just visible beside a lovely, somewhat familiar face. A French face.

Desgas squeezed between a group of gossiping women and followed the wall to the place Blakeney and his supervisor had taken up beside the girl. The French girl.

He slowly made his way behind Blakeney, casually approaching Chauvelin. He would take flight immediately if it appeared he was interrupting anything his superior had going...

�If you plan on returning to Paris , you should consider doing it soon to avoid such awful conditions," Suzanne told him with a haughtiness that Chauvelin long ago grown tired of when Marguerite Saint-Just had used. It made him wonder if she had learned it from Marguerite, or Margot from her. Too arrogant by half!

�In fact, I had been planning to make a trip home in the near future,� Chauvelin returned smoothly. �Are there any messages I might deliver for you to friends or relatives still there?� That seemed to take her down a peg. She paled, dropping the thin handkerchief that had been balled up in her hand. Was there some aunt or uncle, some close cousin perhaps that sprang to mind?

But that is where his amusement ended.

As Suzanne moved to her left, Chauvelin saw him bowing down to retrieve the girl�s lost handkerchief. If god did exist he certainly had a wicked sense of humour. The irksome sod should be in some bedroom right now wrap in the thighs of la Cabarrus, not here antagonizing him with his presence.

"I beg you, dear lady to accept this from my hand and allow me, if you will, to ask your name." Chauvelin felt he�d aged several years in the time it took for Percy to drawl out those words. That voice grated on him every time he heard it!

�I would expect you already know it,� Chauvelin said coldly, as Suzanne edged a little nearer Sir Percy. He eyes met with those of Desgas for a scarcely moment as the man slipped behind Blakeney, before he locked eyes on Blakeney. If this were Paris, Chauvelin would have given the slightest of signals and Desgas would have plunged a dagger between his ribs before Blakeney could stumble through �Bonjour jour�.

Suzanne and Blakeney had disappeared. Damn! How had he let that happen? There was something about the girl...he did not want her from his sight. Let the others chase after worthless English fops -- he would stick with his own kind. And she had to know something. Anything!

"Get me their names," his boss was saying, "I want to know if they've been out of the country in the last three months. In the meantime have them watched, we can't be too careful." The arrogant pig! He would not even give the curtesy of eye contact. They were all just mechanical slaves to him...his crew of spies. If men like Chauvelin ran the new regime nothing would change. In the end it would all be the same -- the wealthy would rise to the top and the poor -- the unfortunates...they would be in the same place they were in all the yesterdays. Tomorrow was forever the same. Which was why Citoyen Paul Desgas would be the man to help discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel -- earning himself respect from the Assembly and a place above the gutter in the future. "One of them...the man on the right -- I have seen him before. His name is Lord Anthony Dewhurst. Reports say he is often out of the country. Fishing, hunting, travelling abroad. He is one to watch. Berthier is already following his every step." He took a good, long look at the other two. He could not place them. Before he had approached Chauvelin he ought to have known their names and their actions of the last month. Fool! "I will know all there is to know about the others before the night is up -- on my word, citoyen." Not that his word meant anything. So long as he got what he wanted it did not matter what lies he told or what rules he broke. There were no rules, no morals, no honour left in this day and age.

"...we let her play out her strategy until it becomes ineffective."

So the chit even had her claws in him, did she? Well, not all of the Committee was impressed with her round figure and long eyelashes. If she misstepped -- took too long or lost sight of the ultimate goal things would not go well for Teresia Cabarrus. The thought made him smile. He would not mind seeing her pretty head lifted above the crowds in a la Place de Greve.

"See who you can shift around. I want someone watching those men, another watching la Cabarrus and someone monitoring Lady Blakeney. I want to know where they are at every minute. Understood?" The muscles in Desgas' jaw worked back and forth, keeping him from spitting out a sharp retort. Of course he understood. He lived for this work.

"Berthier will be on the dandies, if that suits you, citoyen. Rouget will take the pleasure of monitoring Lady Blakeney and Jacques has been trailing Cabarrus since she set foot on English soil." He looked over the shorter man's head. Still no sign of Blakeney or the girl. "I was thinking, citoyen," he said, speaking quickly and quietly, worried that he would be turned down "that I might have your permission to spot the young daughter of du Tournai. We know she was rescued by that English gang and their despicable leader -- she must have seen something -- anything that would turn over a new clue. Rouget claims she has mentioned Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' name more than once. We know she is close to Lady Blakeney. She is frail and weak and will still be concerned for those she left behind in France . If I were given the chance I am positive I could make her talk. Blackmail goes a long way, citoyen." Of all people, Chauvelin knew that...

