In the Stables

"Percy! What are you doing?" Andrew was gasping for breath as he rubbed his shoulder. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"No, no leaving. No yet. Have you seen my wife tonight?"

Andrew blinked. "No, but . . ."

"I have Tony looking for her. Too many coincidences tonight. This place is crawling with French spies and I've just discovered that Chauvelin was in Dover at the same time Armand disappeared."

Andrew absorbed that information, then asked, "Marguerite?"

"I don't know how she is involved, but I'm sure now that her strange behaviour, the absences, her mood swings, are all tied to Armand's disappearance. I thought I could retrieve him before she was aware of his danger, but now I suspect she's known all along that he's missing - it would make sense."

"Would it?"

He rested his hand on Andrew's bruised shoulder. "I have a dilemma. I'm certain now that I was right to alert my staff to watch Margot, but the danger may not be from without. Lady Shipwash's household has been infiltrated by French spies, perhaps mine has, too. Both Henshaw and Davies are trustworthy beyond measure - they've been in my employ long before my marriage - but who else? Servants come and go. Leaving Marguerite in England, whether I stay or not will not keep her safe, although that is my first thought. I should remain close to Marguerite now that I know she's in danger. Conversely, Armand is bait for a trap."

Andrew interrupted, "I don't think . . ."

"It took me a long time to put this together. Armand's disappearance, Chauvelin's presence, they don't add up until you look at how skittish Marguerite has been these last days. It's the work of a master, designed to lead me into a trap, but I sense I have to take the bait and spring the trap, or else I will lose everything."

"That would be absurd!"

"No, it would be cutting to the quick. Cutting off the finger to save the limb. I have to risk Marguerite to flush out Armand and then hope I can keep them both safe."

"By risking your own neck?"

"Whose better?"

Percy waited for Andrew to answer, measuring the depth of darkness in his unblinking eyes.

Following had not been easy. Sir Andrew had moved quickly, weaving in and out of the shrubbery and, as she was forced to hang back for fear of being seen, Teresia often lost sight of him entirely. Those intervals could only have been seconds in duration, but to the Spaniard they seemed like a lifetime... Had she lost him? Had he sensed that someone was on his tail and stopped? Worse still, had he doubled-back? Time and again she was saved by the movement of a displaced tree branch or a glint of moonlight on polished tailcoat buttons. This time she heard a gentle crunch of gravel to her right and arrived at the edge of the trees just in time to see her quarry vanish around a high red-brick wall. Abruptly the footsteps stopped and Teresia stopped too. Listening intently she could make out voices, but not words. She had to get closer, but that would mean braving the gravel herself.

Gingerly she removed her shoes and, hitching up her petticoats, tiptoed across to the wall. There was a faint equine smell... the stables, she concluded. Edging along the wall in the dark, Teresia felt terribly exposed. All of a sudden something touched her shoulder. She almost screamed! Above her crouching figure a horse snorted. Teresia's relief was palpable. She took a deep breath and inched on. A few feet from the corner the voices were more audible. "By risking your own neck?"

"Whose better?"

She recognised Sir Andrew's voice, but not that of his companion and she knew she could go no further without discovery. So near and yet so far... it was maddening! All Teresia could do was wait to see if she could gain any clue from the rest of the conversation.

Chauvelin had wasted no time in making use of the intelligence Marguerite had procured him. He immediately sought out Beaucarnot, who was still hovering near the staircase to the bedroom, and signaled the man to meet him in the garden before Chauvelin sought out a lesser used exit to the gardens, finding the nearest exit then following the wall until the guest began to taper off and slipped out through the next door that led outside. Outside she quickly and quietly crept to the hedge line and slunk along the shadows towards the stable, listening for any one in the darkness ahead to void being seen and glance occasionally behind him to make sure he was not followed.

As he neared the stable he was stop abruptly at the sight of a liveried footman struggling to quiet a restless horse with the aid of the stable hand. �� pretty �e may be, but �is lordship was a fool to bring such a spirited animal tonight. In �is state the �orse is likely to throw �im on the road� break �is bloody neck he will!� The stable hand gave some indiscernible reply and left with the footman, presumably to help mount this drunken lord on the too spirited beast. Chauvelin took the opportunity to slip into the stables like a shadow. Determining that no one was inside before entering. He had to find someplace inconspicuous to hide himself, something that gave him the strategic advantage. Quickly examining the possibilities, eliminating those that were likely to be discovered by the stable hand. He settled in a place amongst the hay bales piled on one corner, shifting they slightly to better conceal himself and stealing a horse blanket to lay underneath him � after all he would have to go back to the party after without rousing suspicion. Nestled amongst the hay bales Chauvelin began to examine the spot � he could rise ever so slightly and see anyone entering the room without being seen and a couple of choice knot holes in the wall gave him a view, if somewhat limited of the walk between the manor house and the stables. He could see whether someone was coming, even if he could see whom. The whom would be revealed when they entered.

Half an hour's wait and the Scarlet Pimpernel would enter that door. He identity would be revealed and his troubles only begun.

Pressed up against the stables walls, Teresia had no idea that Chauvelin was just a few yards away, inside the block. The temperature was dropping fast. Her gown and bare feet were hardly sufficient to keep out the chill night air. She could still hear the two men talking, but she could not place the second voice. There was a slight familiarity, which plagued her subconscious with the idea that she knew the speaker; but she had met so many new faces that evening and her Spanish brain could not detect the subtle nuances of the English accent which, even without its preposterous drawling vowels, would have told her who stood around the corner.

She had to look, had to see... but how? For a few moments she thought of quickly poking her head around the corner, but she knew she would certainly be spotted herself... and what then? She couldn't outrun them, not in this constricting girdle. They would catch her... would they kill her? Teresia hoped not, but she had seen so many men, whom she'd once thought of a humanitarians, take easily to violent slaughter... and it would be so simple here. No witnesses and no one to over-hear, for even the grooms had retired to the gardener's lodge to keep warm by the fire.

Then she remembered the horse. If she could creep back to the stable door and get inside, she might be able to find another stable with an opening nearer the two men... somewhere from whence she could get a good look at Sir Andrew's companion without being seen herself. It was a risk... they could leave at any minute... but one she had to take. As quickly and noiselessly as possible, Teresia Cabarrus edged back along the stable wall until she found the door. The horse had drawn its head inside. She unlatched the lower half of the door and slipped in. Warm straw was around her feet and she had to hitch her gown still higher to avoid making a telltale sound.

She had not thought to find it so dark inside. Reasoning that the internal door must be on the opposite wall, Teresia gently made her way across the hay-strewn floor. The horse snorted at this intruder, but fortunately did not neigh or charge her. The other wall was solid, but she felt her way along until she found the exit she was looking for and then she was out into the main body of the stable block. Pausing to get her bearings, she began to calculate which of the stables was nearest to the two men outside.

<Percy>

'The spy could be Marguerite.' Percy felt Andrew's embarrassment at the same moment as the truth penetrated his thick hide. Why had he not seen it for himself? Too close, that was why. He hadn't wanted to see the truth. Marguerite, compromised, was not the victim, but the spy. Before him Andrew trembled and said, 'God, Percy; I didn't mean to imply . . .'

"Imply?" Percy chuckled ruefully. "Think nothing of it. I was too obtuse to see it for myself. You've whipped me fairly, my friend." His heavy hand dropped onto Andrew's shoulder. Part of him wanted to lie his weary head there and to weep like an exhausted child.

Hadn't he always known? Marguerite loved him, but not at the cost of her brother. Could he fault her for that? She had taken his choice away from him and made it herself.