Suzanne had imagined that the liberties she had taken about her family's vogage to Dover would have been enough to satisfy Chauvelin's curiousity but it seemed, instead, to set him off with what emotion she was not certain. His eyes were locked on her and Suzanne could not bring herself to meet the steely cold of his irises. The small vessel of her heart was beating as fast as it could, causing her panic, no doubt, to be even more visible to a man who was used to interrogating traitors. She continued to force her lips into a smile and took a small step backwards, hoping that any distance from Chauvelin might strengthen her resolve.

"In fact, I had been planning to make a trip home in the near future. Are there any messages I might deliver for you to friends or relatives still there?"

The thought of two people came to mind as he slipped his verbal pen-knife into her ribs. Her grandmother, who was on her deathbed, and her friend Jean. She looked away from him as a clenching in her chest nearly caused her to cry out. The couples in the ballroom were dancing gaily to light-hearted tune. Her tiny hand, which had worked itself tightly around her handkercheif, had loosened it's grip and she did not notice it float from her pinky finger, where it had been hooked, to the marble floor of the ballroom.

The spinning of skirts only distracted her for a moment before she noticed her palm was wet. She was so nervous she was sweating! Not that the climate in the ballroom was preventing the same affect. She bent down to pick it up and saw that it was now in the hand of a blonde man who's face had been obscured by his bow. Ffoulkes? Her heart lept!

"I beg you, dear lady to accept this from my hand and allow me, if you will, to ask your name." His voice was not the same one she remembered and as he lifted his gaze to her visage, the dissapointment rippled from deep behind her dark eyes as though a stone had been cast upon the mirrored surface of a lake. The gentleman looked familiar.

Oh no... it was Marguerite's husband! She reached out to take the handkercheif from his hand, but found her hand embracing his. The last time she had seen him was in Dover at that quaint little inn. The Spanish woman had just made her grand entrance and Sir Percy looked utterly spent. How was she to keep Chauvelin from discovering that bit of dangerously telling news? Suzanne didn't even know if Percy recognized her yet.

"I would expect you already know it." Her eyes wandered back to Chauvelin. His face looked as though it were carved from stone and his look caused an appropriately icy feeling to course up her spine. She turned her attention back to Percy.

"I am Suzanne Du Tournai..." she said, pretending to have no comprehension of Chauvelin's comment. Suzanne allowed her jaw to drop open as though a memory had been stirred. She squeezed Percy's hand gently, encouraging him to play along, "...Sir Percy? ...I am Lady Blakeney's friend from Paris. You and I met over a year ago at her salon. Do you remember? I have not seen you in so long. You look well."

<Percy>

Percy bowed over the lovely du Tournai's hand, dropping a leisurely kiss on her knuckles while pointedly ignoring the man in black. That black shadow flanking the sweet child - how could he have known it would turn out to be Chauvelin of all people? Who would have encounter that skunk here? Certainly the girl was terrified - her hand trembled in his. He gave it a confident squeeze and willed her to trust him.

Marguerite. Had Margot tipped Chauvelin to . . . no, impossible! She hadn't known of the party until two hours prior to departure; this was an unexpected calamity. "Do forgive me, mam-zelle," Percy said, continuing to address himself strictly to Suzanne. "You have blossomed so exquisitely into womanhood, I must confess I did not equate the sweet child I met in Paris to . . . well, uh . . . aaa-chan-tez!" Percy was doing a superb job of sounding like a first-rate idiot, tripping over his tongue and mangling the pronunciation of the few French words that peppered his conversation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chauvelin flinch over his squished vowels and couldn't resist grinning.

"I confess, I was drawn to speak to you Miss de Turn-ey because I so admire the lace on your gown. Delightful!" Percy busied himself with his quizzing glass, admiring the delicate stitches while holding the girl's hand firmly in his own large paw, pretending to be unaware of how unseemly this was. While performing the inspection, he incidentally levered the girl further into the hall, separating her from Chauvelin until his own back was stiffly between the girl and her interrogator. Impulsively, he settled the dear little hand in the crook of his arm, tucking Suzanne neatly against his shoulder and protectively walked her back the way he had come while filling her ear with some drollery about the fisherwomen of Valenciennes who made this lace with bobbins and fine thread. "Each piece is unique, my dear, and ever so dear. Larger pieces, such as a bridal veil are heirlooms, so I'm told."

Let Chauvelin find someone else to torment . . . suddenly, Percy's steps actually faltered as he wondered, the thought came to him: why was Chauvelin here at Lady Shipwash's party? How? It was too incredible to be a coincidence, just as his arrival at Blakeney manor the day after Armand's disappearance felt too impossible to be mere chance. It was the devil's interference by god, and Percy suspected these two things were part of the pique that drove Marguerite's hot-and-cold reactions. She had gone from passionate wife to cross-patch shrew in a matter of hours. Did she know that he had rescued Armand from Paris and brought him to England only to lose him literally the moment his boots touched English soil? Did she blame him for that? Because she wasn't supposed to know, she was forced to say nothing, which would explain some of her rage toward her husband, Percy decided.

The dog! That scurvy dog! If only Marguerite had been here and seen how her "darling" husband was carrying on with other women - her friend even! She would be ever so sorry she had not listened to him when he warned her about Blakeney. Pity he could meet the man in his homeland, Chauvelin would put him down like the dog he was.

But patience had to be the keyword of the day. There was a bigger fish to hook this evening so simple-minded Percy Blakeney would have to wait for another day... the time would come soon enough. If nothing else the young du Tournai might fulfill the role that Teresia Cabarrus was reluctant to fill. Chauvelin watched them depart, fist clenched behind his back in rage. Soon, he promised himself.

A few deep breaths later, turned to Desgas who waited patiently nearby as Chauvelin calmed himself. "What news?"

Desgas watched the tall English turkey saunter away with the little French chit. No, it was not just the English he detested -- his jaw clenched in fury as he watched the lovely Suzanne du Tournai retreat in haste. Her life had been spared by that despicable English gallant -- whoever he may be. But alas! all would be repaid. And repaid handsomely!

He never took his eyes from Suzanne's back as he addressed his superior. "The group of dandies in the corner," he nodded his head ever so slightly to the spot Hastings, Dewhurst and MacKensie had been talking, "mentioned Saint-Just's name. But it may be nothing more than curiosity." His eyes briefly flicked to a short, stocky figure carrying a tray of English h'ourderves. "Berthier could not get close enough to hear the rest." Desgas glanced back to the retreating figures of Blakeney and Suzanne and then risked meeting Chauvelin's gaze. The younger henchman was no coward, but then, his supervising leader was not known for his gentle ways. If anything went wrong here... Desgas did not want to ponder the fact that it might be his own head that fell into the basket by the grace of Madame Guillotine. One word from Chauvelin...

All the better to turn the man's wrath in another direction. "Cabarrus is taking her sweet time to-night, do not you agree?"

Chauvelin studied the group of fops that Desgas indicated, at least one of them appeared vaguely familiar, the other two he couldn't be certain. One of the men met his eye and inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Get me their names," he ordered without even looking at his lieutenant. I want to know if they've been out of the country in the last three months. In the meantime have them watched� we can't be too careful."

"Cabarrus is taking her sweet time to-night, do not you agree?" the lackey stuttered out.

"Cabarrus has made considerable progress in the since setting foot in English," Chauvelin returned. "We let her play out her strategy until it becomes ineffective." Still he scowled, Teresia *was* taking her sweet time about getting to business. She was supposed to be dealing with Blakeney, instead she was dancing through the night. He would have to remind her of her priorities.

"See who you can shift around. I want someone watching those men, another watching la Cabarrus and someone monitoring Lady Blakeney. I want to know where they are at every minute. Understood?"

"Do forgive me, mam-zelle. You have blossomed so exquisitely into womanhood, I must confess I did not equate the sweet child I met in Paris to . . . well, uh . . . aaa-chan-tez!" She blushed, not only at his comment, but his stiff tongued pronunciation of her native language.

"Merci." She replied softly. As he lead her away from Chauvelin, she could feel her heartbeat slow and a wave of calm swept over her. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck for saving her from the cold-blooded reptile they'd left in their wake, though it seemed Sir Percy's excessive and inappropriate holding of her hand was quite enough of a social faux pas for one evening. She rested her hand easily in the crook of his elbow and politely listened to him rant about the lace as her mind whirled again. He wasn't... flirting with her... was he? No no... he loved Marguerite and even if he were... making his rounds with the ladies there, he knew better than to chase Suzanne's skirt.