"There is no hope for it, Ffoulkes. I'm off to France tonight. I'd intended to press a farewell kiss on my wife's cheek and beg her to be careful. Fool! It was surely providential that I couldn't find her."

For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. He had promised Marguerite his life till death parted them. He hadn't intended to give her his life in exactly in this way . . . but, as he faced the possibility, he accepted that he'd given her that, too. What would his life be without Margot? Nothing. He knew that now. He'd felt it over the last few days, sensing that she loved him even as she pushed him away. It would be the ultimate proof of his love for her to sacrifice himself in springing the trap to free Armand - since that was what she wanted most in her life. She had made the choice. He would abide by her decision. "Go back to the house, to the corridor in the right wing where the billiard room is. Tony will be waiting for me. Tell him there's been a change of plans. . ."

Plans. He'd planned to take 2 bold members of the league with him earlier this evening (before he'd known the level of the danger awaiting him). Fanshawe with his scrawled note, intercepting each of the League was sending them here, to meet him at the stable block, but he would be gone.

"Damnation, Tony will have to wait. I need you to wait here, Andrew. I've summoned the league for my errand to rescue Armand, but now it's impossible for me to stay and speak to them."

That was only the beginning. It was equally impossible for him to travel in company and risk the lives of his followers. He would have to go to Armand alone. Percy faced Andrew in the darkness, wishing he could make out more than the occasional glitter of starlight in his friend's eyes. He rested both hands on Andrew's shoulders and ordered, "Stay here. Stay until you've seen MacKenzie, Bathurst and Glynde. Tell them I know where Armand is - I don't, but tell them I do. Tell them I want 2 clear days head start and then they can follow me to Paris."

<Percy>

The plan was unfolding in his mind like a rose, in layers and layers of petals. He didn't have time to reassure Andrew, but the scheme had come to him full-blown. Margot was the spy, coerced by Chauvelin because she already knew Armand's life was in danger. Why had he not seen it sooner?

"A clue," he told Andrew, "nothing more. Chauvelin is here, therefore someone else is watching Armand. Armand was not in Dover, therefore he's been sent back in France. Chauvelin's powerbase is in Paris; he didn't have time to wield his influence anywhere else since he remained in Dover and followed us to London. Now, this is the critical part. Pay close attention."

Beyond him, to the left, he heard a horse nicker. The stable was filled to capacity and at least one guest's horse had been hobbled in the paddock.

"Which horse did you ride tonight?" Andrew had a grey stallion, Sharp-shooter, who was nearly as fast as Sultan. A big, powerful horse was what he needed.

"I came in a hired calash. I, uh, hoped to find someone to go home with."

"Of course, I should have realised. Too bad for that." Percy's own carriage horses had been chosen for looks - a matched pair - and not for stamina or speed.

"What I want you to do is to pass on my message to the three men I mentioned, but tell Tony the truth. Tell him I'm going alone to Paris and that I expect to be captured. If he discovers where I am, tell him not to come in after me. I will have to pull out on my own once Chauvelin offers me whatever dastardly compromise he has in mind. I want you and Tony to come to Paris as soon as you can, but don't venture anywhere near our usual places. Stay disguised. Listen. Hopefully I'll be able to send word to you through a friend when I know what I need.

Marguerite watched as Suzanne � so trusting � sailed out of her life as abruptly as she has sailed, in a rustle of cream coloured skirts, pink ribbons, and golden curls. She hadn�t expected Suzanne to flee so quickly - they had scarcely spoken ten minutes! There was so she wanted to say and so much she wanted to know. It would have to wait for the morning. Not that there was much time for socializing. With so much at stake Marguerite couldn�t afford to delay, there would be too many reasons for such delays to crop up on their own. Delays to a port, crossing the channel, and Paris would be a problem in and of itself� then so much depended on Suzanne to trust her and to do as Marguerite asks. Was Suzanne�s trust so absolute? There was that hesitation earlier when she�d asked how the du Tournai family had left France� something in the answer made Marguerite think Suzanne was holding back. Her story certainly was different than that which Chauvelin told her, but then again it was Chauvelin! If she couldn�t trust Suzanne then there was no one she could trust. Percy�s constant deception had twisted her perception - she was now seeing the trait in everyone.

She felt powerless sitting there, sulking, wishing life were somehow different � that Armand had come with her when she married so that there would be no opportunity for him to provoke any sort of suspicion. Marguerite rose shook a few unflattering creases from her skirt and walked towards the sound of distant music and voices. She wondered what Armand was doing at that moment � so many stories about the conditions of the prisons were told by individuals rescued by the Scarlet Pimpernel. Andrew. The man Chauvelin was cornering even now. Somewhere out in the darkness beyond the window. How many people had he saved in the months since his name was first mentioned? How many women, children, elderly folk who were innocent of any crimes save blood? How many more might he have saved had she the strength to deny Chauvelin? According to Chauvelin it was he who had saved Suzanne. Good God, she had betrayed him! What time was it? Was it midnight? Was the deed done?

Marguerite stopped just outside the ballroom, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Davis just inside � the woman�s aggravation and worry apparent. Marguerite backed away from the doorway and against the wall where Mrs. Davis�s piercing eyes couldn�t perceive her. She wasn�t nearly so ready to be leashed again. From this vantage point only a sliver of the room was viewable. Beyond the observers she could see rapidly shifting colors of the dancers going through their motions.

�� I saw them come in from the garden, his coat was draped her shoulders. There is no doubt in my mind what they were up to,� a woman said just around the corner from where she was standing.

�Did you recognize her?�

�No. She was young and French. He�s always had a fondness for foreigners,� the first voice continued. Marguerite could see the edge of a turquoise skirt � one of the speakers. She couldn�t go back to that, couldn�t assume the fa�ade needed to avoid becoming the source of such gossip. Her heart was heavy with too much guilt. Marguerite turned back the way she�d come, distancing herself from the throng.

Less than a year ago she acted foolishly and murdered an entire family, that act cost her a years long friendship and the love of her husband. Now not would Andrew�s blood be on her hands, so to would be those he might have saved � if he ever found out, would Armand forgive her? In his place, Marguerite would have told Armand to stay silent. And somewhere deep in her heart she knew Armand thought the same way. She was wrong to betray Andrew.

Perhaps there was still time to set things right, warn the Pimpernel before Chauvelin arrived, otherwise he and he men would be betrayed. Marguerite hurried back to the terrace that she and Suzanne had been seated near, and ducked out into the gardens beyond. The gardens were lit well enough to navigate through, but not so well as to see clearly the couples lurking in the shadows, depended more on her hearing than her eyes to avoid intruding on an intimate encounter. The lawns beyond were nearly black with dark. The moon, a mere silver sliver, offered little light leaving Marguerite with only the distance lights of the stable to guide her. Removing her slippers and hiking her skirt up to allow her to run easier, Marguerite raced across the lawn, praying that she might make it in time. She slipped but once on a patch of wet grass, but managed to recover herself quickly.

Within a few yards distance she heard the faint murmur of voices, which died abruptly as she neared � they must have heard her. She slowed her pace as she drew close to the stables. The voices were just around the corner, so easy to peek around the corner and� that was what got her in trouble to start. She edged to the corner and whispered, �You must leave here. You have been betrayed and there is little time.�

Chauvelin had moved silently closer to the wall beyond which muffled voices could be heard. To think, a few pieces of wood were all that separated him from his hated foe. If only he�d had his pistol on hand, strategically placed against a knot hole and all of his problems would been solved with a small piece of hot lead � unfortunately it would have caused some trouble if he had. One of the voices sounded vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to place a face to the name. The other was completely unknown. If only he could move closer, but the risk of moving closer was that there was the chance that he might make some noise that would give his position away. With luck they would enter the stables and all would be revealed.