She looked up and realized he was still talking. She smiled at him again and attempted to figure out what he was talking about. Oh yes! The lace on her gown. Actually, she enjoyed his little explanation of how it was constructed for until he had told her about it, she had not known where the lace had come from and exactly how much work actually went into creating it.

"Each piece is unique, my dear, and ever so dear. Larger pieces, such as a bridal veil are heirlooms, so I'm told."

"Eef I am ever lucky enough to 'ave one, I will be sure to cherish eet for all zee 'ard work zat went into eet, as well as eet's beauty." She smiled softly. A butler stopped and offered her a flute of champagne, which she gladly accepted and sipped demurely from as Percy went on. They stopped for a moment by the doorway which was letting a nice, cool breeze into the room. Suzanne took her free hand and swept her golden locks from her back across her shoulder to allow her neck some relief from the heat. She leaned close to Percy.

"I do not mean to enterupt you Percy," she cooed in softly in her French accent. "But is Marguerite here? I was so sorry to have meessed your wedding ceremony. I 'ave not seen her in over a year." Secretly, she wanted to ask if the gentleman Ffoulkes was there as well... she was still horribly embarassed she did not know his first name! Oh to hell with it! "Or, perhaps Monsieur Ffoulkes?" She blushed again, something that seemed to be her trademark, and continued. "He was so 'elpful when I was seeck and I wanted to thank 'im. Most of your friends seem to be very good men."

<Percy>

Walking away from the dancing and the music, Percy discovered also that the crowd thinned noticeably. Time to say goodbye to du Tournai's child unless he wanted unnecessary scandal. No matter how cautiously one acted, there was always an unmarked pair of eyes - usually furnished with a too active tongue - and for all he doubted anyone he knew would recognise either the girl or the French snake he'd rescued her from, a stroll with her hand on his arm and her sweet little face turned up to his could start a rumour that would benefit nobody. He meandered toward the door with the intention of wishing her bon chance and then disappearing in the garden. She would find somewhere to light for a plate of food and fifteen eligible men would converge on her chair for she was deuced attractive.

' . . . is Marguerite here?' Her question took him off-guard. "Lady Blakeney? Why, yes. I haven't seen her since we arrived, but she's among this throng." Where she may be didn't bear thinking of. His march through the ground floor rooms had given him a sense of who was present and he was cheered by the knowledge that Vicount Hawksbury was fully immersed in a game of hazard with a French card sharp (and being fleeced royally) and that the Duke of Dorset had sent his regrets. The two biggest rakes in English society were accounted for which suggested Marguerite was safe, although...

The girl interrupted Percy's concentration by asking, 'Or, perhaps Monsieur Ffoulkes?' Percy blinked back into the present. He looked down at her, surprised by her question. Ffoulkes? How had she wangled his lieutenant's name? Then, watching the blush rise from her tiny rounded chin up over the rose-petal cheeks to her wide forehead, Percy knew - knew everything. Well, he knew Ffoulkes, which made the guess as simple as a sum.

"Mademoiselle Suzanne, allow me to offer you a bit of advice," Percy said gravely, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her eyes up to meet his. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is my dearest friend and no truer, more loyal, braver or more steadfast man have I ever known - save in one thing. His heart is as big as the Americas , fully as big as a continent, and he's prone to fall in love. Blue-eyed girls, green-eyed. He's especially vulnerable to brown-eyed beauties like you. Don't let him turn your head, Suzanne. The trail of broken hearts he leaves is the one fatal flaw in his character. Now, I won't say that he didn't love 'em all because I'm sure he believes he does, but Ffoulkes is young and yet to discover true love. You are meant for a glorious marriage. Your father is an esteemed diplomat and no doubt he has grand plans for you. Ffoulkes is a Scottish baronet - the most minor title a man can possess and for all his wealth, your papa is certain to aim higher than that with a prize like you to offer."

He let her go. He wished he knew what to say that would soften his harsh words - perhaps it was well enough alone. The girl was a child, a babe among wolves. Far better for her to feel threatened and run straight to her mama than for her to stand beside Marguerite who drew admirers like filings to a magnet. To his cost Percy knew his wife's allure. But Suzanne didn't run away. She stood her ground, turning on Percy and saying, 'He was so 'elpful when I was seeck and I wanted to thank 'im. Most of your friends seem to be very good men.'