Chauvelin moved to his peep hole closest to where the men were talking, but could only see the faint outline of a coat nearby. Damn it all, go in already! From the other side came the steady padding of footfalls on grass. Someone was approaching quickly. He moved to a peephole facing the manor house and saw the outline of a feminine shape. She slowed as she approached and the men became silent. There was a pregnant pause before he heard, �You must leave here. You have been betrayed and there is little time.�

Marguerite. He would know that voice anywhere. He had betrayed him!

She had worked out the stable nearest to the two men. It was not the one in the corner, but the one next to it. She slipped inside and made her way quickly towards the outer stable door, the top of which was ajar. In one corner of the stable a large grey stallion kicked the ground and Teresia felt her heart race slightly. Reaching the door she peered cautiously through the opening. She could see Sir Andrew's left arm, but the other man must have had his back tight to the wall. She overheard him say that he would be leaving that night, alone, and that Andrew was to wait for the other league members. She thought both men sounded a little dejected, though she had missed too much of the conversation to understand why.

Briefly she saw a hand raised to grip Sir Andrew's shoulder in a reassuring way. If only she could lean further out and at least see the colour of the accompanying sleeve. She was about to risk it when a female voice cut through the night air. "You've been betrayed." it said. Madre de Dios , someone must have seen her follow Sir Andrew! The two men had ceased talking. Teresia's first thought was to duck down and hide behind the lower half of the stable door; but then she realised that the men outside would probably flee, which might give her her best opportunity yet to identify Sir Andrew's companion.

The light fled from his eyes and his mouth fell open. "But, Per . . ." he began, then shut his mouth and shoved his hands in his pockets. Don't get caught, the chief said, not two minutes after a breathless female voice warned them they were betrayed. So, how easy would that order be to follow, he wondered. He blew hot breath out through his mouth, squared his shoulders and retraced the path back to the house, wondering as he did so whether the woman had retreated directly before him - and who she might have been.

Betrayed. By whom? Interesting that this third-party knew not only that the betrayal had taken place, but where to look to pass a warning. Too interesting by half!

Andrew's footsteps slowed as he considered . . . Mrs. Davis. If Lady Blakeney was already gone, as Percy said, compromised and god alone knew what else, then what had become of the faithful maid? Was she missing too? "And Henshaw," Andrew muttered. Arrogant coxcomb, that Henshaw. Andrew thought the young man was far too full of himself. "Find him," he told himself. That might tell him a thing or two about what to do next. "And find Tony," he added.

What to do about Mackenzie, Bathurst and Glynde? He had no idea how he might get a message to any of them; all he knew for certain was that anyone who ventured near the stables would be in danger. Should he park himself on Lady Shipwash's terrace and inspect everyone who wished to take a breath of night air?

Chauvelin pressed his ear against the knot hole closest to the Scarlet Pimpernel and his colleague, straining to hear even the faintest of sounds � he would have to deal with the treacherous whore later. The warning had spooked his quarry - they would be more caution now than ever - but the game was not up yet. As near as he could tell they had not left. They were probably wondering of the warning wasn't a trap itself. The horse nearest him neighed and stamped his foot in aggitation, a mirror for Chauvelin's own thoughts. They were speaking again, but most of the words were too low to be discerned. "...thing... th..s...some...there...can't...ake them out..."

The other man, "No...matter... st flee...at one.. gone... ound... ack... the stab..." Marguerite hadn't stayed long and from the sound of it they must not have know who she was or they did and did not trust her. Where she was now was really a excellent question. "...too late... bet... my... fort...Marg...eat...ready gone...." So they knew it was Marguerite, Chauvelin thought, slowly rubbing the feeling back ino his legs - he'd need to be mobile soon - what's more is that they knew her *and* that they knew her intimately enough to refer to her by her given name. That narrowed the list down significantly, unless she had lovers Chauvelin didn't know about. She wasn't acting rationally, she knew that Armand was depending on her and yet she played games.

"... Damnation... anted... stay... " Chauvelin sensed that they were planning to abandon this meeting which meant that he would have to take a more proactive role if he wanted to complete his mission. He was just about to sit back when he caught. "But, Per . . ." The rest of the sentence went unfinished, rather than being beyond his hearing. Per... Chauvelin filed that scrap in his mind, it might be a clue to who the Pimpernel was and what he might be up to.

Carefully, noiselessly, Chauvelin rose to creep to the door, then dropped down into a crouch as he saw part of a skirt just near the door. Marguerite! He rose again, slower, making sure to avoid the woman line of vision - would help him any if she let out a scream and startled his game into flight. On second view, it was clearly not Marguerite, the dress was all wrong, but couldn't see the woman's face. What kind of woman would be running around the stables and why? Marguerite's appearance was perplexing enough.

Chauvelin ducked down a little and moved a bit left to get a better view, when the stable door creaked open and the too tall silohuette of a man stood there, but only for a moment before closing the door again. The woman race for the door and slipped out after him. Too interesting. Chauvelin also followed, but paused at the door and listened for a moment... nothing. Cracked the door open and peered out... nothing. Finally open the door... then paused looking up at the door frame - Measuring himself against it. The man had to be almost a foot taller than his for he stood so tall in the door way.

Chauvelin searched the darkness before him but saw little movement, he moved along the wall to face the the main building, eyes skimming over the lawn, saw a movement in the distance and one close at hand. He opt to check the closer of the two and keep the other in sight as best as possible. As he neared he saw a woman.. but not the woman from the stables. This one was the traitoress. He slipped up to her and caught ahold of her wrist. Her head whipped around and her eyes widened. "So, you thought to double cross me?"

Chauvelin whispered. "I hope it was worth it, my dear, but I don't know that your brother would agree."

With the warning delivered, Marguerite scrambled backed along the wall of the stable, feeling the corner rather than seeing it and slipping around it. Her heart was racing madly in her breast, threatening to burst at any moment. If they saw her then they would know who had betrayed them, possibly let it slip to Sir Percy that his wife was a despicable spy � wouldn�t take much convincing. Or worse it may slip out and destroy what remained of Sir Percy�s reputation. Could he really be hung for her offenses? It was done in her homeland. She shivered at the thought. If nothing else, no harm must come to him on her account.

Then again there was always the possibility that Chauvelin was nearby, watching and listening from the shadows� Would Chauvelin recognize her in the dark? More likely than anyone. Chauvelin had followed her for year, patronized the Comedie Francaise more than any other one man she knew. He was the very type to slink around in the darkness in over to eavesdrop. What was the likelihood that Chauvelin was still in the house? Little. Her hope was that if he were nearby he hadn�t seen her or the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The men were silent � cautious � for the longest time. Marguerite almost fancied that they had evaporated into the shadows until a soft rustle of grass broke the long silence. There was a soft psst-psst-psst of whispered conversation, low and anxious � she couldn�t hear so much as sense the tension. �Run! Run! Run! Every minute Chauvelin draws closer!� she wanted to shout, but held her tongue, shouting would risk them all. .Shouting might bring out Chauvelin or any number of stable hands or valets might not have the sense or decency to keep silent about what they saw. Chance and the powerful brain that rested within his head were the only things now that would protect him from tumbling any further into Chauvelin�s trap. She listened for a long time as the shadows conferred - shivering with combine cold and fear. She bit her thumb to silence her chattering teeth for surely the men near at hand could hear the racket they made � her muscles tensed to take flight if necessary.

Somewhere nearby some nocturnal bird screamed protest into the night � who knew what other creatures were prowling tonight. In the darkness much could happen without witnesses. She shook her head to banish the thoughts of what might be lurking in the dark around, turning her eyes skyward � drawing comfort from the familiar patterns of the stars in the sky. The stars didn�t care about the intrigue below them � conspiratorially winking to each other.

Within the stable, she heard a horse stomp its hoof restlessly against the floor boards. Had they gone? Was it safe to leave? She had a mind to peek her head around the corner to check when she heard the soft crunch of gravel - they were leaving... finally. The night was silent again as boot stepped off of gravel onto soft grass. She waited a minute longer, then peered out.

A single shape cut a dark outline against the lights that filled the manor windows. The figure paused a moment and turned, perhaps checking to see if someone followed, then turned back to his path. In that brief moment she thought she recognized Andrew�s profile � how many men could fill that silhouette so perfectly? She only hoped to god that Chauvelin was not near enough to recognize him as well. She knew now who the Scarlet Pimpernel was � a coveted secret � which meant he was in more danger than ever. How many more threats could she hear before she gave up the name? Andrew Ffoulkes. He is the Scarlet Pimpernel. Vaguely she wondered what became of his companion, probably scuttled off before Andrew. It was safer not knowing.

It had to be midnight now, and Chauvelin would be on his way if he had hadn�t already. He would be livid to find the stable empty - or would he? Would Andrew be able to warn his men in time to keep them from falling into Chauvelin's trap? There was nothing else for it. She couldn't stay any longer - she already risked everything with this warning. She had to return to the party and feign ignorance. Pretend that everything was well and explain away her absence.

As Andrew disappeared from view, Marguerite stepped out of her hiding place and moved quickly along the tree line prepared to hide if necessary. Half way back to the manor house she thought she heard someone behind her, but when she turned to look there was only darkness and the distant lights of the stable. She abruptly changed direction � heading towards the rose garden and the ingress she had used to leave the house.

She gasped as a hand caught hold of her wrist and held it in a steely grasp. She turned to see the pale face and cold eyes of Chauvelin, faintly lit by some distance torch. "So, you thought to double cross me?" He knew! He had been there! She eyes flickered down to his coat and breeches, where bits of hay stood out against the black. "I hope it was worth it, my dear, but I don't know that your brother would agree." Now Armand would pay. She stammered as she thought quickly of a reasonable lie. �You� you misunderstand me Chauvelin� I would not risk my brother� I � I had thought to come out here and find the Scarlet Pimpernel�s identity myself� I�I thought � I would startle them and catch a glimpse as they fled... but they did not flee� I waited forever but did not hear them, I did not wish them to see me so I� though to take a position near the terrace and wait to see who entered��

�I see�� Chauvelin remarked, holding fast to that tiny wrist that tried desperately to wriggle free. She was caught and she knew it. Desperately dissembling to cover her improprieties, but the truth lay in her eyes. She had given in to her conscience at her brothers expense - the little fool. She might have ruined his chance, however the information he acquired was far from useless. He still had the list of names his agents had acquired and which had proven useful, he knew that the Pimpernel was a man with a close tie to Marguerite, he had a seen the man in silhouette and could recognize that form (the man was especially tall and muscular for an Englishman)... then again Cabarrus and his agents were likely not to have remained idle this evening. Someone Teresia was introduced to might have been the spy, or the fools Desgas had been trailing might have produced some workable clue.

�Then you won�t mind if I join you,� Chauvelin continued. "After all you don't know what you might run into in the dark." He pulled her arm through his and headed to the terrace. His eyes continually scanned the lawn, the garden, flickered back to the stables - noting the stirring of shadows and assorted shapes. Marguerite quietly followed, but the tension in the muscle in her arm spoke volumes. "It really is such a pity that you continue to resist the help I offer, that you work against me when what I offer is a salvation for Armand. You do remember your brother, don't you?"

"How can you ask that?" she snapped back. He felt the heat of her eyes on him, but feigned ignorance.

"Then you will do as you are told," he returned. "You will watch the men I told you to and let me know what they do and who they meet. Despite your apparent blunder, I now know who the Scarlet Pimpernel is." This part was a lie, but he still wasn't certain that she was entirely as ignorant as she claimed. "Do this and I may overlook this bit of treachery."

�I see�� Chauvelin said unconvinced. �Then you won�t mind if I join you.� He pulled her arm through his and walked her back to the terrace, occasionally scanning the darkness. "It really is such a pity that you continue to resist... You do remember your brother, don't you?" he taunted, toying with her like a cat who has captured a mouse. He always enjoyed the discomfort of others.

"How can you ask that?" she snapped back. There was more she longed to say, but bit the remarks back - choked on her pride which was less dear to her than the life at stake.

"Then you will do as you are told," he returned. "... Despite your apparent blunder, I now know who the Scarlet Pimpernel is." Marguerite gasped, but did not press him for details. It was fairly easy to guess the answer and those she didn't want to know. She gathered that sometime after she told Chauvelin about the rendezvous he crept out to the barn, hid, and saw or heard Andrew and his colleague. Her warning had been for nothing. Before they ascended the steps to the terrace, Chauvelin stopped to brush off the bit of hay and dust that still clung to his suit.

On the terrace, she avoiding meeting the eye of anyone presence. She could imagine what the scene looked like, she was slightly dishevelled from her run across the grounds earlier and Chauvelin was dishevelled from doing whatever it was he had been up to. This would be more fodder for Percy's suspicions. Chauvelin stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to look out into the darkness and she followed his example, hoping Andrew had already entered through another door.

She looked back through the open doors and saw Mrs. Davis�s back trying to search over the heads of a crowd of women. Never had she been so glad to see Davis.

�I must go,� Marguerite said abruptly. �I�ve been gone too long and my lady maid is just within the door. If she sees me she�ll come out.� Before he could protest, she rushed inside and tapped Davis on the shoulder, startling the woman and asked the first question that she knew would come out of the woman�s lips.

�Where have you been?� she stated and the woman�s jaw dropped. �My seam came loose and I had to depend on another�s lady maid to fix it.�

�I-I was looking for you,� Davis stammered out.

�Were you? This is the first I�ve seen of you since the footman spilled his cheese on my Lord Bathurst.� Marguerite was already distancing herself from the terrace and Chauvelin. She led her maid to the nearest fireplace and sank into an empty armchair. �Bring me something to drink, the heat is murderous!� Mrs. Davis stood steadfast. �I promise I won�t leave this seat, but if I don�t have something to drink I will perish of the heat.� And it was hot compared to the chill of the night she had only just left. Reluctantly Mrs. Davis left her to her thoughts. She had doomed Armand and Andrew as well�

�� Oh, yes! I saw them come in from the gardens myself. She was wearing his coat and had his arm around her waist. Someone should inform him that he should be more discrete with his affairs�� Marguerite recognized the voice as one she�d heard earlier. She was determined to ruin someone�s reputation.

�Yes, I had heard that he was with another Frenchie,� another said. �Evidently, she had threatened to tell his wife of all things!� Marguerite rolled her eyes and focused on the fire. Where there were people there were gossips. In France , in England , Everywhere people congregated.

�Well, Sir Percy never struck me as being particularly clever about anything other than horses and fashion.� Marguerite stopped breathing.