His words hadn't sunk in yet, she was . . . suddenly all the blood rushed from his head and he felt himself grow dizzy. Friends? "Miss du Tournai," he hissed as he grabbed the door frame to steady himself. "I beg of you to say nothing - please! How you've put your facts together - lord, we've been so careful! No, not careful enough, damn it. You must forget what you know. I beg you, forget my name or that you ever saw me in France. Forget the faces of my league or we will all be doomed."

Suzanne du Tournai knew - how she knew was immaterial - she knew. And Chauvelin was on her trail. Oh damn, damn! Percy slunk out the door into the black night, not seeing where he was walking, but moving at speed toward a solid black mass that should be the garden wall. He felt nothing of the winter chill - his mind was seething.

She froze. "...he's prone to fall in love. Blue-eyed girls, green-eyed. He's especially vulnerable to brown-eyed beauties like you..." The pain of salty tears pricked her eyes and she blinked rapidly to keep them from falling down her cheeks. She felt as if Percy applied the slightest amount of pressure where his fingers sat on her jaw, she would shatter into a million pieces. She stared at him, despare raging in her mind, as he finished delivering news of Sir Ffoulkes. Suzanne was not experienced in the matters of love, but she wasn't a fool either! She had seen the cold, steely stare of lust in a mans eyes before. There was something different about Him though. She couldn't place it, but there was *something* and it certainly didn't feel as horrifically shallow as Percy made it sound. The response she uttered felt monotone... automatic... devoid of feeling as she mentioned his friends. She lowered her head. Suddenly, Percy's voice changed. There was something dark, or perhaps it was desperation. Her own emotions were too muddled to figure it out.

"Miss du Tournai," She gave a quick nod. "I beg of you to say nothing - please! How you've put your facts together - lord, we've been so careful!" ...Careful? What was he talking about? Her heart had swollen to the size of the sun and now it felt as small as a lump of coal. She felt cold and bruised. The tears started to spill down her face. "No, not careful enough, damn it." She looked up at him then. She'd never heard Percy use such strong language. "You must forget what you know."

"Forget what I know?" Why must everything be so confusing?!

"I beg you, forget my name or that you ever saw me in France. Forget the faces of my league or we will all be doomed." He turned and took off, Suzanne left silhouetted in the doorway. She watched him heading down the steps and took off after him. It was difficult, but she managed to keep a relatively small distance between them. Two words echoed in her mind. "...my league..." Oh. no. The Pimpernel! She wanted to call out to him, but dared not. She hoped that he would stop and address her. There was no way she could allow him to make an admission as he had just done, then run away as though he were a child being chased by the teacher for pulling some little girls hair and making her cry. No, she dared not speak. He had taken a considerable risk saying what he had said at a party where the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel was highly desired information. She had to say something... something that wouldn't implicate them by name if anyone were outside to hear it... something that wouldn't be surprising to hear out in the garden, late at night with the company that had been invited to the Shipwash Manor. Suddenly she realized it. She stopped, Percy a good ten feet before her, and said raggedly, "I'll... I'll tell your wife!"

<Percy>

Blakeney leaned against a broad elm, chin tilted toward the sky and marked a couple of stars that might be Orion. He should consider himself lucky that if someone was to discover his secret that the revelation had occurred here, on English soil. Were it otherwise, he wouldn't have time to consider his death. He closed his eyes, listening to the rustle of leaves in the wind and the croak of frogs. Night-time sounds. The low rumble of many people all talking at once seemingly set to the strains of Corelli had a calming influence. Percy sighed against the familiar sounds. People and music. Idle gossip. With Lady Shipwash's mixing of blooded English and French aristocrats what would the gossip be? Abruptly Percy opened his eyes and shivered. The Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. Half these people had been rescued by his league of friends...

The sweat in his armpits had turned cold. He could warn the little du Tournai to keep silent, but she knew all the same - and if she had guessed, how many others were cradling the knowledge next to their hearts? Percy's heart was chilled and for the first time in weeks he felt real dread.

"...we let her play out her strategy until it becomes ineffective."

With about fifty knee-jerk reactions to control (the strongest of which would have left her handprint scorched across that smart mouth of his) Suzanne could hardly object to him guiding her back into the party.

There was so much information to process and no response on her lips for him. How many of her friends, how many of the people Suzanne Du Tournai held affection for would have their character denounced by Sir Percy? They passed back into the manor, leaving the cold night behind them, but Suzanne could feel a repressed chill sitting in her spine. She only had to get far enough away from him to let it out. Once inside, she pulled his jacket off her shoulders and handed it back to him, her face was white, but her eyes burned.

"I owe you much of my gratitude Monsieur, but that does not prevent me from telling you zee truth. You are a twisted man." She paused for a moment, lowering her eyes from him as thoughts of Marguerite overwhelmed her. "I am sorry for Lady Blakeney, that she must suffer you. You are an eediot to speak of her in such a way. Her loyalty, of which you so coldly referred, beats truer than anyone I have known." She continued, careful to eliminate names and phrases that would attract the attention of anyone who might desire to know all that she had heard this evening... and Lord! She would have to find her mother soon! "What basis have you in any of these assumptions? From the conversation you interrupted earlier, how are you to be certain that I am not operating for 'im as well? You may theenk zat you know 'er, but you do not. You, perhaps, know 'er less zan you did in Paree!" And with that, Suzanne turned from him and stormed into the bustling crowd, eager to find her mother and distance herself from Sir Percy.

Look for the chief Hastings said. Easier said that done. Lady Shipwash had invited more guests than there was comfortable space, so even looking over the heads of the other guests - for Percy would stand well over any one else - on the few occassions he had caught a glimpse of the chief. He couldn't wriggled through to speak with him. Hopefully Hastings was faring much better.

Faces, yards of silks and satins, and the press of warm bodies everywhere. If not for the urgency of his message he might have lingered a while with some of those too inviting eyes. Hopefully Tim wasn't so easily lead astray. But after an hour of disappointed searching, Fanshaw decided the best course was to rendezvous with Hastings and see if he had better luck.

"... you do not. You, perhaps, know 'er less zan you did in Paree!" The accent was distinctly French, and angry to boot. Someone will know better next time than to take a French lover, Fanshaw grinned, nearly being bowled into the tiny little spit-fire that stormed out of the room. Young. Pretty little thing. Probably just married and unaccustom to the fact that husband's do take mistresses. Perhaps later he might run into her again and help her to exact some revenge on her disloyal husband. Women often retaliated indiscretion for indiscretion.

Curiously he peered into the room, wondering who the so to be cuckolded was and came face to face with Sir Percy, who seemed a bit shell shocked in the aftermath of the little French vixen. Fanshaw looked around the room for whom the girl might have been quarreling with, but every indication was that it was Percy himself.

"Ah, Sir Percy!" Fanshaw glided in as though he knew nothing of the spat that had occured. "Just the fellow I was looking for. I heard that you were in casting about for a position for that young brother-in-law of yours. I may have just the thing you are looking for." Placing one hand on Percy's shoulder, he lead Percy out of the room and down the hall, looking for a remote spot. "I was talking to Fisher the other day... did you know he's just back from France ? Spent a few days in Dover recovering from a nasty bout of seasickness... poor devil was holed up at the Fisherman's Rest, with Miss Sally playing nurse maid... so I imagine he exaggerated his symptoms a bit..."

Fanshaw lead Percy to the end of the corridor to another reception room that lead out to the gardens, took the exit and walked on a ways listening for others that might be concealed in the shadows. satisfied that the only life nearby was that of insects and night owls, Fanshaw launched into his story.

"Hastings told me what happened the other day in Dover, he saw me yesterday to inquire the whereabouts of our friend the 'ambassador'. I'm sure he passed on the information I gave him... however this afternoon Fisher sent from Dover and added a new piece to the picture. He wrote me that two days ago that particular Ambassador spent the day holed up at the Fisherman's Rest waiting for the tide to come in. We know he booked passage for three on a boat that evening and that the next evening he had hired a coach for London which he took alone."

It was difficult to read Percy's expression in the darkness, so he plunged on. "If he crossed the channel he couldn't have gone further that Calais in that time. But the point that was most intriguing is that Fisher said he was seen leaving the Fisherman's Rest with a young man, who matched the description Hastings gave me of the lad, and Hastings stated that Jellyband saw the boy leaving with a man in black. Too much for coincidence. Which is why Hastings and I have been anxious to find you."