�Probably the reason he married that actress� probably the only woman who would have him.� Marguerite felt sick and faint. She would not listen to anymore � covered her ears with her hands � and tried to fight to regain her breath. Much to her regret she had been right about her husband all along.

By the time he reached the terrace Andrew appeared to be a cool and astute, man of the world. Deceptive appearance! A single word ran round and round in his head: betrayed, betrayed. Damn it! Who had discovered Percy's identity?

Pausing at the door for only a moment to quickly look around, he slipped into the drawing room and was swallowed up in a cacophony of voices. There was young Hawksbury reciting a story in his carrying voice with at least 30 people giving him their complete attention: "'You're not going to shoot me, sir?' the rogue demanded, and his captor announced, 'Certainly not!' and handed the man a rusted cavalry sword."

It was a new story and somewhat risqu� to be told in mixed company; Andrew scanned the faces - mostly female - and felt mildly annoyed at the number of supposedly virginal young ladies among the listeners. It seemed that even the cream of society were losing their sense of propriety.

In the corner nearest the fireplace there were three gossips, chattering in a low tone, laughing and appearing to be thoroughly engrossed in some bit of scandal . . . and Lady Blakeney sitting a little apart with a frozen expression of...what? Shock? Horror? It seemed to be a little of both. His first impulse was to go to her, to chafe her hands and order a snifter of brandy for her, but prudence shoved that thought clear out of his head. Lady Blakeney was the last person he should be seen with at this moment. Andrew took four steps backward, then turned and exited the way he'd come in - back out onto the terrace.

Sir Percy's wife may be wearing a look somewhere between shock and surprise, but then, so was he. Why did Percy imagine she was gone from Shipwash manor? If only Andrew could have questioned him. Was the danger greater if Marguerite were missing, or because Percy was mistaken and she was here?

God - the betrayal! Andrew shuddered in the cold night air. Whoever had betrayed Percy could well be the same person he'd imagined intended harm to his wife.

Perhaps I should go to her, Andrew thought. Would it be his duty to protect her? No. His first task was to warn the league not to rendezvous at the stable. Percy had entrusted Margot's safety to Henshaw and Mrs. Davies and perhaps they were doing a better job than their master had anticipated.

Andrew leaned his long back against the wall and felt the chill leach from the stones straight into his spine. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the harsh cold feeling, then opened them again as he made out the clear sound of heavy boots on stone just beyond the potted shrubs guarding the stairs. Someone was coming. Was it someone he knew - or someone he should fear?

The darkness stirred and churned, but revealed nothing. The spy was inside, resuming the facade that had deceived Chauvelin for so long - but not for much longer. Every word, every step, every moving was edging him into Chauvelin's web. "Well, Msr. Le Pimpernel, do you feelthe jaws of death closing around you even now?" Did he see Chauvelin and shudder unexpectedly as though some ice hand had traced a path along his spine. If the man had any wits about him he would settle for the du Tournais as the finale to an illustratious career. If he remained in England there was a chance he might live to a ripe old age, a chance. Someone would have to mount those steps as an example to the world that the people of France 's will would be done.

He was so close...

But the man was not caught yet. He needed to speak with Desgas, Berthier, Beaucarnot... a man was needed to watch the troublesome Saint-Just wench. And La Cabarrus... she had a lot to answer for. Chauvelin turned away from the lawn and towards the party, walking with deliberate slowness so that he might inspect the guest - he did have a few clues to work from. The man was tall above the average - hard to conceal such a height, and he would be known to Lady Blakeney which could mean he was an intimate of that fool Blakeney.

It would be refreshing to return to France , to get away from these accursed Anglais and their damp, dreary country, Chauvelin thought as his eyes flickered over faces with little recognition. Most of the English would not even meet his eye, as though he were not worthy of their recognition... and when he did make eye contact it stopped, for but the briefest of moments, in his tracks. The eyes held his, unblinking. Andrew Ffoulkes. His top-most suspect and a confirmed aid to the Pimpernel. Many things lead Chauvelin to believe this man was the Pimpernel... however he was not the silhouette in the barn.

�I swear there is no one else� I wonder how you can ask me that if you think of the passion we�ve shared.� The words floated across the ether � disembodied from a scene that played at half the speed of life.

The day seemed so long along long ago, when he swore � *swore* - that she was his only love. With his tender kisses he made her believe him � she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he shared those exquisite, passionate moments with none but her- what a foolish, na�ve thought � why not ask for the sun and moon as well. Foolish woman that she was, to think she alone in all the world possessed the one faithful husband� She let herself believe him, when he was no better than the others � worse it fact, because he was determined that she love him. What a horrible game!

Her other lovers did not demand her heart, they settled for the illusion of her love and the physical demonstrations of it. They wanted the actress. The pretty thing to show on their arm on an evening and keep warm with at night. � she knew how the game was played. As demand grew she could be more discerning in her selection. She needed someone who would not take off in the middle of the night to return to a wife or another mistress, someone who adore her not for her face or figure because those things would fade in time (then where would she be?). Most of all she needed a man who would love only her, for she had a tremendous fear of being alone in the world � this fear arose shortly after the deaths of her parents.

Why was it that Percy seemed to be everything she wanted that other men couldn�t or wouldn�t provide? He alone among all the men she knew claimed to love only her, wanted only to be with her� he who claimed to adore her to distraction. I saw them come in from the gardens� she was wearing his coat� The blue one? She wanted to ask. Was it the one he�d wrapped around her shoulders about a month ago, when they were in the garden after he had called her a whore � hypocrite! No, Sir Percy was wearing grey this evening with silver threads which was now drenched in the perfume of his mistress.

The gossips had moved on, both in topic and location � a relief � but their words lingered. Percy had been unfaithful. Fate has paid her back measure for measure � she betrayed one man and was betrayed by another. Any moment now and Henshaw would deliver word that Percy was called away on some piece of business when the truth was that he would rather spend the night in another�s bed.

Mrs. Davis appeared at her shoulder proffering her a glass, which Marguerite took without looking at it or the bearer. �I want to go home� now! Tell Sir Percy I am sick if you must and that I will return the coach for him, but I must go home now.� And she did indeed feel most ill, but more importantly she didn�t want to face the rest of the night with such whispers behind her back.

<Percy>

How would he get to Calais, Percy wondered. He was feeling his way in the dark, easing one foot cautiously in front of the other. If he stepped into a rabbit hole, he'd break his leg. He thought longingly of his matched pair of grey carriage horses happily munching hay in Lady Shipwash's stable and considered returning there.

He smelled the fustiness of a stagnant pond and briefly the song of crickets and the croak of frogs ceased guardedly. Percy stilled and remained quiet until the country noises resumed. Idiot! He trusted an animal's instinct as surely as he trusted his own - no horse had ever let him down. There had been a stranger hiding in the stable and Percy would bet 50 golden livres on the face he'd have found there had he stayed. Too coincidental by half to have discovered Monsieur de Chauvelin in Surrey and then uncovered a bevy of pseudo-footmen at Shipwash Manor.

Percy continued to feel his way through a stand of trees, anticipating that they would lead to a clearing that should be the frontage leading to the drive and the road. Access to his own horses was out of the question, but what about someone else's? It wouldn't be the first time Sir Percy Blakeney had stolen a horse.

There was a distinct snap behind him, like that of a boot stepping on a twig. Percy halted, felt a chill run up his spine. Listened like a doe would, sniffing the air as if he might smell an enemy. After several minutes of utter stillness, he moved forward once more. He'd gone almost a league from the back of the house and through the woods before angling back toward the house when he heard the cooing of doves. He was getting too close to the house. There were no windows on this side and he smelled the sweet woodsmoke of a fireplace. He must be near the kitchens and still room. Then another smell came to him, the acrid smell of tobacco smoke. Percy stopped and listened so long his heartbeats had slowed, but finally he was rewarded.