<Percy>

Suzanne had turned on him with flashing eyes and he knew before the first words were spoken that he was in serious trouble - he recognised all too well the appearance of Gallic temper storming in slanting, French eyes. '. .. . but that does not prevent me from telling you zee truth,' she spluttered while he stood helplessly boxed in and forced to listen. In a startling moment of deja vu he heard her say, 'you are an eediot' with exactly the same inflection Marguerite used on him. Like a rider furiously wielding the whip the little du Tournai lashed him as if he'd done her serious injury. Who would have imagined it? As she rained abuse on him in her quixotic English, Percy remembered a school-room afternoon when his tutor had told him the story of Henry Second, whose French queen had tormented him until he had her banished to a tower where she was held under lock and key for years. (Twelve years? Twenty years? A helluva long time, anyway) It would have taken years for that famous French temper to cool, Percy knew, for it was the same situation he faced with Margot...and this firebrand, du Tournai.

Suzanne whirled around and stormed off, her curls bouncing as she fled. "Lord madam," Percy muttered, "I should rescue invalids and children and leave the women to finish off Robespierre." His lower lip was descending in full sulk when a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder. 'Ah, Sir Percy! Just the fellow I was looking for.'

"Fanshaw?" Percy sounded dazed even to himself. "God in heaven, everyone in London must be at this party. I've just come from the most startling encounter..." But Fanshaw had heard that, of course. His embarrassment was plain. "Silly little French chit, she...uh...she misunderstood entirely my intentions." He hated to suggest that he'd been flirting with the girl; lord if Margot got a hold of that piece of information he may as well emigrate to the Americas tomorrow morning - but it was by far the better option than having Fanshaw question him. What a tremendous surprise it was to hear the man say, 'A particular Ambassador spent the day holed up at the Fisherman's Rest waiting for the tide to come in.'

"What? Are you serious? D'you mean to tell me that Chau..." Abruptly Percy coughed over the name. "I believe I know a family who was staying in Dover at the same time," he said quickly.

'Hastings stated that jellyband saw the boy leaving with a man in black.' Percy staggered under that bit of news. "I knew..." he muttered. Knew that Armand hadn't turned his coat. "But that means he's in the worst possible danger." Percy's expression blanked as he began to list details. A swift horse. No time to return to Richmond for anything he might need. Travelling papers - hopefully there were papers sufficient on board the Daydream.

"Hastings is here?" he asked. "I've seen Bathurst. No sign of Tony anywhere (which was not surprising - Tony favoured cards and Percy hadn't visited any of the gaming rooms) or Ffoulkes. I'm sure Andrew's here, he told me he intended to come. Tony said maybe, if the sport sounded promising. Who else? I'll need at least four men." Anxiety scored his voice. More than 24 hours had passed and the longer it too the greater Armand's danger. "Marguerite will flay the skin off my back if anything happens to her brother," Percy told Fanshaw. "I must find my companions and ride the road south tonight."

<Percy>

"Spanish �migr�?" Of course - he'd known that. Somewhere in a fog of brandy, Percy remembered encountering the voluptuous Spanish �migr�. "D'you suppose MacKensie is among the crowd?" Percy asked expectantly. "That would be helpful. He's tremendously level-headed and good at keeping Bathurst at bay and Hastings from murdering the poor devil. Women come between them, I'm afraid, and since both of them are so demmed attractive - and I can't imagine why - we have these scrapes weekly."

"You've been tremendously helpful," Percy told Fanshaw. "I think I've come up with an abrupt change of plans. Might I beg you to deliver a few messages? Ffoulkes. If you find him, tell him to meet me at the stables at midnight . I'm sure he'll figure that out. And Dewhurst. Say the same to him and he'll know what I want. As will Hastings . Anyone of the three that you see, tell them for me. Do that, Fanshaw, and I promise you I shall see you in heaven, dear fellow." Percy left the ambassador sitting on a bench, looking confused.

Chauvelin was such a fool! Waiting for the du Tournai to seek out that witch, Lady Blakeney. That could take hours, or it could take days. Either way it would take too long -- what a waste! When he could simply extract any bit of information he wanted by taking the matters into his own hands. Yes, that was what he would do -- damn his superior, he would arrange his own interview...and when he had the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, why, the little French Ambassador would be at his mercy. He would beg him for the private information, and then he would exalt him for his astounding, cunning abilities as a henchman and mention him to Robespierre himself, recommending advancement and a place on the Committee. Yes, it would be just like that!