"Nope," the voice said, and so close, he was nearly within touching range. "Can't say there'll be any improvement for us. The son has been away at school and knows nothing of the land. He won't understand what's right and proper among the landholders, I'll wager."

"Air yer plannin' ter leave Shipwash then, our Ike?"

"Dunno. Could. Mebbe. Mebbe I'll go with Willis when next he takes the wagon in to Guildford and see what's what. See what's to be had."

There was a furious rustling of leaves and twigs and a sudden burst of stink as the cigarette was extinguished against the sweet earth. Percy wanted to shout over such desecration of virgin soil, but he held his tongue. The next words spoken were indistinct, farther away. The two men were heading back inside; Percy took the opportunity to clear the side of the house and as he did so he walked directly into the glow of a fire that had been built at the head of the drive for the coachmen to warm their hands while waiting for their masters.

A coachman spied him. Pointed. Drew the attention of his fellows to the dark shape in the shadowy garden. "Look-ee!"

Percy strode forward. "I say," he called. "Can you help? There's a fellow down by the pond -" he pointed helpfully into the darkness way beyond the stand of trees. "Seems to have taken a rather bad fall. I tried to lift him myself but he's a large 'un."

"Could be Aaron," one of the drivers said. "Shipwash has a blacksmith wiff 'ands big as hams."

"Yes, that sounds like the one," Percy crowed. "You'll need three at least to get him up. More like five to carry him to the house. You go and get him and I'll let her ladyship know what's happened."

The whole lot took off hallooing across the lawns into the darkness behind the house. Percy made a bee-line for the first carriage parked in the drive, vaulted onto the box and seized the reins.

"Hup! Hup and away!" he cried to the pair and within two minutes he had cleared Shipwash's drive and was on the way into Surrey.

Behind the tree, Teresia's heart was pounding. He'd guessed someone was there! Joder, but she shouldn't have been so hasty! Fortunately for her, at that precise moment two men came out talking. She seized the opportunity to glance around the tree and once more saw that silhouette. Just a partial outline this time, standing stone-still. At first she was surprised that the chatting men did not see him too, but the light was wrong... they had not her advantage. Once they disappeared the silhouette began to move again. Even more quickly now, with a purpose... heading towards the front drive. Teresia was running now to keep pace, holding her skirts and shoes to avoid unnecessary noise.

Soon there was little reason to be so guarded. There were grooms on the drive, laughing and joking in the lamps of the coaches, whilst they waited for their masters and mistresses to leave. She heard the man she was tailing call to the men at the first carriage. Again, that familiar voice she couldn't quite place. He was sending the grooms on a wild goose chase... why? Madre de Dios , he was sending them after her! He wasn't fooled by the two conversationalists after all. Teresia Cabarrus flattened herself against the wall, expecting at any moment to feel a rough hand drag her from the shadows; but to her astonishment the men ran straight by her and off in the direction of the pond. Then the real motive for their dismissal dawned on her... he was stealing a carriage! Daring now to resume her pursuit she was rounding the next pillar when she saw him, for the briefest of moments, in the headlamps before he disappeared into gloom on top of the box of the first carriage. The call was given and the horses responded. Though the second carriage was also devoid of attendants, Teresia could not follow such a skilled driver with her limited knowledge of the art... but it didn't matter. She knew... or at least, she thought she knew... and she found her heart racing at the thought, but not out of fear.

Andrew stared impassively into Chauvelin's moon-bleached countenance and thought about how he'd intended to execute the du Tournai family, had wished to see pretty Anne's head separated from her body, and he shuddered automatically. Chauvelin's eyes gleamed brighter and Andrew felt a fresh chill slither down his spine.

What was the man doing outside? Perhaps he intended to smoke a cigarette; the detested peasant habit of smoking tobacco would certainly be within Chauvelin's tastes, Andrew imagined. But no, the little spy simply stood there, slouching. Letting the cool air wash over him as if he had all the time in the world.

Time. Time. What would Ffoulkes do if one of the members of the league showed up while Chauvelin was within hearing? How could he pass his message right beneath the man's nose? Bathurst and Hastings - fools both - could make a man forget what they were playing at was deadly serious, but one look at Chauvelin did much to remind him . . . and it also reminded him that Percy's last statement to him was, 'I want you and Tony to come to Paris as soon as you can'.

"Damnation," Andrew cursed aloud, not caring whether the rat Chauvelin heard him or not . . . and then he thought again.

Chauvelin was here. Marguerite was here. Percy had said he must leave at once, that it was too quiet at the stable and that he believed his wife was the spy - coerced by Chauvelin. Percy believed they'd both left the party and Andrew wagered Percy also believed he'd been unable to locate Margot because Chauvelin was leading her as if he'd tied a leash around her neck. But Marguerite was here, looking scared to death, and Chauvelin was standing right in front of him. Andrew felt clearly the Frenchman's malevolence and struggled to maintain a passive, bored appearance.

What are you all about, my foul friend, Andrew wondered as he measured Chauvelin's shape in the pale moonlight. Compact. Wiry. The shoulders were straight - unyielding. The legs thin, but with well-muscled calves. Not the legs of a rider, but a runner . . . possibly. Chauvelin was one of those who'd walked the kilometres as a young man; was he still possessed of high arches and good wind? Well, that meant nothing to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who had himself been a sprinter and not so long ago. He didn't live the soft life twelve months of the year; debauchery was not his sole occupation.

I won Anne's life, Andrew thought as he continued to examine Chauvelin from dusty boots to crumpled hat. Between me and you, what sort of torture, do you intend to extract from Sir Percy?

The thought froze in Andrew's brain. He gasped aloud. His hand rose automatically and it was only his sharp reflexes that kept him from covering his mouth and giving away his anguish. The very fact that Sir Percy did not claim his wife at the party would underscore for Chauvelin who had been spooked by his contingent of French footmen. It didn't matter what various clues anyone else had dropped inadvertently for Chauvelin to pick up, Chauvelin, holding Margot hostage, would come face to face with Blakeney all too soon.

Moving slowly, as if he had two left feet, Andrew turned away from Chauvelin, feigning a sudden interest in the blowing leaves of the chestnut that overhung the terrace. 'That's what Percy meant,' Andrew breathed. Yes, Andrew did have to get to Paris as quickly as possible, but first he had to get the chief's message to the men of the league and then the separate message to Dewhurst. How to find them, one and all? How to begin?

Philip scanned the ballroom. Where had Lady Wexton gone? He spotted her on the other side of the dancers, conversing with their hostess. Mentally noting her position, he paused, leaning on his cane, apparently watching the dance in progress. In reality, he identified the moving tray with champagne that had exchanged words with Danielle. Slowly moving, stopping here and there to exchange pleasantries with some ladies of his acquaintance, Philip shadowed the man at a distance. The footman never looked in his direction. He hardly paid attention to his burden, barely pausing long enough for the guests to take a flute, before he moved on. Philip took his time following, guessing the man's destination as he seemed to make a more or less straight line towards the doors, leading to the next terrace. The spy, the baronet recalled, had looked as though he were searching for something - or someone? - when he had spoken to Lady Wexton. Philip nodded to himself, if what he sought was not indoors, it made sense to eliminate each door in turn.