Glancing into the dark bird eyes of his companion, Desgas fell out of his reverie. Perhaps it would not be just like that. If something went astray in his interview -- if the girl did not talk, or worse yet, if she led him on a wild goose chase -- well, no sense in dwelling on something that would never occur. Desgas would not be fooled -- he was too clever, too cunning. But still...perhaps he would follow Chauvelin's orders -- make the man feel superior and bask in his brief moment of glory -- and when his plan did not work, Desgas would simply act out his own experiment with du Tournai. And then the slave-driver at his side would have to praise his crafty subordinate -- bah, what a repulsive word.

"The du Tournai girl will prove to be most useful, citoyen. That I can assure you." He glanced over his companion's shoulder and scanned the room. Berthier was on the move down the hall, no longer carrying the champagne. Something had apparently caught his interest and he had no plans of being detained and missing his chance. Desgas made a mental note to remind the man that he must not give himself away -- at any cost! He was perfectly integrated into the British society, they could not lose that. He was invaluable.

"Ah, there is the girl," he said quietly in French, spotting Suzanne. She did not appear to be ecstatically happy. Blakeney appeared a moment later with another man Berthier had been keeping his eyes on. Desgas could not remember the name -- something with an F. Fenman, Fenshar, something of the sort. He, too, hung out with the pack of dandies Ffoulkes was known to run with, and he had also been out of the country on "business" too much for Desgas' comfort. "It seems as if Saint-Just's husband has his eyes set on another pretty little French face," he said, a smile creeping to his usually stoic face. "Ironic." Just then he began to notice the man, Dewhurst, watching him. Every few seconds the fool would turn his eyes in his direction, and then, when they made eye contact he would look away, disinterested. Desgas nearly laughed. "It astounds me that these ninnies have kept alive in France for so long," he murmured, flicking his eyes to the place where Dewhurst and MacKensie stood, completely unaware that he knew they were watching him. "They are like drowning children in this sport -- unaware that they are in danger until they have stepped in too far." The dark, cynical smile rose once more as he casually noted Dewhurst's gaze returning to him again. "With your leave, citoyen, I think I may take a walk in one of the lesser occupied halls. Any imbecile that follows me is in league with the traitor and will narrow my search incredibly."

Fanshaw blinked a few time, bobbing in Percy's wake. The man's train of thought boggled the mind. He shook his head as though to get the gears going. Who to look for first? Ffoulkes was with Lady Blakeney and most everyone was convince she was a spy (he himself had seen her meet the queer little ambassador in a few unseemly locations), he'd have to slip him a note and hope that Ffoulkes would have the sense to lose hs dance partner. Bathurst was equally difficult; Fanshaw knew little of the seductive Spaniard and Bathurst seemed adamant not to part with her. Would he leave her alone even to take time to piss much less meet Percy in the stable? That would be the trickiest one. He made a mental note to have the lady's history checked out, even spies came in pretty packages as Blakeney's wife proved. Dewhurst and MacKensie would be easier to speak with, if he could spot them again. Than left Hastings who had disappeared in his search for Blakeney. With any luck Percy would tell Hastings himself.

Fanshaw brushed off his sleeves and slipped back inside, scanning faces as he headed for Shipwash's study. He was familiar enough with the house to find it, having frequented enough dinner parties and meetings in the Lord's day. Second door on the right he reminded himself. He peeked inside before entering, least he interrupt some meeting or other, and went straight for the desk, ripped a piece off a blank page in the drawer and wrote out. "Stables - midnight." Pocketed the rest of the sheet of paper and pencil, then folded the missive into a small square.

<Percy>

"That's correct, two horses, both saddled. Within the hour." Percy had completed his transaction with the Shipwash head groom. Standing at his side was Pritchard, his coachman. "Should Lady Blakeney ask, tell her I received a note from Blakeney manor, that Frank has summoned me. Something about a sick friend. That should suffice."

Oh tangled web of lies . . . now he needed another note, this one for Frank to give him enough rope to avoid hanging the lot of them. So many things to keep track of. Borrowed horses. The coach for Margot. Notes for Frank and Lord Grenville. Unfortunate that he was dressed with so much splash, but there was no time to change. He and Henshaw would be conspicuous on the road. Percy had less than an hour to retrieve Henshaw (where would he look? Henshaw was supposed to be keeping up with his master!) then return to the stable and see who had received his message.