The baronet paused a moment, looking around once more, sending a wink to a pretty young thing just making her debut in society. The girl blushed at having been caught watching him. Philip grinned at her, then glanced in Danielle's direction. The lady was still engrossed in her conversation. Good. Turning again, he stepped closer to the doors he was certain the little man had disappeared through. He almost ran into the bugger, who was rushing back inside. Philip side-stepped just in time, giving him a reproachful look, and picked a glass off the tray.

He watched the footman's movements now. They were much slower, and quite a bit more random. The baronet concluded that whatever message the spy had to deliver, it had been done while he had strayed out of the ballroom. Taking a sip of champagne, Philip turned back towards the terrace, breathing deeply in the night air, and taking a moment to look towards the stars. If anyone was watching, they would find nothing out of the ordinary, for everyone knew that if he didn't occupy a gaming table, or the dancefloor, Sir Philip was never to be found far from the doors at any event. The baronet took another sip, and looked to find, as he had suspected, that he was not alone. His eyebrows arched in surprise, however, to find Sir Andrew Ffoulkes seemingly studying the leaves of a chestnut. Out of the corner of his eye, Philip noted the presence of another man, though he chose to feign ignorance of him for the moment, and limped his way onto the terrace. "Oh, pardon me...I say, Ffoulkes, is that you? I do hope I'm not interrupting your conversation with that willow."

"Willow ? Hardly. I've been pursued throughout the ballroom by a determined mama towing a reedy, unpalatable daughter; this was my best option for a get-away," Ffoulkes lied, separating himself from the willow and drawing nearer to Glynde.

Glynde, he thought, was all of three degrees more sensible than Bathurst . Still, he was here; that must count for something. "What a wretched crush inside for most of the night. I've rarely set eyes on anyone I know . . . such as Hastings or Dewhurst. Have they left already? I've seen a few of our friends depart before this."

�Did you get supper? The invitation did say supper would be served, didn't it? I've seen nothing but the most disagreeable canap�s flying by. This night has truly not been up to Lady Shipwash's usual standard. A pity she's trying to accommodate so many �migr�s - rather than feeling welcome, they must be appalled at the way the night's unfolded."

A pathetic gripe to be sure, but Andrew hoped he'd fed the right clues to Glynde so that he'd get the answer he needed without their listening friend picking up the point of the discussion.

Perhaps it was because he had so often been placed in the position that Chauvelin took such unbridled satisfaction in the discomfort of others. It was this spiteful nature that prompted him to linger on the terrace and relish the discomfort of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, a known ally of his seemingly less and less worthy foe. The man was obviously unsettled by Chauvelin's presences and the latter intended he remain that way. Ffoulkes shuddered and cursed and Chauvelin's eyes glittered with delight - they knew they were being outmaneuvered. Now they would start getting careless - frantic in their efforts to cover their tracks.

Chauvelin made a show searching for his snuff box and taking a pinch as he watched Ffoulkes from the corner of his eye. If only Desgas or one of those other layabouts were at hand to watch this one � Marguerite even! She was told to watch Ffoulkes, yet had decided to drop into a chair and look forlorn for the remainder of the evening. Chauvelin studied Ffoulkes's back - the tense arms and shoulder � he seemed the lecherous sort who might betray himself whilst in the throes of passion, perhaps Teresia would be a more ideal lure.

An abrupt jerking motion in the door frame drew his attention. Rouget looked awkward in the role of a nobleman's valet - more the type to sit out under windows and creep along dark alleys than serving � did any of them make much of an attempt to emulate a genuine footman? He rolled his eyes in exasperation - and so his perfect moment was spoiled. Rouget motioned that he had news and Chauvelin returned the signal with the smallest gesture and the man fled back into the house to wait further orders. Rouget was nearly bowled over as he re-entered by a tall bored-looking milord who barely acknowledged the smaller man save to take a wine flute from him. Behind the man's back Rouget gave him a look that said he would very much like to plunge a dagger into the lord's ribcage.

Outside the young lord languidly approached Ffoulkes, and struck up conversation which Chauvelin imagined was full of hidden messages. He committed what he did hear to memory for later reflection and followed Rouget inside.

Rouget had taken up serving drinks in a parlour just down the hall from the exit to the terrace. Chauvelin watched him until Rouget came to him with the tray lifted a flute and offered it and the slip of paper encircling the stem to his chief. Chauvelin took the glass and nodded.

"On the terrace, the fair-haired," he whispered and left the room.

"...I've been pursued throughout the ballroom...this was my best option for a get-away," Philip nodded at his words. It was rare that Sir Andrew was not in such a predicament when attending a soiree. "...I've rarely set eyes on anyone I know . . . such as Hastings or Dewhurst..." Philip leaned on his cane, taking another sip of champagne, nodding, apparently pondering. "...I've seen a few of our friends depart before this." It seemed Ffoulkes wanted an accounting of which members of the league were still in attendance. Until stepping onto the terrace, he hadn't even been aware that Andrew was about. "Did you get supper?...I've seen nothing but the most disagreeable canapes flying by...appalled at the way the night's unfolded."

Philip took his time answering. He limped over to the bench by the tree, the night and its events this time taking an actual toll on his recently unused muscles, as well as old scars, and lowered himself, with a pained grunt. Their audience now gone, he didn't bother to mask his discomfort from Ffoulkes. "I haven't seen Dewhurst." He spoke quietly, to be sure none but Sir Andrew would hear, though they were quite alone now.

"Hastings is about. Last I saw, he went off across the lawn." Philip set down the empty glass, and pulled his flask from his pocket. " Bathurst," he nodded towards the ballroom, then finished his sentence by sipping something quite a bit stronger than wine. "MacKensie's presence interrupted a very inquisitive lady." Philip rubbed his hand over his knee, remembering the origin of the scars that adorned it. "I left him on the terrace." He offered his flask to Sir Andrew. "The place is quite infested." He agreed, glancing at the spot their audience had vacated. Philip stared unseeing into the ballroom, envisioning past events repeating because things had finally unraveled. "That little weasel knows, doesn't he?" The sound of defeat made the question worthless.

For some considerable time she stood in the shadows, scarce daring to believe what she had just seen. The wind was chill, but Teresia did not heed it. Indeed her forehead burned so violently that it was a blessed release to place it against the cold stone of the building. The palms holding her satin shoes were clammy and, as the adrenalin of the chase receded, she felt the constricting tightness of her bodice even more keenly... damn the dress, but she could hardly breathe!

The Spaniard was brought to her senses by the sound of voices. Some of the household had been raised by the sound of the frightened horses of the second coach. Teresia realised that she must look a state. She would have to find a quiet way in and compose her appearance before going back to the ball... and go back she must, for it would not do to be conspicuous by one's absence on a night such as this. She would also have to be quick before the grooms Blakeney had so cleverly scattered, realised they had been duped and came back.

Quickly she made her way back around the house, searching all the time for a suitable entrance... to her dismay there were none. She would have to skirt the open windows at the back of the house and try the other side. As she ventured back into the gardens for cover, she could see Chauvelin on the terrace. Well, I'm glad someone's making the most of the social occasion, she thought bitterly and hurried on.

Sir Philip looked like he'd been forced to endure sort type of medieval torture. Refusing to meet Sir Andrew's eyes, he said, 'That little weasel knows, doesn't he?'

Ffoulkes spoke to Glynde's back his voice pitched low. "Percy's gone. We met at the stable and before we'd said six words a female voice whispered that we are undone. Betrayed by whom we don't know, which is irrelevant, I suppose."

There was a studied silence as Glynde took in that bit of information before Sir Andrew glanced around him, then continued. "He's certain he knows where to find Armand, said something about Chauvelin not having had time to hide him anywhere but the usual places in Paris. He wants two clear days to do his work then requested you, Hastings and Bathurst - if you can make it - travel to Paris to . . ." Andrew cleared his throat " . . . to help him get Armand out of the city."

He fished in his pocket, palmed his flask, hand trembling a little as it unscrewed the lid and he swallowed a fiery mouthful. "Considering what we left behind in Paris, this won't be an easy request. Passing the barricades is more difficult every trip. More spies to mark our faces, even in disguise. What say you, Glynde? Are you in for another ride to hell and back?�

With Chauvelin�s retreat, Hastings slowly edged his way to the terrace and up the step. Keeping an eye on the doors, least Chauvelin make a return. The only thing predictable about Chauvelin was that he would stop at nothing to get the Scarlet Pimpernel. His methods however were wholly unpredictable. For example, Lady Blakeney. Until tonight Hastings would not have dreamed that the charming Lady Blakeney could be so duplicitous. He had on occasion seen Percy and his wife together, and marveled at the passion they shared, if only he could find a wife with such beauty and charm, a woman whose eyes sparkled in the way that Lady Blakeney�s did when she gazed on her husband. He had seen them when Sir Percy had first brought home his lovely bride and had since watch the eyes that sparkled with adoration dim with longing. But treachery? What on earth changed for she o commit such a thing?

At the top of the stairs Hastings stop, looking into the manor past the double doors, across the large room beyond, where an ice blue dress stood out amongst the warmer hues chosen by the other women in the room. The fire place she sat before accented her in shades of gold and pink. She was an exquisite but tragic looking figure, but was that an illusion? Lady Blakeney. The spy. The woman who betrayed her husband to his most dangerous enemy, could she really be so innocent? Was everything he knew about her the work of a talented actress? Hastings leaned against the rail that enclosed the balcony and watched her sat there, marveling at a flawless performance, not for a moment did she falter. If he had not know better he might have gone to her, but then this illusion might have been one of her greatest tools. As grieved as he was to think it, perhaps Bathurst had been right all along.

Hastings looked around him, eye flickering from face to face - were more of Chauvelin�s spies here even now? In one corner he recognized Andrew first, his pale blond hair a dead give away and beside him Philip. How much did they know, likely by their expressions more than they�d like to. Well if anyone should be told it should be Ffoulkes, one of Percy�s dearest friends, however Philip was the last person that should be told. Glynde was of a volatile temperament and like to run the wench through for her treachery. As it was Hastings had been enormously relieved that his good friend had never been privy to the humours of Lady Blakeney�s involvement in the denunciation of Saint-Cyr, an incident that also cost the lives of some of Philip�s dearest friends and his young goddaughter. Hastings turn back in time to see Chauvelin rejoined her � whispering furtively. Plotting. He would have to get word to Andrew in private. Who knew what else Chauvelin might learn through Blakeney�s pretty wife?

��he cares little for politics� or France �� Chauvelin�s mind lingered on the words, sense the thought was left unfinished. As he recalled Blakeney was a close friend of Saint-Cyr and once word spilled out of Marguerite�s part in exposing Saint-Cyr�s treachery, Blakeney likely turned spiteful. As a matter of fact it was not long after that the name, the Scarlet Pimpernel, began to surface in connection to the escape of detainees in the prisons progressing to bolder and bolder feats. But it wasn�t proof that Blakeney was the Pimpernel.

�If I am not mistaken, your husband travels quite extensively,� he continued. �Is it not possible that he might visit Armand in France ?�

�Why do you ask me this?� she snapped back. A sore point. Her eyes showed not a hint that she suspected her husband of being the spy Chauvelin sought � so what were her motives for the betrayal?

�Despite your betrayal, you have presented me with the identity of the man whom I seek, therefore I intend to follow through with my part of the bargain,� Chauvelin lied convincingly. �In order to save Armand I must discover what has placed him in danger. If someone has denounced him because he is meeting with an Englishman, they might believe it to be the Scarlet Pimpernel as opposed to your husband... do you see how I can present a convincing defense for him that way? Your behaviour does nothing but harm his chances at survival.� Chauvelin watched Marguerite squirm under his gaze, saw how her eyes flickered over to door. �Are you waiting for someone? You wouldn�t be waiting for our elusive Pimpernel would you?�

'Betrayed..' Philip didn't even blink. Betrayal had been so much a part of the baronet's life, it was like the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. A certain tolerance had built up to the mere word. The actions, however, would have dire consequences. '..by whom we don't know, which is irrelevant, I suppose.' Philip nodded his understanding, filing the information for later use. The source would be ferreted out and dealt with in due time.

'...find Armand.' Armand was missing? Philip liked the boy. His heart was true, but he had no training. Who knows what tortures the French would inflict upon him to make him speak. Time was of the essence. '..travel to Paris ...' Philip closed his eyes a moment. Paris. Ffoulkes cleared his throat, bringing the baronet back to the present. '..to help him get Armand out of the city.'

'What say you, Glynde?..' Perhaps all was not lost just yet. The man drew on his flask once more, dulling aches - past and present - with the contents. Then he stood, returning it to his pocket, and faced Andrew, meeting his eyes at last. Cool determination shone through. "Two days," the whispered words accompanied by a nearly imperceptible nod. He reached a hand out to take Andrew's, gripping it firmly. "Good to see you, Ffoulkes." He said, his tone conversational, as it was when he had first stepped outside. "I suppose I had better reappear inside before that mama spots you again, and lines me up as a prospect for her baby as well."

Andrew's bitterness startled Hastings even though he had, in part, expected it. Hastings wanted to laugh at the question whether he had any idea of what had been happening that evening. He knew only too well. In fact, he'd wager what the part where Lady Blakeney turned out to be a spy was a new twist that Andrew was not even aware of. In this light, Armand's disappearance began to make sense. If he followed to Bathurst 's line of thought then brother and sister were colluding with Chauvelin, but the option Hastings preferred to believe that Armand was nothing but a hapless tool Chauvelin was using to coerce his sister. Either way Lady Blakeney was too dangerous to be trusted.

"Look you, Hastings; could you stomach another run to Paris in - say - two days?" Andrew threw out, abruptly. Clearly the wheels in his head were also working hard on a problem.

"Of course," Hastings replied without hesitation, then laid a hand on Andrew's shoulder to give the man's full attention. "But, there is something that the chief must know before any plans are finalized... Chauvelin knows who he is." Andrew gave him a look of 'tell me something I don't know'. "What's more is that... uh... Lady Blakeney may have helped him." Andrew flashed Hastings a look that the young man had better back up his words and quickly, prompting Hastings to hasten with an explanation. "I'm sure you've seen that the place is crawling with Chauvelin's agents..." Andrew nodded. "Well Mackensie and I met up with Bathurst who had a note about a meeting in the stables at midnight... well it also came up that Lady Blakeney may have also seen the note. To be on the safe side, I went to warn anyone in the stable while Bathurst and Mackenzie informed anyone who might be going... well I guess whatever happened before midnight , because on the way there I nearly ran into Chauvelin and Lady Blakeney. I managed to hide before they saw me, but I heard he say, '... watch the men I told you to and let me know what they do and who they meet..." and "...I now know who the Scarlet Pimpernel is'. I wasn't entirely sure that it was Lady Blakeney he was with until they had gone up onto the terrace and I saw her face. I waited till Chauvelin left before I came up myself... even now they are inside by the fire talking."